West of Chihuahua, the highway rises through rugged hills
onto a wide and high plain. This is farm country, home to Mormon and Mennonite
communities. Some green lingers from the summer rains, and the day is mild and
sunny. At a fork, the highway to Parral begins, a two-lane plagued with
slow-moving traffic and suicidally impatient drivers. The landscape morphs into
mesquite scrub, decent grazeland cut by the occasional trickling creek. The
city of Hidalgo del Parral is out celebrating the Day of the Dead. Cemeteries
teem with families paying their respects to dead relatives, as traffic snarls
through hundreds of haphazardly parked cars. Back on the highway south, there
is no traffic. Rolling grassy hills dotted with trees, prime ranch country.
Towns are small and far apart. Across the state line in Durango, the country
flattens out, a high plain stretching toward a flat horizon. Cars and trucks
pass at dizzying speed despite the poor condition of the highway. Frequent road
construction desviaciónes route traffic
across bumpy arroyos. Dusk approaches; the golden sun gives the grasslands a
magical hue in the cool and dry evening air. My campsite is on the shoulder of
a dirt road between cornfields, the crop well nourished by a bountiful summer
monsoon.
On another perfect morning, the kilometers roll on by. The
highway drops off the high plain into the valley of the Río Nazas; nopales
cover the hillsides, and a high rocky ridge frames the western horizon. In the
small towns, a fair portion of vehicles sport Colorado license plates, apparent
product of an old car theft ring. Today, they are decrepit, dirty, sagging;
illegally imported, but evidently not a concern to municipal police. Up out of
the river valley, the highway widens. Dashed shoulder lines indicate another
genius idea of Mexican road construction. Slow traffic keeps to the extreme
right, allowing faster cars to pass by straddling the median line. Oncoming
traffic keeps to the right, and voila, three cars occupy (for a moment) a
two-lane highway in a safe manner. Nobody capable of swifter travel respects
the 80 km/h speed limit, nor do they pay heed to the numerous “Respete Los Señales” and “No Maltrate Los Señales” mandates posted
between the speed limit signs. Speed bumps are the only reliable way to slow
down the Mexican driver.
Durango finally arrives, a high plains city two hundred
kilometers from the nearest metropolis. The fragrant smell of pine lumber from
a sawmill greets me as I find my way downtown, in search of an affordable
hotel. My 1991 Lonely Planet guidebook lists an eminently cheap youth hostel
half a mile from downtown, but it no longer exists. The Hotel Gallo, 160MXN
(9USD) for a cell with a cold water shower on a courtyard, has no vacancies.
Next choice is La Casa de Bruno, a hostel run by a friendly young local couple
who speak good English. 230 MXN (13 USD) for a bunk in an empty bunkroom,
endless hot shower and fully furnished kitchen. Downtown are the usual plazas,
along with a pedestrian mall teeming with fashionable people. Not a gringo in
sight; I was many, many kilometers from the Anglicized regions of Mexico. Here,
I found high fashion, great music, and a general happy and carefree vibe not
found in any large American city. In front of a bustling record store, a local
rock band has plugged in their instruments, and they commence playing skillful
covers of American and British rock songs. Classic rock is definitely in vogue
here, and their jamming draws a good-sized crowd this Friday evening. Pesos
pour into an open guitar box, and the band plays hit after well-rehearsed hit.
Buzzing off a few beers from a newly opened English-style pub on the mall, the
music is an amazing confirmation of this nascent journey, a glimpse of great
and wonderful experiences to come.