Mexican copper showings, mexican buses and mexican blondes

In 1975 I was cruising around the State of Guerrero, Mexico looking at showings and my travels took me through Chilpancingo, the capital of that state. I looked up a man whose first name was Francisco (Frank), a 71-year-old mining engineer who had been recommended highly. He spoke English fluently. It turned out that Frank had retired. He could recommend a copper property way back in the hills west of Cuidad Altamirano (Altamirano City). He also had a friend working another property there. Since I had a showing to look at in the same area, I decided to proceed there, with Frank.

We arrived at Altamirano in the late afternoon and after supper, Frank suggested we hire a fellow who owned a truck, and go part of the way, to Zirandaro, that night. This we did and we slept on the veranda of a house owned by a friend of Frank’s who was away. The truck driver slept in his vehicle. The town was very quiet and everyone seemed to have retired for the night.

We were awakened at 5 a.m. by ear-splitting martial music and an exhortation that we go to Mass. The music was continuous and the exhortation about every 10 minutes. The local priest had set up loudspeakers all over town, which explained why the town was asleep the night before; the residents were trying to get a night’s sleep before this zealot woke them up.

After purchasing a few supplies we left heading west over a dreadful “road” which allowed us to travel only a few miles per hour. In the middle of the afternoon we arrived at our destination, a few shacks on the south side of the Balsas River, which we had been paralleling all day.

I asked Frank how long it would take to look at all his showings and he thought about two days. The next question was whether we should keep the truck or was there another way out? Frank questioned the locals and the story was that if we crossed the Balsas there was another east-west road 1 miles north and a bus passed this location headed east at 5 o’clock every morning. I noticed some dissent among some of the villagers and pointed this out to Frank who questioned them exhaustively and finally concluded that there was a bus at 5 a.m. (but there was still dissent).

We decided to let the truck go (a big mistake). I then suggested to Frank that we commence looking at some of the showings, which we did, and 2 hours later I had seen all of them and had turned the property down. I was now sorry that I had released the truck, but no matter, with luck we might be out by lunchtime the next day.

My alarm went off at 4 a.m. The Balsas River at this point was about 300 ft wide and I crossed first in a boat with the owner. It leaked like a sieve and I was baling all the way. The boat headed back for Frank while I high-tailed it north to stop and hold the bus. After 1 miles I hit a trail but no bus had ever passed here before. There was a shack a short distance to the west and the farmer had seen me. He said there was a bus a “long way” east. When pressed he thought five or six hours and he confirmed that the bus left early in the morning. When Frank arrived he decided to have breakfast at the “farm.” Mexican subsistence farmers have a few chickens and pigs and maybe one cow and one mule and they pretty well live on corn, vegetables and eggs. It is not much of a life.

I started off easterly at a fast pace and after about two miles ran into two men headed in the opposite direction. They confirmed what the farmer has said and pointed out a mountain off in the distance. When I passed that there was a river and beyond that the village from where the bus departed early each morning.

Late in the morning I hit a river, which was in flood. Someone had driven stakes into the river bed and there was a rope secured to each of the stakes. I transferred everything in my pockets to my packsack, held it above my head and clutching the rope with my other hand, made my way across. The water did not even reach up to my arm-pits. On the other side I tipped the water out of my boots and walked up to the village which had in it one half-baked general store. Here it was confirmed that the bus arrived at about 5 p.m. and left the next morning at 5 a.m., but it did not go to Zirandaro but went east to a fork some 10 miles north of Zirandaro, from which point it headed north to Huetamo. No doubt we could hitch a ride from the fork. I asked about a truck in town and heard that there was one but it had left and would not be back until the next day. I drowned my problems in cold coke and cold beer, both of which are extremely cheap in the Mexican countryside and are essential in this hot climate.

Frank arrived in mid-afternoon having ridden the 20 miles on the farmer’s one and only mule. I paid the farmer the requisite number of pesos and he left. I then had a brainwave. There was a small power dam on the river at this point and I had recalled a village on the way in the previous day, which I calculated was about due south of here. When this was confirmed we commissioned a boy on a bike, who also had the use of a boat, to go and see whether the truck I had seen there the day before was still there. It wasn’t.

Around 5 p.m. the bus arrived. There was a driver and a conductor. It was a typical third class Mexican bus catering mainly to small farmers who carry chickens, pigs and produce to market on the bus. It had a ladder up the back to the luggage area on top of the bus. Fares are extremely low on these buses and you could travel all over Mexico for a few dollars if one did not mind having a chicken on his lap occasionally.

Latins are reputed to be the world’s greatest lovers. Liquor greases the operation along. I therefore bought the bus people a beer and asked them if they had ever been to Zirandaro. They had not, so I began extolling the beauty of the women there. All I had seen were a few old crones going to church the previous morning; although there was no doubt that a town of that size would have a fair number of attractive women. I then bought them another beer and suggested they could perhaps drive us to Zirandaro that evening for $20(US). They could not and would be fired for taking the bus off the regular route. I replied that they would get a commendation for the extra fares (but logic told me that the bus company would never see the money). Then, with tongue in cheek, I remarked that I had seen three lovely natural blondes in Zirandaro. Blondes are as scarce as hens teeth outside Mexico City. I saw the driver licking his lips and they had another discussion, at the end of which the conductor said “Gringo, $40.” I said that was too much and bought another beer. I was prepared to split the difference but after a few minutes there was another discussion and the conductor said “O.K. Gringo, let’s go.” We went out and got into the bus.

On the way to the Zirandaro turnoff, some 10 miles, the natives in the fields and on the roads were looking up at the bus in amazement at the sight of two men inside smoking cigars, one at least of whom was obviously a Gringo. When it took the Zirandaro turnoff, there was consternation since a bus had never taken this route before. Some of the men at the turnoff jumped for the ladder and climbed on top of the bus. There were several other sharp turns where the bus slowed down and more Mexicans climbed on board. By the time we hit the Balsas River bridge there were some 30 Mexicans hanging onto that bus. I remarked to Frank that with all these men wanting to get to Zirandaro maybe there were some blondes there after all.

We never did find out because Frank thought the driver might turn nasty if there were not and therefore we jumped the next bus back to Altamirano.003 Mr Pegg a frequent contributor to the column, is a Toronto mining geologist consultant.