Morelia fades into my rearview mirror as I drive north into
the fertile highland plains and hills of the Bajío. The first town is Cuitzeo,
anchored on a spit of land in the middle of a large and shallow lake. My truck
as born the blows of these many kilometers; my driver’s side mirror is gone,
shattered to bits by a careless alley driver, and there is an alarming clunk
from the front right wheel. I jack it up, and to my dismay, one of the large
bolts anchoring the entire wheel assembly has worked itself loose, just in time
for the holiday weekend. Just across the Guanajuato state line, two men are
cleaning out a mechanic’s shop, preparing to close it. After hearing my plight,
the owner jacks up the wheel and tightens the bolt with a huge wrench, jovially
refusing payment at first. I get him to accept a little beer money and continue
north, through this prosperous part of the country, farmland and low hills,
Mexico’s Midwest. Camp for the night is off a dirt farm road paralleling an
irrigation canal. Mosquitoes buzz around at first, but are soon dispelled by
the gathering cool. Nights are long and dull this time of year; my journey has
become the aimless wandering of the incurable vagabond.
The sun rises over the old Spanish buildings in the center
of San Miguel de Allende, the most hipster town in Mexico. Old men warm up in
the sunshine on park benches as pigeons gather for their morning feeding. I
walk a mile out of town, set out hiking up a steep and brushy slope above a
stony arroyo. Halfway up is a road, overgrown with brush, leading to the
summit. Vacant cul-de-sacs lie on every hand. At the top is a concrete shell of
an unfinished mansion, covered in graffiti art and tags, the open upstairs
providing a commanding view over the town and the hills beyond. The physical
activity has been relaxing, no need for herbal stimulation. But the road leads
down to a locked gate, a fence topped with razor wire. Serious but incomplete
security. I find my way out the way I came in and return to the town center.
On this warm holiday weekend, hordes of uber-fashionable
young people from Mexico City stroll through the streets and shops. The
occasional gringo in shorts and T-shirt looks barbaric, uncivilized by
comparison. This town feels safe for curb camping; the only issue a complete
lack of public bathrooms. It is half a mile to the dark arroyo bridge. This is
not what I envisioned.
The next day, the town of Dolores Hidalgo is nearly shut
down for a parade celebrating the start of the Mexican Revolution in November
1910. Loudspeakers play martial music in the plaza as soldiers, police,
schoolchildren, and dancers pass by in endless procession. The day has warmed
up, and ice cream vendors ply the crowds of spectators. Yet surrounded by so
much cheer and happiness, I only feel hollow and withdrawn. For lack of
anything better to do, I drive west into the hills, camping next to a dirt
ranch road overlooking a small mountain valley. Guanajuato-bound traffic buzzes
by below on the way to the fabled city of silver, once the wealthiest in all of
Mexico.
Early the next morning, I set out, topping the rise and
descending through the quiet, winding streets into a subterranean world. This
city is so cramped for space that 95% of traffic flows underground, parking in
underground garages and climbing stairways into a world where pedestrians are
king and cars creep through alleys barely wide enough to fit them. Many of the
alleys are off-limits to cars, a delightful maze of steep pathways winding
whimsically between buildings of every conceivable color. This is a great place
to get lost repeatedly, climbing the steep canyon in which the city is built to
descend again to the center. Above the brilliantly white edifice of the college
is an especially steep neighborhood, cars parked in every available spot or
driving dangerously fast down the steep and winding grades to disappear with an
echoing roar into one of the tunnels which serve as expressways to the outside
world. It is nigh impossible to leave the city without going underground, a passageway
to a wholly different world from the bleak sprawl beyond this sheltered time
capsule. Hostels abound here, and I find a cheap bed in a cavernously empty
place complete with cold shower and living room. At night, resident mosquitoes
cruise freely through the place to attack me in my bed. Just outside is a road
so narrow that pedestrians have to step aside and wait for an automobile to
pass between two buildings. This is not a place to be driving a large American
vehicle; my truck stays safely belowground in a roadside parking spot.
Guanajuato is a gem of a city, but I must be moving on.
Out of the encircling hills, the country is flat and
industrialized, highways busy and well-maintained. Large cities pass by; Silao,
León, their town centers mostly devoid of people, immaculately clean. I keep
going, onward into the northeast corner of Jalisco, a land of blue agave
fields, farms for miles and miles. Then Aguascalientes, where I lose my way and
drive in mounting frustration until I stumble upon the highway north. Finally,
Zacatecas approaches, the fields dry and brown with winter’s cold up here, a
highland landscape totally deforested centuries ago.