Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
I took the tour that was advertised at 120 pesos. The price assumed a minimum of six tour-
ists. We were only three, so the price was adjusted to 200 pesos among us ($19).
Martin was our driver. I rode shotgun. The couple behind was from Norway, or at least
Einar was Norwegian. His girlfriend Carmen was Mexican from Monterrey. She had
earned a scholarship and was studying in Norway for her Master's. She said, “I love the
four seasons and winters in Norway!” They spoke English and Norwegian. This was Ein-
ar's first trip to Mexico; he was lost in Spanish.
Tour Number 1 took us to Arareco Lake and Cascada Cusarare, where we walked, hiked
and took photographs. A herd of goats came by the pine trees. They were watched over
by Tarahumara women, who were dressed in yellows and reds with scarves on their heads.
We admired the lake but Cusarare Falls were a dribble. Martin said they were in the sev-
enth year of a drought, and the famous Basaseachi Falls, higher than Yosemite Falls, were
completely dry.
We visited the restored San Miguel Mission and museum, with its outstanding oil paintings
of saints from the 18th century. I entered the church, now plain and barren. All paintings
had been removed for their protection and placed in the museum. The walls were white-
washed and the windows accented with a broad band painted brick red.
Four women sat silently in the church against the right wall on benches, the only seats in
the church. In the center of the sanctuary in front of the altar there was a small flower-ad-
orned cardboard casket. The women were silently grieving for a child.
We made our last stop at the home of a Tarahumara family. They opened their home
to tourists for a monetary gratuity. It was a cave under an overhanging rock. The front
of it was walled up with stones, leaving space for a door. Dark smoke billowed from a
stovepipe chimney. Soot stained the rock-cliff face. Inside, there was a kitchen, cupboards,
two beds, chairs, a table and a small hammock, which was used as a cradle. Water was
hand carried in buckets from a nearby well. It was smoky; my photos looked like I took
them in a fog.
The daughter told me that her father died in a rockslide accident while building a highway.
The widow was tenderly rocking an infant in the hammock cradle. The daughter was
dressed in a casual black sleeveless top and jeans, rather than the bright colors generally
preferred by the indigenous. She lived in town and worked at a hotel. She was a single
mother of two and earned $10 a day. She said she was born in the cave. The children lived
