Where was I? Oh, yeah, the security guard told us to go to the Albuquerque Sheraton to kill some time. On the way, we passed something that looked like a giant missile. Stopping to inspect it, we discovered that it was in fact a giant nucear missile. This unique adornment sits out in front of the Atomic Museum in Albuquerque, an institution that uses cartoon characters like Superman, along with brightly colored exhibits and other propaganda to convince children of the wonderful virtues of nuclear materials in our American way of life. Truly, one of the more chilling sights I´ve seen. We stood otside, looking up at this stupendous tower of death that actually goes out into space and then falls on you, destroying your whole city in one stroke. Damn. It was white, and painted with red and blue stripes. Strangely, or maybe not so strangely, it was surrounded with a black wrought iron fence that provided a nice approximation of pubic hair for the missile´s phallus. Since the whole purpose of the museum was to sell nuclear weapons to little kids, what better way than to tie their sexuality to weaponry as early as possible? MX=potency, kids!
Arriving at the Sheraton lounge, we spotted the new Bentley coupe outside, an automobile dedicated to only one purpose- demonstrating to your fellow humans that you can have something they can´t. This one car costs several hundred thousand dollars. I am not proud to be an American. In my humble opinion, making, selling, or buying such a car in a world where people are starving and working their asses off just to survive is an abomination. I love cars, and I appreciate the craftsmanship of the Bentley more than most folks, but that car shouldn´t exist. We had salty dogs, listened to mediocre blues rock, and killed time by trying not to drool. The employees at te Sheraton are meticulously polite, and I have the feeling that they hate being toadies for the rich and puerile. A couple tables away, a group of young sophicsticates dissolves into screaming, sobbing, and other theatrics. I can´t figure out what the problem is- maybe they just need a catharsis from so much trying to look cool.
Walking back from our plutocratic waste of time and money, we began a theme that has so far been recurrent on this trip- we passed rapidly through zones of wealth and poverty. One minute we´re in a sumptuous lounge with Bentley-driving showoffs, and the next we´re walking through a scummy alley, then past pricey stores... Disorienting. Who am I? Am I rich or poor? As the context changes, so do I. In one setting, I am a dirty hippie, and in another I am a rich man. If my worth were externally determined, I think I´d go a little crazy. Having been both homeless and rather wealthy, I know as perhaps few really do that it doesn´t matter much, and I keep walking.
The bus arrives, and we finally get on our way. The driver asks me something incomprehensible in Spanish- ``¿Lugwawhe?`` Disculpe, no comprendo. It turns out he`s asking in English if I have luggage.. Doh.
South of ABQ is terra incognita for me, so I feel the journey begin here. It´s after 3AM when we roll, and I wrap my head in an expensive-but-worth-it sleep mask, stic earplugs in my ears, and settle in for a nap. Five minutes later we´re in Juarez, and I´m trying to figure out how to get a tourist card without my bus leaving me. Other than Maryse and myself, there is one other gringo on a bus full of Mexicanos. After sliding through the comical customs process without so much as being asked if we had anything to declare, much less a search, we´re back on the bus and rolling again, tourist cards safely sealed in our super-secret stash pockets.
I`m a tightass, scared white person. Sad, but true. The more I`ve tried to become self-aware, the more I become aware of my fear, and it sucks. Most of us live in a permanent state of fear, punctuated by brief moments of respite. That`s what this trip really is for me- an attempt to escape my own fear.
The guy across the aisle from us, Luis, adopts the dumb gringos and shepherds us through customs, helps us get on the right bus, tells us when the stop we were told would be 20 minutes turns out to be 2... He speaks some English, and really puts our minds at ease. I think about the experience of a Mexican coming to the States, and again, I am not proud to be an American. I`m starting to see that Mexicans are really nice people mostly, definitely nicer on average than Americans.
Leaving the bus in Chihuahua, I space my plush sleep mask, and go back out to the terminal to find it. Seven Mexicans converge to help, and I am directed to the service bay. I go out and in broken Spanish tell the guy I´ve perdido mi cosa. Seconds later, I have it back, as they were holding it in the office for me. `No perdidamos nada!` they tell me proudly. We don´t lose anything!
In the Chihuahua terminal, we realize that we have no pesos, and there is no way to change dollars into pesos. We need to go to the bathroom, and although it´s only two pesos, we can´t! Can´t change traveller´s checks, can´t leave without pesos! We break the stalemate by hiring a taxi to town, and stopping at a casa de cambio on the way. Having told the driver we wanted un cuarto barato, we got our wish and more! The Hotel Reforma is seedy to the point of decrepitude, and the first room we´re shown has a lock so broken it can be opened with anything. So does the second. Finally, on the point of leaving, we are shown a room with a real lock. And improvised crack pipes stashed on top of the closet, in my line of sight but below that of the maid, obviously. With much trepidation, we leave our bags and venture out on the town.
Chihuahua is beautiful, with an imposing Cathedral in the center of town, five blocks away. Even late into the night, people are out strolling in the parks, sitting on benches, playing in the park with their kids. We get a few looks for being gringos, but everyone is uniformly polite, and many smile. Fear 0, trust 5.
Chihuahua is apparently a capital of boot manufacture, and there are more kinds of cowboy boots on display in the shops than I´ve ever seen, of all colors of the rainbow, made of ostritch and crocodile, among other things. The stitching is amazin, and every shop has a distinctive style. For $1000 pesos you can get a set of boots and belt to impress the neighbors, but you can´t take crocodile across the border. I was sorely tempted by a green pair...
We grabbed a city bus to the Museo de Pancho Villa, an incredible exhibition of Revolutionary Mexican history and artifacts housed in Pancho´s old hacienda. There is a huge recent mural depicting the heroic struggle, and among the figures are Teddy Roosevelt and his fellow capitalist Yanquis, shown as grim, broken figures creating death, slavery, and misery across the earth, opposed by Pancho and his colorful people´s army. Again, not proud to be an American. It´s rough seeing how others see us, and even though I´m a lberal, or even a radical, I couldn´t help but feel ashamed. We were the only gringos at the museum, but the Mexicans were all polite, even to us capitalist slavemasters.
Back near our hotel, we had a nice dinner of huevos rancheros and tostadas de aguacate. ¡Muy rico! After indulging in too much green chile salsa, I had a rough time sleeping, and the fear came for me. I was afraid of everything- the salsa, the lettuce and tomatoes... Would hordes of Mexican crackheads storm through the rickety door to steal my water filter while I was immobilized by bouts of explosive diarrhea brought on by the dreaded salad? And so forth. Morning found us safe in our 120 peso room, and except for the burning ass brought on by my overindulgence in the salsa, there were no other ill effects. Fear 0.
So far, I have experienced the fastest internet connections ever in Mexico. Much faster than DSL, it´s instant like a T-1 everywhere I´ve been. That´s not what I expected, either. I´m a bit jealous, and speaking of technical envy, the Mexicans get all the neat cars, too. Things we never see, like Renaults, Peugeots, Seats, and other Euros along with little Fords and Chevys zip around everywhere. Guess there´s no market in America for cheap, economical transportation. Gotta buy a big expensive car up here and work to make payments on it for years, or you might have too much time to enjoy life.
Grabbed a bus for Mexico City. Now, I am not a city person, and I normally hate big cities. I try to hold my breath all the way through LA whenever I have to drive through, and fuck stopping anywhere there. So it was with some fear and trepidation that I bought us tickets from Chihuahua to the Big Tamale. I also discovered after the bus rolled that the helpful English-speaking agent at the Chihuahua terminal had screwed me. He sold me a ticket on the Chihuahuenses bus line, claiming that it was `El mejor`. Well, it ain´t. Chihuahuenses is apparently trying to copy Greyhound, both in terms of their logo and their lousy buses. Sr. Ticket Agent´s English paid off in the form of suckering this gringo into taking his line, I guess. I´d recommend you don´t follow suit, if the opportunity ever presents itself.
But, because we took that bus, something really good happened.