With a new companion in tow it was time to leave the bikes standing idle. Their new surroundings a dust-filled back shed of a hotel, the discarded, part-used paint cans and cracked bathroom basins shoved to the side to make room for tools of a much younger vintage. Locks snapped shut, palms greased; it was time to catch a train.
Our new traveling companion, a young lass with new-age hippee desires but carrying a much older name, Magdalena, joined us from Austria. Strange bedfellows traveling makes. Our first impression was her rather strange embarkation on our bus from Esanada. Middle of nowhere she hops on, barefoot. In all of my experience of traveling I have never found a good nor even remotely justifiable reason for why someone would travel in a third world country barefoot. The people who live there all ware shoes, when you are at home you ware shoes, tucked away deep inside your ergonomically designed backpack are some shoes….. do these people not know that hippees lived in the sixties and made hep shots popular?
A brief encounter became only a footnote to our travels until another meeting on the ferry to the mainland. Somewhere during our chat I had invited her to join our jaunt up on the train to the Copper Canyon. Exactly when or how I performed this act of kindness will forever remain a mystery. However, in accordance with my need to keep life interesting I acquiesced, hell, Dad would find this turn of events amusing if not all part of an adventure he didn’t know he was signing up for.
The train ride up started out slow. A picture of the slums that always seem to spring up next to railway lines greeted out departure proving a point of interest for Dad. With their bottoms laid bare to the tracks their lives unfolded as passengers peeked at real life. Swept yards bordering litter-filled space, pigs, goats, cows, dogs and children all in various stages of activity, construction material the kind you see in hurricane footage on CNN and cooking fires in stark contrast to the cold, grey drab of morning.
Then the main attraction begins, 85 tunnels, 200kms of twisting parallel steel that penetrates a landscape beyond the automobile. Quiet villages that know no sound louder than the twice daily toot of the passing locomotives horn as vegetation morphs from farmland to cacti to alpine, a climb from sea level to 2225m.
Two nights spent in Creel, a cold dot on the railway schematic, proved to be a nice enough experience. Gaily painted, albeit lacking any real atmosphere (and a bakery), we managed a walk around Lake Arareko. And it was a time for firsts, the great one being the decision to hitch-hike to the lake. The idea suggested by the guide book, raised by Magdalene, agreed to by me and the basis of serious concern for Papa Pedro. Never having thrown his hand to the god of traveling chance, I only discovered the discord second-hand. The walk out to the main road would have been a strange gestation; prolonged, worried and involving breathing techniques. Then we were there, the word passed that we would catch the next ride and the thumb appropriately extended. Low-and-behold, passed first then reversed, in we hopped to the back of a pick-up, south-bound. It was possibly the shortest ride around but it certainly qualified as a first!
The walk home was great, a tranquil lake surrounded by pines, the sounds muffled by the soft downy covering of fallen needles, the cold keeping away sight-seers. A few jumped fences later we stood on the lip of a natural basin, home to the Tamaharamu people, a simple time warped life-style that we were allowed to peek into.
But the stop in Creel was not to be the highlight. We were here to see the canyon itself. And so we made our goodbyes to our new companion, her decision not to follow her own, as we shook our heads and got back to a bit of normality.
Not that the ride to Batopilas was anything normal. The ride came in thirds. To begin with we had space and air, the 15-seater hurling itself along well paved tarmac, its screeching tires thru the hairpins almost a pre-requisite backdrop for the music emanating out of the strangely subdued sound-system. We were finding our comfort and straining for the scenery.
The next stage began at the half-way point on the map but only 1/5th into the allotted time frame. Bells were ringing. Add 4 more passengers to an already capacity vehicle, remove the smooth road and press repeat on the sound-system. The road was under construction as we made our way along a lesson in engineering from tarmac laying, thru bulldozing and bridge building to forest clearing and surveying points.
As the heat inside built, so did the anticipation. We all knew what was coming as we rounded yet another acute bend in the dirt and the sounds of jaws dropping could be heard above the squeak of suspension and the throb of V8. Part three begins with what can only be described as a crack in the earth. A chasm hewn in the earths crust a kilometer deep, its distant side a blue haze of sheer yet stepped cliffs. Winding its way, etched on to its face in an awesome display of engineering was our road. Barely 3 meters wide in parts, switching back time again, liberally sprinkled with evidence of recent rock falls or gaping wedges of erosion our driver excluded an almost bored display of expertise. But make no mistake, it was a performance born of repetition with each flick of the wheel or sudden lurch as the engine responded to a stomped on accelerator a pre-meditation and purposeful action to get us safely to the bottom, the slow way.
And finally we were there, the temperature of the cabin matching that of the brakes. Respite at escaping our cramped over-heated box almost overwhelming our relief at being alive.
