Sunday, February 25, 2007 - 04:25 PM | 321 Reads

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When Martha told me she was returning to the village of the Bramador I immediately volunteered my truck and my time, for this was clearly going to be a high quality adventure. Not being real sure just what a Bramador was or did, added to my sense of participatory anxiety, which is requisite for any decent adventure. This impromptu trip would go from Mazatlan to San Ignacio for a late lunch and then on to the village of Tacuitapa, where we would spend the night out among the folks and experience the unique talents of the Bramador. I asked Martha about the accommodations and with a wave of her hand told me “The people in the village will take care of us. I’ll let them know we are coming.” In the face of her overwhelming confidence, I thought to myself “Well, this is certainly the easiest B&B I have ever booked.” Martha went on to elaborate about how this place is not on any tourist itinerary and that the people were ready to share some of their natural treasures. Well, so far this looked to be a trip as charmingly spontaneous and unpredictable as the woman herself.

When we left Mazatlan, the afternoon of February 15th, we were a caravan of 3 vehicles with, Martha, Juan Antonio, 8 gringos and The Wonder Dog heading into the lower reaches of the Sierra Madre. The general purpose of this outing was to test the viability of Eco-tourism in areas where Jaguars are being hunted because of livestock predation or “sport” shooting. If the village could profit from the preservation of the Jaguar, it would be a first step in slowing the pervasive process of habitat destruction. So…….the theory was that if the 10 of us survived the intense culture shock of, no menus, no hotels, no pavement, no toilet seats and best of all, no way out ‘till the next day, it just might work. Of course, the highlight of the endeavor would be watching the Bramador do his thing; call the Jaguar.



Lunch in San Ignacio helped tune everyone to the gradual emersion into the rural culture. With the help of Juan Antonio, the vice president of Conrehabit, the food choices were written out on a napkin and passed around. You simply placed a short vertical line next to your menu preference; something in the back of my mind lit up “Wow………..I’ll bet the Four Seasons could learn a thing or two from this place.” After chowing down on one of 5 choices, plus cervezas and limonada, and realizing the cost was only $50 pesos each, we left a tip that could have funded a small country. Maybe this voluntary redistribution of wealth could work, who knows, I’m not a socialist but Martha is, so I have to be careful here.



After leaving San Ignacio, we headed south toward San Juan and the local hot mineral springs, a short drive down a good dirt road. Time did not allow for a dip in the warm water, but the temptation was great, this being a brutally cold winter for the area. Our spirits were high as we turned off what could be considered the “main road” in San Juan and headed deeper into a small river valley toward Tacuitapa, our ultimate cultural encounter. It was on this stretch of road we got our first real shot of adrenalin when a high speed truck suddenly filled our view and closed very quickly. The driver managed to steer it on to the shoulder and slide it to a stop with at least several feet to spare. We soon realized that no one expected to meet much traffic on this particular road, especially a small troupe of gringos. After leaving San Ignacio, it was obvious that our presence became increasingly conspicuous with the passing of each dusty kilometer.



When we rolled into Tacuitapa, about an hour before sunset, we were greeted by a group of 10 to 12 men and boys dressed in their Sunday best, apparently awaiting our arrival. We were directed to the home of the Bramador and his family where the vehicles stopped and disgorged their passengers. As the 8 of us gringos milled about and met the locals, both Martha and Juan Antonio helped translate the many questions and corresponding answers than spilled forth from both sides of the language barrier. The minute that Snickers emerged from my truck, she was surrounded by a half a dozen village dogs and all available hackles were raised. The attending canines went through the body language requirements as well as can be expected and out of the group, Snickers found a frisky one that she immediately started playing with. The other dogs drifted into the background menagerie of chickens, horses and a few burros.



The talk drifted towards the Jaguars and the coming attempt that night to call one to within hearing distance. The plan was to head into the forest sometime past 9:00 and get 4 to 5 clicks out and let the Bramador do his thing. Don German, our Bramador, was a man of medium height, slight build and probably over 60 years old, it was hard to tell. His weathered face was open and friendly, his eyes warm and inquisitive and his cordial hospitality was genuine. After a little time and a few pulls from a plastic jug, he brought out what was obviously his most prized position, the tool of his trade. The device he employs to imitate the low roar of the Jaguar is a polished gourd a little less than a meter in length with a hole in each end, one large and one small. Up until now, this device was used primarily for the purpose of bagging a big spotted cat; this encounter could possibility change that. I will have to admit at this point, I did not know that our Bramador was swilling, what had to be, a very cheap grade of tequila from his plastic jug. He does get credit though, the plastic jug is a sign of true refinement in the art of consuming Mexico’s national booze, for when dropped on any hard surface it will not shatter and desecrate the cherished contents.



Our evening meal required only one of two choices, gratefully accept and enjoy what’s put before you, or go hungry. We ate what the people of Tacuitapa ate and truly enjoyed every item served, especially the blue corn tortillas and the gordita cakes. The blue corn paste was processed by hand in an ancient stone metate with a mano. The dough was then hand patted into a tortilla by Don German’s wife or pressed by his daughter in a small aluminum hand press. The carefully formed tortilla was then placed on the smoothly polished lid of a 55 gallon drum with a wood fire nestled in its well blackened innards. Why buy a $12,000 Wolf range when cooking the perfect tortilla can be accomplished with a little wood and an old steel drum, I was right at home. I have loved fresh, warm corn tortillas and have enjoyed a wide verity over the years, but these were the best tortillas I have ever experienced, really. The tortillas were indeed heavenly and what followed was outstanding, ­not something that would be found anywhere back in modern Mexico. My time spent visiting this country over the years has given me a deep admiration of the people that live the hard and lean life experienced by most of the truly rural communities. These people have very little, but what they do have, they are more than willing to share with trusted strangers.



Soon the question arose as to where we would sleep that night; in the dirt, on a floor somewhere, propped up in a corner? Even though every one was told to bring some type of bedding and sleeping pads, some folks would have had a tough time of it with out help from our new friends. Several of the male villagers huddled to find a sleeping solution for their guests and then announced their decision to the awaiting group. It was more action than announcement really; one of the men produced a leatherman and began cutting the barbed wire fence that separated the yard of the Bramador from the vacant place next door. I am sure if this was tried in suburban America, shots would have been fired, but not here where everyone is a member of an extended family. We were led into a 2 room building with a dirt floor in one room and concrete in the other. Since this space was not large enough for the whole crew, they came up with plan B; some homes had extra beds available. Half our group would pass a peaceful and comfortable night ensconced in village beds, only 2 of us ended up on the concrete floor.



With accommodations out of the way, we sat around the campfire and listened to Don German take a couple of practice runs on his gourd. I was expecting a deep cat like roar to emanate from the dried vegetable shell, however it sounded much more like a cough than a roar; a low guttural burst of air. After lubricating his throat with a long swig from his ever present plastic jug, our Bramador’s next rendition of the cat’s cough sounded much more primal, a timeless echo resounding across the ancient flanks of the Sierra Madre. He then told us that last November while in his yard, playing his finely crafted implement, a Jaguar answered from a hill side about 800 meters to the north. Then, with a wide smile, he handed the organic appliance to a small boy that had been lurking around the interaction of family and strange visitors from the very beginning. It became at once apparent that this joven was the Bramador in training; Don German’s pride was evident as he watched the boy deal with the cumbersome instrument.



It was 9:30 and time to take a ride out into the hinder lands in search of the elusive cat. Since I had the only large four wheel drive vehicle within miles, the Dodge would be the tour bus. Our group numbered 10 people and a dog, the number of locals required to guide this expedition was no less than 6, plus Bramador joven. Fortunately the truck has a lumber rack with a mesh floor in the section over the cab, which was quickly commandeered by 2 villagers with a 1,000,000 candle power search light. This was beginning to looking more like a redneck buck hunt than a stealthy insertion into Jaguar territory. Everyone else was standing in the bed, using the upper rails of the rack as necessary hand holds, armed only with a few cameras and the steely determination not to get pitched out of the truck. One look at the humanity packed into the confines of my truck, most with the nagging suspicion that the roads would be in a high state of disrepair and I knew the reek of adventure was soon to be heavy in the night air. I hear a slap on the back of the cab and let the clutch out, we are under way. As I start down the rutted track, I am acutely aware of the 2,500 pounds of people along for the ride. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had a dim recollection of the last adventure that involved Martha and my truck, at least this time I have a lot of help. Our first 3 kilometers were on a decent, flat road with a couple of water crossings, no problem, we’re cruising. After 30 minutes of driving through the bottom lands, contuinaly washing the landscape with a million candles, the decision was made to go for the mountain road; they thought the truck could probably make the climb.



We went back through the village and then took the road indicated by the slightly swacked Bramador, sharing the back seat with two ladies, a dog and the plastic jug. The road first plunged into an old stream bed and then followed the dry water course changing between faint road to ruts and rocks. Conditions deteriorated into four wheel drive and low range crawl as we started to gain altitude on this long abandon track. As the powerful light panned the huge trees towering on either side, hundreds of large bromeliads, some in bloom, could be seen clinging to outstretched branches of these old growth giants. The low hanging vines and occasional branches added a real organic element for those folks in the open air section of this escapade, which included Martha. Several times I thought about warning her about the potential of various types’ slithery reptiles falling from the low hanging canopy, but I figured if it actually happened, it would certainly be far more entertaining without the forewarning.



We passed through several crude barbwire gates and came to a place where the road (the term road here is very generous) became a narrow shelf with a drop on the passenger side and a vertical bank on the other. In the middle of this side hill traverse the ledge took a 60 degree turn to the right with a gapping, washed out hole really close to where my right rear tire would track the turn. Keeping this in mind, I made the turn as tight as I could and thought I was in the clear when the back end suddenly dropped. In that split second of uncertainty, the search light wobbled and a collective gasp arose from all passengers, including myself, and probably the dog. With a quick application of throttle, the truck popped back up on the ledge; we are all awake now and there would be no extra charge for the adrenalin. When we reached a point where I could no longer distinguish exactly where to aim our tour bus, I was given the signal to stop, I was told that from here on the road got bad. This is the place where the Bramador will play his instrument.



We all climbed out of the truck, some with weaker knees than others, but we were all taken by the complete stillness and stark clarity of the night sky and how dark it was without the search light on. Don German wandered a few meters up a hill side and prepared for his one act show, complete with gourd and the nearly empty plastic jug. He imitated the call of both the male and female Jaguar with an amazing amount of dignity and aplomb considering the amount of spirits he had consumed. I don’t think any of us actually expected a cat to answer after arriving in the area with all the subtly of a steam powered UFO; however we enjoyed the show until our Bramador declared his efforts to be unproductive. The way back down was not nearly as daunting as the drive up and because the angle of attack was better, the truck made it around the hole of death with 6 inches to spare.



After returning to the village, we all wandered off in the assorted directions of our predetermined sleeping places. That night we were serenaded for an hour and a half by a dozen village dogs attempting to drive 2 stray burros from Don German’s almost fenced yard. Shortly after the cacophony of dogs and burros died off in the distance, 10 or more roosters decided it was dawn, they were only 3 hours early. Breakfast in the morning was as delicious as the previous evening’s fare and was consumed with a heightened sense of gratitude for this simple village food. After breakfast we went on a short drive along the creek to look at the massive cedar trees that grew in profusion along the banks. Some of these trees were over a meter in diameter and about 25 meters tall, many with giant bromeliads in the branches. The numerous photographic opportunities were enjoyed by several in our small group.



After packing up, we thanked our indigenous hosts for their gracious hospitality and reluctantly headed back to modern Mexico. Our last shot of adrenalin came shortly after leaving the village when a small red truck, at a high rate of speed, came around a corner and straight at us. I quickly pulled far to the right and stopped, but the hurtling truck was still coming and had not slowed at all, as if we weren’t even there. At the last possible second, as we all prepared for impact, it veered around my stopped truck and blew by at about 40 mph. As this specter of dusty destruction streaked by, we saw the small form of an older woman, barely tall enough to be seen, behind the wheel wearing the dirtiest pair, of very dark sun glasses, I have ever seen. As the dust boiled and settled around us, the thought that this, obviously semi-blind, person actually piloting a vehicle, started us laughing so hard we had tears in our eyes. We realized that the dangers of poorly driven trucks out on the autopista paled in comparison to the crone in the dust covered shades. I believe I have come to the point of realization, that any of Martha’s adventures that can be experienced without bodily injury or property damage, are to be considered extremely successful. The time in the village and the night with the Bramador was indeed a high quality life experience.