Highway 70 cuts eastward through a deep canyon in the first
range of mountains, twisting and winding, yet a modern highway for all that, in
flawless condition. The locals ride my bumper, as mountain locals do, and the
slopes grow wooded with some sort of oak, bright green and summer cheery this
time of year. Following tourist signs for a viewpoint, I end up on a
horrendously bumpy road of dirt and stones, leading through cleared pastures,
thickets of oak, eco-ranches. The air is cool with a slight tinge of damp, sun
shining strongly out of the sky. In a small pullout deep in the forest, I light
up, contemplating the downhill progress of my journey. This land is wholly
foreign to the United States; the Sierra Madre Oriental vanishes into the Rio
Grande plains before reaching Texas, and northward is only flatland. The
journey across these mountains is exciting, but far shorter than the rough
miles on the other side of the continent.
Back on the highway, the descent is quick, and the road
levels out in a hot and dry valley containing the city of Rioverde, nothing to
stop for. I turn down a narrow farm lane, find a secluded spot in a thorny
thicket on the edge of a cornfield. The field laborers are heading out as I
arrive, walking back to the village located in a little dell a mile away. Most
families have a car here, but driving such short distances is considered
frivolous. At night, I walk the quiet road toward the quiet village, a few old
streetlights the only sign of life. When the occasional homeward bound car
comes through, I duck into the brush, a phantom vagabond. The new day dawns
surprisingly cool, high 50s, and I drive east toward new ranges of mountains.
Instead of climbing, the highway ducks into a canyon, and
here the real changes begin. The thorny scrub vanishes, replaced by a steaming
tropical jungle, tall trees festooned with vines, rushing little creeks, steep
hills blanketed in thick vegetation. The smell of the jungle is nigh
overpowering, the air mild yet thick with humidity; the elevation here in the
canyon bottom is barely 1000 feet. Signs for waterfalls line the roadway,
pointing down this and that side roads. I follow the signs for an ojo into a little village, clearings
slashed out of undergrowth where corn grows, tin-roofed shacks lining rutted
dirt lanes, sun barely cutting through the thick haze. Down a steep and muddy
path behind the settlement, a capped spring gushes delicious water into a
roaring river. The canopy completely blocks the sun; the air was rich and
stagnant and sticky with damp. A few gnats pestered my face as I filled my
water bottles, then turned out on the highway again.
Seeing a sign for the Cascada
Tamasopo, I turn down a newly paved back road, passing through a hilltop
village and descending into the valley. Eco-hotels and other rustic tourist
accommodations lined a beautiful river, emerald water flowing over a bed of
fine gravel. The waterfall itself was located in a municipal park; I paid the
entrance fee (and the parking fee) and found a shaded spot to park. The
waterfalls were postcard perfect; three or four cascades, seventy feet high,
pouring a roaring stream into a large pool. The water was nearly warm, yet crystal
clear, with a deep greenish hue from dissolved minerals. In front of the
waterfall were the usual Mexican eco-park concessions, seafood restaurants,
snack vendors, beer specials, palapas
with plastic tables and chairs. Families swim in the deep pools, each person
wearing the mandatory life jacket. I wade out and dry off in the grimy changing
room, refreshed by the cool bath. Time to hit the road again.
The hills grow lower and lower as the highway winds east
through the Huasteca Potosina. Ciudad Valles sprawls just behind the very last
(or first, if you prefer) rain-soaked ridge of the Sierra, a bustling city
pushing back the jungle on every side. Then the plains, warmer but drier than
the rain-catcher mountains, a fenced-off savanna of rich grass and occasional
trees. Expecting to despise the lowlands, I am surprised and pleased. There is
plenty of space out here, prosperity, roads modern and well-designed. Finding a
spot to park is easy; the trees hide me from view. The night stays warm, but
not a single mosquito whines. In the morning, laborers are waiting on the
roadside for a boss’ truck. I wave at them, and they wave back, uninterested in
the sight of a gringo materializing from the brush. They look again when my
truck emerges, notice my unfamiliar plates. But my business is mine alone. All
in all, I have not experienced any hassling, hustling, or undue attention along
this ride. It is dangerous to be overly curious about strangers and their
doings here, and life-threatening to interfere with them. In a way, my truck is
a capsule, separating me from the world I move through, and the world from me.
Be that as it may.
Ebano is a humble roadside village on the far eastern fringe
of San Luis Potosí, a wet and humid flatland with great fields and wide, meandering
creeks. After years of adventuring, my lower ball joints have grown loose,
making proper alignment impossible; time to change them. After I buy the parts
at the local Autozone, a clean-looking man in his thirties offers to change
them for eighteen dollars. I lowball with twelve, and to my surprise he
accepts. His shop is across the street, a pole shelter anchored to a concrete
pad. I play some Tom Petty as he hammers and pries the old parts off. He speaks
passable English, and we chat in a mix of languages. He is a Jehovah’s Witness
convert, always has a Bible nearby. Divorced, with no plans to remarry.
Women take all your money and then get fat, he says. His
friend comes up in an ancient pickup truck to drop off a loaner tool. They
boisterously chat a while, and then the guy leaves. See that man? He makes
about two thousand American dollars a month, but can’t afford to buy a nice
truck. You want to know why? He has too many girlfriends. Always buying them
presents, spending all his money.
But is he happy? I ask. Yes, he is always happy, so he
doesn’t care that he has no money for himself. We continue talking about my
travels, like many Mexicans I have met on this trip, he was worked in the USA
before. He proudly lists the cities he has lived in: Dallas, San Antonio,
Kansas City.
After nearly three hours of work, he finishes. I pay him
fifteen bucks, less than he deserved, but I was unwilling to lose face by
paying his initial offer. He pockets it and shakes my hand, wishing me safe
travels free from female company.