No sooner than I had crossed the intersection I was compelled to slam on the brakes and throw the “Short Bus” into reverse.
Honestly, I had simply proceeded forward from the stop sign normally, as any red-blooded driver would have in a similar situation. Really.
But as it turns out, the Mexican Department Of Transportation (or whatever they call it) has a warped sense of humor.
And no question. Most traffic patterns in Mexico tend to assume that every vehicle that passes through is piloted by a local citizen who knows better by now than to assume anything…like, for example, that the street in front of you is NOT a “one way” street–headed in the OPPOSITE direction.
Well you know what happens when you assume. Some guy from Texas hits town and causes mayhem in the streets.
Sure enough, I was about to have “SEAT” tattooed on my forehead and Emily a “Chevy” symbol tattooed on hers had my reflexes not kicked in.
Who knew? Certainly there weren’t any SIGNS to inform us that what seemed perfectly logical was flat-out ridiculous to suppose.
Fortunately, there was a guy standing on the street corner to whistle at us…after I was already burning rubber in reverse.
Perhaps he thought that he could “whistle” a “one way” sign into existence by his actions.
But no worries, all told. Nobody was directly behind us…this time.
Indeed, despite the initial frustration of such moments, part of what makes Mexico so irrepressibly intriguing is the fact that one cannot depend on logic as a guide…EVER. Every single mundane move that we take for granted can become an adventure at any given time in Mexico.
And never is this MORE apparent than in traffic. In fact, I would go so far as to say that if something strikes you as particularly LOGICAL, go ahead and do the EXACT OPPOSITE. Your “reverse logic” will probably pay off.
At a stop light? Divided highway (probably with a two-foot high bright-yellow curb in the middle of the road)? Logic would tell you to make sure traffic is clear to the left and turn right.
In real life, what happened was the SECOND of FOUR incidences in a five day period of: 1) Slamming on the brakes… 2) …throwing the tranny into “reverse”, and… 3) …having some guy on the corner whistle at me.
A divided ONE WAY street…BOTH SIDES going the SAME WAY. Of course.
I won’t bore you with the other two infractions. Let’s just say that in the first 24 years I had a drivers license I had stared down the barrel of a loaded one way street fewer times than I did during just over a week in Mexico.
Worse, it never fails that there’s a cab behind you leaning on the horn trying to get you to move it or lose it…even when an onslaught of traffic is rushing by.
You know, thinking about it, Mexico is the only country on Earth of the dozens I’ve visited where drivers routinely honk at you in order to GET you to DO something stupid instead of BECAUSE you DID something stupid.
It’s also the only country I know of that feels the need to install speed bumps suddenly—and again, with zero warning—in the most random places conceivable. By the end of this trip I was seriously showing symptoms of PTSD, or “Post Traumatic Speedbump Disorder”. The flashbacks were relentless and I began fully expecting them to spring forth even on the major highways.
Humorously, during one ride to the store a short way from Emily’s aunt’s house, said aunt and her daughter both began to softly announce and then boldly exclaim “Hay bordo. Hay BORDO!” from the back seat as I barreled down the street.
Ba-BUMP!
“[sigh] …Hay bordo.”
As it turned out, my vocabulary word of the day was “bordo”. Local slang for “Speedbump”.
A cursory check online later revealed that it wasn’t in the “Spanish to English” dictionary. That assuaged my apparent ignorance.
So clearly I have a rant about Mexican traffic up my sleeve here. Onward.
Where we were actually going that fateful morning In Ciudad Chihuahua, before being so rudely interrupted by oncoming traffic, was the Gruta Nombre De Dios.
A little known phenomenon in Chihuahua is the existence of MASSIVE crystals in underground caverns (or grutas). Most of these are closed to the public, mostly because the temperature down there can rise to nearly 150 degrees Fahrenheit.
Well, as fortune would have it there was one exceptional site that was open to tourists. Since it was about 150 degrees outside anyway, why not roll the dice?
We got there, climbed the stairs to the entrance, paid the ridiculously-low ticket price and entered at our own risk.
Emily and I, now that we were well into Mexico, had made a pact with each other to speak only Spanish that entire day. After all, we were going to take a crack at Spanish-language video blogs and needed to get warmed up.
As is typical of us, Emily and I had a dollar (or was that ten pesos?) bet on who could utter the most impressive word in Spanish. This was but the latest iteration of one-dollar betting which had involved naming which band sang “Love Hurts” when it came on the classic rock station, whether “papalote” was really the Spanish word for “windmill” or not, or…hell…even who could SPOT the most “papalotes” later in the trip.
So having a tour-guide leading us as we descended into the cave turned out to be a great opportunity to flex our Espanol, which even in it’s rarest form could be roundly compared to Jimmie “J.J.” Walker from Good Times flexing his biceps.
It was also a great opportunity to walk around in a sweaty grotto with “Oscarito”, who is easily the sweatiest six-month old baby of all time, asleep on my shoulder.
It wasn’t even close to 150 degrees, of course, but humid it was. Unimpressive it was, also. The giant 20-foot-long crystals apparently only hung out where the 150-degree temperatures were.
“Hay murcielagos?” I blurted out to the tour guide, who casually retorted in Spanish that bats didn’t much like caverns this well sealed off from the outside. In fact the Grutoa Nombre De Dios was not the natural habitat of any known animals.
I looked over and smirked at Emily…in Spanish of course. She gave me that raised- eyebrow-followed-by-the-batted-eyelashes thing that she does, which is actually a lot cuter in person than it sounds in print.
I had just won ten pesos.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that pulling ‘murcielago’ out of nowhere was less a result of my formidable Spanish lexicon than my simple knowledge of the current Lamborghini model line. This of course, is something any self-respecting car guy would have on tap.
Score one for the guys.
We recorded several video-blogs before leaving, with the beautiful Chihuahua sierra as a backdrop. I was grateful for having practiced Spanish all morning.
We then returned to Emily’s aunt’s house for a late lunch that was so ridiculously tasty that Emily and I have cooked it up for ourselves since returning home.
“Discada” is prepared of nothing more than top-round beef, chorizo sausage and—get this—“winis”. Basically, chorizo makes everything alright by it’s greasy, slovenly and distinctively spicy perfection…as long as you don’t ask about the ingredients.
“Winis” are hot dogs, for those of you keeping score at home.
The irony here is obvious. There we’ve been all our lives back in San Antonio, every self-respecting guy eschewing the “gringo” stereotype of burgers and hot dogs on the grill in favor of full-on pachangas featuring fajitas, pork loin, grilled poblano peppers, etc….along with the Texas-bred machismo-driven staples of sausage, brisket and so forth.
Meanwhile, down in Mexico they are cooking hot dogs on the grill.
But there we were, pounding back discada tacos until we had essentially “discaded” our own dignity.
When pressed, Emily’s uncle swore up and down that the three main ingredients as advertised were all that was really in there.
We would learn just how true this was when we put the recipe to the test upon returning home.
We made two batches of discada, one by the book and the other with some lime, mushrooms and a splash of cerveza thrown in for good measure. The second batch sucked.
And yes, you cook it on the grill…but in a special cast-iron “disc” that lends the look and feel of cowboys rustling up some grub on the range.
Emily’s uncle Agosto was my kind of guy. He fortified my assessment of him by cracking a Tecate Light and handing it to me.
I was all about making this experience my own.
That evening, we would drive on to Delicias, Mexico–where Emily spent part of her childhood–about two hours away.
We had done our darnedest to clear out of Chihuahua during the afternoon, but…you know.
So as it turned out, we got our first crack at driving Mexico by night.
You’ll notice I made no promises NOT to talk about Mexican traffic ever again.
So having NOT promised exactly that, let me tell you this: ANY road at ANY given time can go from a four-lane riot of WWE proportions to a constricted, deserted alleyway in a matter of two blocks or so.
And it’s precisely then that one must abide by the general rule of Mexico: If it makes SENSE, do the OPPOSITE.
So when the “highway” to Delicias turned into a secluded driveway headed into the wilderness…in the OPPOSITE direction…I remained steadfast and continued on the straight and (very) narrow.
Ten miles later, we were back in civilization…although somehow barely two miles outside of Ciudad Chihuahua.
We stopped for gas while the gettin’ was good. It was then we encountered our first predictably unpredictable adventure with Pemex, the nationally-operated chain of gas stations in Mexico which feature actual attendants that actually pump your gas. For a second you’d actually think you were in New Jersey or something. Make that a split second.
It seems our credit card—a black Visa with no limit—was “declinada”. Calmly, I handed over the backup. “Declinada”, tambien.
After an emergency call to our bank back in the States, everything actually checked out. No “fraud alerts”, no funny stuff. It would take us three similar instances to figure out that Pemex credit card machines were just the Spawn Of Satan, that’s all.
So I happened into a fortuitously-located grocery store next to the Pemex to use the ATM. Got some cash, and noticed that kids no older than my eight-year-old daughter were bagging groceries—each dressed for the task in company attire.
After fueling up the “Short Bus”, and fueling Emily up with one of her beloved “Gansito” snack cakes (procured from a shelf festooned with the ubiquitous “Bimbo” brand snacks), we soldiered forth.
As for me, my 2,394th Coca-Cola Light of the trip was sufficient to keep me wired. The Mexican version of Diet Coke, or of any soda really, is so far superior in taste to anything in the U.S. that it really makes you wonder. So I “tanked up” every chance I got.
Emily mentioned that when we hit “Milky” we’d almost be there. I’d long since stopped asking silly questions. Roughly two hours later, we passed the sign that said “Bienvenidos a Meoqui”.
Minutes later we arrived at Emily’s other aunt’s house to a warm welcome, well spent and happy to be there.
The next day would be something else…
