La Sierra Mixe, part I

Four hours after leaving the city, Juan Carlos skittered his taxi to the side of the fog-shrouded road in the clouds. “They practice witchcraft in there,” he told us, raising his eyebrows toward a dark shade among the trees blanketed with air plants and lichen. Thick mist from the waterfall near the cave’s entrance clung to my shirt, my camera, and the giant ferns that beckoned me with feathery fingers. 

We stepped left into the near darkness of twin caves. Random patterns of holes showed where miners had drilled explosives into the rock. The witchcraft wasn’t spells and potions, but an illegal mine that led the residents of the nearby pueblo to distrust strangers. 

“It’s a blatant Roger Ballen ripoff,” I said to Brandise.

“Who cares?” she replied.