In order to continue down the center of the country, we had to drive back the way we came. We stopped to see Joel and Ixchel again and got a surprise when we arrived at the Pemex gas station in La Junta. Three friends from their motorcycle club (Tribu de Chihuahua!) were there as well so off we went in a convoy of shiny wheels and blaring radios (“Riders on the Storm”). At the Elvis Restaurant in Cuauhtemoc, one of their sons joined us, and Joel’s daughter too. There I was, sitting dusty and black in front of the buffet. I felt like a hardened biker Mot among the zippered leather, skull badges and good-humored banter. How cool, with not a fear in the world, except maybe that of a Mexican lettuce leaf. (I was still doing my best to avoid Montezuma’s Revenge.) Clothes do not always the woman make.
Click to enlarge photos
A surreal afternoon followed with us wandering around the Mennonite museum looking at cheese wheels and rusty threshers. We got a bit rowdier outside when everyone had a go at driving Pferdi. Talk about kids on a joyride……... After the ‘Adios’s’ everyone gave us their contact info for emergencies, anywhere in Mexcio and as far away as Panama. Just call.
The next morning, Francisco (“Frank”) and his Dad arrived at our motel at 9 AM to escort us out of the town and onto the highway south, a full 50 miles away. If that isn’t hospitality, I don’t know what is. It was the most beautiful day for driving. The dark gold landscape stretched out on either side until the mountains ahead curved and encircled us. In my lazy mental meanderings, I tried to pinpoint the exact color of the grasses (Donald Trump’s hair) and the blue above stole the title of Big Sky from Montana. On the outskirts of Parral, I saw a bunch of bikes on the side of the road and their owners waved enthusiastically. It was only after I’d waved back I realized they were cops. What a nice welcome to town!
The Leader of the Pack
Joel had called ahead to his friend who said he’d pick us up at our hotel for dinner. We waited and waited. I’d just decided to do some work when I heard an almighty rumble outside. Before I even pulled back the curtain, I knew what it was. Seconds later the phone rang. It was reception; we had visitors. Going downstairs even Fran looked a bit worried. And sure enough, right in front of the entrance was a posse of a dozen+ bikers, revving their engines. “God forbid” I thought, ‘”the Best Western will never forgive us”.
It was Superbowl Sunday and we drove through Parral en masse. The rest of the traffic stared. I sat in the sidecar wondering how a girl from Dundalk had ended up in a spot like this. All these riders in black, and Pferdi, his little wheels running desperately to keep up with the big boys. We reached the Pancho Villa Motorcycle Club. The TV was turned on for the game, beer bottles were cracked and the barbecue throwing flames sky high. We were introduced to everyone (all male), then paper plates were shoved into our hands. Wow, I thought, lunch at Elvis's yesterday and now dinner at Pancho Villa's. Fran had 4 steaks and I had 3, oh, and a few corn tortillas. You can’t take an aspirin around here without being served corn tortillas. There were only 2 English speakers, one if you take out the “F” words, but precious little was lost in translation. For me, it was one of the best Superbowl Sundays ever, i.e. with the TV turned on but nobody watching. And instead of “pass the chips” it was, “Another steak? Seguro, don’t mind if I do".
At 9:00 PM the club leader, along with his deputy, escorted us home. It was an unexpectedly chaste ending to what had seemed a dangerous date. Maybe Peggy Sue hadn’t picked the baddest boy in town after all.
Back to a quieter life, we ate breakfast for 6 days at the big picture window in the shadow of St. Joseph, Parral’s patron saint. The view outside reminded us of Rome with the river, albeit waterless, and the rust-colored dome of the cathedral beyond. The silver mine on the hill was closed but we got a nice tour anyway, just the two of us. It was in Spanish but it didn’t matter. Fran, who spent his childhood avoiding the washing-up by disappearing upstairs with old National Geographics, was able to explain all the workings. Our guide Bernardo, nodded every now and then at Fran’s expansive explanations (some people just love an audience), and Paulina, brought up from the office because of her highschool English, was an enjoyable companion for me. We later visited her at the coffee shop where she worked part time, on top of her mornings in the mine and her studies at the university.
The rest of the days were spent in various museums (another Pancho Villa since it was here he was shot, laid out and buried), palaces and churches. We climbed the hill and located the AlSuper sign (now we could buy the groceries) and ate gorditas on benches in the plaza. On the way home one day we were stopped by a man unloading a popcorn cart. He apologized for his work clothes, spoke almost perfect English, and wanted to know where we'd come from and where we were going. After a nice chat, we were given a giant bag of popcorn and his phone number, just in case, anywhere, anytime.
High Noon
We ventured out of the city only once, to take a drive to Valle de Allende, about 20 km away. It was a sleepy little town but one of the oldest in the state of Chihuahua (1569), and founded by Franciscan monks.
We parked the bike opposite the small plaza under the quiet but watchful eyes of those disregarding the siesta hours. Brown-eyed babies stared and a local shopkeeper stopped his truck to invite us to visit. There he plied us with sample after sample of oils, candy and all things nutty. This river valley is known for its lush forests of ancient pecan trees but sadly, at this time of year, the canopy of branches was bare. Nevertheless, as we strolled lazily along dead quiet streets, the sun shone warmly and the colors of the houses were the sweet pastel shades of candy wrappers. Old Mexico at its best; balm for the soul.
