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.