Creel, and Riding the Train through Copper Canyon

Creel

I took the bus from Chihuahua, Mexico, to Creel, 280 pesos (less than $28). The six and a half hour ride was 185 miles on mostly flat highways, with little rolling hills, and narrow, curved mountain roadways the last 60 miles. Again, I was the only non-Mexican on the bus. I’m getting use to it, but I wouldn’t complain if I ran into another Norte Americano. The bus driver reminded me of “The good, the bad, & the ugly” actor Lee Van Cliff (“the bad”). He certainly handled the large bus through the curves with wreak-less abandon. The bus drivers in Mexico earn their reputation of being muy macho.

Big modern bus station in Chihuahua

Muy macho bus driver

I’m perched on top of the Sierra Madres at 8,000 feet, light headed, a little cold, excited, and fully alive. The thin air challenges my lungs to breath. Nothing like having to take deep breaths of fresh air to know you’re still living. I felt tingling as my body adjusted to the new environment. It let me know I can adapt and thrive high up in the clouds, close to the heavens. I didn’t bring any foul weather gear, thinking I wouldn’t need any until I reached the Andes in South America. I’m staying in a little pueblo named Creel, awaiting the “El Chepe” train through Los Barrancas del Cobre, the Copper Canyon, on to the Pacific coast city of Los Mochis.

Creel is wonderful. I highly recommend a visit. Surrounded by rugged, forested mountains, it is a very romantic little town. There are lot’s of Mexican couples promenading through the small plaza holding hands, hugging, and enjoying each other’s company. Tarahumara (indigenous mountain people) women and children are selling their wares. Smells of roasting corn, sweet pine tree, and refreshing rain assault the senses. The intriguing clicks and high pitches of the Tarahumara language mix with the more familiar Spanish. Beautiful, passionate live Latin music (“besame, besame mucho . . . kiss me, kiss me as if tonight is the last time together”) escapes from a second story cocktail lounge and reminds me of deep friendship and missing familiar faces.

I stayed at the Posada de Creel, and at 250 pesos (less than $25), it met my budget requirements. The room was small, clean and safe, with a steady stream of hot water, a towel, toilet paper (don’t laugh, when traveling this small item becomes a luxury), but no soap. I have my own. I’m also traveling with an adequate supply of toilet paper, which I know I’ll need.

Colorful Creel

Mexico loves it's churches

Tarahumara people making a living at the Plaza

Some of what they sell

Preparing for another day of selling

I purchased a hand woven bracelet from this young vendor

Riding the Train through Copper Canyon

It’s difficult to put into words the splendor and magnificence of Barrancas del Cobre (Copper Canyon). It is the most wondrous natural site I’ve ever experienced. It’s a series of canyons. When one travels through the area, you know there must be a superior being who created the world. This just didn’t happen on its own. Thank You God, Goddess, Spiritual Being, Allah (you fill in the name) for allowing me to experience this natural phenomena. I recommend to everyone to visit on the train -- El Chepe. From Creel to El Fuerte, it’s $90 dollars. Riding the full length is around $180 dollars. I initially planned to disembark from the train at El Fuerte, two hours before Los Mochis. There was a change of plans.

El Chepe train had clean, bigger bathrooms than Amtrak -- with toilet paper. The train seats were spacious and comfortable, with a dining car that served not to expensive tasty meals (again, better than Amtrak). The conductors explained the flora and fauna, for example after we passed the actual Copper Canyon, the trees changed from thick, tall, sugar pines, to wild apple, mango, and avocado trees. This was my favorite part of the ride. I was left awed and humbled in the shadow of these oversized rugged, deep canyons. Some of the rock formations looked like they were carved by artists to depict abstract figures. It reminded me of Michelangelo’s later unfinished sculptors. The area is “owned” by the Tarahumara people. Even though they are poor, they do not allow cutting of the forest. They set the example for being honorable caretakers of nature.

El Chepe stopping at Copper Canyon

Barrancas del Cobre

Another view

Unpolluted streams

Magnifient waterfalls

Rugged, forested mountains

Clear lakes

Copper Canyon is one of the world’s treasures, and fairly easy to visit. If you don’t want to go alone, you will need to speak Spanish, I recommend a tour. It’s pure wild, wilderness, unpolluted nature, with clean waterfalls, rivers flowing with rapids, tall trees, and rugged, high canyons. Please, don’t forget to invite me when you go.

Manny de riding the rails with new friend Martin

If I have the opportunity, on my next posting, I’ll relate a twenty-nine hour, 1,460 mile, nonstop travel odyssey that I do not recommend for the weak of heart, but yes, for the weak of mind -- that’s probably why I did it.

Chihuahua, Mexico

Chihuahua, Mexico, located 250 miles from El Paso, six hours by comfortable bus ($29 dollars), is a modern, industrial city, that gets its wealth from mining copper, silver, gold. It’s a horizontal city, spread out in many directions. There is also a thriving cattle industry. Only the city center (El Centro) retains 18th century architecture -- ornate cathedrals, numerous elaborate churches, and cobbled walkways at the outdoor walking mall “Plaza Libertad” (Plaza of Liberty). I observed no other foreigners in town. All signs are in Spanish, as are TV and radio stations. I heard no one speaking English. I have not spoken English is five days, only Spanish.

People, pigeons, water: sights to excite the senses

Plaza Libertad: many people watching opportunities

Cathedral Plaza: great conversations to be had

Most people look and dress middle-class, for Mexico. Everyone, even indigenous people, had cell phones. The people are attractive. Most have dark skin, but many have green or blue eyes, light skin color, and blondish hair. Spanish influence is apparent. The men are close to my height (5’11’’), wore stylized cowboy boots with long pointed toes, and handsome. The women are pretty, some extremely beautiful, with curves in the right places - no Twiggies, or Kate Moss starving bodies. The current trend is super tight jeans, with 4 to 6 inch heels. It is fascinating to see them maneuver the uneven payment and walkways. No one falls. I stumbled in my hiking boots, tripping over unseen potholes, and unannounced changes in sidewalk levels. There were a few Tarahumara indigenous people, mostly women and children, in the plaza selling handcrafts.

Real men wear pink, pointed boots

Young women smile easily

Tarahumara people making & selling wares

Already working for a living

This is a historical city. Father Hidalgo, the father of the first Mexican revolution, was executed here and is buried in the palace of government. Benito Juarez established the country’s capital here, while fighting the French invasion of Mexico. They beat Napoleon, before the English. The famous, or infamous, Poncho Villa launched his revolution from Chihuahua. He met his end near here through assassination. His home is a museum, where one can view his Swill cheese like, bullet riddled car. There must have been nothing left of Poncho after they machine gunned him to death.

Father Hidalgo died for his beliefs

Poncho Villa killed for his

Yes, that's Abraham Lincoln on the left. Along with Juarez, and Simon Bolivar

on the right, they are considered champions of liberty, freedom, & equality in Latin America.

Fighting for women's rights

Sitting at Plaza Libertad people watching, aromas of roasting corn cobs, car and bus exhaust, stale perfume, hair spray, leather boots, and frying potatoes mixed to alert me that “we’re not in Kansas anymore”. One could hear swoops of flocks of pigeons overhead, yells of “gentleman want a shoeshine, shoeshine”, taps of high heels on brick walkways, shouts and giggles of children playing, and women and men gossiping about family and friends -- “she finally left him” . . . “my wife is not satisfied with what I give her, I need another job” . . .  “I wish he was a better lover”. . . “she’s pregnant again”.

At the cathedral plaza, I approached some older gentlemen for conversation. They were gregarious, laughed freely, and made many off-colored remarks about life, women, and Mexico. I asked Alejandro, what does America and American mean to you, and what are you? He answered, “I’m Catholic first, and then Mexican, because I live in Mexico. We are all American - north, central, south. We are all the same. People from ‘norte’ (north) call themselves American, but they really are ‘Norte Americanos’ (North Americans).” I interjected: aren’t Mexican and Canadians also North American? He responded, “Well yes, they all live in North America, but they do not call themselves Americans. We say we’re Mexican, and Canadians refer to themselves as Canadians.We’re all human beings and our differences are more related to economic class in both Mexico and the United States. The indigenous people are really the only real Americans.”

All of Latin America (including parts of US) was built on the backs of indigenous people

We ended our discussion by me asking him what he was doing here, and he said “I’m 79 years old. I’m killing time, before time kills me. The women in tight jeans keep me alive and remind me why I still want to live.”

Alejandro in white hat: ". . . tight jeans keep me alive . . . "

I enjoyed my stay in Chihuahua. It was a great place to acclimate to Latin culture, for example Spanish language, differences in foods, soaps, water pressure for showers, greetings of people (most give quick kisses on the cheek to friends and acquaintances), and the way people look (brown skin, dark hair). No one threatened me, and I never felt unsafe or at risk for crime. I walked everywhere. The people I encountered were helpful and curious about me, because of my accent when I spoke Spanish. They guessed: Argentina, Brazil, Portugal, other Latin American countries. No one guessed I was from the United States. I told them I was from California, and everyone seem to know where that was located, but did not know Watsonville (my place of residence). They consistently asked if that was near Los Angeles. Many had visited LA, or have relatives and friends who currently live in LA. I will return for another visit to this historical city.

I just visited Copper Canyon. The most magnificent natural wonder I’ve ever experienced. I think more stunning than the Grand Canyon and Yosemite. On my next opportunity to get “connected” to the internet, I’ll give an update. I’m currently in Morelia, Mexico -- a few hours outside Mexico city. Arrived here after a 29 hour, nonstop travel odyssey by train and bus. Next, I’m headed to Oaxaca to try the chile mole. I heard it was the best in the world. Do you want corn or flour tortillas with your mole?

Other photos:

Huevos rancheros, freshly squeezed OJ, fresh salsa: excellent!

As I travel, I'm going to compare this meal with others I eat.

Friendlier police, though still heavily armed

Face in the crowd

Why do the indigenous people of America struggle the most?

There is hope!

Entering the “Most Dangerous City In the World”

Juarez, Mexico, Friday, July 22, 2011 

When I mentioned to people in the border town of El Paso, Texas that I was traveling through Juarez, they said:

“You’re crazy, it’s not safe.”

“Be careful, I would’t do that.”

“Don’t stop and talk with anyone.”

“Don’t get into any conflicts with the police.”

“Good luck (nervous laughter) and may God protect you.”


These people live across the border from Juarez. They all seemed scared, and no longer venture into Mexico.What do they know, that I don’t?

Yes, I almost turned back, but where’s the adventure in that? I’m not brave. If confronted with violence or accosted, I’m giving up all my possessions for my life. It’s a small price to pay to continue to live, learn, and love.

Thus, I started my odyssey south of the border. Apprehension, fear, anxiety, and butterflies in my stomach understates my frame of mind. I boarded the Americanos bus and am comforted by a 300 pound, thirty-ish, dark brown hair, Latino Arnold Schwarzenegger look alike -- except pear shaped, not muscular -- bus driver. His sober, worried look either was because of the dangerous journey ahead, or because the bus is running late, and it’s well into the lunch period. 

It turned out that once the bus was through the greater Juarez area, he sat a large orange igloo picnic bucket in the aisle. He ate with a passion, nonstop for the next two hours -- numerous sandwiches, several Mexican pastries, 3 or 4 diet cokes, and ended by peeling and eating sunflower seeds. Somehow seeing the gusto expressed by “Arnold” while consuming food had a calming affect on me. Things can’t be that bad, since he is most at risk and it does not affected his appetite. I had a bag of trail mix, but couldn’t eat, too nervous.

First, we stopped at the Mexican border for immigration and customs inspection. Being the only non-Mexican on the bus, I was told to “get off” and go into the office for “examination”. A six-foot tall soldier in black fatigues, black flak jacket, and coordinated black mask, with a shiny automatic weapon stopped me at the door. His dark, mad eyes penetrated my very being. Is it too late to turn back?

I offered my passport, which he did not inspect. He motioned me with his weapon towards the door. Why am I sweating so much? I’m stammering as I say “Buenas tardes” (good afternoon), no response. I have nothing to hide. I’ve committed no crimes, yet I feel guilty as hell.

Entering the office, three more heavily armed, black dressed soldiers surround me. One grabs my passport, puts it up to my face and asks my name. “Maaaaaaanuel Griiiiiiiiijalva, sir!” I answer. He asks my reason for wanting to enter Mexico. This is not the time to tell of our adventure through the Americas. “I’m a tourist, sir!” I respond. He tells me to go to window number one, and that they’re watching me. I start to tremble. These are supposed to be the good guys, right? What will I do when comforted by the bad guys? Good thing I brought several change of drawers.

The immigration official is serious, gives me a tourist card form to complete. He asks for another ID. I slip into my messenger bag and pull out my California driver’s license from the enclosed money belt and hand it to him. He keeps it. He points to a tall workstation table to stand and complete the form. It’s all in Spanish, which I understand. I complete the form and return to stand in line at window number one. Other Mexican travelers enter the office and stand behind me in line. The official stamps the tourist card and passport. I’m told that before I leave Mexico, I need to go to any bank and pay a 280 peso (about $28 dollars) fee to complete the process, or I won’t be allowed to leave the country. He hands back my license. I buckle up my bag, as I turn to leave he says, with a serious tone “Welcome to Mexico.” I need the bathroom.

I boarded the bus with dark sweat marks under my arms and loose bowels. The bus continued through Juarez. Heavily armed federal police are everywhere. All dressed in matching black, with masks, and flak jackets. Black Humvees full of soldiers constantly raced by the bus. Except for all the armed men at every junction, and sober, sad looking people, we could be in the United States. We go by Costco’s, Home Depot, Denny’s, Holiday Inn Express, and a Ford dealership. The government buildings we pass are armed fortresses, with heavy guns and lot’s of soldiers -- doesn’t anyone take off their black flak jackets, or masks in public? How do people live in this intimidating environment? I saw no overt acts of violence, but could taste a bitter, pale of brutality, impending gloom, and random death. It tasted like I bitten into a bitter aspirin tablet.

So what’s all the fuss about travel through Juarez? . . . . Oh, please ignore the stain in my shorts. There was another casualty. When I arrived in Chihuahua, Mexico, I discovered my camera was missing? Next time, we’ll fly to Mexico.

(My apology for not posting any photos. I’ll get another camera for the next adventure. See you in Copper Canyon.)

Update: bought another camera. Below is the first photo -- a test shot.

After traveling through the "most dangerous city in the world"

and discovering missing camera (& stain in my shorts)

New Mexico Hospitality, a Navajo Scout, and Chasing Ghosts

After spending four days in New Mexico, I’m convinced the people from the “Land of Enchantment” are the most hospitable souls in the world. Relatives would not let me pay for accommodations, or use of a vehicle, and feed my hungry body. Whenever a restaurant bill arrived, my caring New Mexican relatives would charge forward and pay. When I insisted that I’d like to pay, I was answered with “you’re family, we always help family, you’ve paid us with your visit”. This generosity and hospitality is a trait of the people of this state. Family connections, assistance, and kindness are the most important values for these fine, unpretentious people.

Manny with aunt & cousins

Four generations of New Mexicans ("expedition leader" made it to New Mexico)

Land of Enchantment -- New Mexico

These mini wild sunflowers grow everywhere

On my last day in New Mexico, I received my second (breakfast) and third (dinner) free meals of our journey. Breakfast was pure New Mexican cuisine -- a delicious huevos rancheros, fried eggs with chile, and “gordita” (thick) handmade tortillas. Do you want red or green (hot) chile? I chose red, to save my taste buds for later (thank you Dobbie & Raye). Dinner consisted of grilled chicken tacos, whole pinto beans, stewed spinach, and sopapillas, a fried puffy pastry tortilla with butter and honey. No leftovers (thank you Judy & Will). I incurred a major debt to New Mexican relatives (thanks uncle Fred & auntie Maggie and their unbelievably generous daughters, and cousin Gloria).

I said good-bye to relatives. Left my mother to visit her sister. I’m without the safety net of relatives. I’m on my own. Extended travel involves long periods of being alone and loneliness. It can take a toll. But, I’m excited to now be self-sufficient and must rely on my own wits, internal resources, physical and mental gifts. I’ve covered about 1,200 miles (a tenth of the 12,000 mile journey) in seven days, and I’m missing home and loved ones. I need to toughen up, focus on the moment, and “go forward” on to the edge of the Americas.

A Navajo Scout

I toured “Old Town Albuquerque” with Russell, a courageous full blood Navajo, who led the way. The pueblo architecture, smells of ancient food like roasted corn tortillas, combined with being led by a Navajo “scout”, transported me to the 17th century. I felt like a pioneer, relying on a Native American like all previous trailblazers. Lewis and Clark were successful because of an “Indian” woman. Cortez, Coronado, Onate, Anza, Kit Carson, every trailblazer to explore the Americas followed Native Americans or the trails they created. If not for assistance from hospitable Natives, no pioneers, no “trailblazers”, no United States. The stories of these real pioneers - indigenous peoples - must be told.

Russell, "I'm Navajo", with cousin Gloria

I asked my trusted Navajo scout, what does “America” and “American” mean to you? Do you label yourself an American? “I’m Navajo”, even though born and raised off the Navajo reservation. Russell remains connected to his grandmother and “medicine men” work cures when his ill. He said, “America and American are new labels that don’t come from Indian nations. I always will identify myself as Navajo. That’s what I am and that’s what I’ll always be.”

Chasing ghosts

Old Town, established in 1706, is the home of over 300 years of dead people. It is recorded that ghosts haunt buildings, ally ways, and chapels. So many deaths by unnatural causes like murder, foreign disease, and violent battles among natives and settlers results in ghost pollution. They want to be heard, without speaking. They need to be seen, yet without a physical presence. They want to be helped, with no ability to ask. So, doors open and shut without explanation. One feels areas of cold on a hot, humid afternoon. You feel a touch, but see no one. They want and need to find rest, but first must convince their maker they’ve left a mark -- a legacy.

San Felipe church in Old Town

Not changed in 300 years

The dead still haunt

Good or evil is not the question. They seek to let us know they once lived, worked, created life, and caused death. They can harm you, or help you. They scare and excite. All they ask is acknowledgement that they once were, and then can rest.

This church bell rang, with no apparent cause or reason - ghost?

Our Navajo scout maneuvered us through this nether world. Thousands of years of experience and wisdom race through his blood and genes. He accepts what modern society can not explain. He judges no one -- alive or dead. He knows that regardless of harm or violence, the Navajo Nation survives. Russell is coming (virtually) with us on our pilgrimage. He will lead, scout, and make safe the path to the edge of the world.


We will need his power. Tomorrow, we pass through the “most dangerous city” in the world, Juarez, Mexico. Hold on to your backpacks. 

Expedition leader joins the pilgrimage

Dear reader, I have great news. I stopped in Barstow, California to pick up an experienced, seasoned traveler who is fully bilingual (Spanish & English), with numerous contacts in the “old country” -- my 84 year-old mother, Mary de Grijalva. She enthusiastically accepted the position of honorary expedition leader. 

I hear you: “Manny de your kidding”, “No way is an 84 year-old able to make the journey”, “Are you crazy, eighty-four years old!”

My response is: you don’t know my mother. She is committed to making the odyssey to at least New Mexico, with the possibility of taking over for me, if I’m unable to continue the pilgrimage. I received the “travel” gene from her.

Mary de leading the way

Car, bus, train, and walking are modes I use to get to Barstow. Watsonville, Salinas, Santa Barbara, Los Angeles, Barstow California -- all stops on the way to the edge of the world. It was fun and exciting to ride the train through costal California, and into the desert. I highly recommend a train ride. 

"All aboard" to the train to the edge of the Americas

Window to the world of adventure

People you meet on trains

I had the opportunity to share stories with Herb -- retired school teacher, 65 year-old athlete, great conversationist, knowledgeable about life, history, with an expansive world view, very much concerned with children and the state of education in California. I learned from Herb (thank you). He graciously offered me my first meal on this overland excursion. A delicious, sweet -- I was hungry -- pop tart. My first free meal.

I met Cindy. A cutting-edge math professor who mentors and teaches at a California State University. Also, an athlete who is a master swimmer preparing for an ocean race. She exhibits courage, strength, self assurance and is the right person to be leading youth into the 21st century. For summer, she manages and is the visionary behind a program that prepares undergraduates for graduate studies in mathematics. “For many students they are the first to go to college and come from underrepresented populations, like Latinos.”

I asked her what does “America” mean to you. “I try not to use the term”, because in certain circles it makes people uncomfortable. We’ve taken over the terms, America and American, but I know it means more than just the United States. It excludes the rest of the people in the Americas. There are North, Central, and South Americans. Though I think most people in Latin American countries either refer to themselves regionally, like “I’m Columbian” or use tribal labels, “I’m Quiche” (a Mayan tribe). Yes, my thoughts exactly.

I also met a young adventurous fellow, Andrew from Belgium, on route to visit his grandmother. He travels 9,000 miles (one-way) to go home. He convinced me that our pilgrimage of 12,000 miles is doable.

Sure beats driving through Southern California

All these fine souls wished me safe journey and success on my excursion. I encourage everyone to get out of our cars, hop on a train, talk with the person next to you, or in front, or behind you. You will be uplifted to know that our country is populated with caring, intelligent people making a positive difference in our society. I want to be more like Herb, Cindy, and Andrew.

Timeline

Fellow travelers: In addition to coming with me (virtually), I'd like to invite everyone to physically join me at the following destinations. I've already passed through Los Angeles, California, on my way to New Mexico. Hope to see you on the journey.

Boarding the train in Salinas, California

Are we in LA? Yes, we're in Latin America

The crossroads of the world -- Los Angeles

1. United States: one week July 15 – July 22

2. Mexico: one week July 22 – July 29

3. Guatemala: two weeks July 29 – Aug. 12

* Study Spanish for one week

4. Honduras: two weeks Aug. 12 – Aug. 26

* Study Spanish for one week

5. Nicaragua: two weeks Aug. 26 – Sept. 9

* Study Spanish for one week

6. Costa Rica: 2-3 days Sept. 9 – Sept. 12

7. Panama: 2-3 days Sept. 12 – Sept. 15

8. Colombia: two weeks Sept. 15 – Sept. 29

9. Ecuador: two weeks Sept. 29 – Oct. 13

10. Peru: two weeks Oct. 13 – Oct. 27

11. Bolivia: two weeks Oct. 27 – Nov. 10

* Study Spanish for one week

12. Chile: two weeks Nov. 10 – Nov. 24

13. Argentina: two weeks Nov. 24 – Dec. 8

* A total of four weeks (Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, & Bolivia) of formal study of Spanish in four different countries.

** There is one week (Dec. 8 to Dec 15) available to add to other destinations. Fly back to California, probably from Buenos Aires, Argentina, around Dec. 15, 2011.