During the holidays, I know where I am:
Complaintown. Maybe this year I'll go somewhere
else.
To see into the future, I don't have to read my palm or throw my
tarot or tai my chi. I just have to know me. And one thing I know
as I write this, is that in mid-December, I'm probably not in
Batopilas.
There's no doubt the holidays this year are especially poignant,
but, still, I'm probably here, somewhere, complaining. I'm
complaining about the crowds in the stores. Or the cloying and
ubiquitous canned holiday music. Or my inability to decide what to
buy for whom. Or, if I've really got a froth going, I'm complaining
about how much I'm complaining.
I'd also bet that I'm swearing. Swearing, maybe, at the lean I
can't get out of the
Christmas tree. Or at having to completely
restring the lights on the porch because, choosing against
measuring before starting the project, I ended up with a thicket of
lights on one side and none on the other. Or I'm swearing at having
run out of wrapping paper at 2 in the morning on
Christmas Eve when
I should be fast asleep, but, of course, I had put things off to
the last minute, like I always do, so what do I expect, of course
I'm going to run out of wrapping paper, of course the stores are
all closed, of course I'll never learn. Damn!
I wouldn't be complaining and swearing if I were in Batopilas.
Technically, Batopilas is a real place. But to me it is a dream, a
dream of peacefulness and beauty.
Nearly 20 years ago, I went to Batopilas. I went with a couple of
buddies. We didn't know we were going when we began our trip. We
had boarded a train that winds through northern
Mexico's Copper
Canyon, a stunning, mountainous gap in the earth four times the
size of the
Grand Canyon. One of us had read or heard about
Batopilas. Since we were headed that direction, more or less, we
decided to get off the train and check it out.
That proved more difficult than we anticipated. On a good day,
which this was, it takes seven hours down a skinny, corkscrewing
dirt road into the canyon to get to Batopilas. Seven hours around
harrowing hairpin turns. Seven hours bouncing up and down on fallen
rock and chuckholes. Seven hours of wondering if maybe you should
have just stayed on the train. Batopilas is so remote and so
difficult to get to that you wonder how anybody ever got the idea
to build it in the first place. The answer, of course, is money. A
few hundred years ago, explorers discovered silver in the area. By
the 19th century, silver mining had hit its heyday, and the quiet,
far-flung land was transformed into a bustling town of 10,000
residents. Shortly after the turn of the 20th century, the mines
were played out. Roughly 1,000 people live there today.
Finally we got there, and it was like landing in Eden.
Orange bougainvillea cascaded over its handsome stone walls, white
oleander spilled over its bunga-lows. In the center of town was a
plaza with a fountain. Nestled within the folds of the canyon
floor, the town bordered a shimmering river that gurgled softly
like a lover's whisper.
We hiked out to the lost cathedral of Satevó, as it's known, an
early Spanish-style church far from anything at all. Considering
that Batopilas is itself far from anything at all, the chapel is a
head scratcher: Why didn't they build it in town? Whatever, the
church is all the more beautiful in the middle of nowhere on the
canyon floor surrounded by hills. Farther even than the church were
the cave dwellings of the Tarahumara Indians, to which we also
hiked. It happened that we were visiting during one of their
religious celebrations, so we watched discreetly from behind a rock
as they passed among themselves a greenish ceremonial bever-age
and, at night, danced nearly naked in almost-freezing temperatures
around a fire, the red and orange sparks popping in the starry
sky.
We drank Mexican beer, although the area was legally “dry.” We had found a local with whom we could trade. The catch was, we also had to buy some of his homemade mescal and hang out in the plaza for a while and drink with him. If you’ve never had mescal, drink lighter fluid.
It’s more or less the same, except I think lighter fluid probably spares you the
hallucinations.
On our last night in town, we persuaded three local women to join us in the courtyard — well, concrete space between cinderblock walls — of our motel — well, small bunkhouse with no
electricity. They brought a transistor radio. Under a twinkling blanket of stars in the clear, clean night sky, we danced to the sprightly but — on that night anyway — romantic strains of conjunto, norteño, and Tejano music coming in through occasional static from far, far away.
Like a dream.
Around the holidays, more than any other time of the year, I long to be in that dream. Its simplicity, beauty, and serenity seem to me to embody the true spirit of the season.
But I’m probably not there. I’m probably here. Maybe watching my son break out in glee as he opens a gift. Or maybe snuggling with my wife on the couch late at night when the house is quiet and bathed in the soft glow of flashing lights. Or maybe sharing a sumptuous meal with friends and family.
Or, OK, complaining.
Thinking about it now, though, it seems that Batopilas is as much a place inside myself as it is a place in some distant land. It’s there in my son’s smile, my wife’s kiss, my friends’ hugs. It’s a difficult place to get to, buried down deep within. But that’s part of the reason for going.
With any luck, maybe I’m wrong about myself. Maybe I am in Batopilas.