After a loud night of revelry we left Mazatlan on Easter Saturday. It sounded like it would have been more fun growing up in Mexico on Good Friday than in Ireland. Somewhere along the way Penance got replaced with Party and I missed it. This time the Durango-Mazatlan toll road was open all the way so we got to cross two breathtaking cable-stayed bridges and plunge in and out of several tunnels, one of which I thought would never end. So impressive was the road that I almost forgave the battleaxes at every toll booth for charging us double the moto price and calling us a car. The strange men from the toll entrance in Durango were gone, replaced by mild-mannered fruit and candy sellers and makeshift barbecue shacks on the side, billowing blue smoke. Now out of the coastal zone, with no more English voices, we were well and truly Gringos again.
Click to enlarge images.
This time we stayed in the historical center with not a TGIF in sight. A pantomime was being performed at the plaza, with rows of kids watching with rapt attention, squealing “He’s behind you” to the good knight. Take away language and the shrieks of children having fun sound the same the world over. Under the shadow of the cathedral, the remainder of the square was lined with sweet and nut stalls, fruit juice and mescal displays and rows of books and clothing. The restaurants were empty with everyone strolling outside, eating ice cream or tacos off the carts.
It would be hard to rival an Easter Sunday stroll around Durango’s sleepy back streets. Silent plazas, verdant parks, aromatic coffee shops and hole-in-the-wall loncherias kept us shuffling from park bench to comida y bebida all day. It’s a tough life.
I’d seen one too many empty stretches of yellow grass and cacti with half their ears bitten off so snoozed most of the way to Zacatecas. I had an interesting stop at a gas station along the way. I had to queue with about 30 women and children on a bus journey for 2 toilet cubicles, one of which was the men's. If the males hadn’t spent their pennies behind the sagebrush we would have been there all day.
Zacatecas is a Unesco World Heritage Site and at almost 2,500 meters our first days were filled with gasps of pleasure and gasps for air. Nestled in a narrow valley surrounded by barren mountains, it started as a Spanish silver mining camp and is known as the city with the stone face and silver heart. Some streets were so steep it was impossible to see what lay at the top of the steps. A cultural festival was in full swing and downtown every plaza had a stage and rows of chairs set-up. It seemed a combination of professional artists and amateur school choirs and if you missed the main shows, you could always catch the rehearsal in the morning.
Our accommodation resembled a tiled nest on the top of a 4 story building. Since I didn’t like to linger in the bathroom of a morning and the towels wouldn’t dry a newt, I’d hop out of the shower double-quick, throw on a t-shirt and get blow-dried on the roof, arms outstretched towards the city below. The downside was it had street parking only. However, thanks to two great neighbors, we were able to find a secure spot for the trusty steed not too far away. Teresa and Martha were the icing on the Zacatecas cake. Not only did they introduce us to the local tortilleria, and educate us in the gentle art of avocado buying, they provided much needed outside conversation. While our road wanderings are often viewed as ‘Living the Dream’, the slumber hasn’t all been peaches and cream, or rather chips and salsa. Since leaving the motorcycle escorts and school behind, most conversations are between us, ourselves and whoever happens to be manning the vegetable stall. There are times when the domestic debates contain a little too much passion and not enough prose. How nice it was to sit down with new friends and fresh topics. And how necessary if Pferdinand isn’t to become the innocent victim of a broken home. One should always think of the children.
By day, we drowned in culture and religion, visiting buildings with pink stone facades filled with artifacts and art. Each church outshone the last with glittering alters, velvet-draped saints and crucifixions getting bloodier by the visit. Turns left and right brought endless steps and hidden back streets had names like "Butter Alley" and “Alley of the Sad Indian”. Food carts blocked sidewalks and pedestrian crossings, selling roasted corn and gigantic jagged sheets of chicharron (fried pork skin) while around every corner was……….a dental office. Maybe it should be called ‘The City of the Stone Face and Silver Fillings’.
A Day in the Country
Before we left we visited the archaeological site of La Quemada, about 50 km outside the city. At a police checkpoint, a nice lady in a black face mask and a big gun pointed us in the right direction. At least she seemed nice, we could only see her eyes. We did look into them though and we saw her soul, so we figured everything was all right.
It appears these ruins are associated with different cultures depending on who you are talking to. Whoever they were, they certainly left an impressive fortress behind and there wouldn’t be any creeping up unawares unless you had some sort of death wish. (The sacrificial altar was ready an’ all.) We had the place entirely to ourselves all day. Sitting alone under a shade tree looking beyond the boundary walls, we stared at the nothing out there. Nothing but Mexico, stretching as far as the eye could see. Eating our sandwiches (with that ‘just perfect’ avocado) we reflected there couldn’t be a better place to spend a weekday lunch break. It was almost enough for me to forgive that Zacatecas cat, the one who has now continued the tradition of peeing on my sidecar and forever coming along for the ride. Almost.
