Nobody Died Which Was A Major Goal

It's pitch dark at 3:30 in the morning on Holy Saturday in Guadelupe
Coranado, which sits pretty much at the bottom of the world deep
inside Mexico's Copper Canyons. There are throbbing drum sounds and
mucho shouting in both Raramuri(Tarahumara language) and Spanish
coming from just down the hill from where I'm buckled over and unable
to move because of the intense ball of firey nails that seem to be in
the pit of my gut.

Up till now our second shoot/visit to Mickey's adopted pueblo has had
no real problems. The trip down was long and draining but all in all
okay considering how far we came and how difficult the trip was last
year. Our crew is much bigger (7 peeps) this time and all are doing
well, focused and working hard. Our camera equipment is working
properly this time around unlike last year and we are burning through
lots of tape. Mickey seems more comfortable and stronger in both body
and soul this visit and he set us up with his friends Carmen and
Fernando on their family's sustainable farm right outside the village
which has made our stay muy comfortable. The food that our hostess
Carmen has been preparing for us is amazingly fresh and right out of
her garden and tastes excellent. On top of that we've even imbibed a few cold beers. Another difference from this year compared to
last is the people in Guadelupe seem excited and almost grateful that
we came back to finish the job. We heard from Mickey that they are
surprised that we find their existence and this Semena Santa (Holy
Week) festival interesting enough to travel 50 hours to capture it.
So taking all that good fortune into account it I only seems right
that the other shoe was bound to drop and right now that shoe is
dropping or more accurately being shot out of me like a missile and
sprayed all over the brush just off the side of the trail which leads
down into the center of town.

The seeds of my deterioration were planted 18 hours earlier when the
first tesguino gourd of the three-day marathon made its way over to
me. Tesguino is a very prevelant and important part of this half
Catholic, half Pagan Easter celebration. I had some tesguino in the
days leading up to the festival but during the transformation part of
the celemony where Mickey and his gringo friend D.Roc got
painted/transformed into Diablos, it became obvious that there was
going to be some binge tesguino drinking going on.

The taste and smell of tesguino is distinct, somebody said its like a
weisen beer from Germany. I personally think it tastes more like
a corn vomit shake with heavy pulp. Its made from pure corn and
pride. The Tarahumara Indians work hard at making tons of it for the
festival and then work harder making sure everyone is drunk off it
during the fest - especially pasty gringos with fancy cameras who have
phobias of sharing gourds with hundreds of others, drinking huge
mysterious chunks and watching specks of black ash just before they
slip down the hatch. During the long day of shooting the gourd kept
being thrust upon me and from what I gathered from our first visit
here is its more than rude if you refuse -- it could potentially be
dangerous. So out of respect and a lil fear I emptied it fast it each
time. Because it was such a busy day I never really had a chance to
eat anything but I think I got some nutrition or at least some energy
from this corn mash as well as a good buzz. Everything seemed okay
during the day but somewhere around 10pm I began feeling rumblings in
my abdomen. My worn out state was no match for the fireworks that
ensued and I don't think a whole box of Immodium AD would do shit
against this kind of shit onslaught.

There is something extra overt about being at the bottom of the
canyons. A feeling of anything goes is present all around. Everyone
is very raw and blunt and nobody seems to bat an eye about seeing or
doing the most wild things that would cause a big stir back in the
states. So my affliction, which played itself out all over Guadelupe
this most holy of Sabado morns, isn't really making a big splash or
even causing many double takes with the locals. In fact I'm at best
the 3rd or 4th craziest thing that was going on given that there was
just a huge wrestling match/brawl where some guy got his arm broken
badly and had to be shipped out. Mix in some sleep deprivation, throw on top a bunch of mischievous Diablos whose primary goal in this passion play is to be a collective pain in the
ass to everyone in attendance and then add in a whole town that has been drinking all day and night and my prob hardly registered.

After mustering enough strength I did finally make it down into the
middle of it all and got some footage in between emergency relapses,
but somewhere around 5:00am I instinctively rolled up in a ball and
fell asleep in a dirt pile under a tree near the Diablo hut. When I
woke up the first time a Federale' militant looking guy who was in the
town for festival security was standing above me with a rifle and
fatigues on. This was pretty disconcerting at the time but I had no
recourse since I couldn't move or string together any words. He
seemed concerned about my health and safty and kept asking me
questions in Spanish but I had no capacity to translate them or
attempt to answer him. There is something freeing about not knowing
how to speak fluent in the country you a guest in. For years I have
relied on the intelligence of others while traveling and this time the
only difference was that nobody who I knew was there to bail me out
since my wife and Mickey were off doing their own things. The next
time I woke up I found myself on the other side of town with the
camera rolling, apparently capturing a nice time lapse sunrise over
the church. I don't remember setting this shot up. Sarz arrived and
the first words I heard in English since everyone from the crew went
to sleep about six hours ago were "Is that shit on your face?" Not
something you hear everyday or ever really want to hear. I like to
think it was a Tarahumara prankster or one of the Diablos who came up
to me while I was passed out and drew under my eye with a grease
pencil like outfielders do in the major leagues for a sunny afternoon
ball game. I'm pretty sure that's a pipe dream though. Thankfully
Sarz takes over as I crawed back to Carmen and Fernando's yard to lay
on the ground without moving for 4 hours. When I woke my wonderful
betrothed helped me take a river shower and then she carried me down
to the village for the culmination of the the wild celebration
complete with bells clanging, fights with spears, more wrestling, the
burning of the Judas statue and then the washing off all the Diablo
paint and blood. Afterwards I crawled back to our base camp and laid
completely still for about 6 straight hours. I think it was a
combination of exhaustion and a tesguino overdose. The locals swear
the only two cures for my affliction are either drinking more tesgunio
or taking some powdery drink mix that nursing mothers use to stay
hydrated so they can produce grande amounts of breast milk. I opt for
the latter and after I choked down a few glasses I find I'm not all
that trembley anymore. Things rebounded a couple days later and I got
some of my strength back and the trip winded to a close on a very
positive note. I did have a few more nauseous bouts when I came in
contact with some hardcore partying Tarahumara peeps who were still
awake and passing around tesgunio days later. Just the smell of it
alone made me dry heave. In the end we got a whole bunch of good
material, made some new friends, I learned about my body's limits and
nobody from the crew died which were all major goals for this shoot.