I crossed San Pancho’s newly opened bridge at 10:38 a.m. last Friday morning, only thirty-eight minutes after my planned departure. Not bad, really, considering last-minute phone calls and a spattering of reminders to Lidia and Esteban, my housekeeper and my house-everything-else guy. The RAV4 was all shined up, the Thule box mounted atop on its new brackets, thanks to Esteban. I’d filled the gas tank the day before on a quicky run into Bucerias. I slipped my favorite Mexican guitar CD into the slot, turned up the volume, and pulled onto highway 200, northbound.
Oh, goody. A road trip.
The run to La Peñita, which once seemed a journey in itself, flew by as it always does now. The little working town has become a go-to place: for plants, hoses and fittings, plastic garbage cans, the Thursday tianguis, items bought at non-tourist prices in small friendly shops. Before and after La Peñita are the roadside fruit stands, one more appealing than the next, with artistic arrangements of pineapples and mangoes, displays of local candies, little banana trees for sale.
As I approach Las Varas, a bigger working town, the highway is bordered by huge mango orchards in full bloom. Where dirt has been turned for fields and construction, the soil is Sedona red. I am still heading north in order, in true Mexican style, to eventually end up due east of where I started.
Shortly after Las Varas, the road turns eastward, the car begins to climb away from the coast, and I'm on the long and winding road. Signs warn dramatically of curvas peligrosas -- dangerous curves -- and derrumbes, a delicious onomatoepoeic word for rockslides. Arrow signs are serpentine; graphic signs show black chunks tumbling off mountainsides and onto uncautious cars. Other signs insist no rebase -- no passing. Apparently some have, however, as is attested by crosses tucked into greenery in the elbows of those same curvas peligrosas.
The first part of the climb is easy. All the traffic is headed the other direction, toward the beach, for the upcoming three-day weekend celebrating the birthday of Benito Juárez, cherished four-time president of Mexico. Born to Zapotec peasants in Oaxaca, Juárez was a social reformer of the 1860’s and is one of Mexico’s heroes.
The road is shaded by giant higueras blancas, parrotas, and huanacaxtles with their peeling red bark. I pass the mysterious grand shrine, adorned with nichos filled with flowers and statues. One day I will find out what this really is. A memorial to an accident? Another shrine to the Virgin? Whatever it is, there are almost always people there, and it is regularly repainted in different colors. Today it is a soft yellow, the most conservative color I’ve ever seen it decorated.
Then I come upon a train, a line of cars plodding along behind a big slow semi inching up the mountain. I reach over and turn on my flashers, a courtesy I’ve learned from Mexican drivers, to warn the next car behind me that we have a situation. Once that car has slowed, its driver will usually do the same, and my flashers are turned off.
Now, at twenty miles per hour, I have time to look around a bit, down into the valleys far below, up to the hillsides where leafless trees are dotted with huge yellow blossoms. On the mountainside ahead of me, I see my first jacaranda, generously dusted with lilac blossoms. It’s dry here, hotter than it was in the sea breezes of the coast. Palm trees disappear, replaced by the occasional tall spiny cactus jutting from rocky hillsides.
At last, I spot the roadside OXXO just before the entrance to the cuota, and pull over to use the facilities...which I need badly, and which are closed due to “no agua”. Across the road a piece is a Pemex station. I pull around the side to the restroom doors, am in and out quickly, but not quickly enough to avoid the guy who has decided to wash my windshield whether it needs it or not. All right, it sort of did, so I give him a few extorted pesos, and make the turn to the cuota tollbooth.
The road improves immediately. Curves are wider and softer, the highway so smooth I can’t hear my car moving, except for the breeze shushing through the open window. I zip along until I notice a car ahead moving very slowly. As I pull up behind it, I see it is stuck behind an ancient pickup truck, in the back of which stands a giant bull. The truck crawls along, an unusual sight on the pricey cuota. I figure the bull must get some hefty stud fees.
Camino sinuoso, read the signs. The road still too curvy to pass, we chug along together until the cuota becomes the main street of Chapalilla, unreasonably one of my favorite sights along the way, where the bull truck kindly pulls off to the side. On the highway, Chapalilla is a funky little town where semi-trucks park to be washed as their drivers dine in the roadside eateries, where you can get a glass of fresh-squeezed mandarina juice for a few pesos. Below the road, the town nestles into the valley, with proud church spires marking its plaza.
In a few kilometers, the road merges back into the cuota from Tepic, four divided lanes of black satin. It’s twisty still. On either side of the road, a few agave fields, fluorescing blue against dry yellow grass. Then fluffy long-leaf pines appear on the hillsides. The road straightens out, and I find myself behind a white pickup truck whose driver seems to enjoy driving as much as I do. In tandem, we move to the left lane on a long smooth uphill, passing big slow trucks and a chummy caravan of RV-ers. He’s a good driver, careful and courteous, but he’s no slowpoke, and I enjoy being behind him. The race-car driver inside me gets a thrill from seeing the speedometer pegged at 120, even though I know that’s kilometers per hour and is only around 75 in real life. I crank up the guitar music and fly like a bird.
We pass the craggy black lava fields of the El Ceboruco volcano and the turnoff to Jala. I promise myself to spend a night there soon to visit the witches. So many intriguing little towns lie in these valleys, and here I am, speeding past them again. One of these days, I remind myself firmly, you take a road trip without a goal.
The hills stretch out golden, stippled with dark oaks. We speed on, over the state line between Nayarit and Jalisco, past Magdalena and Tequila, still dancing our pas de deux. But the white truck’s driver is a guy, and I’m not, so eventually I need a potty stop and he doesn’t. I lose him at the tollbooth rest area, but console myself with a cheese and mustard sandwich from my styrofoam cooler and a cold Diet Coke from the drinks stand. I need sustenance now, as I’m getting close to the city limits of giant Guadalajara, and this will be my first trip through on my own.
Following the turn-off to Guadalajara centro and Avenida Lazaro Cárdenas, I have to wonder if I’ve made a wrong turn. The cuota stops abruptly, the road now shabby and studded with topes (speed bumps), little handmade businesses crowded alongside. Is this right? I wonder, although I’ve been this way several times before. Soon enough, the scenery is obviously familiar, and I relax, keeping my eye on the many signs directing me into the city and beyond. I’m doing just fine...until I miss the exit to Lazaro Cárdenas.
Oh, @#$%^&*. I crane my neck and see the tall golden arches, McDonald’s symbol on steroids, a landmark that I know from having been on Lazaro Cárdenas before. It’s way over there to the right, and I’m not. There must be a way to cross over, I tell myself. But which road goes that way and does not take me further into the depths of downtown?
Before the next stoplight, I veer off into the lateral and spot a hotel taxi stand ahead. I pull over and reach for my Guia Roja, the booklet of indispensible maps, which (precognitively) I have open to the city map of Guadalajara. I see where I am. I see the apparently logical path to the street I need. I know that logic is not usually one’s best tool in Mexican driving.
But I also know I’m very near the roundabout (or glorieta, as they’re called here, an ever so much more beautiful word) of Minerva, goddess of justice, wisdom, and strength. Excellent. Exactly who I need.
Beside one of the empty taxis parked ahead of me, I see a taxi driver. I roll down my window. “¿Taxi, señora?” he inquires, walking to my car. He notices my map in hand. I tell him no, thanks, I only need to get to Lazaro Cárdenas, and ask him the best way. His directions are clear and muddy at the same time. It seems, however, that the turn is, in fact, the next one. Okey dokey, Minerva. Let’s give this a try.
I take the street I think he’s told me to take. I find myself in one of those all too common Mexican city driving situations: I’m in the left lane, I need to turn right, and the intersection is unsignaled, chaotic, and hopelessly gridlocked. And so I do the only thing I can do: The Mexican Merge. Signal, advance a few feet, begin to squeeze in, wait, squeeze some more, and at the first breath of an opportunity, hold my breath and go for it. Hey, nobody honked and only one dirty look. Success!
Now I’m moving forward in the correct direction, cars merging around me from the left lane to the right, from the right lane to the left, from the sidestreets into wherever they can possibly fit, creating lanes where none exist. Although most cars are exiting now to a lower avenue, I think I’d better stay on this street, but then again, maybe not. Ooh. The taxi driver said something about the train tracks, and I’m crossing them now, that’s good.
And there’s the brand new bridge overpass on Lazaro Cárdenas that was going to make this trip through the city so easy! If I were on it, but I’m crossing under it, admiring it from below. It looks lovely. There has to be a way to get up there from here, doesn’t there? I spot a sign. Unfortunately, as with so many road signs in Mexico, it is perfectly unclear whether it means “Turn now!” or “Turn in another few meters/blocks/kilometers.” It seems to have meant the first this time. Drat. Okay, there’s a nice clear street I can turn left on, which I do. If I loop into this retorno (a cut through the median), which may or may not be legal (¿quién sabe?) I should be able to get on that street that’s parallel to the overpass and get up there. I do, and I do. Yahoo.
So, with all this flapdoodle, I’ve lost twenty minutes against what should have been a record time from San Pancho to Tonalá, but I’ve had a real Guadalajara driving experience in return. I follow Lazaro Cárdenas straight past the Tonalá bus terminal and find the new overpass directly into the heart of Tonalá, which is fortunate, as Lazaro Cárdenas becomes highway 90 to Mexico City and I really don’t want to go there today.
I pull into my hotel parking lot exactly four and a half hours after pulling out of San Pancho. I’m pooped, but not so much that I can’t go make an appointment with the tin lampara guy for tomorrow morning and browse a bit. I discover a new place to shop which you’ll hear about eventually, the home of Marisocco and her six sons.
Then, near the plaza, I find a cubbyhole of a bar with tiny high tables and Modelo Light and ashtrays, opened to the street. I perch on a stool, order a tall icy bottle and give myself a little gift: time to rest and celebrate.
❂ ❂ ❂
FYI: The tolls on the cuota are paid four times between Compostela and Guadalajara, and amounted one-way to 279 pesos, around $24 U.S. at this writing. In return, one drives a road maintained better than any I've driven in the United States in years, and has free emergency towing, free ambulance and medical care in case of mishap.
P.S. Sorry, still no photos up on the Circo de los Niños at the entreAmigos website. I'll keep you posted.
To my readers: FYI, the previous comment from Thelma is from a dear friend who has passed her 80th birthday. Long ago, in the 60's and 70's, Thelma used to take a road trip every year through Mexico with two or three woman friends. She knows and loves Mexico thoroughly. As you can imagine, Mexico was a very different country then, and women driving alone were truly breaking new ground. I have sat spellbound listening to her stories. Thelma is one of my true heroines in life, and I am honored constantly by the fact that she reads and responds to my efforts on this blog.
Love you, Thelma!
Posted by: Candice | March 31, 2011 at 09:37 PM
DAMN! Candice, your description was so good that I felt like I was sitting right next to you! As I've said before, your blog really, really brightens my life here in the gray, cold NW.
Posted by: Thelma | March 31, 2011 at 09:30 PM
you are some woman!! one day i really want to do that trip with you! Can I PLEASEEEE???
Posted by: karen Razza | March 31, 2011 at 05:47 PM
Posted last night but for some reason the site wouldn't accept my post - anyway - kudos to you for the driving. I need to try it again - I drove in Spain quite a bit - the country side was great - cities not so much.
I'll be in Bucerias Sept 2-9- hope to see you!! And your beautiful casa. Please e-mail me!
Posted by: Jeanne | March 27, 2011 at 12:47 AM
Youre a much braver woman than I will ever be! Gutsy is right!
Posted by: Char | March 25, 2011 at 08:45 AM
DRIVING yourself in Guadalajara.... there should be medals, I have enough trouble second hand driving the bus driver, or taxi guy. and all in only 4 hours. Truly you need a medal! Gutsy Gringa!!!!
Posted by: Gretchen | March 25, 2011 at 07:24 AM