CXXII. Café Alma

Soul Cafe

The newest addition to tiny businesses open on our block is Alma Cafe. It joins about a dozen other tiendas operated by families who live behind, above, or next to their shop. All open up to a narrow sidewalk on either side of Calle Encarnación Rosas between Guadalupe Victoria and Constitución. They do not include the more or less ad hoc card table of used clothing or posole sold by the Ibarra clan just a few doors up from our casa.

The cafe is in the space that used to house the papelería and zapatería--office supply store and shoe store--overseen by Vicente's daughter, María. Vicente is the recently deceased great-grandfather who was the nearly constant occupant of a stool set up just outside the store's opening. His presence and greetings seemed to bless our block.

In the same spot where he used to sit, on the wall next to the cafe's opening, is a just completed drawing of Vicente wearing his sombrero and holding his cane. I think that the alma, or soul, in the little coffee bar's name refers to this kind man.

The Alma Cafe has only been open a week. It is being run by Vicente's grand-daughter, visible behind the counter. A great-grandson, seen standing center, takes orders. The dibujo of Vicente is on the wall below the cafe's address, 15A. This is exactly where he used to sit and exchange greetings with me most mornings for over a year. I imagine he'd been doing that with everyone on the block for a long time. 

CXXI. ¡Que Tenga un Próspero Año Nuevo!

Wishing You a Prosperous New Year!

There's a fellow on the next corner, halfway to the farmacia, who deep fries pork fat and entrails in a big stainless steel cauldron over a curbside fire fed from one of those long skinny propane tanks that look like WWII bombs. He attracts walk-by customers throughout the morning, almost every morning. I often see him taking a break with his compañeros around noon--leaning against the wall or sitting on one of those plastic Corona chairs--the crispy rinds and intestines laid out for sale on brown butcher paper. He's got a brown face himself with friendly wrinkles and a white soup-strainer moustache. 

Yesterday morning I greeted him with a traditional, "¡Que Tenga un Próspero Año Nuevo!" He grinned and growled, "Igual" which basically translates as "Back at ya".

CXX. Un Viaje a las Barrancas del Cobre

A Trip to Copper Canyon

For years I'd heard about this canyon complex in northern Mexico that's touted as "longer and deeper than the Grand Canyon". With my first sight of that Arizona wonder I was so stunned I literally fell on my ass. With this in mind, I was really looking forward to seeing how Mexico's version would compare.

The El Chepe train runs about 450 miles between the cities of Los Mochis on the Pacific coast and Chihuahua in the center of Mexico.  It gains almost 8,000 feet of altitude traveling west to east through the large Copper Canyon area. We flew into Chihuahua and caught the train there. The scene here is several hours out of that city as we moved west from high plains to pine forest foothills. 

Adding to my curiosity was the mystique of Copper Canyon's indigenous inhabitants--the Tarahumara. Their prowess at super long distance running is legendary even though they often run barefoot, or in sandals, and the women even run wearing long skirts. Adding to the above enticements, most of the trip into and through the canyons takes place by train. That sealed the deal for my adventurous wife and me. We made reservations with a local tour outfit and just returned two weeks ago.

Fields of corn in alluvial soil, goats, small houses with an outbuilding or two. There are few towns in an area about the size of Ohio, but many scattered dwellings like this that, together, shelter over 50,000 Tarahumara, or Rarámuri.

At my first sight of the canyons I didn't fall on my ass but the scenery really was amazing, the local culture much stronger and more interesting than we'd imagined, and the train ride a lot of fun. The only problem: we both caught a historic flu that laid us up all of the final day in a darkened and air-conditioned, dizzy and barfy hotel room in Chihuahua, after being shunned for our racking coughs by the rest of the tourists during an interminable bus ride: another reason this trip will always be memorable.

Being forewarned by our tour guide that the Rarámuri do not like to have their faces photographed, I snuck this picture of back of two girls to show their typical dress. They are standing near the train station at Divisadero in the heart of the canyons. Nearby are the goods that they sell, primarily sewn and woven wares. Plus two half-drunken bottles of Coke.

This incredible sunset view is from the balcony of our room at Divisadero's El Mirador Hotel. Barrancas del Cobre actually comprises six canyons. This part of Urique Canyon (pictured) is the most accessible and colloquially known as Copper Canyon. Not visible in the picture are several ziplines and cables supporting a car that runs from mid-left in the photo to mid-far right. Tarahumara dwellings can be seen at the bottom of the cliff far left and--barely--in the valley lower right.

View down to a small town at the bottom of Urique Canyon from over a mile above.
Seeing these two crosses clutched at my heart. They are most likely for a pair of
engineers (ingenieros) who met their end in an accident during construction. D.E.P.
stands for Descansa En Paz--Rest in Peace.

We stayed at Hotel Mirador (view above) for two nights and recommend it highly--fantastic location in Divisadero, the kind of rooms (and pillows) you like to find, excellent food and service. I had thought of trying one of the zip lines leaving from the ecopark below the hotel, but after standing at the edge of a nearby cliff felt that perhaps my bladder control wouldn't hold up in the first leap into the void. The cable car sufficed.

The third day of our trip we bussed several hours to the small town of Cerocahui deeper into the canyon complex. There we toured a residential school for Tarahumara girls, sampled the local wines at another luxury hotel, and took a hair-raising ride on a narrow, twisty road with views (see photo, left) of the deepest part of Urique Canyon, over 6000 feet below.

The weather on the rim is much different from that at the bottom of the canyon. This is especially marked in the winter when there is often snow up above, and sunny warmth below that even allows the cultivation of tropical fruits. Access down from near here is via a ten mile dirt road, consisting mostly of hairpin turns, that takes more than an hour to negotiate.

I met this smiling fellow as I began a final stroll around Cerocahui; he introduced himself as Juan, and as a chabochi, or mestizo, in the Rarámuri language. Although the tour bus was leaving in half an hour I took him up on an offer to give me a quick tour around town. He hollered a greeting to everyone we passed, each time vouching to me that the other individual was un amigo cercano, a close friend.

We had anticipated that our bus ride would be less than an hour to the nearby town of Bahuichivo (above) where train tracks had led us to believe we would change modes of transportation for the next leg of our journey. There was a collective groan on the bus when it became clear that we had another couple of hours on the same winding road we had driven to Cerocahui. Torrential rains a couple of weeks earlier had resulted in dam spill upriver which brought down mudslides closing the rails. So no train here.

In Divisadero we finally met the train that would take us east. Now we could ride in comfort the rest of the afternoon on our way to the largest town in the Tarahumara area, Creel.

After a night in Creel we awoke early to get a closeup look at the lowland Tarahumara country and way of life. This beautiful lake reflecting a deep blue sky, the surrounding pine forest and inviting rocks all reminded me of country back home in Washington State. As soon as our tour bus pulled into the parking lot, however, that vision was broken when several Rarámuri women hurried to set up their wares on blankets laid out under the trees. Fortunately they had a receptive audience.

Near Creel, San Ignacio Jesuit mission is surrounded by a couple dozen dwellings, including a community center. The area also includes some fantastic wind-eroded rock formations. Above you see a sample of the rocks in Valle de las Ranas--Valley of the Frogs so named because of their shape.

In the photo you see a typical Tarahumara cave dwelling. It's created by walling off a large natural recess at the base of a cliff.  We met a single mom who lived there with her teenage son, aunt and sister. The whole family catered to tourists from nearby Creel, selling a variety of small crafts and baked goods. The young mom had been raised in the States, spoke excellent English, and had moved here several years ago. I couldn't imagine how she might have adjusted to living in this close and dark cave after life in southern California.

CIXX. Un Viaje a Colima y Comala

A Trip to Colima and Comala

One of the attractive plazas in Colima Centro, Jardín Libertad. Portales sheltering the seats of a number of restaurants and bars line three sides of the plaza, the Colima State government office building abuts the fourth. Fountains such as the one pictured are at each corner of the plaza; pathways are directed inward to a central, 19th century Belgian gazebo.

In mid-September our Cazadores de Haciendas group travelled about three and a half hours southwest of our lakeside village to the city of Colima, capital of a small state with the same name that borders on the Pacific Ocean. It was an interesting trip, much of it alongside several large and very shallow lake beds filled at the end of the rainy season, followed by a broken landscape of green canyons and mountain views. Nevado de Colima, the tallest peak we could see at almost 14,000 feet, played peek-a-boo with us. On its southern flank, Volcán de Colima, a still-active volcano, seemed to raise puffs of smoke, or perhaps our imaginations made too much of the wispy clouds. 

La Campana archeological site is located on the outskirts of Colima city. During its heyday, 700-900 CE, it was the largest pre-hispanic settlement in what is now western Mexico. In the distance you see Volcán Colima with Nevado Colima to its left. Notice their alignment with the steps of the small pyramid to the left of two of our Cazadores. 

Our second day in Colima we awoke early, caravanned and GPSed our way through the city to La Campana archeological site. The Mexicans have a habit of partially restoring (above) their pre-hispanic ruins. I'm not sure where exactly their archeologists draw the line at the extent of restoration, perhaps they are trying to strike a balance between "suggestive" and "picturesque".  Regardless, the sixteen of us enjoyed wandering alone or together on and among the rock structures in this one hundred acre area.

We drove another half hour from La Campana to the village of Comala, one of some hundred Pueblo Magicos in Mexico chosen for their picturesque qualities. Comala certainly qualified with its recently white-washed walls, lush and well-tended plaza, all dominated on the near horizon by Volcán Colima. The prehispanic name for this area translates to "Valley of the Flowers". 

After exploring the small centro area, some of us gathered under the portales fronting one side of Comala's main plaza. I ordered the tamarind-flavored ponche made locally and snacked on the complimentary botanas that filled our table. In the midst of this tasty lunch we were startled by a burst of fireworks that set off a large flock of pigeons that had been roosting among the church's belltowers. They encircled the plaza as all the bells pealed loudly for a good long minute. The hullabaloo was in honor of Comala's patron saint, Miguel. That's him in the picture above, barely visible with upraised sword between the two front spires of the church. Our arrival here had coincided with Miguel's fiesta patronal.

A statue on the bench far left in the photo above represents Juan Ruflo, a Mexican writer of the last mid-century who allegedly set his most famous novel in Comala. His boots are being perpetually polished by a bronze, stool-sitting shoeshine boy.  Meanwhile, town folks chat quietly in the mid-day shade around the plaza's fountains. Vendors sell sno-cones and tuba--a fresh and cooling drink made of fermented coconut milk.

Siesta time. Billowing cumulus clouds cover Colima volcano rising in the near distance above the red-tiled rooftops of Comala. Mid-afternoon the Hacienda Hunters gather from various parts of the village and make good their name as they ping-pong through Comala's roadwork detours on the way to Nogueras Hacienda, allegedly only a few miles away.

Nogueras was famously occupied and remodeled for much of the past half-century by a prolific and multi-talented artist, Alejandro Rangel Hidalgo. A section of the buildings holds his paintings and custom furniture, as well as a fantastically well-displayed sample of local prehispanic ceramics, often depicting their revered dogs. Other areas of the ex-hacienda provide homes and workshops for artisans, large and artfully restored main living quarters and a magnificent five acre garden and arboretum, all now overseen by the University of Colima. 

A beautiful embroidered camisa is for sale in one of a dozen or so picturesque tiendas/residencias along the lane in front of the hacienda. Below is a gnarly leaf on the garden patio...Good trip.

CXVIII. La Muerte de Vicente

Vicente's Death

It's been over two months since my last post, and I've been wondering lately what has held me back from writing another. Maybe it's been the absence of an accounting of the death of our block's beloved mainstay--always friendly and observant Vicente--who died in mid-spring.

I first introduced myself to Vicente a few months after we moved to this block, or cuadra, now over two years ago. Nearly every time I walked up the street this grandfatherly man would be sitting on a stool in front of his daughter's zapatería, which was a combination shoe and notions store at the front of their casa.

He left me some vivid images of our shared greetings: "Tomás". "Señor Vicente, como está"? "Bien, bien, gracias. Y usted"? "Muy bien". "Bueno, que tenga un buen día Tomás". "Igual. Gracias, Señor Vicente". Simple as it was, this exchange always left me uplifted and better able to face the world with a smile.

Sometimes I would stop and we would exchange a few more pleasantries. One of the last times we spoke he told me about the fall he'd taken the previous year that had broken his hip and put an end to his daily constitutional, which was a cane-assisted walk down to mid-block and then back to his storefront perch. He had me feel his forearm which I could encircle with thumb and middle finger--it was just bone encased in wrinkled skin.

With winter's chill, Vicente's presence on the sidewalk became much less frequent. When he did appear on a sunny morning he'd be bundled up with a wool scarf around his neck and a colorful and whimsical knit hat on his head. During this period nearly every time we heard a death knell from the nearby church, I'd hurry to the gate and look up the street to see if any neighbors were gathered around his puerta. One day they were, and a funeraria's tent was being put up in the street across from the house, a dozen or so folding chairs placed on cobbles for those who would come to pay their respects at his coffin in the living room. I was one of the mourners.

With flowers in hand I also followed his casket through the cobblestone streets from the church, down Parroquia and Hidalgo to Seis Esquinas where we joined Ocampo on the way to the panteon for his burial. It was unaccustomedly hot. I saw amigas passing a bottle of water around. Parasols were held against the sun. About sixty of us shuffled behind the hearse; he'd been a popular man.

During the nine days of mourning that followed his burial my wife and I brought a traditional donation of food for his daughter, who looks to be in her sixties. She told me that her father had quit eating a week before his death, that during those final days all his children, grandchildren and their offspring had visited to say goodbye. It had been a fittingly affectionate and respectful leave-taking for this friendly, gentle man.

CXVII. ¡Felíz Cumpleaños!

Happy Birthday!

They’ve been going at it for more than thirty minutes now—since 6:45AM when we were awakened—so I guess half an hour's not the length of time for which they’ve been hired. Some kind of celebration, that’s for sure. From our cozy bed we kept waiting for them to move on—the usual route down to the plaza and church, if it’s religious, or to the charro ring, if secular—but no, they stayed put, and damned close to our casa. And LOUD.

I finally rousted myself, put on shorts and tee and shuffled through sala and comedor, out the pasillo to the front gate and source of sound. The music had become deafening as I approached the group arrayed on the cobbles in the street in front of our house. And likewise in front of our neighbors. Francisco, the dad—he of boastful gestures—was swaggering among the musicians. Relatives were passing trays of sweetbreads and a sugary coffee drink—muchas gracias—and mamá was on the sidewalk smiling with all the hugs and kisses she was getting. It was her birthday.

And now, an hour after its first brassy and percussive notes, the band has begun dispersing. From the left we’ve had two trombones, two trumpets, two clarinets, a flugelhorn, two congas, a two-person trap set advertising La Misma Banda—The Same Band—and una tuba. I reckon there will be another party tonight.

CXVI. Una Entrega de Cerveza

Beer Delivery

The motorcycle I’m talking about was one of the small, wiry types—and funky from hard use—maybe about 95cc’s. You see them everywhere around our pueblo but I noticed this particular one because of the way it was being used. I heard the driver revving to blow out his plugs as he stopped on the cobbles, in the street right in front of our gate. I went to check out the noise since I’d been hearing a group of guys talking from—I thought—the sidewalk, but the driver was the only one I saw. Buenas noches exchanged, he swung his leg over the tank and reached behind him for a big plastic bucket. He handled it like it was heavy. It had been held in place by a circle of steel molded to fit both it and another bucket on a jerry-rigged bumper. Both buckets were filled with bottles of Corona beer. There must have been about a dozen in each, arranged neatly upside down on ice. The driver went to my neighbors’ door, passed the bucket inside and got paid, then climbed back on the bike and drove away for his next delivery.