Small towns are the beating heart of human nature, exposed.

I am quickly adopted by Cecilia’s sister Adriana and her friends, Oso, Junior, and their wives Adilene and Adilene. They tell me about the local tradition of “stealing” girls – when a man wants to declare his intentions he takes the girl away, either to another village or to somewhere hidden up in the barranco, until enough time has passed that he can return and declare her his. Since parents are often opposed, if the duration is too short or they find out where the couple are hiding out, they can go and the culturally obedient daughter typically returns to the family. We get a good laugh out of Junior’s account of stealing Adilene to go hide out in the cliffs, her inexplicably trekking along in heels.

My new friends and I explore the canyons and enjoy excellent socializing across the road from Luz, the agreeable storeowner who at any hour will respond to the cry “Luz! Una seiz!” with a six pack. The local girls teach me how they dance and play pingpong in my boxers, and the local guys teach me to respect the alcohol content of Tecate and how to make a delicious michelada– sort of a Mexican bloody mary. Everyone wants to know who I’m going to “steal”, and times slows down for a siesta as the days are packed with hiking and grilling and drinks. Every morning I ride to the canyon summit, whooping back down again, a good mood guaranteed til I close my eyes dreaming of the next morning’s ride.

While investigating options for continuing through the canyon, I meet Alonso who introduces me to two of the canyon’s most powerful substances. First, he offers to introduce me to lechugilla, local agave moonshine. I expect a shot, he hands me a whole glassful, and to demonstrate its potency spills some on the ground and lights it. Despite the kick, it’s actually incredibly smooth and has a light flavour and clean finish. When he offers me a pint-sized chilli pepper, I eat the tiny berry in one bite. My first mistake. The second was grabbing the nearest glass at hand and reflexively chugging it.

When everyone stops laughing, my face still feels flushed red and I am bright eyed; fortunately I don’t have far to take the motorcycle to the other end of town.

Tomas’ nephew Tony takes me out to the next town over to try and get a ride lined up to take me over the rain-swollen river. No luck, he gets in a hummer with some Cicarioswho are passing by and heads up the cliffs to ask around for me while I sit and chill with his younger cousin. The lanky Rogelio sidles up to us with a manic laugh that bursts out and cuts off abruptly at random intervals, making awkward conversation. I offer him one of the dobladas I’d bought from a passing lady but he hefts a bag of corn flour and says that’s his food, poor people food. He goes quiet as another man strides up forcefully, surprisingly blue eyes set hard and fists clenched. Rogelio drops the flour and picks up a rock, while blue-eyes screams out at him “Why did you hit her!?” over and over as they circle, him relentlessly pursuing and the other dancing out of reach keeping his attacker at bay swinging the rock. Tomas’ nephew explains Rogelio got drunk and punched blue eyes’ wife. The scene becomes surreal when blue eyes heads off to go get his “steel”; Rogelio returns to his bag of flour, rips it open and pours it on the ground in an X, yelling to the skies, “Today there will be blood!”
He is almost flattened as a white pickup truck barrels down on him, family members finally emerge to diffuse the situation and by the time Tony gets back nothing remains of the madness but an X on the ground.

I also manage to lose my laptop among all this. Too comfortable, I suppose – in my evening walks I have come to meet most of the locals who sit out on The Street for lack of anything urgent, as if anything is urgent here. I hone the art of sitting around and passing the time with them, enjoying conversations and absorbing the atmosphere of silent conviviality. However, it was still stupid of me to go climbing the cliffs with the gang while my laptop lay unsecured in the unlocked kitchen, on the one day the caretaker was in a different town no less. At least the idiots didn’t recognize my USB drive – all photos are saved, though blog entries up to present date were not backed up. A generous donation for lessons on overconfidence, I hope not to need them again. The police chief is less than helpful, and considering that the gun toting cicarios roll through in hummers and trucks undisturbed, I have a feeling his interpretation of lawful might be a bit more exclusive than mine; his request for the password and unprompted description of the laptop sink any hopes of recuperating it.

The tranquility at my hostel ends with the arrival of new guests, but they’re mostly cute international girls studying at Guadalajara university and one über chill German guy who offers Schmlz & Schn as Germany’s answer to Four Tet. Keep trying, Germany. Convival backpacker life is shared and I take the opportunity to guide them around “my” Urique. We enjoy the spicy shrimp agua chile at Mama Tita’s and in the morning they make crêpes, to my delight. We trek to Guapalayna where a local lady empties her larder to feed us and the local drunks offer us a ride, leering at the girls. I end up negotiating driving us to Urique in their truck; the road tilting crazily, everyone in the truck silently praying we don’t teeter over into the river. We make it and the poor guys circle town, hoping for another chance. We grab some beers and retreat to the hostel where a good night is had and I am given good reason to believe I’d not regret going to Guadalajara.

I’m warned by Alonso that the local Cicarios gang is asking about me, insinuating I might be affiliated with their rivals la Linea. A story another friend I’ve made here told me comes to mind. Like many locals, he worked picking marijuana. One day the rival gang appeared and started shooting the workers. He and his friend were caught and tied to a tree, but managed wriggle free and make a break for it. He made it out and didn’t look back, but never heard from his friend again. The gangs are serious business here, and I’ve figured out how to continue the road along the canyon; it might finally be time to leave. One last time I sit with my new friends and enjoy tecate until too-late, but despite their entreaties and promises of parties and grills, the time has arrived once again.

Blearily the next day I load the bike into the back of a pickup truck to cross the river. I tell Alonso to just leave me on the other side but he insists on taking me up a few hundred meters, the truck slipping and sliding on the loose rockslide they consider a road here.

Unloading the bike I survey the path. I thought I had ridden some gnarly roads before, but the rainy season has removed all the dirt from between the rocks and created a formidable obstacle course.

I turn the ignition and smile.

Today is going to be a most tubular day.

Advertisements

3 thoughts on “Small towns are the beating heart of human nature, exposed.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s