The group went together to the actual small town of Cerocahui, and were planning to walk to the Huicochi waterfall, but I had to stay behind because I had a Zoom meeting at 11 am. Rats!
To console myself I took an early walk, solo, to the Cueva de las Cruces. Hugo gave me very precise instructions and wanted to send the gardener with me, but I finally convinced him that I was a big boy and knew how to move in the field. He then drew me a detailed map and even tried to send the dog with me, but Oso was feeling lazy and turned back after less than 10 steps.
It was a really beautiful walk, fording back and forth along the creek, until I passed the two big rocks marked in the map, continued along the path until I found the madroňo with the cross carved on the trunk, and then climbed up the side of the mountain until I reached the cave, or rather an overhang of the type favored by the Tarahumaras for their winter lodges. But this cave is special, because it is decorated with 50 crosses painted in white, which are there to honor the deaths experienced during the 1918 Spanish Influenza pandemic! How strange is that? Apparently the valley was set as some sort of field sanatorium to attend to the victims of the pandemic, and the crosses were the tally of those who didn’t make it.
The lodge is about 3 km from the small town Cerocahui, which we went to visit as a group. It is a town of about 1,500 people, currently in deep mourning for a tragedy that happened here less than a month ago. Before I tell you about it let me backtrack to the 1980’s, when a Jesuit father, Padre Lara, came to the town and energized it into undertaking the renovation of the adobe church built in 1680, building a residential school for Rarámuri girls, and building a park for sports, among other good works. The work of the much beloved Padre Lara was continued by Padre Gallo (who received this name for waking dozing mass attendants by crowing loudly like a rooster or gallo) and Padre Joaquín, who continued the good work of their predecessor by encouraging the youth of the town to participate in team sports.
As a parallel story, the region has been governed for the last 10 years by a cacique or strongman (likely a narco), who rules like a king over the area between Creel and El Fuerte. He has at his disposal a veritable army of toughs, and besides managing the drug cartel has been stamping down the illegal lumber poaching, and settling disputes between conflicting parties using his own brand of justice. People fear him, but at the same time acknowledge that it is better to have one cacique than a melee of ruffians vying for advantage at the expense of the common folk. In this strange mountain setting he was regarded as being “fair” to the people, as long as he didn’t start drinking because then he would turn into a devil. Our host, Diego, has pointed out three bullet holes inside the bar of the lodge that were added to the décor on one of those drinking binges.
As to the tragedy, it arose because the baseball team of Padre Gallo beat the team of the cacique in a friendly match. The cacique drowned the sorrows of the loss in sotol, and once drunk went to the church and point blank shot Padre Gallo and Padre Joaquín dead. In a few hours the murderer became the scorn of the whole population of the region, and is now the object of a massive manhunt organized by the state police and the federal army. Everywhere one sees armed soldiers and sees navy choppers combing the region. The people, in turn, buried their beloved priests in the atrium of the church, and daily cover the dirt mounds with flowers, letters, and votive candles. With any luck this will be the end of the reign of the narcos in the area.
Changing completely the tone of this narrative, I will close by telling you about the delightful tertulia we had in the early evening. Diego has refused to install a television in the lobby, or to add electric lights to the bar, because he likes to invite his guests to complimentary margaritas and popcorn before supper, to encourage conversation and camaraderie among his guests. One of our number, Arturo, grabbed the guitar that was hanging on the wall, tuned it, and asked if we wanted to hear a song. Earlier in the day we had seen the track where horses run against each other, so I asked for a racing song, which he promptly produced in a very pleasant baritone voice. One request followed another, and we went from horses, to love songs from Armando Manzanero to Agustín Lara, to rancheras, to Latin American ballads, to songs de amor y contra de ellas, and so on. It was amazing; never did Arturo say “I don’t know that one”, nor shy away from singing one song after another, Diego was beaming at the success of his tertulia.
No comments:
Post a Comment