A Trip to Talpa de Allende

This week finds your faithful blogger laid up with a really miserable flu bug and unable to think my way out of a wet paper bag. So I’ve decided this is the perfect time to start a story I’ve been saving. 

Once upon a time, some years ago, I took myself on a birthday adventure to Talpa de Allende, over the mountains from Puerto Vallarta.

Back then, I didn’t know anyone who’d been up there. This was 2005, before the new road was built. It was a long and sometimes risky drive east out of Puerto Vallarta past the turn-off to San Sebastián del Oeste, beyond to Mascota and then on to Talpa de Allende. The bus took six hours to go a distance that, as the crow flies, is under fifty miles.

I didn’t know anyone who lived there, either. But I’d heard about a couple of guys who owned a bed and breakfast that sounded very interesting, and I found out there was a flight a few days a week from Vallarta to Talpa.

So I decided to go.

Maybe I should’ve turned back when I saw the plane, which wasn't much larger than a good-sized tablecloth. Or when the “co-pilot”, a young man hitchhiking to Talpa, reached out the window and squirted water from his water bottle onto the windshield so the pilot could see through the dust to take off. I didn't, though.

And now we are in the air and it's too late to bail. I crane my neck to see the port of Vallarta behind me, the coast curving north, the sea beyond. We climb, in kiddie-roller-coaster fashion. Soon, we are in the mountains—not above them, as this plane doesn’t fly over the mountains as much as it flies between them. I am suspended inside the Sierra del Cuale, crumpled mountains cloaked in green and feathered with palms, threaded here and there with a brilliant waterfall.

In only a short time, the dense jungle thins. The terrain begins to change from peaks and furrows of vivid green to hills of golden brown. I see cultivated plots below me. The pilot had said twenty minutes for the flight, and I am imagining the possibility of landing soon when he turns in his seat and waves grandly toward an area just ahead that looks like a bowl of whipped cream. "Talpa!" he yells over the engine noise. "Can't land! Too much fog."

Now El Capitán turns again in his seat. “Mascota!” he says, pointing then giving me a thumbs up. A wide saucer of valley has opened before us. I can see a town gleaming in the morning sun. The plane drops lower and lower, apparently preparing to land. All I see dead ahead is a road with a few cars on it and a dirt track running beside it. Mascota International Airport, I assume. The little plane bumps and jostles to a stop on what turns out to be a grassy, agave-bearded landing strip.

My baggage and I are gently unloaded. The pilot gives me a bear hug and introduces me to Daniel, the taxi driver who has met the plane. Probably his cousin. Daniel insists I must have a photo of myself at the Mascota Airport, then shows me and the young co-pilot to the waiting cab.

On the steep and curvy drive between Mascota and Talpa de Allende, I learn that the young man I flew with is named Saiib, after his Arab grandfather. He begins to tell me his story. He is studying to be an airplane engineer in Puerto Vallarta. He is going to Talpa to visit his wife and three-month-old baby boy, who are living for a while with her parents there. Saiib tries to visit them once a month, but it is better for her to live here than in the city—less expensive, and her mother can help her with the baby, whose picture he shows me with a wide grin. He is very happy to have had the opportunity to hitch a ride on the plane, as he usually takes the bus, and will on his return to PV in two days. A six hour ride, he grimaces. Moments later, we pass a ramshackle bus at the side of the road. “That’s it,” he says, and we both laugh.

As we slip down the backside of yet another mountain, I see a beautiful domed structure beside the road just ahead. Both Saiib and Daniel make the sign of the cross as we pass it. It is the Mirador del Cristo Rey, the Viewpoint of Christ King. In unison, the men wave their hands like satisfied magicians: there below us is the valley of Talpa de Allende, fog just beginning to shred.

We descend and pass beneath an arch welcoming visitors to the home of Nuestra Señora del Rosario, the tiny Virgin who is the patron saint of Talpa de Allende...

...and who you will meet next week, along with the Chicle Mariachi Band...

...and some other fascinating residents of this engaging town high in the mountains of Jalisco.

Stay well, for goodness sake, and I'll see you next week.

                                        To be continued...

                                            ☤        ☤        ☤

Comments

[Jeanne]

Now I don't mind flying - and I've been on small planes before. But the inside of that plane would have sent me running! You're a brave woman Candice!!

Beautiful country - can't wait to read about your adventures there.

Take care of yourself and get well soon!

[Gretchen]

Our poor blogger...... may the saint-of- getting-better arrive at your bedside and cast a spell of healing. What a great post to find for us... I am in awe of anyone who would get on such a plane and soar forth. The end result is so spectacular, isn't it amazing what is beyond the Fonatures and AI's and Timeshares of Mexico! Thanks for letting us see one of those wonderful places. GET BETTER SOON Senora Candice!

[Beck]

Hope you're soon beyond the flu bug. What a post! We took the drive to San Sebastion in November and were amazed at the difference in scenery and culture between beach and mountains. Looks like we should have ventured even further up the road to Talpa de Allende!