Gómez Palacio. Just over the Durango state line from Torreón. What is apopleptic? Apoplepsy? Is that the word? They use dead bodies for the foundation of the highway. In order to ensure the ride is as insane as possible, they pour asphalt over a train of dead bodies. With the incessantly meowing cat (God bless he), and the road so shaky that the decorative wood paneling that holds the "mood lighting" in the van came loose and fell off... I saw tunnel vision for a second, and for a moment wondered if I was going to pass out. My consciousness was narrowed to a blunt pencil point. Not quite laser. Nothing accurate or clean. My mind was more like chalky lead.
The masked, strapped, black-clad cops of one form or another pulled me aside at one of the numerous checkpoints. Armed checkpoints that look like Soviet-Aztec ruins from the future are part of the scenery in Mexico, like people leaving their clothes out to dry in a lime-green dust devil, or unattended dogs. The cops were disarmingly polite and friendly. Unlike most Mexican cops, they asked for my ID and registration. I provided whatever legal documents haven't expired yet, and it was good enough for them. They seemed pleased to hear me speaking Spanish, and the one guy seemed to want to practice his English. They asked a few obligatory questions, were satisfied with my answers, sensed that I had no fear of them, and sent me on my way.
The old guy walking around the pumps selling cheese at the gas station in the desert was very friendly too, and commented on my Spanish. I told him "español es un gran palabra de agua," Spanish is a great word of water, which is why it's so hard to understand. Talking to Mexicans is like talking to a river. 3 words are crammed into one small, oddly-pronounced vowel, and these small, 3-in-1 vowels are rattled off like a rabbit running from a fox. It is hard to understand. But I can generally get my point across.
I almost lost consciousness on the road yesterday, but bought a pack of Pall Malls instead. It was about 2 bucks. I don't use GPS, and my phone is something out of the Picapiedras (Flintstones), so I use my paper map. I make minutely-detailed directions in the hotel before I leave for the day. I hate Google in general, but I'm not gonna lie. Google Maps has its place. When I get to where I'm going, I've already seen it on TV. It makes a difference.
Cuz the paper map's not great, y'understand. It IS the map, but you have to drive down here before you understand how mad it is. If you miss your turn, you'll end up on a road paved with corpses, upon which someone actually feels the need to install speed bumps, and the military checkpoints are the least of your problems. You will be dodging bales of hay, car wrecks, mules, candy salesmen, clowns, disembodied tires, farmers, cows, flying horses, splintered wood, and death. All of it dusty and painted like tropical fruit.
If you get through this gauntlet, and your cat mellows out because the state of Durango takes better care of its highways than Zacatecas does, maybe you will get to the hotel. It might take you 5 hours to go 250 miles. Accounting for sanity stops and mountain-climbing breaks.
Fortunately, everybody down here drives like they have to urinate immediately, so extreme aggressive driving isn't seen as aggressive. Which is good, because in the U.S. everybody drives like they're afraid of their own grandmothers. Down here, all bets are off. There are no "lanes," which is a system that works. You never get caught in what I call a "speed vortex," constantly waiting to pass one slow truck, waiting for the narcoleptic sleeping-pill salesman in front of you to take the chance and gun it. Unless there is no shoulder (which is rare), the shoulder is a half-lane, and the center line is a 2-way passing lane. You have to watch for buses and semi trucks barreling down on you headfirst. Which shouldn't be a problem. If you can't dodge oncoming semi trucks, in my opinion you aren't qualified to drive.
I can't make it to Chihuahua today though. I'm running out of money anyway. Chihuahua is almost 300 miles from here. That's like driving from NY to LA to hell and back, 3 times. I need to take a cotton candy break. That's loco code for sleep. Break. Naptime. Uploading ideas into the ethersphere, from the unconscious realm of dreams. I told the hotel they could kill me if they wanted to. No I didn't. But it crossed my mind, for reasons that will sound bitchy and so will remain mysterious.
The hotels are the reason for the cat. I've spent a hundred years juggling cats in traffic, and sleeping on mountaintops so cold their bowl of water freezes at night, in places scented with wild animals to a degree that they're afraid to go outside, and spend all their time inside the van, which they hate. I'm down to just the one big guy. He is my friend. And he needs a place to sleep, far more than I do.
I watched a video of myself reading from my Spanish Bible from 2 years ago and it was like watching a youthful, vibrant sermon from a guy dumb enough to be actually enamored with the deadly grind of life. Maybe it's 2 years of living on Mexican junk food, but I don't look like that anymore. I look like someone who needs a hug. And even though it isn't manly, probably I do.
Hugs accepted on GoFundMe. And if we meet in person, perhaps then too.
Pablo con Dios,
