Creel: embracing mountains, stars and unpolluted air

So, twelve days since the last post, which means lots to write about. Only, it takes a few moments to recall those so-called 'unforgettable' experiences. Oh, how the mind is a volatile instrument...

I left off in Chihuahua where I stayed a couple of days with Roberto, the cooperative slave/neo hippy. Early in the morning I took a bus to Creel, the small mountain village I talked about in the previous post. A more romantic mean of transportation to that village could have been the 'Chihuahua al Pacifico', Mexico's last passenger train that tours tourists as well as ordinary workmen from the city of Chihuahua to the Los Mochis. Now, since I'm a cheap bastard I opted for the bus, which was half the price. And, since I have the reputation of sleeping anywhere at any time, I most likely would have fallen asleep on that train missing the great scenery outside for which that line is know for. The train ride might be one of Mexico's last and most valuable transport relics, but fuck that. If can choose between seeing stunning mountain complexes and actually walking in them, I'll go for the latter. Man, would I feel stupid thinking: "Wow, that's a cool canyon. I'd wish to explore it but unfortunately I'm on this stupid train from where I can only shoot uninteresting pictures from afar." On the other hand, I would liked to be on that lousy train just for the hell of it. If I had the money. But then again, I would do a lot of silly stuff if I had the money.

Upon arriving to Creel, just as I descended from the bus, I'm immediately addressed by two random guys fascinated by the size of my backpack. "What're you gonna do? Go camping or sumtin'?" As the conversation continued, I told them I came from the glorious nation of Belgium, to which they were hit by utter surprise. "Belgium??? Oh, of course." Whereupon I asked whether they could locate it. Of course, as with many Mexicans to whom I've revealed my domicile, they had never heard of such a thing as 'Belgium'. In the best case, the average Mexican has heard of Bruges, thanks to Hollywood's hit movie 'In Bruges' which pinpointed Belgium on the world map, or Brussels, where most important European institutions are located. If that person inquiring my origin hasn't heard of Bruges, nor Brussels, I tell them the country is located right in between The Netherlands (= Amsterdam to them) and France. In that case most people have a slight, vague notion of the coordinates of Belgium. If that doesn't work, I just say 'Europe' to end the burden. However, in this case of the two guys in Creel, they perplexed me with their total ignorance beyond perception. Check it out, it went more or less like this:

Me: "Belgium lies in between The Netherlands, where Amsterdam is, and France."
Them: nodding 'no'.
- "You know, France. You've heard of France right? The Revolution, Sarkozy, French...?"
º "No man, I haven't heard of that."
- "But, you have heard of Europe right?"
º "Not really man, I mean. Gee, no."
- "I mean, you do realize there is another continent besides the American one, do you? Something at the other side of the Atlantic Ocean?"

The two men just nodded 'no' with a subtle smile as in suggesting "I don't know and I don't really care." And so, I finished my futile attempt to explain my origin by saying 'that I came from very far'. Anyhow, they were very kind. They did their best. I won't judge their geographical ignorance, it just makes a very memorable story. Honestly, from all the replies on Belgium's existence by Mexicans I've had, ranging from "Oh, so you came by car?", to "Belgium? That's in the U.S., isn't it?", those two guys hit the jackpot. It will be hard to encounter a reply any more dumb than theirs. Oh well, coming from a small country as Belgium helps testing people's general knowledge of geography ánd makes brilliantly funny moments. "Hoorah for Belgium", said the English in WWI, right?

After that humoristic interval I started walking towards the hostel I had planned on staying in. All went well, booked three nights and subscribed to an interesting hiking tour which I usually dislike. The first day I rented a bike to explore the surroundings since walking them distances would be far too exhausting and aggravating. Just as I was preparing to leave, two guys walk into my dorm. One was Carl, the British version of the Simpson's Sideshow Bob but without the murder instinct. The other one was Duncan, the omnipresent world-trottering Australian with a perfect Spanish level. Resulted that they too had rented bikes. And so for the next 2 -3 days I hung out with them. A pair of excellent jocks, they were. Yes, quite. Apart from them there were other interesting travelers in the dorm. There was Toki, a Japanese girl of 24 looking 13 with a typical Asian full-teethed smile that squeezes her eyeballs into her sockets, and Iran (the correct spelling I never knew), an Israeli guy with an impressive knowledge of world politics and an incredibly irritating, but at the same time hilarious high-pitched voice that sometimes squeaked beyond human's ability of hearing the 20,000 hertz frequency limit. Now, here in Mexico I've been made fun of my French 'r' which doesn't exist here. Unfortunately, I'm not capable of pronouncing the letter 'r' with my tongue, i.e. the rolled 'r', because of my late Belgian grandmother who thought me wrongly. But that guy surpassed a throat's ability to form the letter by almost vomiting it out. A Frenchman would have scrapped his nationality, thát's how French Iran's pronunciation of the letter 'r' was. But a cool guy, nevertheless. After those four travelers left for their next destinations I was left alone in the dorm with only an English girl, named Jacky. Duncan, the Australian, described her as 'the most negative and depressing person in my nine months of traveling'. That pretty much says it all. She would wake up, get up, have breakfast and return to bed sighing that there's nothing to do. In an area filled with mind blowing nature scenery offering more than a dozen activities to explore it. She was quite depressing by times. But still, I gave her a chance and she seemed alright. I hadn't had female company in a while so I guess that makes it up somehow. I only spend one day with her and Arturo, the best ever hostel employee I've met. Or at least on of the best. He thought me the ritual to consume peyote, a hallucinogenic cactus that grows mainly in the north of Mexico. This place called Real de Catorce seems to be the travelers' destination for the consume of peyote. That's where I'm going!

Probably the most interesting part of my stay at Creel was the time I stayed with the village's one and only couchsurfer, Jorge. Since I wanted to stay longer but without paying for a hostel I figured that would a good idea to do. The interesting thing about Jorge is that he works for this benevolent foundation that works together with and aids Tarahumara communities, the local indigenous people there. Sometimes he would go to one of those communities for two days to help them seed, harvest, build water basins, etc. I was hoping to join him on one of his trips, which he was glad to hear. The first day we went only the afternoon to talk to them. Naturally I didn't say much as I'm not involved in the organization. While Jorge talked to the indians, who actually look more like dark-skinned Mexicans in a Texas cowboy outfit, I listened, observed and smiled whenever appropriate. That is, only men talk. The women, who on the other hand still dress in traditional clothing just like their ancestors, talk very little, almost nothing, and barely look up to other men besides their husband or children. However, that doesn't refrain them from burning two holes through your face with their penetrating eyes, occasionally showing a ridiculing smile. The Tarahumara namely laugh at outsiders, 'white people', and their clothing habits. Apparently, and at the time I was fully unaware of this, everybody was making fun of me because of the shoes I wore. Those are by the Mexican brand 'Panam', that were given to me by my host in Chihuahua, and in that community are only worn by women. And besides I was wearing shorts because it was too damn hot outside which most likely made me look a gringo. Despite their mockery, I was more than happy to have seen such a community. It got better the next two days, though.

Jorge was going to stay for two days in a community called Guachochi (Wa-tsho-tshi) to supposedly help the people harvest corn and beans. I hesitated not one second to accompany him. First we had to drive 45 minutes to the community we had gone to the previous day, in order to to walk an hour from there to Guachochi because you need a robust 4x4 to nail the road up there. On the road we followed, kids walk
to go to school, women to buy groceries and men to find cheap labor elsewhere. The surrounding scenery was amazing. I wish I could upload some pictures to show you, but since I shoot in highest resolution and uploading one damn picture on this lousy website takes a whole week, I'll postpone it to another day when I have more time, or more patience. Time I have plenty, so that's no excuse, I know. After the one-hour hike we finally arrived at the village counting only about 100 inhabitants. The first man we meet is Roberto, who runs the village groceries store. He would let us sleep in there. A funny thing about meeting a local like him is that, when you start up a conversation, you first talk about minor things like the weather, harvest, or about anything like a car or food. That doesn't seem too strange. But the long, uncomfortable silences in between and the useless repeats of just brought-up subjects make it kind of awkward. At least for me. Because they don't seem to show any sign of uncomfortableness. And when there's absolutely nothing to add, they resort to "está bien, está bueno", meaning "it's alright, it's all good", or "así es", "that's right". That only happens in the beginning of conversations, as if things first have to warm up. But all in all, the Tarahumaras aren't the most talkative people. They live by the very essence of life, which translates in their housing, habits, food and leisures. Unlike us, materialized and hasty sons of bitches, their unmentioned motto chimes 'less is more'. The houses consist mostly of two rooms with the minimum of necessary furniture like a table, a little bench and of course the beds. Chairs are redundant since one can sit on the floor too. Each house also has a calentón or improvised fireplace at its disposal that functions as a stove, frying pan and above all as a heat source since temperatures drop considerably at nighttime. Their diet, depending on the time of harvesting, is limited to corn tortillas, beans and other plantlike vegetables. Meat is only eaten on celebration days. However, globalization is everywhere and hits even the tiniest communities in the most remote areas. In the community store, that guy Roberto runs, people can buy instant noodle soups, cookies, crisps by well-known brands and of course, sadly, coca-cola. Outside the store, next to the entrance, hangs a medium-sized Pepsi advertising poster. Those goddamn Nazis are everywhere! I tell you that. Anyhow, as I was saying, their daily activities consist of, also depending on the time of the year, seeding, picking corn and beans, working at their houses, etc. Kids go to community schools often far-distanced from their houses, and play with the little things they have. They also help the parents whenever work has to be done. Women, as you could have guessed, dedicate their lives to cook, wash, take care of the kids, and walk long distances to nearby towns and villages to buy groceries or sell handicrafts. The stereotypical and ancient gender role is still very contemporary and seems like it will be like that for many, many years. Men do the 'hard work' on the field, or, the worst case, commute to far-off cities and fields owned by big landowners to sustain their families. When there's time to relax, or to celebrate any type of occasion, the villagers get in action among others to prepare tezuino, a corn-based beer-like beverage. If there's tezuino in the make, or if it's around, excitement fills up the air. Men and women get together, although separated from each other, to drink, talk and dance. During celebrations dancing forms an important part of the ritual. Also, tongues loosen up more and as a result they get drunk. As you can see, alcoholism, or the need to get shit-faced as I like to call it, is omnipresent. It is not a product from our depraved modernized society - which it truly is - but rather a human, earthly need to escape harsh reality.

I almost forgot telling you about it. We were there to assist them with whatever they needed help with. However, Juan, another farmer of that village, subtly declined our offer to help him because we {city boys} would cut off our hands. Eventually, he came around and accepted our help. It wasn't all too hard. We just had to cut corn plants, or whatever you may call them, so that new corn can grow. When that was done Juan invited us to his house to have dinner. That was probably the most beautiful moment I experienced over there. The little food they had, from which five girls and two parents ate of, they shared with us. Well, in fact, it wasn't that little. But, I didn't dare to take more even though the man offered to. At that moment I felt incredibly honoured, humble, insignificant perhaps. The only seat opportunity they had, a kid-sized bench for two, Juan offered it to us while he sat on a turned-over bucket. Now try to return them the favour for that! I could only say 'thank you very much', but not too much because it would lose its strength after countless repeats. That and self-consciousness reminding me of how small I am.
Jorge and I also helped Roberto and his family picking corn in the early morning of the next day. Although it seems like a monotonous job, it feels meditating because you're out in nature, under a burning sun, with smell of fresh dawn in your nostrils and the warmth of the family cooperating. It's nothing like rotting away by an assembly line where you are ruled by the clock. He too invited us into his house for coffee. In exchange, we gave them cookies, bread and instant Mexican soup. It was all sharing. In those two days, I learned three essential words: Kwíra (Hi), Matéteraba (thank you) and arióshiba (bye). I said matéteraba a lot.

And so it was time to return to our comfortable house with cosy beds, central heating, refrigerator and T.V. Surprisingly the switch from a simple, rural environment to a more materialized, lantern-lit town wasn't too bad. I guess I'd have to stay longer in a community to feel the change. Anyway, those three days tasted like more. For now I'll just keep hovering around, from city to city, from town to town. But there will be time I'll settle down in such community where people go to bed at 20:30 and wake up torturingly early at sunrise. A place with no computers, T.V.'s or McDonalds. Although, it would not surprise if those modern Nazis erect a McDo from the ground somewhere in a valley. The Cola man has already showed up...

Monterrey continued/ Chihuahua

Actually, my previous post wasn't finished yet, but the last sentence of it that rolled out of my pen - I mean keyboard - sounded like a nice ending. But anyway,...

The first two nights I stayed in that hotel my uncle had payed for me. At first, it felt comfortable. Too comfortable. So I switched to Couchsurfing, an excellent online community for 'alternative' travelers, to find a person to host me for a couple of days. The first one to accept my reply was a young fellow named Jozabad, or Joza for friends. A self-proclaimed hippy in mind, a decent employee and occasional outburst drunk, Joza let me stay at his grandparents' house for a couple of days. Well, a few days turned quickly into 10 days. How? First of all, his ability to make you feel welcome and his gang of jolly friends who do likewise. But most of all, it's his grandparents who without consideration accept a foreign traveler into to their house as one of their own. In fact, they're already used to receiving backpacking trotters from all over the world thanks to their grandson, who offers them accommodation. The following ten days I didn't only go out and explored the city, but I hung out with Joza's friends and lived together with his grandparents and sisters. No wonder a week went by without realizing it...

The part of living together with them was perhaps the most interesting one. Usually, when I'm out traveling I have this urge to go out as quickly as possible out of fear of not seeing everything I wish to see. But in this house that was slightly different. I would wake up, get up, and walk into the kitchen where Grandma or Grandpa was preparing lunch. I'd start talking to them about I don't what anymore and help in anyway possible. If I wasn't useful in the kitchen, Joza's little sister Michelle would keep me entertained. Only 8 years old, it feels like you're talking to an adult. She showed me a few of her songs on my guitar, which were awful since she was not playing any actual chords or melodies, but made me laugh nonetheless. Like any child, she would never stop talking and coming up with new ideas until one of her family members would shut her up. I didn't mind. Perhaps the most comical member of the family was Don Jesus, the grandfather. He would start talking about the old days when he would go drinking with his pals after work and return completely shitfaced, only to find his wife upset again. It came to that point, he told me laughingly, that on Fridays before he went off to work the weekend his wife would give him a few extra pairs of pants and shirts because the man would not return home until Monday, tired of working and binge drinking with his colleagues. Now that's what I call true love. Hours would pass on like that until my host Joza would return from work and pick me up to go visiting places or meet up with friends. Honestly, I didn't mind staying at home at all. I truly enjoyed hanging out with his family who took care of me more than I would ever expect from them. Their unselfishness and willingness to receive a stranger into their household only inspires me to do the same to others. As a poor traveler, I can hardly repay their goodness, regretfully. Being eternally grateful doesn't seem enough in this case. I can only do the same what they did to me and therefore start an unmalicious circle of receiving and giving help. That's why the couchsurfing project is perfect in its essence, which can be simplified to Karma. Unfortunately, the reality is different for this world is sometimes too crooked to sustain that thought. Positiveness is too often crushed by genuine negativeness. "The world is crashing down?" Maybe, but until that happens, it's imperative too stay positive, only it were for just a short period of time. Living purely and eternally positive, on the other hand, makes one naive and turn away from reality. It's a choice one has to make: think negative always and end up being a grouchy, wretched old person, stay naively on the bright side of life and be confronted by the hazards of reality, or hover somewhere in between, swinging like a pendulum from one side to another whatever situation you're in. I think I'll opt for the last.

...

Few, did I just write that? Fuck. Well, I'll turn to a lighter subject: Chihuahua. I arrived to the capital of the homonymous state past Monday. The bus ride was interesting because for eleven hours continuously the bus driver played one awfully dubbed Hollywood smash hit movie after the other, which made reading or listening to music at normal volume difficult. It was either being brainwashed by Hollywood cinema or sleeping. Good thing I was tired from the night before...

As in Monterrey, I request a couch and very easily found one. Roberto, a 32-year old white collar cooperative/dreamy traveler has been hosting me for the last couple of days. As his first couchsurfer, he has received me very well taking me for beers every night. During the day he nods 'yes' indisputably to his colleagues and trains his under-positioned newcomers, while at night he changes uniform to fetch a few beers in an unfashionable bar. Along the way, Roberto has learned to balance his cooperative alter ego with his real self. I've learned from him that not every company slave thinks like a company slave, but cherishes a much more interesting life beyond the office walls. It gives me hope for the future. On the positive-negative scale his pendulum leans more towards positive side. "La vida es rica y se tiene que disfrutarla", goes his motto (Life is rich and is to be enjoyed). Right on, brother!

The city is a typical Mexican city with a glorious cathedral, cozy plazas, labyrinth-like markets selling anything from fake Rolex's to cream-covered corn on a stick, cheap food stands, beggars, indigenous mothers and children on the ground, assertive vendors, and - at least in this part of the country - monotonous norteño music blazing from speakers on every corner of the street. If not visiting museums, reading or playing the guitar, I'm just wandering through the streets and immerse myself in Mexican frenzy. It's a nice city to hang around for a few days. This might be my last stop in an urban area before shipping off to Creel, a small mountainous village near the Barranca Del Cobre, the Mexican equivalent of America's Grand Canyon. It is said and written that many backpackers go there to hike through the canyons and meet the local indigenous people, the Tarahumaras, who have not changed since centuries. Sounds promising. It feels about time to go into the nature for while. Or at least escape a city's madness.

Monterrey, Mexico: Just like coming home.

The bus ride from Austin to Monterrey was an interesting experience. The deparure of my bus was scheduled for 14:15. In theory I came just in time to buy a ticket and hop on. But since the company is Mexican based, all their buses are on Mexican time. They're not late, they're on Mexican time, which is a huge difference. So we departed half an hour late. No big deal. It happens. But then, after an hour or so, the bus driver made his first stop at a Burger King. Of course, the majority of the passengers went in for their daily portion of healthy grease and fat, which resulted in yet another delay. I preferred to stay on the clean side (actually, more on the cheap side) and stick to my peanuts, half a pack of orange flavored cookies and one third of a bottle of water. That got me pretty much through the first half of the journey. From there on, we drove straight up to Laredo, a border town with Mexico. One of the reasons why I wanted to start this trip in the U.S. and not in Mexico - besides visit the cool city of Austin - was to experience the transition at the border from the former to the latter. And what an experience it was...

We arrive at the border and at first it seems the passage flows easily. But then we queued up in a huge line of buses, all of them wanting to cross the border. There was absolutely no movement in that line. The reason for it was that customs officers were replaced by the Mexican military and they were ordered to examine every piece of luggage that passengers carried. Each and every one of them. Not once, but twice. First via a scanner and afterwards by hand. And believe me, there were a lot of buses. So we're waiting there and the bus driver asks us where we come from. From all seven or so passengers there were two foreigners: a very amicable American woman in her fifties and me. We had to get off and pass through the customs office were would receive our stamp. While I was waiting outside in the warm glow of Mexican autumn I gazed head-up to an enormous copy the Mexican flag waving proudly at the very beginning of its territory and felt happy. Almost patriotic. Or better, melancholic. Because I might be the least patriotic person in the world. Looking up to that flag made me feel: "I am home."

Anyway, it was my turn to receive a stamp. I walk in this tiny shack and find a hord of jolly customs officials tranquilly eating their phone-delivered meals with the TV on. Right after me one of their runner boys walked in with the drinks they had ordered. Nothing pointed out that I was in a formal, strict environment until one of the guys asked me where I was from and what I was doing. Half talking to 'the boys', half dedicating his attention to me, I received not a stamp but a little note on which says I'm permitted in to the country. Actually, in retrospective, is wasn't more than: "Oh, ehm, right. You wanna enter Mexico? Well, here you go. Don't do anything wrong. Now lemme eat." And that was that. Don't expect a similar scene when you're entering the U.S.

That was the easy part. After that the bus driver, all agitated and out of patience, gathered us around him because he had a plan to avoid the long queue. "Santo desmadre, esto está rete atorado" (Holy chaos, this is hopelessly stuck), he sighed. He ordered us to pick up all our luggage and move silently in groups of two in between the the buses towards the luggage-checking. That way he would have an empty bus end therefor let through more rapidly than his collegues, whose buses were packed. Meanwhile I was translating his evil, cheeky briefing. Eventually, all that fuzz wasn´t necessary because he somehow convinced a military officer to let us through before the others. (Might he have bribed him?) We stood in line - which again took a very long time - had our bags checked and got on to the bus. The bus driver was clearly at the very end of his patience because he almost ordered me to get in. For just a few seconds he was Speedy Gonzalez with an overweight problem and a line too much in his nostrils. I loved that guy. The whole debacle lasted about two hours, increasing our already shameful delay. In that same town but at the other side of the river we changed to the bus that would take us to Monterrey, final stop. The last 2 and a half hours went by fluently and before I knew it we had arrived.

On the way to Monterrey I had managed to call one of my many cousins, Mariana, who in her turn called my uncle to tell him I was arriving in town. Secretely, I was hoping that my uncle Nacho, who lives and works in Monterrey, would host me without doubt. That turned out to be slightly different. I was waiting outside the bus station when suddenly he appears. My rejoicing of seeing him after five years was of short notice. First, he told me he had paid a hotel room for one night because he pratically didn't know what to do with me. Upon that I asked him whether it was possible to stayat his place. His answer was far from clear. It went something like this: "At my place? Oh, no. Ehm, that's not possible because, ehm, my work, and, you know, no, it's difficult." In other words, forget it. Later that week I learned, distracted as I am, that the man has a second family here on top of his other family in Guadalajara, thus meaning he has a second wife and perhaps her children. We, the family in Guadalajara, always knew it was something like that. Disgracefully, that's how it works for a great deal of Mexican families. A man marries a certain woman who is assigned to him by another family and bears his children in order to meet society's expectations. This is the 'perfect' family. Meanwhile, the husband's inherent machismo longs for more feminine pleasure and scavenges for a voluptuous mistress with whom he can do as he likes in all discretion, and perhaps procreating a second family. That was the case with my late grandfather too.

Anyhow, my point was that I couldn't stay at his home, most likely out of fear for scandalism. After he rejected my host request he immediately started to implement an indoctrination of fear on me. Apparently, and this is true, Monterrey is a fairly dangerous city for its narcotraffic-related violence. I was well informed on that matter way before my trip. The north of Mexico is in fact endangered, but that doesn't stop me from exploring it. Caution is a traveler's second best friend. Still, uncle Nacho didn't stop emphasizing how risky this town is and how worried he was. I tried to soothe him, without succes. He also told me that most of my family is worried about me for my way of traveling. I fully understand and appreciate it, but it shows their not known with this way of getting around. He paid for my first meal - a delicious Mexican style hotdog - and brought me to the hotel. I talked for a while with the guy behind the desk and went up to my room. There, in my confined space, I lay alone contemplating my arrival. It was one of two sentiments: on one hand, I was happier than ever to be back in good 'ole Mexico, but at the other hand, I didn't know how to process the whole thing with my uncle. I gave it a rest, and tried to focus on the bright side: I'm in Mexico.