Dawn breaks cool over the desert; the engine turns over
eagerly and I am on my way. The highway levels out, grassland replacing
barrenness, but the speed limit remains 80 km/h. Cars whiz past me on the
ruler-straight thoroughfare, gunning for the next range of hills; outland speed
enforcement is unheard of in Mexico. Near the small town of Aldama, the land
turns green and fertile, and the highway widens to four lanes as it approaches
the metropolis of Chihuahua, here in the heart of its eponymous state.
The air above this dryland city is often hazy with smog and
smoke, but the city is clean and prosperous by Mexican standards. Its residents
are proud, generous, industrious, yet not wholly consumed by greed. On warm
summer evenings, with the day’s heat lingering in the stone benches, the
cathedral plaza is alive with skateboarders, jugglers, ice-cream vendors, old
friends, extended families, young couples, children running through fountains,
well-dressed professionals, musicians for hire, and all the other inhabitants
of a healthy and happy city. A few blocks south, in the shadow of the space-age
federal administration building, I check in at a humble little hotel. 145 MXN
(8 USD) for a room with fan, color TV, hot shower, and window. Next door is a
similarly humble casa de huespedes now
serving as a brothel. Plump and painted middle-aged women recline in a row of
white garden chairs as potential johns roll down the alley to chat with them.
One of the younger ladies, slim and beautiful in a haunted way, walks out to
talk with me. She is dressed conservatively, black T-shirt and black jeans with
Nike sneakers.
¿Hola, te gusta venir
conmigo?
Fifteen dollars for half an hour in her guesthouse room. Lo siento, pero no lo puedo, esta noche.
Está bien, que tengas
buenas noches, cuidate.
Igualmente.
In the coolness of a November morning, the great municipal
market is only just getting opened. Barbacoa Bruno hits the spot as usual with
their delicious burritos, fresh flour tortillas made on the spot and filled
with steak or barbacoa. Toppings are tomato, lettuce, cilantro, and onion; red
and green salsa, spicy and made from scratch; and lime slices for garnish. In
the market, vendors set out cartons of produce siphoned off northbound trucks,
too ripe for sale in distant markets. A kilo of mandarin oranges runs 10 pesos
(a little over 50 cents); avocados, a quarter apiece. All this is familiar
territory; time to point my wheels south and set out for the great heart of
Mexico, far beyond the grimy sordid borderlands.