Looking out my Backdoor: It's not on the map!

Kathy is my friend who first introduced me to Mexico. I am Kathy’s friend who first introduced her to Etzatlan. Beware introductions. We both ended up moving to Etzatlan.

Kathy and I have known one another twenty plus years. Those years translate into frequent opportunities to share experiences, get lost, explore places we should not have poked our noses. In other words, we know how to have fun.

Since mid-November I’ve been settling into my new casita in Oconahua, enjoying exploring the country ‘round and about.

Kathy drove over for a visit with a purpose. We were going to head into the center of this little town to see just what is available in the many little tiendas. I was almost out of toothpaste and needed tomatoes and bananas. Purpose.

We turned left instead of right. No, we were not lost. The property on which I live ends at an arroyo, deep and wide. Directly across this canyon is San Rafael, not a city, but a hacienda, private property on which so many people have built homes that it has become its own small community.

I wanted to show Kathy the tiny, beautiful church as well as the smallest schoolhouse I’ve ever seen. Surely not more than a dozen students could crowd inside. But it is the prettiest little school you’d ever want to see.

“Where does this road go?” asked Kathy.

“I don’t know. I suspect it dead ends at a rancho. I’ve never been further than this. But I know that past San Rafael we leave Jalisco and enter Nayarit.”

That’s all it took. We had to know. The street became a narrow highway, mostly paved, mostly pitted, but not too severely. Narrow, winding, up hill and down dale. Through the loveliest country, ever higher. We wandered along slowly, entranced, taking in the ever-changing vegetation, colors, bushes and trees, winding ever higher and higher. We wended through corn fields, meadows with cattle, and climbed high mountain vistas.

We reached the top of the pass and way, way, way down there, nestled like a chick in its nest, an impossible tiny village, a fairy land of forty or fifty buildings.

There was no decision to make. We had to go see.

(In the interests of full disclosure, if you are going to make this trip, be sure to take water and strong stomachs. Motion sickness possible.)

At the bottom of the road, and I do mean the bottom, with trepidation we crossed an ancient stone bridge over a dry river bed, smack into the middle of town. We drove every street, short streets, most of which ended in someone’s yard or field. We saw the plaza, the school, the health center, the church. That was it, this tiny town out in what we deemed the middle of nowhere in Nayarit.

“Let’s find a tienda de abarrotes. I need a drink.”

“I need a snack.”

The tienda, closed, that we first drove past coming into town, several minutes previously, now had an open door. An open door is like an open road, right? One must go inside.

All the sidewalks (here and in most towns) have impossibly high steps up from the street. When the rain comes, the streets become fast-running waterways.

I indicated to the gentleman who came out the door to greet us that I needed help. He gave me his hand, helped me up the step, and introduced himself.

Senor Moses Gomez quickly scoped out the we are gringos. He spoke impeccable English, had worked construction in the US for thirty-five years. This man said to us, “People are good.” In his actions he demonstrated that yes, indeed, “People are good.” I needed to hear that.

We had a delightful conversation, bought our unhealthy drinks and equally unhealthy snacks and inquired if there might be an alternate route back we could explore.

Senor Gomez hesitantly told us we could go to Amitlan de Cana and back to Oconahua. He poked his head out the door to see what we drove. “Return the way you came. The other road is not passable. Nobody uses it.” We assured him we treasured his advice, said our “adios” and back tracked across the stone bridge and up the mountain.

The little town of about 200 folks at the end of the road is named Jesus Maria. If you want to go, you won’t find it on the map. But Kathy and I are delighted to be your tour guides.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].