I start up my truck and continue into Estación Ruiz, the
town whose signs guided me over the great range. Ruiz is a good-sized village,
streets buzzing with motorbikes. There are no street signs. I reach a railroad,
turn left and cross the tracks, following the traffic. But the streets all look
the same, and I end up at a dead-end in a quiet neighborhood. The local
residents give me directions to the free highway, but I lose my way again.
Patiently, I make further inquiries until I reach the main road, the great
western artery of Mexico.
The high has faded; I fly across the pavement southward,
bound for Tepic, capital and largest city of Nayarit. Large farms and sluggish
muddy rivers pass on by. Then hills again as we climb through the jungle, the
temperature cooling perceptibly, air damp and mild under a hazy sky. The city
begins; a wide boulevard, shaded by a tree-lined median. Honking taxis and
darting motorbikes, noise and fumes as unmufflered cars take off from a green
light. The city center is spacious, bustling, modern. Traffic lights adorn, the
main boulevards, but all the other one-way streets have uno por uno intersections. No one completely stops; larger vehicles
have the right of way, and vehicles arriving soonest go first. The system is
quintessentially Mexican; informal, intuitive, and surprisingly effective.
Bullies are rare, though pickup trucks dominate and taxis give no quarter.
My search for lodging brings me to a cold-water family hotel
on a busy intersection; the traffic noise is deafening, but I can find no
cheaper alternative. Fourteen dollars for a night. The proprietress sleeps on a
cot behind the desk; a bulky television plays cartoons for her daughter. I walk
the streets in the evening cool, frustrated by my inability to communicate.
Friendly folks rattle off cheery sentences, but I can only smile and apologize.
To be isolated amongst thousands of happy people is the most terrible solitude
of all.
Time now to see the sea. I start out down the winding
highway to Santa Cruz de Miramar, closest beach to Tepic. Trucks prepare for
runs to Guadalajara and Mexico City and Nogales at the PEMEX truck stop.
Beyond, the jungle closes in again, rugged and hilly. Festering piles of trash
lay in roadside pullouts; small towns in the hills, banana plantation
(plantaintions?), laborers walking to work with their machetes. The heat builds
as I descend, trying and failing to catch an early glimpse of the Pacific over
the encircling hills. At least, the final descent into a picturesque fishing
town, small boats anchored to the white sand beach of a palm-shaded cove. From
here, the road turns north toward San Blas, passing low-key cabins and
beachfront hotels. A sandy road to the beach beckons, so I park my truck next
to a cabana.
The sun is hot on this tropic shore; waves lap gently at a
flat white beach. A fitful breeze rustles the palm fronds on this peaceful
morning. I retrieve my bud from its Ziploc baggie, examine it. The herb is
freshly cut, uncured, full of seeds. Homely, yet mind-blowingly potent for me,
if I can find a way to smoke it. My Lonely Planet guidebook has thin pages;
it’ll make do for now. I cut out a rectangle of paper, crease it, break the bud
into small pieces and law them in a row. When I light my first joint, I get an
acrid puff of paper smoke, and the unburned weed falls in my lap. Okay; the
nugs are wet, so the paper must be as well. The soggy mass catches reluctantly,
but I coax it on. Smoke begins to swirl lazily through my cab, here on the edge
of the western world. The sun hangs low and hot overhead like a heatlamp,
almost close enough to touch. Locals drive pickups and ATVs along the beach,
rounding a rocky headland and disappearing. Everyone cruises by slowly, no
hurry at all, carefree and relaxed. The infinite sparkling ocean awaits, no
need to rush. Savor the sun and breeze, the vibe of the music, the happy
laughter of a gaggle of señoritas splashing and clowning in the waves. I am a
child in these hills.
The sea envelops me like a womb, warm and wet, safe and
peaceful. Gentle swells ripple the surface, the depths a vivid blue. A deep
sense of well-being rushes up, love for the sun and sky and sea and jungle.
Time becomes imperceptible as the sun’s traverse, moment by moment. The girls splash
in happiness, T-shirts wet against their plump brown bodies, strong young legs
bracing for the long slow swells breaking against them. Strong desire mounts,
scatters, to be replaced by a melancholy wistfulness. Our worlds are parallel,
paths destined to pass like ships in the night, never meeting. This euphoric
haze is but a dim imitation of the ebullience of youth, fatally wounded during
my tenderest years, long dead by now. The confining shell of awkwardness closes
in, the realization that I am a stranger in a strange land, a place I may never
call home.
Night falls oppressively still over the coast; mosquitoes
whine as the irregular breakers crash and seethe on the sand. Local families
light campfires and gossip while I toss and turn in the stifling heat. Around
midnight, I give up and head back into the hills. The air cools quickly, and at
a suitable roadside pullout half a mile above the sea, I find cool rest.