Pot Squirrel
Lea didn’t like Mexico the way Mary and I did. She expressed a desire to return to the US early, to go back to living with her mother, so I bought her an airline ticket. But in a last effort at opening her eyes to the attractions of Mexico, Mary and I decided to take her on a road trip to a town named “Patzcuaro”. Mary, who speaks Spanish like a native (she had previously lived in Mexico for 11 years) was actually able to pronounce the name. I was afraid of permanently injuring my tongue, so I referred to it as “pot squirrel”, and I suggest you do the same.
Shortly after leaving Guadalajara, we stopped at a roadside restaurant in a small town. It consisted of a roof sticking out of the side of a building, much like an awning, but more permanent. Some tables and chairs were set up under the roof. I parked the car; we walked two steps, and sat at a table waiting to be served. We made a light meal out of some wonderful goat meat wrapped in tortillas, sitting out in the open with soft breezes caressing us while we chattered and watched the cars pass by. Only in Mexico!
Proceeding on our way, we came to the famous fork in the road. And guess what? There was no sign indicating which way to go. We chose the left hand road. After driving ten miles, we began to suspect that things weren’t entirely kosher. We drove back a mile to ask a field worker if we were on the right road. He assured us that we were.
Here’s a little travel tip: Most Mexicans take the bus when they travel, because they can’t afford to own a car. Therefore most Mexicans have very little knowledge of the geography of their country. They just know which bus to take. But will they admit to that? No way, José. They have their pride, and they have this need to be helpful. So they’ll give it their best shot and off you go. The trick is to pick someone who looks intelligent. Don’t assume that you can ask another driver either. Often their geographical knowledge is very local. Try to pick someone who looks like they did well in school especially in geography class.
Beggars are not often choosers, so we followed the advice of the field hand, turned around, and went another 3 or 4 miles down the road before I decided that the mountains ahead looked an awful lot like the ones back around Guadalajara. We retraced our route all the way back to the fork and took the other road. After a mile we spotted a sign that indicated we had chosen wisely this time.
After passing through several towns, we came upon a section of road that twisted its way over some small mountains, through woods that provided a park-like setting. The turns were tight which suited me fine. I love to put a car through its paces, pushing it to near the edge, feeling inertia push my body from side to side as I power a car through a tight curve.
There’s something very sensual about it, but I never push right up to the edge. I always leave a margin of error for unexpected things like potholes or animals.
Unfortunately, we soon came upon slow moving trucks and had to slow down. I managed to pass one or two on straight sections of road, but those sections were few. Mexican drivers are not so squeamish, however. I have seen Mexicans pass five cars at a time, going uphill while rounding a curve. To my mind, they are flat out suicidal. Maybe I’m just jealous.
We passed through a town named Tzintzuntzan. The name is supposed to be the sound a humming bird makes in Tarascan, which is an Indian language. I'm not making this up.
Another ten miles or so down the road we arrived in Patzcuaro. We rented a room in a hotel that was formerly a private residence. I can’t be too specific on the name, because of some possible legal difficulties. You see, Mexicans are a short statured people, which is a fancy way of saying that most of them are not really tall. It seems the more Indian blood a Mexican has, the shorter he or she is.
Ok, I’ll get on with the story. While entering the bathroom, I hit my head on the top of the doorway, which was only about 5 feet 8 inches high. I really hit hard and it hurt a lot. Like any other reasonable adult human male, I instantly assaulted the top of the door. I hit it so hard that the wood split. I feel that instant and unexpected pain deserves a prompt reply, but after calming down, I let Mary push the wood back together. You could hardly see that it was broken.
We spent the night in Patzcuaro. The next morning we went to the local flea market, and had breakfast sitting in front of a little grill. The orange juice was especially good. Oranges in Mexico are not like the perfectly colored, perfectly spherical ones in the States. Mexicans don’t particularly care how an orange looks. They care how it tastes. So you will find oddly shaped oranges that are often colored somewhat green, but give up the best tasting, freshly squeezed orange juice you have ever drank.
We bought a few things at the market, walked around the town squares (Patzcuaro has more than one), and visited the inside of a church, but the town does not have much to offer.
We decided to backtrack a bit to Tzintzuntzan where we had noticed a small market. When we got there, we went crazy. The prices were incredibly cheap. Mary didn't even have the heart to bargain with the merchants - I mean things were cheap! We bought paintings, artificial flowers, and carved wooden wall hangings painted with bright primary colors red, green, blue, yellow, etc.
Having whetted our buying appetites, we once again headed for Patzcuaro, passed through it and headed for the town of Santa Clara del Cobre which is famous for it copper smithing - pots, pans, vases, plates etc. Mary bought a copper vase in a little shop we spotted. We drove to the town square, parked, and had lunch in a little restaurant as we eyed the copper goods lining the square. It was a nice lunch except for some little brat kid with amazingly loud lungs. Some Mexicans are much too tolerant with their children.
We wandered around the square ogling the wares on display, buying a little here and a little there until we ran out of money like I told Mary we would. But did she listen to me when I said we needed to change more dollars before the trip? Nooooooo.
We retraced part of our route to get back to civilization. The twisty winding road that I had so enjoyed the previous day was blessedly free of trucks since it was Sunday. I had great fun driving it the way it was meant to be driven.
We decided to pamper ourselves and take the cuota (toll road) back to Guadalajara. We took a shortcut to catch the cuota as quickly as possible - the shortcut from hell.
We got lost in some town having a fiesta, and wound up driving the wrong way down a one-way street. We stopped in the middle of the street to ask directions from another driver who was facing the right way (always look for an intelligent looking person, right?).
We managed to reach the outskirts of the town where the traffic was lighter. Then things got really bad. The pathetic road we had been following was closed for repairs. We followed the detour sign (hey, at least there was a sign!) down a dirt trail that looked like some drunk had carved it out with a busted bulldozer. Big dips, potholes, branching paths with no signs; this incredible excuse for a road had it all.
We finally got back on blacktop again, but the road had the most incredible collection of potholes that I have ever seen. It was like being on an obstacle course. Even the little towns we went through had big potholes on their main street. It felt like we were in the armpit of all of Mexico!
We finally hit the cuota and found we were only 130 miles from Guadalajara. Would you believe that we paid $17 in tolls to travel those 130 miles? Mexico has the highest tolls in the world.
We reached Guadalajara fairly quickly. Those high tolls keep the cuotas pretty empty of traffic and Mexican cops are not often seen. To see other cars traveling in excess of one hundred miles an hour on the cuota is not at all uncommon.
Mary wanted to go to the center of town, orient herself, and then drive back out toward the edge of town again where we were staying. I thought this was quite silly. I wanted to take a shortcut (I learn very slowly). My plan was to follow the periferico (a generic term for a circular road around the outskirts of a town).
An hour and a half later Mary and I were no longer speaking to each other. We finally stopped at a gas station to ask for directions and found that we were only two blocks from home. Technically I won, but I apologized to Mary anyway. The things I do for that woman!
