Footloose Scot (27 page)

About the only budget deal for tourists in Europe these days are low cost air fares. A dozen or more new airlines, modeled on Southwest Airlines but taking the formula a step further, offer fares all over Europe way below the normal price. Recently I flew with an Irish airline, Ryanair, to Knock in the west of Ireland for thirty dollars - an 80-minute flight. Ryanair carried 35 million passengers in 2005.

Why Knock is a popular destination was not clear until I arrived. The clue is that this small town (population 2,000) has a church which can accommodate 10,000 persons. It is the site of an apparition of the Virgin Mary in 1878. However, the airport also serves as a gateway to the west of Ireland, the misty land of James Joyce. Within minutes of landing I was in a small rental car, reminding myself to drive on the left.

I soon saw signs of the new, prosperous Ireland, a country whose growth rate over the past fifteen years has regularly been the highest in Europe, which led to the accolade, the Celtic Tiger. Auto dealerships abound, construction cranes tower over urban landscapes and even small country towns have a flower shop with imported products from overseas. Property prices are so high that many Irish people wanting a second home are forced to buy in Southern or Eastern Europe.

Together with today's prosperity are reminders of yesteryear's tragic past. In the incomparable Connemara landscape of lakes and mountains, which was the home of James Joyce, are memorials to the 19
^th
century famine which emptied the countryside by death or emigration: a cross on a lonely road or a museum, such as the new Irish Museum of Country Life, which documents in painstaking detail the miserable lives of country folk in those days.

The political past is not forgotten either. On evening in Sligo I watched a new Ken Loach film,"
'The Wind that Shakes the Barley",
an account of the violent days of the early 1920's when the republican movement fought for their independence and then became divided among themselves. But, important as their history is to them, the Irish are not captives to their past. The swell of national confidence and economic progress continues to grow to unprecedented levels; the economy is booming and the arts thriving. And since this is Ireland, there is always plenty of
craic
(good times, chat, and music).

I headed north without stopping across the border into Northern Ireland. It was August so it was the season for parades by the Protestant Loyalists commemorating the victory at the Battle of the Boyne in 1688 by William of Orange over Catholic James II and the start of the Protestant ascendancy. While inter­community tension in Belfast increased due to the marches, across the country as a whole more and more people are turning away from these old tribal animosities.

More forward-looking Northerners are looking for a better economic life which the Republic has shown can be achieved. A minority, locked into their history, mainly elderly men wearing bowler hats and orange sashes and carrying furled umbrellas. still parade annually behind their bands, celebrating a battle fought over 300 years ago.

I headed for the famous Ulster American Folk Museum to find out about the Scotch Irish, a term I had heard often enough in North America but never in Scotland or Ireland. Between 1700 and 1900 over two million Irishmen from Northern Ireland emigrated. Many were Protestants who had come from Scotland to Northern Ireland and were called the Scotch-Irish. Like the Catholics who also fled the country they were looking for a better life. Many settled in Appalachia where their music is still played. Several achieved fame in the USA: Generals Stonewall Jackson and Ulysses S. Grant, President Andrew Jackson, the Mellon industrial giant, and in Texas, Davy Crockett and Sam Houston. This is their story.

The outdoor museum is set in 40 acres of green farmland and contains about 30 buildings, including the Mellon family home and an example, brought over from the USA, of the sort of home early Scotch Irish settlers lived in. There's even a full-scale replica of the sort of sailing ship which transported the emigrants. Costumed volunteers are on duty at many of the exhibits, demonstrating household skills such as spinning.

I drove back into the Republic and stopped for a haircut in a small town. Irish people famously have the gift of the gab, and none more so than the town barber. As soon as I told him how I wanted my hair cut I knew he had taken in my foreign accent, and would be asking where I was from, and how was I enjoying my visit. I beat him to the punch by saying I lived in Texas, and then started asking him questions.

Encouraged by my questions the barber, a Mr. Beattie, kept me in his chair for an hour while he explained the current political situation in Ireland, the prosperity and the graft, all the time making minimal snipping. Worried I wouldn't have much hair left, I managed to break away, 18 euros ($12) lighter, my head stuffed with facts, opinions and homespun philosophy.

Later that evening I was back at Knock Airport, and two hours later on a bus heading from London's Gatwick Airport to Oxford, where my sister lives. It was great to be back in Europe - 28 different countries on your doorstep - and low cost airlines to get you there.

High in the Sierra Madre Occidental of north central Mexico lies Zacatecas, capital of the state of the same name - a superb tourist destination although little visited by Americans.

Here you will find an example of real Mexico, not the artificial, internationalized resorts like Cancun and Bahias de Huatulco or the polluted border cities like Juarez and Tijuana.

You get a strong sense of history as you walk the winding, paved streets of the downtown area of this city of 122,000 inhabitants, founded in 1548, located on Mexico's central plateau at 8,202 feet. There are plenty of museums, a good choice of hotels, and even dancing in the streets. You can also dance in a disco at the bottom of a mine, or float above the city in a cable car.

First you need to get there. Air fares from Midland, Texas and Chihuahua City are exorbitant and train service in Mexico was discontinued in 2000. The answer is an overnight bus from Chihuahua City which travels the 948 miles in around twelve hours. There are frequent departures by Omnibus de Mexico and Transportes Chihuehenses (part of the Estrella Blanca group) for $48 one-way. On arrival at Zacatecas bus station, you will need to take a taxi to downtown, or take bus number eight.

Accommodation ranges from hostels to 5-star hotels. At the bottom end the Hostal del Angel. Find Calle Primero de Mayo 220, near the cathedral and ring the top bell. With luck, the owner Eduardo will come down and let you in. His knowledge of English and familiarity with the city are invaluable in a place where not much English is spoken. Eduardo is a Communist and will willingly get into a political discussion with you. There are dorm beds and a private room. Eduardo's large vibrant canvases fill the walls.

At the middle level, Hostal del Vasco is a 17
^th
century house located near Alameda Gardens. Spacious rooms with high ceilings surround a lovely courtyard;' cagebirds twitter away merrily from their cages around the courtyard. For luxury, the 5-star Quinta Real, constructed around a 19
^th
century bull ring with the arches of a fine old aqueduct running across the front of the hotel, must be one of the most unusual hotel conversions in Mexico.

There's plenty to see in Zacatecas. High above the town on a hill top which resembled to the invading Spanish a wineskin so that is why they called it: Cerra de la Bufa. Here in 1914 Pancho Villa's division of the north defeated Huerta's forces, opening up the road to Mexico City. The hill top can be reached by a Swiss-built cable car and there's a museum on top commemorating the battle.

Underneath Zacatecas is another attraction, a former silver mine open to the public. Like most Mexican colonial cities of any size, Zacatecas gained its wealth from silver, The El Eden mine operated from 1586 to the nineteen fifties and was one of Mexico's richest. It is unusual in that visitors today can gain access and see rope ladders, a chapel, a tramway and other relics of yesteryear. And more unusual in that there is a night club in the old mine.

Zacatecas is a town for walking. Most of the major attractions are in the city center, including the mighty baroque cathedral built out of pink stone in the mid 18
^th
century; the main façade is a monumental piece of intricate carving. Museums abound, including the Guadalupe Museum which houses a huge collection of Spanish-American colonial art, and the Museo Rafael Coronel, a collection of Mexican folk art including 2,000 masks used in dances and rituals.

Visiting with a friend, we were standing outside our hotel, the Hostal del Vasco, discussing where we might eat. As we talked, we heard a sound of approaching voices, a crowd on the move, the sound of a mariachi band and the beating of a drum rising above the noise of voices and feet. Shortly after, a line of merry, shouting Mexicans mainly students, skipping and dancing, flooded into our street. In the crowd of revelers, one large man had a ceramic barrel strapped on his chest and was passing out small cupfuls of tequila to those who joined the throng. Someone waved at us gringos to join in, and we were handed a clay cup of tequila on a cord which we put around our necks.

Asking our fellow revelers what it was all about, they kept saying,
"callejoneada"
Whatever it was, it seemed too good to pass up so we joined the merry throng sipping our tequila, then hopped and skipped a few blocks, before waving goodbye to our fellow celebrators and collapsed on a bench. This was spontaneous Mexican enjoyment at it best: music, dancing, conviviality.

Not unique to Zacatecas, these walking serenades can either happen more or less spontaneously because of a passing mood of joyfulness, or to celebrate an event, or put on for tourists. Some years later, I participated in a
callejoneada
in Guanajuato, the tourist town. There the band, all students, were wearing medieval costumes and proceeded backwards, including a double bass (no mean feat) through the alleys. Tourists paid in advance. This happened every night during the tourist season.

Whatever the reason, the Zacatecas
callejoneada
seemed a typically Mexican event. The infectious enthusiasm, fuelled by tequila, the thumping music - the whole noisy, joyous procession is something to remember with pleasure.

THE PIANIST OF THE SIERRA

It was 5.00 a.m. on a cold December morning and I was sitting in an office in the warehouse district of Cuauhtemoc, a provincial town 60 miles west of Chihuahua City, Mexico. With me was my travel companion, Pilar Pedersen, who was explaining in fluent Spanish to a bearded Mexican man about the used clothes we had brought with us. The bearded man was Rene Bon, the President of the Board of Directors of the Cuauhtemoc Food Bank, whose office we were in.

The clothing Pilar was talking about was donated by supportive and generous residents of the Big Bend area of west Texas. Food Bank Cuauhtemoc, which extended the invitation to us to make this trip, suggested we bring some used clothing. We advertised locally and got a huge, generous response including monetary donations. Then we found that the Mexican Government no longer permits used clothing into the country.

So we had a sale which realized some more funds. We packed a few bags of the best unsold clothing together with our own stuff, and got through Mexican Customs without incident.

By 6.30 a.m. a total of 27 persons had turned up, and we were ready to leave in a seven vehicle convoy on the first stage of our four day trip into the Sierra Tarahumara, the area of the Sierra Madre Occidental which is home to the 80,000 strong semi-nomadic tribe. Two hours steadily climbing on a good road took us to Creel, the gateway to the Copper Canyon region, where we were served a cooked breakfast in a lodge at the edge of town. After eating, the group assembled outside and formed a circle around Rene. He made several announcements about the rest of the day, and then invited the group members to introduce themselves.

Making up the group of twenty-four Mexicans and four Americans were several Food Bank personnel including the tireless Rene Bon, a group of theater students from Chihuahua, a doctor, a dentist, a physiotherapist and a few elderly New Age types, all Mexican. Tagging along were an Austrian woman employed by a children's charity in Mexico City, and a friend of hers, a secretary from Sweden who worked for the European Parliament in Luxembourg.

What brought us together on this trip was the chance to deliver food and clothing to a remote Tarahumara settlement called Retosachi. Food Bank Cuauhtemoc delivered food to this village two to three times a year and this time, being near Christmas, the visitor group would put on a
posada
(a Mexican Christmas celebration). The Chihuahua theater group would act out a play and others in the group would do painting classes with the Tarahumara children. The doctor would provide medical check ups.

TARAHUMARAS BEFORE START

ROMAYNE WHEELER

We were also going to hear a concert by an American concert pianist Romayne Wheeler who had lived for eighteen years with the Tarahumara. Over 25 years Wheeler gave most of his earnings from world-wide concert tours to the Tarahumara hospital in Creel and for scholarships. He had been accepted into the Tarahumara community and now lived among them in a cliff-top house called the Eagle's Nest. I had heard for years about his Christmas concert in the mountains, and finally I had the opportunity to go.

We turned off the Creel/Batopilas road onto a dirt track, and then one of the pickups broke down. The vehicles carried 800 bags of food plus our bags of clothing and medical supplies. We redistributed the other goods and people among the other 6 vehicles and continued on the dirt track for 4 hours until we reached our destination, Retosachi, 36 miles away. It was now dark and we were up high, on the very edge of a canyon. We stopped by a cluster of buildings and were greeted in Spanish by a white man and watched by a few Tarahumaras. A bulky figure, much taller than the Tarahumaras, he wore what looked like a special embroidered Tarahumara outfit to reveal bare legs and sandals.

He then spoke softly in English: "Glad you've made it, you must be tired," and directed us into one of the three houses on the rim where we ate a meal. This was Romayne Wheeler, the Pianist of the Sierra. We had brought sleeping bags and pads, and most of us bedded down on the floor of a new clinic building, completed but empty of equipment.

It was a colorful scene the next morning in front of the three buildings which faced Munerachi canyon. We were up high, indeed on the very edge of the canyon. Distant views revealed plateaus dotted with pine trees and framed by slopes dropping steeply to the depths of nearby canyons. Tarahumara figures were approaching in small groups or individually. The men were slim and short in height, and it was easy to see why they were known as the "fleet footed ones" (Rararumi in their language).

Quiet and modest in behavior they sat down on the ground to await events. We were told some had walked for two days to get here. All were clad in traditional clothing. The men wore huaraches (sandals), a white loin cloth, a colored shirt with puffy sleeves, and often a baseball cap. The women wore ankle-length dresses in yellow, green or blue, trimmed at the edge, with a decorated blouse, buttoned at the neck. Often they carried a young child on their backs in a sash.

Many lined up to pick up bags of food, which came in two sizes. The more expensive contained eleven items including sardines, beans and soap and cost the equivalent of $2.50. The smaller bag had five items and cost $1.00. They sat around in clusters on the ground watching and waiting, talking quietly. The theater group started painting lessons with the Tarahumara kids, including a mural. Later the same group put on a twenty minute play acting out a skit about Tarahumara life which broke through the shyness of the audience and got some good laughs. There was a general hum of noise.

Next three pinatas which had been suspended from a wire between two buildings were clobbered by stick-wielding Tarahumara boys and girls, spilling from their interior candies galore. Later, clothing was held up for sale (10c per item was the norm). The Food Bank was careful to point out to us that they always charged even a nominal price believing that this had more effect than handing stuff out for free.

Then everyone formed into three lines in front of the kitchen and Romayne Wheeler handed each person (more than 800 adults and kids) a sandwich and a cold drink.

Wheeler, looming over the Tarahumaras, seemed at ease in the role, occasionally saying something in Spanish to someone in the line otherwise concentrating on the rapid delivery of the food into eager hands. Lastly, free towels were handed out, the kids scrambling with glee to seize as many as possible. As it grew dusk, most headed back to their homes. By this time Wheeler and his guests were ready for a meal and some rest. Pilar and I arranged to meet him the next morning at the Eagle's Nest for an interview.

The Eagle's Nest is a short distance from the other houses, and clings directly on the canyon's edge. We entered and descended a staircase into a large room, in the front of which stood Wheeler's 1917 Bechstein grand piano. A large window on one side gave a wide panoramic view along the length of the canyon. Wheeler led us outside through a side door and along a narrow path to a bench under a tree looking precipitously down into the canyon.

Born in 1942, he grew up in California, graduating from high school in 1960. Already writing music at age seven, in 1952 he heard Segovia give a concert in San Juan, Puerto Rico and on the spot determined to become a musician. Another early music influence was in Santo Domingo where he experienced music that is in tune with nature.

He went to Austria in 1961, spent a year in Salzburg then studied in Vienna, earning degrees in composition and as a concert pianist. Returning to the USA in 1968, he started playing as a concert artist, nationally and internationally. At this time he also became interested in the origins of mankind and acquainted with the beliefs of the Hopi Indians in the relationship between the world of nature and the soul.

During a weather-delayed trip in New Mexico in 1980, he came across a copy of National Geographic magazine in an Albuquerque cafe which featured a story on the Tarahumara. He spent months in 1980 and 1981 hiking the area and sleeping in a tent. He teamed up with a young Japanese tourist who knew no Spanish, but was an expert in origami (making designs out of paper) which endeared them to the Tarahumara. Of this time, Wheeler said: "I felt I had come home".

After some twelve years of visiting the Tarahumaras in the late 1990s he made the life- changing decision to live among them. In Creel he met Father Verplanken SJ who painted a stark picture of the Tarahumaras' health needs. Their remoteness and nomadic lifestyle, and a lack of resources from the government produced some horrifying statistics, particularly regarding infant mortality. Convinced he needed to do something, Wheeler contributed from 1985 to 2000 three quarters of his concert earnings to the Santa Teresita hospital in Creel.

A connection, born in his experience with the Hopis, between the world of nature and the world of the soul is what Romayne Wheeler finds in the life of the Tarahumaras. As a composer he creates music which is in tune with the nature which is all around him in the sierras. But he needs to go back regularly to the modern world to perform concert tours for income to support his local health and scholarship projects. Before we left our airy perch under a tree, we handed over a check which was the result of fund-raising in the Big Bend area of Texas; Wheeler asked if we were happy with how he planned to spend these funds, a modest question from a modest and private man.

The last night we visitors and a handful of Tarahumaras sat on seats and on the floor of Wheeler's living room close to his Bechstein with the canyon visible behind. For an hour and a half he played a selection from Liszt to Scott Joplin interspersed with his own work, ending in the pitch dark with a Chopin composition.

After he finishedWheeler talked about how he felt living among the Tarahumara and how it affected his work as a composer. It was not only the majestic landscape but the people's lifestyle themselves which inspired him, he said. Sharing rather than competing and living simply without the acquisitive desires of western societies, the Tarahumara were in tune with nature and in some ways just the opposite of us North Americans. "I have finally arrived where I yearned to be," he concluded.

Romayne Wheeler has become part of a community which initially seemed totally alien to the one where he was born and raised; yet today this very community is an integral part of his world and an inspiration for his music. We returned to urban life in Cuauhtemoc the next day with memories of the high sierras, gentle people and beautiful music performed by a good friend and benefactor of the Tarahumara.

March 6, 2011 dawned warm and cloudless in Urique, a town of around 1,000 inhabitants deep in Chihuahua's Sierra Madre range, and the site of the annual Copper Canyon Ultra Marathon. Urique Canyon (depth 4,265 ft) is one of only two canyons in the area accessible by road and public transportation. This was how the international runners arrived, by bus or van from the station at Bahachuivo on the rail line from Chihuahua City. The Tarahumaras arrived on foot from various parts of the canyon region, travelling along trails known only to them. The 7
^th
Ultra Marathon, for men and women, pitting Tarahumaras, more correctly known as Rarámuris, against mestizos against North Americans plus a few runners from other countries, was about to begin.

Our group of five visitors from Texas arrived the previous evening as it was getting dark. (Pilar Pedersen of Alpine, our sixth group member, had gone ahead to help with race preparations). We crossed a wide paved street, sloping sharply uphill, on which two small planes were parked. This is Urique's airport. We checked into the Figueroa Hotel. Thin sheets, bright green walls, bare bulb illumination and a private bathroom cost ten dollars per room. We are right behind the large, ornate Presidencia (City Hall) and a mariachi band was playing at full throttle.

In the tropical warmth, Rarámuri runners in breech cloths and
huaraches
(homemade sandals) were strolling around the plaza or sitting watching the folkloric entertainment. They were handsome, dark in complexion, slight in build and impassive in demeanor. Standing taller by a head or more, and very much in the minority, were the gringos who were mainly attired in conventional running shoes, shorts and t-shirts. Visible because of his lean, tall frame and shaven head, was Micah True, known as Caballo Blanco - after whom this race was named, the Caballo Blanco Ultra Marathon. Above the din of the band there was a hum of discourse. Greetings were exchanged, hands were clasped and hugs given as racers and friends reunited. Race officials in green t-shirts darted around making last-minute arrangements for the race which was to start at 6.30 a.m. The Urique director of tourism, vivacious, English-speaking Cecy Villalobos was in constant motion, greeting people and giving instructions for the next morning.