October 29 To Mission Satevo

Monse told us it would be okay to hike to the mission, or rather walk to the mission, as the locals do. We visited the corner store and stocked up on Queso Mennonita and Fanta Narangja to compliment the stash of film and photo gadgets in our day packs. The walk took about two hours. Of course, we looked at every sight closely. We considered our presence in this remote place with the long contemplation of museum-goers that get lost in art on the walls. The river seemed wilder and the Organ Pipes towered higher than those in the western United States. We rounded a bend, with the road making a steady incline, and saw a sagging foot bridge. Below the bridge, several Tarahumara women worked on the rocks to clean clothes that must be precious in this harsh environment. A patchwork of bright colors covered the smooth rocks.

From a high point on the road we saw the face of the mission rising above an oasis of trees in the desert canyon. We rushed through the tiny village surrounding the mission to find the front door wide open. We found the old church empty and the surrounding houses quiet. Only a few shy burros and small horses stood in a grove of trees between the river and the mountainside. Fresh air breezed through the dark cavernous space and vented through open windows and faults in the old walls. The brick floor, which protected the gravesite of a nineteenth-century priest, was swept clean. The Mission Satevo was like a time machine, transporting us back to the mandated departure of the Spanish clergy almost two centuries ago, when Mexican people throughout Chihuahua and Nuevo Mexico were left to practice Catholicism and maintain shrines by their own accord. This serenity could have enveloped Santa Fe's Mission San Miguel before uppity eastern outsiders, Hollywood dregs and culture pirates moved in. Close to dark we decided to head back to Batopilas. Several children peeked out from the window of a nearby adobe house, which served as a neighborhood store for the other ten or so habitations. A Rancheritos sign on the side of the building informed us they had some essential items for sale. To add some excitement to the kids' day, we sent Michael to the door to trade our Fanta bottles for the depositos on fresh Cocas. Michael had the best command of Spanish between the three of us, and the kids had excellent fun trying to get a look at him without being seen. We arrived in Batopilas to find Bob and Joe engaged in the ritualistic evening basketball game with the neighborhood kids. How would this town get along without the two lanky, carefree Americans to occupy the children's time? Bob ran off to find us a place to have dinner and returned to take us to Dona Micha's house. We arrived within a few minutes to find Dona Micha placing cups of hot tea on the table, followed by a big bowl of sugar and a plate of tortillas. Bob pointed to a door across the old town square, saying it was his office. We figured he was joking. The only office we saw in town was that of the Presidente, who wore a pistol on his hip, serving as mayor and town cop. Bob said the place next door to his office was the carpenter's house. He advised that it was another great place to dine. The procedure, he told us, was to ask the carpenter's wife by mid afternoon if she could prepare extra meals that evening. He said it was always possible if you asked right after siesta and that she may ask you to pick up some pan or huevos at the tienda, since it was several blocks up river by the new town square. We returned to Monse's to lay in hammocks and sit by the tumbling river, as the sky dimmed over paradise. NEXT PAGE