Where The Periferico Ends
Mary and I had cabin fever yesterday from sitting around the house, so we decided to check out a lake near the airport that someone had told us about. The idea was to check it out as a possible investment opportunity. Surely the idea of a house on a lake very near to the airport would be attractive to businesses.
A tired executive could have a nice quiet retreat instead of wading through city traffic in a taxi to get to a sterile hotel room. We’d buy the land before prices went up and sit tight for a couple of years while property values rose. It sounded good in theory.
We drove to a local mall where we bought a “Guia Roji” map of the state of Jalisco, which is the state that Guadalajara is in. But the map showed no lake near the airport. We looked at our Guia Roji city map for Guadalajara, and it showed a lake. Two maps by the same company: one shows a lake, the other doesn’t. Which one do you believe? We chose the city map.
After a quick breakfast at a Burger King in the mall (which incidentally charged US prices, same as McDonalds), we got on the periferico and then headed south on highway 23. We drove all the way to the airport without seeing the exit we were expecting. After turning around, we headed back toward Guadalajara. We spotted a side street in the right location, heading in the right direction, so we slowed down and turned onto it.
The road was paved, but it was in poor condition with potholes everywhere. A fire burned next to the road with thick black smoke pouring out of it. We forged on ahead.
The pavement ended, with cobblestones taking its place. The buildings next to the road were rundown. Mary said that this was no place for gringos and I agreed with her. Her instincts are almost always right on target. So we turned around and managed to get back to the periferico. So much for investing in lakeside property.
We weren’t ready to head back home yet, so when Mary mentioned that she had read something about the town of Juanacatlan, I was game to go on a new adventure. We studied the maps. Since we were so near to Guadalajara, I decided that we’d take highway 80 through the outskirts of Guadalajara to get to Juanacatlan.
We got back on highway 23 and, of course, could not find 80. We did a “retorno”, and headed south again. Right where we intersected with the periferico again, there was a sign for the town of San Martin de Flores, or, in English, “San Martin of flowers”.
We took the exit, which actually put us back on the periferico, heading east. After a few hundred yards, the four-lane periferico ended in a two-lane road. The road was headed in the right direction, so we followed a bus, dodging the potholes as we encountered them.
After a while, the pavement ended, and turned into crushed rock. The bus was still going strong, so we tagged along behind. The crushed rock ended, and the road became a dirt trail. Our car shook, but the bus seemed to be made of sterner stuff. It left us in the dust as I slowed down. This obviously wasn’t any highway, even by Mexican standards, but we were curious enough to continue on.
We finally came to a rundown little village, where the first thing we did was to turn around at the first opportunity. A man was repairing steps with cement, so we knew we weren’t in a bad place like down by the so called “lake”, but there just wasn’t anything worth looking at. It felt like we were two thousand miles and fifty years from Guadalajara.
We slowly drove back toward highway 23. At one point on our return, after we got back on the pavement, we encountered a spot on the road where the potholes were very thick. As I weaved the car through this spot, I commented to Mary, “This is a pothole crossing!” Mary quickly came back with, “Yes, the potholes are migrating. But they move very slowly.” Sometimes you get a little giddy, traveling in Mexico.
We were still keen on getting to Juanacatlan, so this time we followed a route that Mary picked out. We headed south on 23, passing the airport exit. The map showed an exit to Juanacatlan south of the airport, but we drove for quite a way without finding it. Mary was willing to turn around again, but I kept us heading south. Finally we spotted it, way past where the map said it would be. So much for Mexican maps.
We headed east on this really weird road. It seemed to actually be two separate roads joined at the hip, as it were. There was no median. Each road was two-lanes wide, and each was one-way. This makes it sound like the road was a four lane highway, but there were potholes everywhere, which the traffic had to weave through, effectively making each road a one lane highway. This was pothole city!
On top of the potholes, there was so much blowing sand in the air that visibility was down to 40 feet at one point. It was like driving through a desert dust storm, but hey, we were having an adventure!
Along the side of the road, there were piles of sand and gravel. It was clear that the government had near-term plans for the road, probably to make it into a true four-lane highway. You have to give the Mexican government credit for its efforts to fix up the roads.
There used to be a pothole near our house that was as big as a car (I am not exaggerating!). It’s fixed. And I can remember certain particularly vicious potholes scattered about Guadalajara that have now been fixed. The government is trying.
We pulled off the road in front of a small store to buy some sodas. Mary came back to the car smiling. “Do you know what? The kid behind the counter spoke perfect English! Even you could have gone in there and ordered the sodas.”
Mary had gotten directions, so when we came to this big façade gate we turned right and quickly found ourselves crossing a bridge into Juanacatlan.
Juanacatlan is a small town built on the side of a hill overlooking a river. It is exceptionally clean. A young people’s soccer game must have just let out because people where everywhere, some still in uniform, others carrying musical instruments. We cruised the narrow streets looking at everything and everybody. Somehow or other we stumbled upon the town plaza which every Mexican city seems to have. We circled it and then decided to drive over to the nearby town of El Salto. We drove back across the bridge and passed through the façade gate.
El Salto was ok, but it wasn’t nearly as charming as Juanacatlan. We cut through the town looking for the highway on the map that would take us north and then west, back to Guadalajara. I decided to follow a street that climbed a steep hill. We squeezed past parked cars until we gained the top of the hill. A little further along the road turned from pavement to cobblestone, almost a sure sign that you are not on the right road, but a few cars ahead of us continued heading north, out of town.
The road got really rough. We slowed down, but kept on driving, avoiding the potholes whenever possible. A van behind us thought we were driving too slowly. As they passed us, I swear I heard a goat bleating inside the van!
We kept on driving until we saw some green traffic signs. Even better, we hit pavement again! One of the signs actually had the word “Guadalajara” on it with an arrow pointing straight ahead. We were actually on the right road. Damn, did that sign look good!
As we followed the arrow, we saw a federal prison set well off the highway. It had guard towers and high fences topped with razor wire. A big sign warned people that it was forbidden to come near the prison. I suppose that if you ignored the sign and came too close, they would grab you and give you a very intimate view of the inside of the prison. Sometimes it’s better not to be too curious.
A little further on we hit highway 80, which was the highway we had originally been trying to find after leaving the “lake”. We followed it back to Guadalajara and quickly got across town and back near our house.
Mary didn’t feel like cooking, so she suggested we stop at a small food stand that was offering two grilled chickens (Sinaloa style), two liters of soda, two cartons of salsa, and a half a kilo of macaroni salad for 99 pesos, or about ten dollars. The place was busy, but I managed to pull off the street and park on the sidewalk. Mary got out and stood in line while I stayed in the car to move it if necessary.
The place was run by four men in their late thirties, and a woman in the back who was busy making fresh salsa. I watched the men as they cooked and served up orders. Each man was in constant motion, but the line hardly moved at all. Thick smoke from the grill rolled out, engulfing the car, bringing a wonderful smell into the car.
After 45 minutes or so, Mary came to the car with a plastic cup. She said business was so good that they couldn’t cook the chicken fast enough. The owner had apologized for the delay, and offered free tequila to everyone in line. One guy said, “Hell, my wife is going to accuse me of going to the cantina anyway, so why not?”
Mary took a little sip out of her tequila and brought the rest to me. Then she got back in line. I could see that some of the men had opted for straight tequila. The owner had not been stingy. Each cup had at least three shots of tequila in it.
I just marveled at the brilliance of the owner. He had taken what could have been a public relations disaster and turned it into a situation that everyone would remember with favor. He had created loyal customers out of what could have been a crowd of disgruntled people. Sheer genius. Of course you could never do such a thing in the US. They have laws against everything. There, anything, which is not expressly permitted, is prohibited. I like living in Mexico where people are free.
Mary finally got the chicken and we returned home. The food was delicious. The chicken was tender and moist. The salsa was outstanding - very fresh and quite spicy. Mary and I agreed that we would be going back there again in the future. If things look good, we might ask if the owner if he would be interested in money to expand his operation. Mary and I know a good thing when we see it.