Then I ran toward the other person and realized that he was a small Indian boy about 10 years old. His whole body was shaking in spasms and his eyes were wide open and fixed up to the top of his head. His mouth was open and he looked like he was going into shock. Blood streamed down his face and I knew he had some sort of head trauma. Both the boy and Everest were in the middle the highway and I knew I had to do something.
I looked behind me to see if there was any traffic coming but there was only the empty highway and another blue sign announcing the approach to Cusarare.
I saw that Everest was starting to move around and moan. I got closer to him and told him not to move. He didn’t listen. He tried to stand up and fell back down. I was concerned about oncoming traffic, especially about vehicles coming from the south and around the curve. Vehicles traveled fast on that road, and there were two people lying in the middle of it. A driver speeding around that curve probably would not have seen us and probably would have hit us. I helped Everest move to the side of the road and asked him if he was okay and if anything hurt. He looked at me and asked what had happened. At that point he couldn't remember anything about the accident. I sat next to Everest and was trying to talk to him when I saw the boy Everest had hit crawling to the side of the road.
“Well at least he's moving,” I said to myself, feeling a bit relieved.
I went to the boy and he actually stood up. He was wobbly but was walking away. I sat him down next to Everest. He had abrasions to his arms, but the bleeding from his head had stopped. I inspected his head. He had a big lump to the top left forehead and a small cut to the top of his head. I asked him if he was okay and he said he was. I asked him if his head hurt, he said a little bit. I asked if his legs hurt, he said a little bit.
A Mexican couple passing by in a car stopped and they tried calling for help on their cell phone, but there was no signal. The boy asked the couple if they could take him home, but the male driver said he didn't think that was a good idea.
The male driver got out of the car and looked around as if he was nervous. He told us it was best if we left before the police showed up. “It’s never good when the police show up,” he said while looking around as if someone was right around the corner. I asked if he could go somewhere and get us help. He walked back to his vehicle and said he didn't want to get involved. The couple drove away as fast as they had arrived.
I turned and saw that Everest was already moving his motorcycle to the side of the road. He couldn't remember anything about the accident, but some of his memory about what happened just before the crash was starting to come back. He had a huge abrasion on his right hip and a tooth had been knocked loose.
It was remarkable that both Everest and the boy appeared to be only slightly injured. I rode my bike a few miles to Casarare where a lady from the local clinic agreed to help. She got into a pickup truck, drove to the accident scene, picked up the boy and drove him back to the clinic. Everest and I rode our bikes to the clinic and saw that the boy had sustained minor injuries: scrapes to his arms and legs, a lump on his forehead and a small cut and scrape to the top of his head. The lady assured us that everything was okay and that they were going to take the boy home.
Everest was little sore but wanted to continue with the ride.
We ride!
Deep in the Sierra Madre Mountains we rode the switchbacks down the Copper Canyon into Batopilas. Every so often we would see crosses on the side of the road. Sometimes there were multiple crosses staggered in a cluster—probably a place to mark the spot of some cartel execution. We got a room at Marys Motel for 250 pesos (about 21 U.S. dollars), ate dinner at the same hotel and bought a cup of corn from the corn lady at the corner stand.
We decided to go to a bar next door and have a beer. The lady at the motel gave us directions to the little bar but also cautioned us not to wonder off at night, not to stay out too late and to be very, very careful.
To say the bar was small was an understatement; it had room for only three tables. The owner cleared a bunch of empty bottles from an empty table and greeted us very politely. As soon as we sat down, a very drunk man came over to us and asked if we would buy him a beer. We did. He sat at our table and started talking loudly, but we just wanted to relax and not be bothered. The friendly owner, who was also the bartender, came over to tell the drunk man to leave us alone. The owner apologized and I immediately noticed he had a handgun strapped to his waist—a Colt 1911, .38 caliber with a fancy grip.
We eventually retreated to our room for a well needed rest and sleep.
It was Christmas eve.
The Motel Mary is in the heart of Batopilas, right across from the town's main church. The sounds of children singing Christmas songs from a loudspeaker serenaded us late into the night
It had been a long day and the next day we were going to try to reach Urique.
The Encounter with the Drunk Sicarios
We woke up in Batopilas on Christmas day. I saw that Everest was getting ready for the day, cleaning his helmet. It's amazing how one day he was lying in the middle of the road breathing his last breath and the next day he was full of life waiting to ride out of the Copper Canyon.
We ate a quick breakfast in the motel restaurant and headed out on our way to Urique, a mining town of 1,100 that had been established by the Spaniards more than 300 years earlier. On our way out we stopped at the Cathedral of Satevó where I tried to get directions out of the Copper Canyon from there. No one seemed to know how to get out. So, we went south on a dirt road, and when we came upon a fork in the road, we weren't sure which direction to go. We asked a young man in an old, beat-up truck. He pointed to the right and up a huge mountain.
We could see the road winding its way up the top of the crest. As we were climbing, we came to another fork and decided to go left, but after a while the road was getting really rough. We realized we were going the wrong way and had to backtrack. The dirt road up the mountain was very good, rocky in some areas, but not bad. We continued on the road, and eventually made a left turn and continued through a few small towns reaching a small town of Rodeo where we stopped for a break. Some kids came out to greet us and I bought them some candy at the small, local store.
We continued on some very interesting roads and scenery. It was a nice day, it was Christmas and we were having a blast riding in some of the more interesting roads in Tarahumara country. The accident from the day before was still fresh in my mind and I attempted to forget about it but, I couldn't. I had a strange premonition that I couldn't explain or understand.
It started to get warm and Everest wanted to stop to shed some clothing. Suddenly the road took us to a river that had no bridge to cross. It was maybe knee-deep but was lined with a lot of large-grade gravel—large rocks, actually. I thought Everest would stop to talk about how to enter the river, but he stood up on his bike and accelerated right into the water.
Everest went down right on the middle of the river. The current was strong and I was trying to find a good place to set down my side stand on the huge rocks. Somehow Everest was able to pick up his bike and push out of the water. He was soaked. I placed my camera and clothes in a plastic bag and rode through the river at a slower pace.
We continued to ride, it was starting to get late and we were not sure how far we were from Urique. As we came around a bend and started to climb a hill, I saw a large white truck coming down the hill. I also could see that there were several Indian men in the back of the truck. There was a narrow gap between some trees just enough for the truck to fit. Everest managed to cross the gap before the truck made it through. He sped up the hill and I had to wait for the truck to make it through the gap so I could pass.
But the truck stopped in the middle of the gap and blocked my path.
There were two men inside the truck's cab. Suddenly, the driver, who was wearing a military jacket and blue plants, got out and started walking toward me. He was carrying an AR-15 style assault rifle.
I did not
like this a bit and knew it was extremely dangerous. We were deep in the vast empty mountains and the whole scene was not right. I started to look around, hoping to find some options that would get me out of there.
I tried to back up to turn around fast, but the driver was moving too fast toward me. Before I knew it, he was right in front of me. I then saw that the passenger had also exited the truck and he also was armed with an assault rifle. I became afraid of what they might do, and for a second, I thought of ditching my bike and running as fast as I could. But I knew I didn't have time to do anything.
Off in the distance I could see that Everest had reached the top of the hill kicking dust in the distance.
I thought to myself, "Stop, don't panic. Think." I focused my attention on the two men who had quickly approached me, trying to see signs or red flags. The driver had his trigger finger extended on his weapon while the passenger had his finger resting on the trigger of his rifle. As the driver got closer, I saw that the hat he was wearing said "Urique police." Out here that did not mean shit. Most municipal police were actively colluding with organized crime.
I knew that I easily could have been killed right there and my body not found for days. It would not have mattered because I would have been just another casualty of the violence that was sweeping the country.
The driver reached me first, but he was laughing and that made me relax a bit. One thing you never want to do in these kinds of situations is show fear. He stopped right in front of my bike and asked where I was going. I told him Urique and he asked where I was from. I said the U.S.
I told him we were just doing a motorcycle ride to see the country. He was holding two cans of Tecate beer in his hands, and he reached out and offered me one, saying, "Here cabron have a beer." I said, “No thanks,” and could see by the change in his facial expression that he did not like my response.
He stood there looking at me and I could tell he was intoxicated as he swayed in his stance. His friend pointed his rifle at me and said, “Did this cabron just say no?"
The passenger seemed unsteady on his stance and he pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it and started snorting the content inside. There is nothing more dangerous than an armed sicario high on coke.
I tried to reason with them, if it was at all possible, but I knew that what I said in the next couple of seconds could determine whether I lived or died.
"Listen guys, I would be happy to join you for a beer, but it is getting late and we are trying to reach Urique before it gets dark,” I told them. “Otherwise, I would be honored to join you for a drink."
“We?” the driver asked as he started looking around. I pointed up the hill toward Everest and said, “Yup. Up there.”
I pointed to the hill up front to the north of us. Everest had reached the top of the hill and had stopped far up the distance looking at our direction.
"That is my friend up there and he is waiting for me, so I need to go," I said trying not to sound too alarmed. But my heart was beating a hundred miles an hour.
They both looked up and they could see the tiny figure of Everest waiting for me to come up. The driver came around the bike and looked at me closely. He could not really tell who I was, as I was wearing my helmet and sunglasses.
"Are the gringos in the bicycles up ahead your friends?" he asked.
He kept playing with his rifle and now had his finger on the trigger. I saw that there were two more ammo magazines sticking out of his jacket pocket.
"No," I responded.
He started to laugh out loud.
"Well, we scared the fuck out of them, not sure where they went," he said while both he and his friend laughed together.
The driver waved me off and joked with his partner, "Ah deja a este guey (leave this fuck be)."
They both turned around, still laughing, and walked toward the truck and got inside. They had a hard time keeping their balance as they walked away and I figured they were highly intoxicated, and probably coked out too. The driver grinded the truck gears as he shifted to first gear and drove past me, and even the men in the back of the truck were laughing.
I started to ride up the hill and met Everest halfway. He had been coming down to see what had been holding me up. I motioned him to keep going. We stopped at the top of the hill and I told Everest what happened. I cautioned Everest that if we ever encountered problems like that again, and if we got separated, not to rejoin. Everest was starting to get concerned and told me we needed to get the hell out of the area as quickly as possible. I agreed, but I also knew that we still had at least two days of riding before we got out of the Sierra Madre mountains.
We traveled another hour or so and we came to a “T” in the road. We turned left to reach a small town down the hill called Tubares, which had a small church that was falling down. I told Everst to stop so I could take pictures of the church. He argued with me, saying it was best that we keep going, as it was starting to get dark. I told him it would not take long. I parked my bike a short walking distance to take some pictures. As I was taking pictures, I could detect movement underneath a pile of wood inside the dark shadows of the church. There was someone inside, apparently hiding underneath a pile of wood.
I called out to Everest and I saw two blond men come out of the shadow with their eyes wide open. They were bicyclists—both in their late 20s or early 30s—from California and they told us they were hiding from two drunken armed Mexicans that were making them drink beer. One of the cyclists was limping and said he had been shot in the toe, as two armed men were making him dance while shooting at his feet. I looked around, trying to hear any sound of anyone approaching.
It was dead silent.
The cyclists asked me if it was safe to stay there for the night, and I said I didn't think it was a good idea. On my way into the town I had seen several houses with a bunch of pickup trucks and SUV's parked in the front. I also noticed lots of men drinking beer outside the houses. It was narco country and I didn't feel safe here. I told the cyclists that they should ride out and find a secluded hidden area to sleep for the night. They had intended to ride to Batopilas, but It had taken us all day to reach the small town we were in from Batopilas, and so they had a long way to go. We gave them some snacks and water. They were scared to death, and in that part of the country it gets very cold at night. I cautioned them not to make a fire in order to avoid detection. They had warm clothes on the bikes. We saw them mount their bicycles and head out.
I felt really bad, and I didn't like the idea of leaving them behind on their own. But under the circumstances, we didn't have much of a choice.
It was starting to get dark and we still had many miles to go before reaching Urique.
Everest and I decided that we would ride to Urique even if it took all night. As we watched the bicyclists ride out, I wondered if they would be safe. We mounted our own motorcycles to try to reach Urique in the dark of night. I was starting to miss my home in the USA. I stood there for a while, almost in a trance and deep in thought until Everest yelled at me to get going.
As we rode away, I could hear gunshots in the distance, echoing on the walls of the far away canyons. A reminder that Tarahumara country had changed and perhaps it was no longer safe to travel in this beautiful remote country of Mexico.
We reached Urique around 11:30 at night. We had just ridden through some of the most beautiful country in Mexico, but we did not see any of it. That's because it was dark and because we were weighed down with stress, worry and concern. We checked in at the only motel in town. We were able to park our bikes right next to the door of our room, right in the lobby.
During the rest of the nigh, we would wake up to any sound outside our door. What would happened if a heavily armed commando stormed inside our room, abducted us (called a “levanton” in Mexico), took us to an unknown location to torture us to confess to things we knew nothing about and then slowly start cutting our limbs with a knife?
The feeling of insecurity
was deafening to anything else that at the moment did not seem to matter much.
The next day, early in the morning, we went for breakfast in the restaurant right next to the motel. We sat down and saw three officers in uniform sitting at a table next to us. They were eating breakfast and drinking beer. It was eight in the morning. All three had long guns slung on their shoulders and they were laughing and talking about something funny. One of the officers had sergeant insignia on the sleeve of his shirt and the words “Urique Police” on his cap. He looked at me and walked over to our table.
“How you doing friend? Where are you guys from?” he asked. He seemed really friendly and pleasant.
“We are from the U.S., just riding our bikes through the beautiful country,” I replied. “We are on our way back to Creel.”
He sat at the table with us and started talking about how he also had a motorcycle and how he enjoyed hiking in the mountains. Since he seemed very approachable and a person with a nice side, I decided to tell him what had happened to us the day before. I detailed how we had met the two sicarios and the American bicyclists, and that they were still out there somewhere. He suddenly became quiet. I was wondering why he wasn't taking notes or asking for me to elaborate with more detail.
Then he abruptly stood up and said, “Listen Amigo, I think is best for you to leave. I would be very careful telling people such things. I will pay for your meal and I am kindly requesting that you leave now.” He said all this while smiling and still with a friendly tone, but the content was hardly friendly. We left having just eaten part of our meal.
Back home in Albuquerque, New Mexico I was an active police officer for the city. I would eventually serve a total of 30 years for the Albuquerque Police Department and this instill in me a brotherhood with other police officers, not just with my own department, but with other members from other departments in the states. And in my case, this extended beyond my country where I live, especially when I travelled abroad.
Borderland Beat Page 3
