Contrasting with its bleak surroundings, the city of
Zacatecas is whimsically colorful, streets rolling up and down steep hills on
the outskirts. A protest over teacher pay blocks the main highway through town,
the protesters gleeful and ebullient, the drivers everlastingly patient as they
find an alternative route through the hilly streets. I soon become lost in the
hills, reaching dead ends and roads that merge this way and that, all straight
lines but no right angles. Asking for directions does not help much. Locals are
nearly always glad to give intricate and fast-paced routings which I am unable
to comprehend, much less follow. Perhaps the routes exist only in their storyteller
imaginations. In any case, I eventually round a hill to see the steeples of
Mexico’s grandest cathedral down in the valley. Many times have these stately
buildings guided me to the heart of an unfamiliar town.
This city is busy; I eventually find a parking spot on a
narrow residential street near the center. The day is sunny, but pleasantly dry
and cool; Zacatecas is the highest elevated city in northern Mexico. Commanding
a hilltop overlooking a busy highway is the Hotel Rio Grande, a colossus of a
place with 150 MXN (8 USD) hot-water rooms, clean and recently remodeled. The
hotel is half a mile from the plaza, a pleasant walk through a small park,
municipal market, and a few residential blocks. In the early morning cool,
vendors bring kettles of delicious steaming tamales to the park, while the
bakery opens its doors to the students and laborers heading down the street.
People here look thinner and healthier, undoubtedly due to the salubrious
climate. Early to rise, early to bed is the norm here.
On my second day in Zacatecas, I set out across the valley
on foot to climb the Cerro de la Bufa, a rocky promontory standing several
hundred feet over the city’s heart. Its flanks are covered in a beautiful pine
forest, crisscrossed with well-maintained hiking trails. A rocky scramble leads
to the summit, decorated with radio antennas in the shape of a large cross, lit
up at night by multi-colored spotlights.
Down in the city center, military patrols cruise the
streets, loaded for bear in armored Humvees. Nobody pays them any attention. In
the afternoon, I smoke a joint on the balcony walkway outside my room. Next
door is a typical Mexican cinderblock house with a flat roof, built into the
side of the hill. On the roof, two small dogs walk in circles sniffing each
other’s turds, with which the roof is covered. Beyond the edge is a sheer drop,
fifteen or more feet, with no ledge to catch a careless misstep. I get the
munchies, tear into some American crackers from my truck. The dogs notice and
begin wagging their tails, so I chuck a cracker across the void and onto the
roof, the whimsical surreality of the situation making me laugh uncontrollably.
They scarf it up and beg silently for more, so I oblige. Some of the snacks do
not make it to the roof, but the dogs are well-trained and keep away from the
edge. This is a wonderful little city.