The Bandits of Banámichi
by Gary Thrasher
by Gary Thrasher
_ _
“Surprise, Surprise,” my wife Carole announces. “We are going to
Mexico.” We are spending the winter in Tubac, Arizona, our home away
from the record snowfall and cold in Nebraska. Carole has signed us up
for a trip into Sonora with Fiesta Tours International.
As the word spreads among our friends, I begin to get phone calls. “Are
you guys crazy?” “Are you sure you want to do this?” “Is your will
current?” Just a sample of comments I receive prior to our trip.
I have heard the news reports about Mexico and having traveled all the
continents except Australia and Antarctica, I prepare a checklist for
this trip. Bulletproof vest, hostage negotiator, ransom money, satellite
communications, and armed guards seem to fit the bill. I also place a
call to our youngest son Trevor, and ask if his Green Beret team is
available for standby the week we are to travel.
Based on the headlines, I expect to encounter armed gangs, brazen cartel
operations, drugs, lookouts guarding illegal activity, weapons, seedy
hotels, and trash everywhere.
My wife has already paid for the trip, and I am too cheap to back out.
Our tour leader,
Marshall Giesy has been leading tours into Mexico for over 20 years. He
stops by our home and assures us we are going to a “quiet spot” in
Sonora. Oh, by the way, we will not be taking the nine passenger van as
planned. Two couples have backed out of the trip so there will only be
three intrepid fools making the trip with Marshall. He will be driving a
Ford Escape. Escape seems like a good idea, but my wife is game for any
unusual experience, so I will tag along to protect her.
Trip day arrives and we head for Nogales early in the morning. We take
the truck route in and stop about 20 kilometers over the border to get
our tourist visas. Marshall is fluent in Spanish and knows the ropes, so
we get through the paper work uneventfully.
The highway is not bad by American standards and we make good time,
arriving in Magdalena for lunch. We explore the beautiful town square,
mission, and tomb of Father Kino, a renowned missionary. We tour the
local market place and have lunch in a small /taqueria/. Marshall is a
good friend of the owner and the food is great. Maybe we won’t have to
worry after all. Marshall will show us a lot of hidden gems on this
trip. Places no gringo tourists alone could find. Along the way, we stop
at several road side stands. Marshall introduces to several local
pastries and jellied quince. Not bad! Marshall has personal knowledge of
the local foods and what delicacies are the fare m lost favored by the
locals. Each village we visit seems to have its own special cheeses and
pastries.
Now for the “dangerous” road to Banámichi. We roll through the Sonoran
desert, hardly passing another vehicle. There is danger here though.
This is open range country, and we need to keep a sharp eye out for
cattle. Marshall is a student of Mexican history and culture. He gives
us a running commentary about the native tribes of Sonora, and the
Spanish missionary activity. His fascinating stories make the time fly
by as I keep my eye out for stray cattle. He also must want to keep our
minds off of the lack of guard rails on the winding hilly road. We
arrive uneventfully in Banámichi about 4 o’clock.
We are staying at the bed and breakfast La Posada del Rio Sonora. It is
American owned and gorgeous. The building was used as a general store in
the 1800’s and has been totally renovated. We check into our rooms and I
covertly check the streets on the town square for gang activity. No
gangs, just a solitary young man raking the square. The scent of orange
blossoms drifts from the trees across the street on the town square.
This must be a clever cartel trick to cover up the scent of marijuana,
and dope factories.
Banámichi is a small village sitting on a bluff overlooking the Sonora
River. Home for ancient Opata tribes, it was established in 1637 by the
Jesuits. Where there is a river there is irrigation, and the river
valley below the town is covered in green and yellow. Cattle roam
freely. If not for the mountains in the background, I could be in
Nebraska. Clever how these natives are lulling us to ease with this
tranquil, pastoral scene. That evening, after cocktails on the terrace,
we enjoy a fine meal and turn in for the night.
“Trouble” starts the next morning. As golden sunlight creeps through the
lattice of ocotillo branches that artfully cover our bedroom window, we
encounter our first lookout for the locals. A rooster crows and crows.
No alarm clock is needed here. This rooster will wake us every morning.
My wife insists he got lucky one morning as he was especially melodious.
This troublesome fellow must be a sentinel for a local crime family.
After coffee and breakfast, we stroll the streets. There is no vehicle
traffic to speak of. All of the native pedestrians greet us with a
friendly “good morning” much like any small town in America. The streets
are clean and tidy. We see natives sweeping and the town square is
cleaned every day. There are trash bins everywhere. No litter. This too
must be a clever ruse to make us drop our guard. There are also no
tourist t-shirt stands and no one trying to sell us useless trinkets. In
fact, there are no tourists, just our small group.
We have a mid morning cooking lesson in the La Posada kitchen. Twice
each day, we will learn how the native dishes are prepared, and then
enjoy them at our next meal. The foods are fresh from the market and the
meals are delicious. They must be fattening us up for something ominous.
After our cooking session, we are to meet one of the notorious local
family leaders. Her name is Dahlia. This sinister person is a retired
school teacher who is keeping the local history alive. She tells us
about the mission church, rebuilt many times. The first flour mill in
the area was constructed here, and lies abandoned just below the town.
She tells of the area gold mines, the local cottage industries, and the
many festivals. Most interesting is the one run by the local teenagers
completely in silence to honor Jesus. How do they get along without
iPods and electronics? We stroll through the town with Dahlia visiting
both schools located in good looking buildings, and end up in the
courtyard of her home to enjoy fresh oranges and grapefruit picked from
her garden. I knew there would be weapons! Dahlia has a knife that she
uses to slice our fruit. I must not drop my guard. This is not the
Mexico I hear about on T.V.
The next day we head a few miles south to Aconchi to visit the hot
springs nearby. It is Saturday, and we anticipate spotting illegal
activity as we drive down a remote semi-dry river bed through /vaqueros/
(cowboys?, or cleverly disguised drug family guards?) herding cattle. We
arrive at the hot springs and I soon spot unusual activity. Three
generations are working _together _to set up tents for the weekend
campout. Grandparents, parents and teenagers working as a team to set up
their camp. Very suspicious! There is beer, food, music and hot tubs
filled with the locals, and most unusual, there is a couple from
Colorado camped right in the middle of them. Don’t these people know
they are in Mexico?
After enjoying the hot springs, we return north to Huepac. We stop at a
local shop to buy some “/chicos/”, the dried, baked white corn that made
such a delicious soup at the La Posada yesterday. We are going to take
some home with us. Here on the town square, I spot organized “gang”
activity. Dozens of people are answering the five o’clock bell and going
to Mass. Saturday night also finds the local teenagers hanging out.
Groups of girls in makeup and boys in their best jeans, sauntering
around the square trying to catch the eye of the opposite sex. A scene
that plays out every Saturday night most places in the world.
On the road back in Banámichi, we finally spot “cartel” operations.
These dealers are so brazen here that they use loudspeakers on their
trucks. I knew the weekend would bring them out at last! There are no
large stores, only small neighborhood shops and these “dealers” bring
merchandise of all descriptions from the larger cities. You can buy
corn, potatoes, fruit, charcoal and household goods right in the streets
in broad daylight! Most picturesque are the trucks loaded with brooms
mops and plastic buckets of every description. We decline to get caught
up in this illicit trafficking and return to another gourmet meal at the
La Posada. We will bring many fine recipes home with us.
Sunday we are going undercover and get inside an illegal trade at last.
Too bad there is no cell phone service. Our “connection” is covertly
disguised as a local cowboy driving a pick up truck. He is tall, rugged,
and looks like the Marlboro Man. He is very nervous, this is the first
time he has led a group of tourists on an undercover mission. We
disguise our activity by making stops at several “cartel operations”
hidden on small farms. Here we witness the local trafficking in homemade
cheese, chile powders and /posole/, a corn flour that looks like powered
cocaine. Certain that we have not been tailed by the local authorities,
we abandon our vehicles and stealthily approach the targeted
“underground operation”. These operators have booby trapped the local
area with cow pies, certain to ward off the unwary. Smoke wafts through
the dense mesquite trees. We spot three desperadoes manning two stills
made from 55 gallon drums. We have found a /bacanora/ plant making the
local liquor from agave. Not tequila, but the traditional drink of the
region. We find that the government has now made this backyard brew
legal. Just like Mexico to make bootlegging legal. Back in town we stop
at an unmarked door. Marshall enters and makes a buy. He returns with an
unlabeled quart coke bottle of the evil brew. We have a taste. Not bad.
Just to make sure the authorities remain off balance, our cowboy guide
leads us to San Felipe de Jesus and a modern park. Here, his entire
family has assembled for a Sunday cookout. We are the guests of honor.
The charcoal grills are going strong and his wife is making large thin
tortillas on a convex metal plate over the charcoal. My wife tries her
hand at making these thin tortillas. The plate is hot and she is not
adept. Her efforts look like lace doilies with lots of holes in them. We
all have a good laugh at her disastrous results. The young kids in the
family play ball in the park. The rest of us enjoy cold drinks and
authentic beans, carne and sauces. We practice our Spanish and younger
family members practice their English. The scene is most enjoyable and
we hate to leave.
I have figured out that hostage ransom money will not be necessary here.
Carole asks too many questions of our hosts in fractured Spanish. I am
sure if we were kidnapped, after about two days, our captors would pay
me to take her back to the States.
Sadly, on Monday, we must return to the U.S. We have had a great time,
and had some memorable experiences. We have been the real “Bandits of
Banámichi”. We have stolen three days of the idyllic way of life still
found in these Sonoran villages. Our local hosts have been most gracious
and accommodating. We shared the ordinary lives of small town people
trying raise their families as Christians and to make a living off of
the river and the land. The families have deep roots, having lived in
the region for several generations and evident pride in their
communities. Best of all, they have treated us like newly found friends,
not tourists. Our guide Marshall has been most informative. It has been
great to have no cell phone service, T.V. or newspapers. Such peace and
quiet, nothing like the scary headlines about border towns. Now if they
would just get rid of that damn rooster, we might risk coming back again.
Mexico.” We are spending the winter in Tubac, Arizona, our home away
from the record snowfall and cold in Nebraska. Carole has signed us up
for a trip into Sonora with Fiesta Tours International.
As the word spreads among our friends, I begin to get phone calls. “Are
you guys crazy?” “Are you sure you want to do this?” “Is your will
current?” Just a sample of comments I receive prior to our trip.
I have heard the news reports about Mexico and having traveled all the
continents except Australia and Antarctica, I prepare a checklist for
this trip. Bulletproof vest, hostage negotiator, ransom money, satellite
communications, and armed guards seem to fit the bill. I also place a
call to our youngest son Trevor, and ask if his Green Beret team is
available for standby the week we are to travel.
Based on the headlines, I expect to encounter armed gangs, brazen cartel
operations, drugs, lookouts guarding illegal activity, weapons, seedy
hotels, and trash everywhere.
My wife has already paid for the trip, and I am too cheap to back out.
Our tour leader,
Marshall Giesy has been leading tours into Mexico for over 20 years. He
stops by our home and assures us we are going to a “quiet spot” in
Sonora. Oh, by the way, we will not be taking the nine passenger van as
planned. Two couples have backed out of the trip so there will only be
three intrepid fools making the trip with Marshall. He will be driving a
Ford Escape. Escape seems like a good idea, but my wife is game for any
unusual experience, so I will tag along to protect her.
Trip day arrives and we head for Nogales early in the morning. We take
the truck route in and stop about 20 kilometers over the border to get
our tourist visas. Marshall is fluent in Spanish and knows the ropes, so
we get through the paper work uneventfully.
The highway is not bad by American standards and we make good time,
arriving in Magdalena for lunch. We explore the beautiful town square,
mission, and tomb of Father Kino, a renowned missionary. We tour the
local market place and have lunch in a small /taqueria/. Marshall is a
good friend of the owner and the food is great. Maybe we won’t have to
worry after all. Marshall will show us a lot of hidden gems on this
trip. Places no gringo tourists alone could find. Along the way, we stop
at several road side stands. Marshall introduces to several local
pastries and jellied quince. Not bad! Marshall has personal knowledge of
the local foods and what delicacies are the fare m lost favored by the
locals. Each village we visit seems to have its own special cheeses and
pastries.
Now for the “dangerous” road to Banámichi. We roll through the Sonoran
desert, hardly passing another vehicle. There is danger here though.
This is open range country, and we need to keep a sharp eye out for
cattle. Marshall is a student of Mexican history and culture. He gives
us a running commentary about the native tribes of Sonora, and the
Spanish missionary activity. His fascinating stories make the time fly
by as I keep my eye out for stray cattle. He also must want to keep our
minds off of the lack of guard rails on the winding hilly road. We
arrive uneventfully in Banámichi about 4 o’clock.
We are staying at the bed and breakfast La Posada del Rio Sonora. It is
American owned and gorgeous. The building was used as a general store in
the 1800’s and has been totally renovated. We check into our rooms and I
covertly check the streets on the town square for gang activity. No
gangs, just a solitary young man raking the square. The scent of orange
blossoms drifts from the trees across the street on the town square.
This must be a clever cartel trick to cover up the scent of marijuana,
and dope factories.
Banámichi is a small village sitting on a bluff overlooking the Sonora
River. Home for ancient Opata tribes, it was established in 1637 by the
Jesuits. Where there is a river there is irrigation, and the river
valley below the town is covered in green and yellow. Cattle roam
freely. If not for the mountains in the background, I could be in
Nebraska. Clever how these natives are lulling us to ease with this
tranquil, pastoral scene. That evening, after cocktails on the terrace,
we enjoy a fine meal and turn in for the night.
“Trouble” starts the next morning. As golden sunlight creeps through the
lattice of ocotillo branches that artfully cover our bedroom window, we
encounter our first lookout for the locals. A rooster crows and crows.
No alarm clock is needed here. This rooster will wake us every morning.
My wife insists he got lucky one morning as he was especially melodious.
This troublesome fellow must be a sentinel for a local crime family.
After coffee and breakfast, we stroll the streets. There is no vehicle
traffic to speak of. All of the native pedestrians greet us with a
friendly “good morning” much like any small town in America. The streets
are clean and tidy. We see natives sweeping and the town square is
cleaned every day. There are trash bins everywhere. No litter. This too
must be a clever ruse to make us drop our guard. There are also no
tourist t-shirt stands and no one trying to sell us useless trinkets. In
fact, there are no tourists, just our small group.
We have a mid morning cooking lesson in the La Posada kitchen. Twice
each day, we will learn how the native dishes are prepared, and then
enjoy them at our next meal. The foods are fresh from the market and the
meals are delicious. They must be fattening us up for something ominous.
After our cooking session, we are to meet one of the notorious local
family leaders. Her name is Dahlia. This sinister person is a retired
school teacher who is keeping the local history alive. She tells us
about the mission church, rebuilt many times. The first flour mill in
the area was constructed here, and lies abandoned just below the town.
She tells of the area gold mines, the local cottage industries, and the
many festivals. Most interesting is the one run by the local teenagers
completely in silence to honor Jesus. How do they get along without
iPods and electronics? We stroll through the town with Dahlia visiting
both schools located in good looking buildings, and end up in the
courtyard of her home to enjoy fresh oranges and grapefruit picked from
her garden. I knew there would be weapons! Dahlia has a knife that she
uses to slice our fruit. I must not drop my guard. This is not the
Mexico I hear about on T.V.
The next day we head a few miles south to Aconchi to visit the hot
springs nearby. It is Saturday, and we anticipate spotting illegal
activity as we drive down a remote semi-dry river bed through /vaqueros/
(cowboys?, or cleverly disguised drug family guards?) herding cattle. We
arrive at the hot springs and I soon spot unusual activity. Three
generations are working _together _to set up tents for the weekend
campout. Grandparents, parents and teenagers working as a team to set up
their camp. Very suspicious! There is beer, food, music and hot tubs
filled with the locals, and most unusual, there is a couple from
Colorado camped right in the middle of them. Don’t these people know
they are in Mexico?
After enjoying the hot springs, we return north to Huepac. We stop at a
local shop to buy some “/chicos/”, the dried, baked white corn that made
such a delicious soup at the La Posada yesterday. We are going to take
some home with us. Here on the town square, I spot organized “gang”
activity. Dozens of people are answering the five o’clock bell and going
to Mass. Saturday night also finds the local teenagers hanging out.
Groups of girls in makeup and boys in their best jeans, sauntering
around the square trying to catch the eye of the opposite sex. A scene
that plays out every Saturday night most places in the world.
On the road back in Banámichi, we finally spot “cartel” operations.
These dealers are so brazen here that they use loudspeakers on their
trucks. I knew the weekend would bring them out at last! There are no
large stores, only small neighborhood shops and these “dealers” bring
merchandise of all descriptions from the larger cities. You can buy
corn, potatoes, fruit, charcoal and household goods right in the streets
in broad daylight! Most picturesque are the trucks loaded with brooms
mops and plastic buckets of every description. We decline to get caught
up in this illicit trafficking and return to another gourmet meal at the
La Posada. We will bring many fine recipes home with us.
Sunday we are going undercover and get inside an illegal trade at last.
Too bad there is no cell phone service. Our “connection” is covertly
disguised as a local cowboy driving a pick up truck. He is tall, rugged,
and looks like the Marlboro Man. He is very nervous, this is the first
time he has led a group of tourists on an undercover mission. We
disguise our activity by making stops at several “cartel operations”
hidden on small farms. Here we witness the local trafficking in homemade
cheese, chile powders and /posole/, a corn flour that looks like powered
cocaine. Certain that we have not been tailed by the local authorities,
we abandon our vehicles and stealthily approach the targeted
“underground operation”. These operators have booby trapped the local
area with cow pies, certain to ward off the unwary. Smoke wafts through
the dense mesquite trees. We spot three desperadoes manning two stills
made from 55 gallon drums. We have found a /bacanora/ plant making the
local liquor from agave. Not tequila, but the traditional drink of the
region. We find that the government has now made this backyard brew
legal. Just like Mexico to make bootlegging legal. Back in town we stop
at an unmarked door. Marshall enters and makes a buy. He returns with an
unlabeled quart coke bottle of the evil brew. We have a taste. Not bad.
Just to make sure the authorities remain off balance, our cowboy guide
leads us to San Felipe de Jesus and a modern park. Here, his entire
family has assembled for a Sunday cookout. We are the guests of honor.
The charcoal grills are going strong and his wife is making large thin
tortillas on a convex metal plate over the charcoal. My wife tries her
hand at making these thin tortillas. The plate is hot and she is not
adept. Her efforts look like lace doilies with lots of holes in them. We
all have a good laugh at her disastrous results. The young kids in the
family play ball in the park. The rest of us enjoy cold drinks and
authentic beans, carne and sauces. We practice our Spanish and younger
family members practice their English. The scene is most enjoyable and
we hate to leave.
I have figured out that hostage ransom money will not be necessary here.
Carole asks too many questions of our hosts in fractured Spanish. I am
sure if we were kidnapped, after about two days, our captors would pay
me to take her back to the States.
Sadly, on Monday, we must return to the U.S. We have had a great time,
and had some memorable experiences. We have been the real “Bandits of
Banámichi”. We have stolen three days of the idyllic way of life still
found in these Sonoran villages. Our local hosts have been most gracious
and accommodating. We shared the ordinary lives of small town people
trying raise their families as Christians and to make a living off of
the river and the land. The families have deep roots, having lived in
the region for several generations and evident pride in their
communities. Best of all, they have treated us like newly found friends,
not tourists. Our guide Marshall has been most informative. It has been
great to have no cell phone service, T.V. or newspapers. Such peace and
quiet, nothing like the scary headlines about border towns. Now if they
would just get rid of that damn rooster, we might risk coming back again.
