|
Last Updated
|
Road-Trip to Real de Catorce
by Andrea Abel
Real
de Catorce is one of the gems of Mexico. |
|
|
Have you ever felt like you stepped back in time? One day, you find yourself
in the middle of a dream-like slice of the past, part Gabriel
García Marquéz novel and part 19th century Southern
Europe?
That's what happened to my family on a five-day road trip from
Austin,
Texas to the small, colonial, mountain town of Real
de Catorce high in the Sierra de Catorce in the central
Mexican state of San
Luis Potosí. The town with a current population of
about 1,000 people had been on our list of "must-sees"
for over ten years. We hoped that the ensuing decade had not
brought with it the Americanization that much of Mexico has
experienced since NAFTA with the onslaught of Wal-Mart, KFC
and Pizza Hut. Disappointed we were not. |
REAL HISTORY
Though probably an Aztec settlement long before, the Spaniards
founded "Real" around 1638. In about 1772 the silver
mines were discovered, and by the mid-19th century the town
Real de Catorce had become an important silver-mining town with
a population upwards of 40,000 people. The town's stone
architecture reflects its Iberian roots with renovated buildings
interspersed with crumbling facades held up by boards.
A curious mix of people is attracted to Real. Catholic pilgrims
descend by the tens of thousands each October to honor St. Francis
of Assisi in the local church, La Parroquia. On hundreds of
hand-painted retablos in a wing of the church, the devout claim
that St. Francis performed miracles and saved them from certain
death. Atop nearby Monte Sagrado is a sacred Huichol Indian
offering site. Each June the Huichol Indians journey from the
area bordered by Zacatecas, Jalisco, Durango and Naryarit to
pay homage to their gods of peyote and maize. After harvesting
the peyote buttons from the nearby desert floor, they ascend
the mountain, consume the peyote for ceremonial purposes and
thank their gods.
The town also has become the home for a handful of Europeans,
including Italians, Swiss and Germans, who along with the locals
have restored and run restaurants, inns and a beautiful art
gallery. Building on the town's indigenous and colonial
roots, the town feels as if it has been lost in time. Real de
Catorce attracts low-key visitors, like us, hoping to explore
the mountains, relax and wander the town's quiet, cobble-stoned
streets. The climate is temperate with little variation year-round:
chilly nights and mild days. And, much to our delight, the food
is fabulous! |
GOING BACK IN TIME
The only way to get to the town (other than on horseback or
donkey) is via a breathtaking 30-kilometer drive on a cobblestone
road ascending from the desert floor up precipitous switchbacks
to about 2,756 meters. No guard rails, of course. This is not
a road that you want to negotiate at night! Nor is it one you
want to do at high speed or with loose dental work. |
|
After the climb, there is a 2-kilometer drive through the narrow, dimly lit,
one hundred year old Ogarrio tunnel only wide enough to accommodate
one-way traffic. Men are stationed at either end of the tunnel
and use an ancient-looking two-way radio to signal when the
coast is clear. The tunnel was an engineering feat for Mexico,
giving an idea of Real de Catorce's prominence in the late nineteenth
century, as it was the first in the country to be excavated
using dynamite and compressed air diamond point drills.
After a short wait, it is our turn to negotiate the tunnel.
We can see old mining tunnels that go off in different directions,
and mid-way through the tunnel is a dusty shrine to the Virgen
de Guadalupe. We can't help but feel transformed blinking
in the waning sunlight as we enter the steep town with narrow
cobblestone streets encircled by blue, green and tan mountains.
NOBODY TOLD US ABOUT THE MARKET!
Now, to find our hotel. According to our guidebook, we take
the street directly in front of us as we exit the tunnel. The
other streets do not appear to be navigable in our Honda station
wagon. Suddenly, we find ourselves driving on an impossibly
narrow street barely wide enough for our car and lined with
market stalls!! We pull in our side mirrors.
Vendors pick up their stools and move aside, though nobody seems
particularly perturbed. We're grateful that it is late afternoon
and the market is winding down. Inching forward, we make our
way until we encounter a pick-up truck parked ahead of us. Possibly
sensing that navigating narrow cobblestone streets lined with
market stalls and stone walls is not our forté, the driver
of the truck eventually gets behind the wheel and backs up. |
LAY OF THE LAND
We easily find our hotel, park on the street and go in. El
Mesón de la Abundancia is in a 19th century bank building.
The stone walls easily are 18 inches thick. The floors are Saltillo
tile, and the hotel is decorated with mining artifacts and colonial-style
furnishings. The staff is friendly and helpful, patiently answering
our questions. Our room is enormous and shares an equally large
stone veranda with the neighboring room.
Once settled, we venture out into the crisp dusk air to walk
the few cobblestone blocks that make up the "downtown".
As we leave the hotel, a man named Emilio approaches us, saying
the hotel told him that we are interested in having a guided
horseback tour of the abandoned Spanish silver mines. We converse
in Spanish. I ask his rates and tell him we will let him know.
He says there is no rush, and he will be around until later
that evening. Still not realizing how small the town is, I wonder
how we will find each other!
As it turns out, the horseback thing is big in Real. Walking
the streets, we pause numerous times as horse hooves clatter
alongside us with various vaqueros asking if we would like to
see the ruins on horseback. Nobody is pushy or tries to make
a hard sell. The prices vary slightly, and I'm sure any
of these guides would have been fine.
In fact throughout Real we saw more horses and donkeys than
cars, just adding to the rustic quality. The small size of the
town, the precipitously steep streets, and the fact that the
nearest gas station is more than 40 kilometers away must make
it less appealing to own a car here!
CABUCHES
Still early to eat dinner by Mexican standards, after a long
day in the car we know our window of opportunity for an enjoyable
dinner is upon us with our 6 and 8 year old daughters. We traverse
the main square, Plaza Hidalgo, with its wrought iron band stand,
benches and borders, overgrown plants, and the usual stray dogs
– all in various states of aging. On the other side we
come upon the brightly lit restaurant "El Cactus".
I read about this restaurant in our guide book when we were
planning our trip and was intrigued by the description of authentic
Italian food made by the owner couple: he Italian and she Mexican.
The tiny restaurant is warm and inviting with maybe 5 or 6 blond
wooden tables, some with benches and some with chairs, brightly
colored woven straw placemats and shelves filled with jars of
jam, honey, herbs and marinated cactus. As we soon learn, the
restaurant is not named after the traditional Mexican nopal
or prickly pear cactus that is de-spined, cut in strips and
sautéed or marinated. Instead, Real de Catorce's
cactus is a regional delicacy of the flower bud of the biznaga
de espina roja or red-spine barrel cactus. Carefully harvested
by hand in the spring from the surrounding hills, the restaurant
owners pickle the flower buds, called cabuches, and sell them
in jars. Hence the Italian restaurant with the name The Cactus!
A woman comes in from the kitchen, gives us menus and leaves
us to make our selections. I later find out that she is one
of the owners of El Cactus. The menu asks us for patience as
the food is all prepared fresh
and takes some time. No hay problema.
My husband, John, usually leaves the ordering to me. I ask for
an appetizer of the intriguing sounding cabuches served with
French bread, a carafe of the house red wine, pasta al horno,
baked eggplant in a tomato sauce, and, ah, for the kids, a simple
pizza margarita and plain pasta with parmesan cheese. Did I
mention that the prices seemed ridiculously reasonable?
The cabuches are served on a large plate with a sprinkling of
olive oil, balsamic vinegar and crushed dried oregano. The round
plate is rimmed with semi-circles of the reddest roma tomatoes
I have ever seen. The presentation is gorgeous, resembling a
huge flower in full bloom.
Leaving the accompanying bread for the kids, John and I conquer
the cabuches! Each one is about the size of a raspberry and
has a taste and texture vaguely reminiscent of an artichoke
heart (another edible flower bud, after all) and the appearance
of a round asparagus tip. We intersperse bites of the cabuches
with the fabulous roma tomatoes. The dressing perfectly complements
the flavors rather than overpowering them. Our older daughter,
Anna, tries a few and claims they are delicious.
The wine is served European-style in a small glass pitcher with
short drinking glasses. We sip the wine while savoring the taste
of the cabuches and anticipate the next course.
Anna's pizza margarita is simple and well-prepared with
slices of those roma tomatoes and mozzarella. Syd's pasta
dish is al dente, homemade fettuccini tossed with butter and
sprinkled with freshly grated Parmesan
cheese.
Our pasta dishes must have come straight from the oven as they
are too hot to eat. They turn out to be so delectable, though,
that John and I risk burnt tongues in order to share bites of
each dish. The pasta al horno consists of toothsome manicotti
tubes with peas and fresh mushrooms baked in a light swath of
a béchamel-type sauce. The real stand-out, though, is
the eggplant. In a small gratin dish, tender slices of eggplant
are layered with the most flavorful fresh tomato sauce I have
ever tasted and topped with melted mozzarella cheese. The sauce
has such a bright, fresh taste that it bursts in my mouth with
each bite.
This is one meal where we are not going to leave ONE BITE on
any of the plates. We are full, but not stuffed. The portions
are reasonable and do not resemble the Size mentality now so
common in U.S. restaurants. We thank our host, pay the bill
and leave to take a final stroll through the main square in
the brisk mountain air.
As we walk around the tiny downtown, the crisp quiet is punctuated
with the sound of horse hooves on the cobblestones as a few
more men ask if we are interested in horseback tours. A gaggle
of small boys plays foosball outside a small tiendita. On the
opposite side of the square from El Cactus, a man at a small
curbside stand is making churros, fried stick-shaped doughnuts.
We but a plateful for dessert and try them with the suggested
accompaniments of sweet evaporated milk drizzled over the top
and a mound of cajeta (carmelized goat's milk) for dipping.
We lick our fingers and lips as we demolish the whole sticky,
greasy, delicious confection.
And then, we see Emilio patiently waiting on the corner. We
arrange to meet at 10 a.m. the next morning for our horseback
trip to the silver mining ruins. Back at the hotel, we snuggle
under the warm, woven, wool blankets and quickly fall into deep
sleep. |
CHILAQUILES
Before the sun comes up the next morning, I lay
in my warm bed under the weight of the blankets roused by the
occasional sounds of roosters crowing, donkeys braying and horse
hooves clattering on the cobblestones. |
|
In between – pure silence. No rattle of
the heater (there is no heat or air conditioning, nor did we
need it even though it was late November), hum of the clock
radio, cars whizzing by, or crash of the dumpster banging against
a garbage truck. Just pure silence.
Our daughters – Anna and Syd – wake up with the
sun. Soon all four of us are making our way through the stuccoed
and tiled hall of our hotel to the cozy front dining room for
breakfast. Though I never asked, I'm fairly sure that going
through my husband's head at that moment is a mantra of, "Chilaquiles.
Chilaquiles. Chilaquiles."
We are the first ones in the hotel restaurant for breakfast
and are unsure if this means a) people sleep late, b) they eat
somewhere else or c) we are the only visitors. All proves to
be unimportant as a woman comes out of the kitchen to give us
menus and take our breakfast order. I order "Un café,
por favor" to which she asks, "¿Café
de olla?" An imaginary symphony with a full chorus begins
to play in my head; a broad smile stretches out on my face.
"Claro que sí," I reply. I can tell already,
this is going to be a good breakfast.
While we peruse the menu, my café de olla –traditional
spiced Mexican coffee -- comes in a rustic, ceramic cup and
saucer. The steam is fragrant with cinnamon, and sitting on
the saucer are chunks of piloncillo, Mexican raw sugar, to be
dropped into the coffee to my taste. The piloncillo fascinates
my children who keep offering to put more in my coffee for me.
Along also come a gargantuan glass of fresh-squeezed orange
juice for Anna and an equally large, tall, creamy glass of milk
for Syd. To me, café de olla symbolizes relaxation, something
to be sipped and savored, the end (or in this case the beginning)
of a meal to remember. Anna orders toast. Sydney asks for hot
cakes. I order huevos con chile pasilla. And, John gets his
wish of chilaquiles.
As we wait, we can peer into the open door of the kitchen and
see steaming pots and sizzling fry pans on a huge gas range.
I can hear the sound of chopping as the cooks prepare for the
day's meals. The dining room has thick rustic stone walls and
a stone floor. Wrought iron light fixtures hang from the tall
ceiling. On the walls are various artifacts from Real's colonial
mining days and a luminous, blue, abstract oil painting done
by the German ex-pat who owns the local art gallery. There are
five or so rustic wooden tables with colored cloth coverings
surrounded by straight-backed wooden chairs which scrape against
the rough floor when we move. The décor is traditional
with just a hint of chic.
Soon our attention is drawn out the two front windows of the
restaurant to the growing activity on the street. On the stone
sidewalk opposite the hotel is a mining cart filled with chunks
of rock from the abandoned
silver mines. Obviously not still in use, the cart is a decorative
and authentic reminder of Real's history. An Indian woman and
two diminutive girls, all dressed in brightly colored scarves
and skirts walk toward the market. Men in straw cowboy hats,
some with donkeys, pass by carrying armloads of fresh greens,
bunches of onions, or buckets of calla lilies.
The woman enters from the kitchen carrying a tray with enough
food for at least ten people. Syd has a stack of the fluffiest
hotcakes she has ever seen, served with a choice of honey or
syrup. For Anna, there is an ample serving of toast. This is
not your ordinary toast, but thick slices of lightly golden
homemade bread with a tender crumb and crust and a faintly sweet
taste – almost like a brioche. Served alongside the bread
is a dish of butter and another dish filled with a glistening,
deep orange-colored preserve with a sweet, heady taste reminiscent
of glazed apricots. We later find out that they make the jam
at El Mesón from a tiny, locally grown fruit similar
to a peach called a chabacano.
My eggs are scrambled with richly piquant strips of fried chile
pasilla and are accompanied by beans – creamy enough to
cool my palate. Now, good beans are an art which I have yet
to master. Seemingly easy to prepare, the simple ingredients
reach new levels with attention to detail. The beans need to
be tender, but not mushy – flavorful, but not overly salty.
I've been told by a Guatemalan friend that
there are two important variables involved in preparing beans:
the moisture level of the beans, and the point at which the
salt is added to the pot. The former determines the length of
time required to cook the beans. The insides should be tender
with most of the beans remaining whole giving the creamy center
just enough skin structure to hold it together. If they are
cooked too long, they explode leaving a mound of mush. The latter
must be at the exact moment. If done too soon, the skins become
tough and seize up, leaving the insides mealy. The beans on
my plate this morning are perfection from the inside out: soft
insides, tender skins, nearly every bean whole, and the cooking
liquid rich and flavorful.
But the chilaquiles are the crowning glory. If you've never
had the real thing, you are missing out on authentic Mexican
breakfast food. It never ceases to amaze me the ways that Mexicans
can transform the holy trinity of corn, chile and cheese into
so many different, delectable dishes. Strips of corn tortillas
are fried in vegetable oil and then doused with a fresh tomato
sauce redolent with chiles and onions.
(Green chilaquiles are made with a tomatillo sauce.) Crema,
similar to crème fraiche, is drizzled over the top with
the grande finale of shredded queso fresco. The result is a
mixture of tastes and textures: crispy and chewy almost nutty-flavored
tortillas soaking in a robust sauce surrounded by the cool creaminess
of the cheeses with just a bit of saltiness. A multi-media experience
in every bite. The chilaquiles are accompanied by thin slices
of ripe, red roma tomatoes and the same perfect beans.
LETTING GO: TRUST THE HORSE
Fortified, we are ready for our day of horseback
riding to Pueblo Fantasma (Ghost Town) – or a long nap!
There is Emilio patiently waiting for us on the corner with
four feisty looking horses. I thought the sight of the lively
equine might be a deal-breaker for our girls. In retrospect,
if they knew what the trail was going to look like, I am certain
they would have backed down.
But, we somehow mount our horses and are off winding our way
up the steep streets to the outskirts of town, Emilio's
dog following after us. Emilio shares a horse with Syd, perching
on the back of the saddle holding the reins while she holds
on to the saddle horn.
The horses are not exactly tranquilo! I suddenly find myself
translating Emilio's instructions to all of us on how
to control the horses as we meet up with the mining trail. At
first, the path is cobblestones, bordered by tall stone walls.
As the horses climb higher, however, we find ourselves on a
rocky path with a precipitous drop-off on one side. Making matters
more interesting, Anna's horse, my horse, and John's
horse all seem to be trying to establish a pecking order. This
manifests itself in an equine game of chicken along the edge
of the path to see who can maintain the coveted lead.
To Anna's immense credit, she sticks with it. We all hold
on for dear life. Despite the apparent, imminent danger, we
are laughing and enjoying the adventure. Syd is having a ball
since Emilio's horse knows who is boss. Somehow through
all the bumpiness, John manages to snap pictures of the incredible
views. The air is cool, the sky an intense blue.
Along the sides of the trail grow agave-looking cacti, some
with a stalk shooting straight out looking like a giant asparagus
spear. After nearly an hour, we reach the remains of the mining
operation. We dismount to explore as Emilio gives us a brief
history. The main attraction looks like an enormous well. Emilio
asks us to make sure the girls stay back. He picks up a rock
and drops it down. The rock knocks against the stone sides as
it drops, and after what seems like a very long time, plunks
into water. This, Emilio explains, was the main shaft of the
silver mine flooded in retaliation to Spanish rule some time
during Mexico's war of independence.
We mount our horses and Emilio takes us to another site, the
remains of the town. As the horses rest, we wander around imagining
19th century mining life. Emilio offers to take us to see more,
but we don't want to push the limit with the kids. Did
I mention that we did not see another soul on the entire ride?
The ride back is equally "entertaining" with three
of the four horses continuing their game of chicken. Only this
time, the descent allows them to go faster and at a downward
angle. We make it back safely with a good story to tell about
horses that play chicken! We thank Emilio, telling him we'll
let him know later that day if we want to explore more tomorrow.
BEYOND THE MARKET
The kids' reward for our exhilarating adventure
is a trip to the market to shop for trinkets. Feeling peckish,
John and I scope out places to eat. Strategically located within
easy view of lots of trinket stalls, I see a few card tables
set up and step inside to check it out. Inside the spotless,
dimly lit room, two women are making gorditas and listening
to a TV broadcasting a nearly indecipherable telenovela (soap
opera).
Patiently, I wait my turn to order and marvel at the tiny operation.
First, the handmade corn tortillas are rolled out and cooked
in a skillet. Then, they are filled, sealed, and placed back
in the skillet.
Each made to order! I ask for a selection of gorditas and sodas,
then return to the card table outside. Soon we are biting into
chewy, flavorful, half-moon shaped gorditas filled with white
cheese and poblano chile strips, savory sautéed nopalitos
and onions and refried beans and cheese. The adults spoon on
a spicy fresh salsa that comes on the side. This isn't
nearly enough food, so we order some more. The total bill can
not have been more than $5 or $6!
The rest of the afternoon is spent wandering the town, visiting
the Parroquia and a small silver workshop, where we get a personalized
tour, and then watching a peaceful group of protesters prepare
for a demonstration denouncing the local government.
We take a late afternoon walk to the Iglesia de Guadalupe and
cemetery on the outskirts of town. The sun creates warm, long
shadows as we pass donkeys tied along the road, roosters and
hens scratching in the dirt, and men on horseback. The gates
to the church grounds are locked, but we get an amazing view
of the valley in the waning daylight.
In the distance we hear bells and goats bleating. Finally, we
see the source of the noise as an elderly man herds his flock
along a path and up the sparsely vegetated mountain. Two kid
goats are roped by their feet on his back. Not knowing if they
are tonight's cabrito or if they are too small to make
the journey, we try to answer the girls' persistent questions
about their predicament.
The sun is nearly down as we head back into town. We hear distant
drumming and follow the sounds. Up a steep narrow street and
around a corner are a group of school-aged children marching
to the drum preparing for a parade. Such is our first full day.
|
WALKING ON SACRED GROUND
The rest of our trip blissfully follows this same pattern.
Somehow, we manage to convince the girls to take another horseback
trip the next day. This time, Emilio's brother, Zacarias,
is our guide to Monte Sagrado, the sacred Huichol offering site
atop Quemado mountain. From our hotel, Zacarias leads us on
foot down the hill and across a bridge on the opposite side
of town from yesterday's journey. We get our tender bottoms
on the horses and head toward a valley. The road takes us past
small stone, brick and cinderblock houses surrounded by small
terraced gardens filled with corn, nopal cactus, pigs rooting
around, chickens, goats and donkeys.
As we wind through the narrow valley, Zacarias points out a
little spring-fed stream containing the town's water supply
and the remains of small houses built into the cliffs –
remnants of the once bustling mining town. The air is chilly
and a brisk wind nips at us. The trail takes us through Ejido
Catorce with its small patches of corn and stick and barbed
wire fences. This time, we ride over rolling hills until we
begin our ascent to Monte Sagrado. Once again, we do not pass
another soul on the trail!
After about an hour or riding, we see a sign saying that we
are entering the Wirikuta, the sacred ground of the Huichol
Indians and a protected state natural area. Soon afterwards,
we dismount our horses and approach a small stone hut. From
out of the hut – the park headquarters – comes a
diminutive Huichol Indian named Dimas. He collects a small fee
allowing us to walk the last part of the trail to the summit.
Later, I ask Zacarias how Dimas gets to the park each day. Zacarias
says he walks from town – at least an hour for us on horseback.
I marvel at Dimas' strength, noting that not only does
he make the lengthy, rocky hike twice daily, but that he wore
nothing but thin leather sandals on his feet, even in the brisk
air.
On the ascent, we stop frequently to catch our breath in the
thin mountain air and to enjoy the views. We stop at the ceremonial
ring as Zacarias explains the Huichol peyote and maize traditions
to us. Then, we begin the final ascent to the summit. Syd is
beginning to tire, and Zacarias offers to carry her on his back
the rest of the way up! On the peak is the offering hut where
the Huichol deposit an array of colorful objects to their gods.
The panoramic view from the peak is stunning. Zacarias points
out landmarks in the distance, including the surrounding desert
floor from where the Huicholes gather their peyote. We share
a snack, hike back down and return to the horses.
The ride back to town included numerous games of chicken among
the three horses. But, we all survive and are mostly quiet each
deep in our own thoughts. The tired horses noisily slurp water
at the town trough as we return from our three hour trip. We
paid and thanked Zacarias and slowly walked back to the hotel.
Much like the day before, we spend the afternoon exploring
more of the town. We could not pass up more gorditas from the
market! The mountain air must be enhancing our appetites, because
not long after that we find ourselves sipping tea and eating
fabulous freshly baked fruit tarts at La Esquina Chata (the
Flat Corner). The cozy café overlooking Plaza Hidalgo
has a menu of soups, salads and quiche along with pastries,
coffee, tea and fresh juices. Everything appears to be made
in-house. We have no problem downing the chocolate pear tart.
That evening, the girls lie under the warm blankets reading
in bed. John and I sit in the crisp, still darkness on the stone
veranda outside our room and revel in the slice of relaxation
about to come to an end. As if on cue, we begin to hear voices
singing in the distance. The voices get louder, and we see a
small parade of women carrying candles and lanterns singing
what sounds like hymns. Their voices trail off in the distance.
|
AUTHOR
Andrea Abel is a food and travel writer based in Austin,
Texas. For over a decade, Andrea worked on U.S.-Mexico border
issues including trade & environment, sustainable infrastructure
development, habitat conservation and farmworker protection.
She can be reached via email |
VISITING?
LOCATION -- Real de Catorce is located 220 kilometers
northwest of San Luis Potosi City |
 |
| TRANSPORATION
-- There is regular bus service to Matehuala. If you are driving,
take Highway 62 east from the turn-off on Highway 57. There's
a turn-off to an unnumbered highway that leads to Real. This
stretch of road is constructed with cobble-stone. |
| TIP -- Most of the
establishments do not take credit cards. The nearest ATM machine
is in Cedral about 40 kilometers away, so come prepared with
cash. |
SEMINARS
Learning never ends. See if one of our seminars
is right for you. |
|
|
|
|
