Most tourists visit Copper Canyon by train, El Chepe, a ten-hour fancy excursion running every other day east from the Pacific Ocean to Creel, a town a few hours east of Chihuahua, and then returning on the alternate days to the Pacific. It’s the only railroad in Mexico, although a high-speed train nears completion in the Yucatan. El Chepe affords dramatic views but most of the journey is atop the canyons.
I set my heart on visiting the depths of the canyons, led in by Fayhee’s description of the Tarahumara. They are ultra-marathoners, running hours on end in Huaraches sandals. Their team sport, Rarájipari, is played using a cupped stick to advance a wooden bola up and down the canyons. It can last days, and may cover one hundred miles.
When the Spanish arrived, these people retreated into the canyons. They sustained their Sonoran language and traditions albeit infused with what suited them of Catholicism. Barrancas del Cobre are not suited for agriculture, but the Tarahumara tend to small, scattered orchards and fields growing fruits, maize, beans, squash, and potatoes. Families have several remote ranchos to steward various locations where crops will grow. Hence the need for mobility and speed.
Accomplished Fayhee was outclassed. Families with toddlers would pass him uphill and down. He had difficulty discerning where paths led within a widespread network of trails. He hired groups of Tarahumara youngsters as porters and guides but was never certain if a guide wanted to take him where he hoped to hike. Not for folly of the guide but that Fayhee could not see what the guide knew. As for the porters, they would race ahead with all the packs. When Fayhee and his group caught up they would discover that the teens had eaten most of the provisions even though days of hiking and camping remained. He remained an outsider, a chabochis.
When my kids were teens one of my jobs was to get them to school on time. Back then Carmel had a extensive network of streets often clogged by traffic. I did not yet know the word algorithm, but I did have an internal logic of if-then statements. If Shelbourne was backed up, then I headed across 126th Street. If Main, then 131st. And so on and so on and scooby dooby doo-bee. I made poor choices. Other fathers beat me to school. Different strokes for different folks.
However, I was not on the bottom-most rung. My kids and I took pride in not being an Odyssey family. You know - that minivan family. The habits of Odyssey drivers are the same. Without fail, they drive five miles an hour under the speed limit. They also share a defective set of traffic rules, a faulty space-time fiat. Odyssey drivers blindly pull out from driveways and streets causing oncoming traffic (me) to brake. That Odyssey driver will then make a quick turn across traffic on to another street or store. Their space-time logic is warped by a justification other drivers cannot see. They perpetually do the same trip and have invented a rule to expedite that trip to the market or library, or coffee shop, or yoga studio. There is no mens rea. Other drivers may take no volition of their offense. These days my internal logic has been supplanted by Carmel roundabouts, One Hundred Forty-two of them. Driving there is effortless. Except, the habits of Odyssey drivers remain.
Which brings me to Mexico City. Its transportation grid is chaotic. I never got the feel for it. I could not discern where streets led within the wider grid. I surrendered to walking, fifteen miles over three days. And Ubers. Inexpensive, but ubering pushed the problem to others. Not that I did not try. Returning from the Teotihuacan pyramids I realized I was close to The Basilica of Santa María de Guadalupe one day after an enormous festival centered there. The bus pulled over at a regional transit center. I hopped off the bus in the same way Forest Gump walked off his shrimp boat when he saw Lt. Dan. Splash. I landed in a wild soup of buses, commuters, and street vendors.
Women with toddlers outpaced me. I could not figure it out. A sleek multi-story glassy structure with ramps stood out. It was a familiar counterpart to my Indianapolis world. I walked up the ramps. It led to a high-speed gondola headed in the wrong direction. I needed a guide. As an outsider, I surrendered and summoned an Uber to take me ten blocks to the basilica.
John Fayhee returned to Copper Canyon time and time again. It tested him. Mexico City had the same effect on me. I want to go back. Its grid is formidable but a worthy opponent for the chance to experience all that is CDMX. There I saw history, culture, and architecture. I also saw its people. I enjoyed hearty Pozole with work friends. I also decided to rent a car to drive through Copper Canyon so I might see the ups and downs of that place.
