The "Road" To Huisuchi

Clenching the steering wheel, I stared at the rocky riverbed in absolute disbelief, then looked at Sweeney in the passenger seat. This was not the road we were told of, not even the risky off-road path we had been warned about. This was a totally washed-out patch of rocks bigger than basketballs, with a trickle of slippery mud streaming in-between. He seemed as worried as me. «Think we can make it?»


«Think we should even try?»

Sweeney, Maria and myself had left Creel early in the morning, heading to the village of Huisuchi to meet our Raramuri friends for the Rarajipare and Ariweta, the traditional ball and hoop races. It was an absolute first for us all, and a very exciting first stop on our long trip deep into the Barrancas del Cobre.


From having traveled around the Canyons before, I knew just how bad the roads could get. Sitting in jacked-up pickup trucks, I had seen the river crossings, bad bridges and rock slides over some already treacherous terrain. Therefore, I had asked repeatedly how the road was, and made a clear point of explaining to everyone I was NOT driving a souped-up off-road machine, but a standard city van.


«If it's 4x4, you'll be fine.»

The... "Road"

We'd left the comfort of asphalt off the main Batopilas road and already made our way down to Samachique, carefully weaving around boulders and washouts, rarely getting into second gear, making painfully slow progress. But as soon as we left the village, things started getting bad. Little did we know, we were just getting started.


«Just take it slow», said Sweeney, half-convinced.


I released the brake pedal and let the impulse move us forward. Immediately, the van started bouncing left and right, up and down as we rolled from one boulder to the other. I tried to keep the low parts between my wheels, aiming the tires at the highest protruding rocks.

Can you feel the tension?

SCREECH.


The bottom scraped against a rock. Luckily, the lowest part of the van was the cargo tray, a metal carrier plugged into the hitch shaft. The last thing I wanted was to repeat a painful experience we had two days before, when I drove over a rock on the road and hit the oil pan, effectively punching a golf ball-sized whole in it and losing all the engine oil, leaving us stranded for hours.


I let go of the brake again, even slower, allowing only half rotations of the tires before braking again.

A nicer segment.

Steep slopes, covered in huge rocks and scarred by deep, eroded water washes. I thought we would have to face that for a small stretch, then get back to what they call «mas o menos», more or less driveable. They couldn't possibly have told us to drive on that miserable excuse for a road all the way, right?


SCREECH.


God damn it.


We finally reached the top of the hill and I released a deep sigh. In front of us, more bad road was stretching, only interspersed with cleaner segments of maybe 200 feet. At that point, the best idea would have been to turn around, leave El Capitan behind and seek a ride with a bigger truck, but what would happen to all the donations we were carrying? And how would I get back to my van after the event, and to go where? So we just kept going, slowly, in a tense silence.

Turn right at the tree, then...

Some time later, after more of the same, I came to a full stop. In front of us, the steepest of the hills so far, covered in even bigger rocks, without a single visible path to safely attempt a climb. I parked the van. «I can't do this.» I looked at Sweeney, disheartened. «There's adventure, and there's stupid. We're gonna end up in big trouble if we keep going.»

I wanted to bang my head against the steering wheel. The idea of backing out broke my heart, and the path was so narrow and bad I wasn't even sure I could actually turn the van around. Even by doing so, we were facing an hour or more of very bad driving that could cause a breakdown in an instant. I took another breath and tried to empty my mind. Out of the blue, someone popped into my head; Christy Little Wings. Her presence was so vivid that I could actually hear her voice. I repeated out loud what she had told me, maybe a year ago, while running rough trails in upstate New York.


«The only way out... is through».

Yeah. Through... that.

I put the van back into drive, and slowly started moving ahead. The road didn't get any better. Not long after, we came across the first river crossing. Several inches of fast water were swirling over a rocky path that we couldn't see, making every foot of the way an absolute guess. We went in as slow as I could go, making sure never to stop so that water wouldn't gurgle down the exhaust pipe, and made the crossing. Once again, I sighed in relief.


The next several hours were spent clenching the wheel, worried sick about the road and angry at whoever had told me this road was drivable. I felt bad for dragging my friends into this, and responsible if anything happened to us. We were full to the brim with donated material, which was now screeching and scraping over canyon rocks, riverbeds and all sorts of nasty road hazards.


We crossed other trucks on the way, vehicles way more suited for that kind of driving which had blown their differential spinning and skidding up treacherous rocky hills. We saw people stranded on the trails with oily parts taken out of their engines, trying to achieve a quick fix that might take them out of this mess. At one point in the steepest of climbs, going no more than 2 to 3 mph, I could smell El Capitan's transmission overheating and I felt its blistering heat seeping through the floor. I decided to stop half way up, park for half an hour and cool things down, including myself. Maria took Guadajuko for a walk, Sweeney strolled around and I fell into an instantaneous, deep sleep that felt like a single minute.

«Flint. Wake up, man.»

Clench. Worry. Repeat.

«How long's it been?», I asked, still half-asleep and wishing someone would tell me they saw the village just above the hill we were climbing. «Twenty minutes. We should get going.». I climbed back at the wheel and started driving again. We weren't talking much, and everyone felt how bad our situation was. At that point, there was not much else we could do than go forward.


The drive went from crazy to ridiculous. When we hit the lowest point in the valley, the stream was over a foot deep and rushing down with enough force to move the van. Every time we went in, I had to guess where the highest path was and hope not to hit a hidden rock on the way. After several crossings, one of which was so deep it actually made the exhaust gurgle, I stopped the van again.

«Now where the fuck is the road?»


No one had an answer to offer. The rocky path led straight down to the river, which was about 25 feet wide and rushing over rocks way too big to try to drive through. On the other side, a forest with not even a footpath between the trees. Baffled, we looked at each other, suddenly considering the possibility that we'd taken a wrong turn, hours ago, and now had literally reached the end of the road.


Sweeney jumped out the van and walked down to the river. He turned around, looked at me and threw his hands in the air. I stepped out and joined him. Even from the edge of the water, there was not a single clue if the road went anywhere from there. He stepped in the cold water and started to cross, to get a better perspective. I took off my jeans and did the same. The water was extremely cold, but in that moment, this was the least of my worries.


We reached the other side and realized the road did continue. To get there, however, we would have to sink into the stream, maneuver between sunken boulders we couldn't see, make an almost 90-degree turn around a huge cliff side rock and climb back onto the path through a steep, unfriendly muddy bank.


We were neck-deep in stupid.

... And it takes only one rock
to break down.

We gathered by the van and tried to assess the situation. There was virtually no coming back, considering how lucky we had been so far not to break anything. But there was no guarantee we would make it even to the turn in the river, much less to the other side where more horrible road laid. I wasn't going to make that decision alone. «We need to all understand what we're into right now. Whether we go back, move ahead or do anything else, we need to all agree.» After some discussion, considering various options and their consequences, it was decided we would try to push through.


That's what the madness had come down to. Two bug-eyed gringos listening to a third one in his underwear, shivering from the biting cold of the river, making doomsday scenarios about every available option there was. Whichever way we went, I thought, we were not going to make it. No way.


Nonetheless, we all got back into the van, and everyone held their breath as we dropped down into the stream. The van moved sideways, so I gave it more gas to move forward. It bounced on the rocks and the cargo tray screeched and banged against the bottom, but we made the turn and headed for the muddy bank that would take us back into relative safety. The wheels hit it and the van stopped. Panicked, I stepped on the gas in a last-ditch attempt to get out of the river and the wheels spun, but eventually took grip and nudged the van back into movement. When all four wheels got to the other side, I let out yet another sigh. We'd made it.

The Bridge. Zoom in on this picture. It's really worth it.

I foolishly thought that the bottom of the valley would be the worst of the road that we would see, but we spent many more hours weaving and dodging at a snail's pace, with every stretch looking worse than the one before. After a series of very steep climbs, we reached the top again, and as we started coming down, I noticed the sun was getting ever closer to the canyon rim. «If we don't make it by daylight...» I said, looking at Sweeney, who just nodded. No need to finish that phrase. We would have to camp out in the wild, and therefore miss the beginning of the ball race.


Just as the last light was stretching overhead and we started looking for a spot to safely move away from the rocky path, we crossed a truck. I rolled down my window and asked if we were still far from Huisuchi. «No! Very close! Half a mile».


... An hour later, we are still trying to make progress through the rocks, with Sweeney providing extra light by holding a flashlight in front of the van to spot the safest path. At very long last, we saw a series of white-painted rocks that led to the last treacherous rocky slope, and a long-awaited arrival.


But I had long run out of sighs to release.

Huisuchi at long last, a gorgeous Canyon gem
that we received as a treasure.

Ce n'est pas l'impossible difficulté du chemin qui m'a le plus dérangé; c'est d'être forcé de briser ma promesse, de revenir sur la parole que j'avais donnée de ne rien tenter de dangereux pendant mon voyage. C'était bien contre mon gré, et je n'y vois aucune gloire, même après en être sorti relativement indemne.

The True Face Of Mexico

It's not like I hadn't been warned. When I announced I was going to spend a lot of my sabbatical year driving down to Mexico, specifically in the Copper Canyons, everyone questioned me whether I thought it was a safe, whether I thought this was a good idea.

«Whatever you do, don't drive at night. If possible, don't drive at all.»

«The worst spots are on the northern border states like Sinaloa, Sonora and Chihuahua».

«You can get shot just for looking in the wrong direction».

But of course, I didn't listen. I packed my van full of donations for the Raramuri, took two of my best friends with me and happily drove down to Agua Prieta and crossed into the low Sierra, which gradually changed into the sinuous road to the northern canyons.

Several hours past the turn at Hermosillo to head into the Sierra Madre, the road narrowed and some spots, usually on the other side of sharp curves, were littered with fallen rocks from the cliffs. Not a biggie, I thought, since we were driving a 4x4 van with decent clearan-THUD!!!

I hit one of the rocks at full speed. I don't know what surprised me the most; the immediate knowledge that something was going terribly wrong or the astonishment that such a small-looking rock could do any damage to the van. Less than a minute later, I lost all power, the steering went stiff and I had to wrestle it not to veer off over a cliff. In a couple moments of sheer panic, I managed to stay on the road, switch the gears to neutral, find a decent spot to pull to wedge the van between the rock wall and the road and come to a relatively safe stop.

I stepped out only to verify what I already knew; the rock had punched a golf ball-sized hole in my oil pan, which instantaneously spilled every last drop of my engine's oil on the road, in what were possibly the last moments of El Capitan's life. The engine was dead. Oil was dripping down from everywhere under the van. We were not going anywhere.

In the best case, we were stranded in a deserted mountain road in the middle of the Sonoran outback with a broken oil pan, at the mercy of everything and everyone. In the worst case, the dumping of my oil had caused my whole engine to seize, which meant that, in addition to the above-mentioned troubles, my van was also dead for good.

Either way, we were fucked.

Now I know, nowhere has no middle.

Here we were, stuck on the side of the exact treacherous mountain road I had been advised against. These roads, I was told, are traveled only by narcotraficantes, the federales that wage a war on them and a whole swath of shady characters with itchy triggers. We had nowhere to go, not a soul in sight and we knew we were miles from any village in either direction. Sitting ducks. A dead van full of goods with 3 vulnerable gringos no one would be looking for, for weeks. Easy prey.

That's when I was exposed, at my most vulnerable moment, to the true face of Mexico.

A pickup pulled over. The driver rolled down his window, and I tried to explain in FrankenSpanish the extent of my mechanical troubles.

«Don't worry, I speak English», the man said. «Let me pull over to a safer spot».

He parked and stepped out of his truck, walked down to evaluate the extent of the damage and quickly agreed my oil pan was gone and so were my hopes of going anywhere.

«Listen. You can ride with me in my truck, I'll take you to Yecora where I know they have a tow truck. But it's far, and they won't have your part. You're looking at several days before you can go.» When he realized I had friends with me, we agreed that he would take them and I would stay with Guadajuko in the van to try and watch over all our stuff. «Do you have food and water? They might only be back tomorrow». After I assured him I should be fine, He took Sweeney and Maria in his truck, waved goodbye and drove away.

Then things went silent. Very silent.

Alone, there, by the side of the road, I started unpacking the cargo tray that hangs in the back and somehow managed to cram all the bags inside the van, which was full to the ceiling with the exception of the bed, on which I was getting ready to spend the night. The darkness came quickly. Every once in a while, a huge semi blew past so close that the whole van shook and trembled. There was a very real chance that one of these monsters would hit the van and tear us to shreds.

More than four hours had now passed when I saw lights approaching. But this was no tow truck. It was a pickup, with two Mexican guys who started looking around with flashlights. They were talking to each other, but I couldn't make out what they were saying.

Could this be it? What everyone warned me about so much? Is this really happening? Are these two guys going to rip all the valuable parts off my van, and steal what's inside? What happens when they find I'm in here? Are th-«Flint?»

Sweeney's voice seemed to come out of nowhere. «Come meet Pajaro and Roberto!»

I stepped out of the van, still a little spooked. The two guys held out their hands and introduced themselves. They only had a pickup truck and I told them there is no way the can tow my heavily-loaded van up and down these twisty mountain roads. Pajaro just smiled and said «don't worrry».

He pulled out what looked like an old seat belt – I guess it's a tow strap of some sort – and started tying it under my engine, which he assured me wasn't blown. He strapped the other end to his hitch, which only left about 5 feet between both vehicles, and both men took place in their respective driver's seat. What ensued is a feat of such skill that I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it for myself. Keeping a constant tension on the strap, both drivers managed to move together for an incredible 40 miles up and down a dark, twisty mountain road filled with fallen rocks and potholes.

«You guys are amazing!» I told Pajaro. He shrugged. «We're mechanics». I said «You are not mechanics. You guys are artists!». He laughed and gave me a pat on the shoulder. Then, noticing my rough, dry cough from a cold I've been dragging for some time, he produced a handful of candy to «sweeten my throat». He kept driving in the night, telling me I should seek out pure honey bee, and that it would work great for my cough.

«You're fixing my truck, and you're fixing my throat, too?» He just smiled and kept driving in the night. Over three hours later, we pulled into a tiny pueblo, Tepoca, of maybe 25 houses. It was late, everyone was exhausted and we agreed we would all go to sleep and wake up early to start working on the van. Sweeney, Maria, Guadajuko and I managed to squeeze through all the piled stuff in El Capitan and get some sleep after almost 24 hours of travel. My last thought that night was of gratitude, for these two amazing men and their will to help us with what little they had.

Friends at work

The next morning came quickly, with the sound of cows and roosters so typical of Mexican mountain villages. We were up for 5 minutes when our friends showed up, all smiles and looking determined to fix our broken oil pan. Pajaro sent me and one his friends to purchase 5 quarts of oil and some liquid metal – a paste and a resin that you heat up and mix to produce some sort of compound that dries almost as solid as metal.

In the meantime, the guys built a little tinder fire and placed the compound right by it.

In another feat of incredible craftiness and skill, Pajaro used a sheet of tin foil to shape into a patch, then applied thin layers of the liquid metal under and above it to fixate it to the oil pan. He nursed the mix carefully until it dried, using only his bare hands and a piece of wood.

In a little over an hour, he was hitting the pan with a stick to a loud «bang, bang!» with a huge smile on his face, demonstrating how solid his work was. I asked if I needed to replace the pan as soon as I get out of the Canyons. He said «No, this is good for months! Only replace when you're back in the States, when you find a good cheap replacement».

Then for the thousandth time, I gave him my thanks for being so helpful, so crafty and so friendly. I asked how much money he wanted for all he'd done for me. He said he needed to charge me a tow and the fix istelf, so... $150 should do it. I was floored. Anywhere else, I would've been in for hundreds and hundreds of dollars, just for the towing. I handed him the 1,500 pesos, then I handed out 1,000 more. I said «This is to have a good Christams with your family». He smiled and nodded. Then he went back in his house and came out with a huge calabassa (a very delicious-looking squash) that he offered as a gift. So we went inside the van and got him frisbees for his kids. We shook hands, exchanged more heartfelt words of thanks and prepared to head back for the road.

«You have a heart of gold», said Maria to Pajaro.

He just smiled, like there was nothing to it, and simply said «Somos buenas gentes».

We're good people.



This, this is the true face of Mexico.

And anyone trying to tell you otherwise has never been stranded, miserable and vulnerable, on the side of one of the most dangerous roads in one of the most dangerous states of one of the most dangerous countries of the world. Or so they say.



To honor my new Mexican friends, and all the numerous other wonderful people I have met in this beautiful country, I commit to learn better Spanish, to the point where I will personally translate this for them to read, right here on my blog.

Viva Mexico, i viva las gentes de Mexico!







Découvrir le visage véritable du Mexique, c'est se retrouver à nu devant l'adversité, totalement vulnérable et sans aucune capacité de s'en sortir pour qu'émergent de l'ombre des gens humbles et honnêtes qui vous tendent simplement la main, d'un humain à un autre. Le Mexique est un pays formidable, rempli de gens extraordinaires que je découvre chaque fois avec plus d'enthousiasme. Mon Pays-Ami.