Camping was a problem, because there was nowhere to go without attracting a crowd of locals. Typically, as evening approached, we would try to get permission from a village headman to camp near his village. We would also try to buy some local produce. Then we drove off to the nearest clearing in the rain forest to set up camp. But we would never be alone.
Even in the most remote areas, boys and young men would appear out of the jungle to watch us. Not threateningly, not carrying spears, just plain curious. It was not often a huge yellow truck filled with pink sweaty Westerners dropped by. The problem began after it got dark, when everything which was not tied down was for the taking.
We established a guard roster. The night when it was my turn as guard, I lay down on an air mattress underneath the back of the truck close to where the fuel cans and cooking equipment were chained up. Sometime during the night I heard a rustling noise and woke up. It was pitch black, but could see four sets of white eyes moving around at the back of the truck, and from the clanking of chains I gathered that the intruders were trying to drag off some of our jerrycans. I got up, started yelling and throwing stones into the darkness. The intruders vanished.
After almost four months on the road, the group had now broken down into smaller units. The older married couples kept to themselves and some of the younger singles had paired off and moved into the same tent. The young girl from the farm in Cornwall had quit and flown home. The doctor got very sick, and lost all his energy. One of the brothers from Birmingham got drunk at every opportunity. Perhaps the cheapest overland trip attracted less interesting or interested persons. Still, we all had a common interest in getting to the destination so a reasonable decorum was maintained. There were no fist fights. We were all somewhat run down, both by the wear and tear of long distance travel as well as from an inadequate diet and the discomfort of constant tent camping with only occasional (and primitive) washing facilities.
We bumped along muddy, potholed roads and finally reached Kisangani. The third largest town in Zaire, with over 100,000 residents, it is also the last navigable stop on the Congo River and an important regional commercial center. Kisangani was the setting for V.S. Naipaul's A Bend in the River which was published two years later. It was described in the book as reverting to an age-old African primitivism. It had suffered severely in the fighting and unrest following independence in 1960. The elegant old buildings, built by the Belgians when the city was known as Stanleyville, which were still in use were pitted, stained and dilapidated. The unoccupied buildings were burnt out shells, or boarded up. The marketplace, however, even in its decayed state, had life and vigor. In addition to the usual pineapples, bananas, paw-paw and avocados, pickled snakes, dried bats and dead monkeys were for sale.
It was here that I decided to leave the group, which would continue towards Rwanda and East Africa. I had already told Jo and Nick I would quit early, so this was not a surprise. It was because the truck was running late. I found a flight to the capital Kinshasha, where I changed planes for Nairobi. At Kinshasha Airport an official tried to charge me a departure tax, although I was only in transit. After I had cleared customs and immigration he was still at my side plucking at my arm until I got to the steps of the plane. I felt I was leaving the Africa of Conrad's Heart of Darkness and was glad to be heading for the comforts and sophistication of Nairobi.
PART II, CHAPTER 9
GROUP ADVENTURES
_______
2008
HIKING IN COPPER CANYON, MEXICO
THE SILVER ROUTE
The town of Batopilas (elevation 1,515 ft, population 1,200) lies at the bottom of Batopilas Canyon, one of the six canyons in the Sierra Tarahumara Mountains, part of the Sierra Madre Occidental in Chihuahua State, Mexico. The Sierra Tarahumara, home of the Tarahumara Indians, has long been a destination for adventure travelers, whether hikers, motor bikers, mountain bikers, those willing to drive their own vehicle on the 30-mile section of winding, dirt road which drops 5,000 feet, or bus passengers taking the six hour ride from Creel, the gateway to the region.
When Spanish advance guards first entered the canyon in 1632, they discovered silver nuggets glistening in the river. The snow-white quality of the silver prompted them to name it Nevada (Snow). Serious mining of the area began a hundred years later with the opening of Nuestra Senora de Pilar mine. From 1730 to 1820, various mines in the area produced prodigious quantities of silver up to the time of the War of Independence.
The glory days of Batopilas began in 1880 when an American, Boss Shepherd, arrived and consolidated over 350 mining claims into the Batopilas Mining Co. Using modern techniques, the company enjoyed 30 years of profitable mining which included opening a smelter, establishing a hospital, and generating their own electricity besides starting a phone system. Transportation of the silver bars to a bank in Chihuahua City, 120 miles distant was done by mule trains. Up to 100 mules at a time, each with two bars strapped to their backs, struggled across the sierra with a heavily armed escort.
So great was the volume of mule traffic that even today scars and grooves in the rock reveal the route. For the past few years, American hikers and mountain bikers have opened up the Silver Route (la Ruta de la Plata) for recreational use. Some directional arrows have been put up, and a limited edition guide book has been published. To cross the mountains and end up in Batopilas looked like a challenge. I would do it in two stages, starting on the east side of the range. Thus I found myself in fall 2008 with three other people on a wooded plateau around 7,000 feet near the town of Carichi, Chihuahua looking for an arrow on a tree pointing the way forward.
We found one and forward we went. And three hours later were off route. Not that this mattered, we really didn't want to follow arrows, few as they were. Our group comprised Tony from Mason, Texas, equipped with many hiking gadgets, Pilar from Alpine who would later ride the route on horseback from end to end three times, and Aron, a young Mexican bull-rider who lived nearby and whom we had met previously. We felt we could cope without arrows.
We were a tolerant group, separated by age (40-70 years), nationality and gender. Love of the outdoors, physical exertion and Mexico was the binding force. It was tiring work, and our conversation was spasmodic until the evening when we cooked and talked. Aron told us one evening about the number of his high school classmates who had been killed in narco wars, although this topic was not one which worried us during the hike. I recited part of Shelley's Ozymandias to a surprised Pilar one morning when the terrain ahead reminded me of another world. Tony was the most energetic relishing the demands of the hike and fussing with his new Global Positioning System gizmo. As we waited an extra twenty minutes while he packed his gear I suggested to him he might be over equipped. But, when the sole of one of my hiking boots came off, Tony of course had duct tape.
For two warm and sunny days we hiked across the Sierra Madre, gradually ascending. Our route took us across high plateaus, through pine woods and down to a watered valley fed by the Rio Conchos. We crossed two canyons. We skirted Tarahumara settlements and sometimes stopped to ask about the route. We dry -camped twice, which involved rationing of water since the water we had was what we carried. Generally, obtaining water along the route was not a problem. On the third night, with a rain storm brewing, we took shelter in a cave and lit a fire.
Carrying our own gear and food, we camped out and cooked on open fires. We watched a Tarahumara family butcher a pig, discovered a spring just when we really needed water, and enjoyed an unexpected swim. With Aron's help we were able to have occasional discourse with Tarahumaras including a venerable ancient called Nacho Keno. Gringos, particularly Pilar, our gringa who speaks good Spanish, would never for cultural reasons have been able to have such dialogues with a Tarahumara. We exulted in the novel terrain and coped with the discomfort. On the fourth day a Suburban we had rented in advance by phone to meet us was ready and waiting at an agreed spot exactly as requested. Our total mileage was 38 miles in four days. This was the en
d of the first part of The Silver Route.
In Spring 2009 I hiked the second part of the Silver Route, from the high point near Creel to Batopilas in the canyon bottom. My companions this time were Roger from Alpine, Texas and Elizabeth from Colorado. We had two burros to carry our bags, and two Mexican men to guide us and tend the burros. The route was from near Creel, where my previous hike had ended, to Batopilas, the end of the trail.
TONY PLUTINO
TARAHUMARAS AND GRINGOS
END OF HIKE
The topography was different from the first part. We were going mainly downhill across steep, wooded terrain. The guides had only a general idea of the route. We got off -route on the second day, which lasted a long12 hours, and just as the light was fading we found the trail again and made camp. Our guides chatted with some Tarahumaras whom we met, and avoided others when they seemed to be doing marijuana business.
The weather was fine, and the views to the horizon stupendous, row upon row of forested mountain ridges, not a road in sight nor a house. We almost became stuck when, on a detour to get some food (the guides had not brought provisions), we had to cross a range with an extremely steep ascent. The burros were unloaded and, poked, pushed and dragged, only just made it.
Dropping down steeply on the third day, we joined the Batopilas River. Now we were all out of food. Noticing a small house on the opposite bank the guides waded the river and asked the owners if they could fix us a meal. Burritos, coffee and papaya never tasted better. Some hours later we trudged down Batopilas's main street, four days after starting out, and found rooms at Hotel Mary. A shower, a six dollar meal of chicken mole (browned chicken pieces in a spicy tomato and chocolate sauce) and we were restored. The next day we got up before dawn and caught the early morning bus back to Creel.
PART III, CHAPTER 10
IN THE TRAVEL INDUSTRY
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1960'S
NEW YORK CITY/USSR
In September 1961 I disembarked from a ship in Montreal and was met by some Oxford friends. I had just graduated from Oxford University and was about to start a new life in the USA; they were in Canada for the summer and would return shortly to Oxford. They told me they had fixed up for us to deliver a car from Toronto to Vancouver, and this was the chance for a cheap transcontinental journey.
Before leaving Oxford I asked my Economics tutor if he had any advice about becoming a small business entrepreneur. He looked astonished at the question and had nothing to suggest. I suspected few of his students had asked him a question like that before since they were mainly destined for big business or government work; and I wasn't interested in either. Seeing nothing to inspire me in the U.K. so I decided to emigrate to the USA, which was easy in those days if you were born in the U.K. If you passed a basic medical exam, had some funds in the bank to pay for a ticket home if necessary, and had no Communist affiliation, you were accepted.
We drove across Canada without incident in six days camping at roadside parks, and dropped off the car in Vancouver. Everything was bigger here, from the size of the car to the distances travelled. In Seattle we parted company. The three others in our group wanted to head down the coast to California and I needed to get to New York and find a job. I stayed two days in Seattle, which was getting ready for the World's Fair due to open a few months later, before hitchhiking east on Interstate 90. I didn't realize as I travelled in a van over Snoqualmie Pass 45 miles east of Seattle that 30 years later I would be there on foot having hiked through Oregon on the Pacific Crest Trail.
I must have had beginner's luck, since hitchhiking was relatively easy. Six days later I arrived in New York City in an eighteen wheeler truck which had picked me up in the midWest. The driver was captivated by my curious accent and showed me off like an exotic species at the warehouse where we unloaded. He was also generous and helpful. He paid me twenty dollars to help him unload and then drove me in his empty truck to East 6th street.
We arrived at a somewhat run-down town house, needing paint. This was a student hostel I had heard about, and it was to be my accommodation for the next few days - a quiet, safe haven in an area which might to dangerous for the unwary, I thought. The lower East Side was then a poor part of Manhattan. The streets were cluttered with parked cars and the sidewalks teeming with people, mainly Puerto Rican, many sitting on the steps outside their apartments. Pungent cooking odors escaped from open windows. The noise from the honking of horns and the voices of people talking and shouting were trapped in the narrow streets by the buildings on each side. Even in late September the heat was oppressive. Here was the melting pot in action.
I started looking for a job the next day. The people running the student hostel suggested hotel work. At the Commodore Hotel next to Grand Central Station I was hired as a porter. This was a large and always busy establishment with over 2,000 rooms. One of my duties entailed walking around the lobby hitting a gong to announce meal times in the restaurant, a lightweight public role in contrast to my maintenance job. I soon moved, this time to the St. Moritz Hotel on Central Park South where I was hired as room clerk. While not so large as the Commodore, the St. Moritz projected a tony European image and the English-born manager thought my accent would be suitable. The job involved handing out keys and mail, and answering general questions from guests.
Taking the subway to work, and beginning to find my way around the city, I felt the energy of the city and was energized by it. Noise and movement were constant. The variety of faces, the different skin colors and accents resembled a circus. It was fun, and it was exciting but you had to think quickly to keep up with what was going on around you.
I settled in to my job and got quite comfortable - perhaps too comfortable. One day I answered an enquiry from a hotel guest on the house phone in a way I thought appropriate. Apparently, because the same man called back ten minutes later, my information was wrong. Not only that, but my attitude upset him. He proceeded to berate me over the phone for several minutes. I apologized, hoping he would hang up, but the tone of my voice somehow got him madder. On and on he went, wishing to make sure that this Limey newcomer understood that there was an American way of doing things, of getting answers right, and I had failed. I cringed mentally and was thankful that the irate guest was not telling me off in public in the hotel lobby. I didn't dare hang up - besides he was right. I learned an early lesson - and that was that my attitude needed to change if I was to deliver the sort of service of that St. Moritz guests expected.
One day there was a stir just outside of the entrance door. The Kingston Trio was checking in. The doorman escorted them in a stately way to the check-in desk, while the bell hops dealt with a large number of bags. The three young men looked tired and ready to get settled into their rooms. Well mannered and tipping generously to the hotel staff, they looked and behaved just like they sounded when performing - wholesome and generally acceptable in a bland sort of way.
I registered with an agency as a supply teacher, hoping to get a temporary job teaching French. To my surprise I got a call telling me to go to the Calhoun School on the Upper West Side. I went there at the first chance and had a chat with the headmistress, a tall woman with a commanding manner. She told me the school needed someone to teach French three hours a day for several weeks.
I said that I had just graduated from Oxford University, and had studied French up to university level and had worked in France. These facts and my appearance apparently satisfied this stern person although she kept frowning as she looked at me. I agreed to start the following week: teaching during the morning and doing my hotel job in the afternoon and evening.
There were not many male teachers at The Calhoun School, and certainly none of my age. I found myself facing a class of sixteen year olds, and I understood the concerns of the headmistress. The girls had a new teacher, male, early twenties with a British accent; this was something unusual. I started to work through the French grammar book the class was using, but maintaining discipline and keeping
the girls quiet was proving difficult and frankly I thought the teaching might go better with some fun in the classroom.
AUTHOR IN RED SQUARE, 1965
I felt little responsibility towards these girls passing their exams since I was only a stand-in teacher but equally I didn't want to lose the job. At the same time I really wanted them to gain some understanding of France so that the language would come alive. So I started telling them about the summer I spent in France working at a chateau. My description of the place and the details of the family I lived with in the chateau got their attention, and for there was once complete silence in the classroom.
This was fortunate because it was at this moment that the headmistress happened to pass the door, as she told me later, and heard nothing but my earnest voice talking about French country life - in complete silence. I suspect she was snooping, but it didn't matter. She called me into her office later the same day and complimented me. My job was safe, and I continued to use stories of my time in France regularly as a teaching tool.
I moved out of the student hostel and into an apartment on the East Side around 14th Street sharing with an old friend from my Oxford days, Peter Skinner. We shared with a middle aged mid-level office worker called Ralph who had his own room. This was as well, since he sometimes brought sailors home for the night. He was an amiable man and a good cook, and this set-up worked without embarrassment for some months.
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