About buses, fear of hats and mammal fixation

Just before I left off from Creel to Hidalgo Del Parral, a small untouristy city, I did something a lot of people would never have thought me capable of doing. For some time on this trip I've been complaining much about my most loyal six-string compagnon. That tavel guitar I bought about two years ago when I traveled through Central Europe with the intention of carrying a small-sized, tough efficient guitar instead of a bulky regular one that would have been a royal pain in the ass carrying. Now, since its price was far from expensive, its quality was likewise. To such extent that it affected my playing skills (how professional is that?). Now, my first intention was to send it with a message written on it as a postcard to Bélgica and buy a decent, better one here. In Creel there was this half American, half Puerto Rican, ex-mormon, volunteering guy named Manuel who at the first look at my guitar instantly fell in love with it. Before my brain could even consider the rational path of thought, I simply said: "Have it." Consequently, I was left out with no guitar, but with less weight, another point of complaint I've had throughout this trip and something I've done little to resolve. Indeed, I, Diego Faes, donated nothing but my guitar to someone else, never to see her again. Right afterwards my mind was fighting a brief war between utter fear of abandoning and the joyous feeling of unselfishness. To this day, that war still wages on occassion. But the feeling of making someone else happy by way of donating is more than satisfactory. Yes, I litteraly gave away probably my most faithful female partner ever (because guitar=woman). But it is not the end. Promiscuity can be a relief. However, Manuel refused to accept my gift withouth a favour in return. Since I was leaving Creel the very next morning, he searched quickly for something to give me and came up with nothing less than a soccer ball-sized peach candy, made by Indigenous people whose name I have forgotten. I guess its weight was slightly more than the total of my ex-guitar and its accesories such as bottleneck, capo and recording device. Because my intention was to relieve myself of some weigth, I was not fully enthousiastic with it. I mean, I didn't exactly jump a hole through the roof out of wetting happiness. Nevertheless, I accepted the gift with sincere gratefulness instead of throwing it in his face. "Never look a given horse in its mouth", I say. As long as Manuel's happy with it, I'm happy too. But honestly, the first thing I thought of when I looked upon that candy thing was: "Fucking hell, Jebus Allmighty! Móre weight!". I ate some of it, but since sweetness isn't my tongue's favourite taste, I gave it away to my host in Durango, who's fond of sweet assortments such as a soccer ball-size peach candy. Manuel, if you're reading this, my fondest apologies. It's just that my backpack was kind of rowing at me because of the weigth and all. She can be grouchy sometimes...

Now I will continue with a more interesting story. I guess. That is, the journey from Creel to Hidalgo Del Parral. To nail the distance I had to endure two 60's style busses with best body material and isolation system. And by 'best' I mean it was completely rubbish. Recreative activities such as listening to music on a for me acceptible volume, reading, writing, or something as glorious as sleeping were made very difficult, almost impossible. Let me illustrate. The first bus left at eight in the morning, when it was still bone-freezing cold outside. The windows and entrance door were poorly isolated so that icy, chilling wind caused by the vehicle's motion blew inside. I was prepared for this in terms of clothing, but the legs underneath my skinny jeans weren't, refraining me from sleeping somewhat comfortably. Secondly, the noise produced by the bus's engine made listening to music withouth damaging one's ears very hard. So that was no option. Thirdly, and here are two possibilities. Or the bus's springs were obsolete which made a tiny bump feel like a rollercoaster ride, or the road we were on was in terrible shape capable of bouncing a vehicle of a cliff into the black. Anyway, that made even reading very unpleasant. Reading a sentence for five minutes, trying to fix your eyes on the letters can cause a headache, believe me. And lastly, each time the bus driver shifted from second to third gear, or the other way around, a most horrifying sound emerged from under the bus, as if it were about to fall apart in a thousand little pieces, leaving only but the steering-wheel in the driver's hands just like in the movies. However, all the preceded made the trip absolutely worthwhile, not to mention memorably. No comfort for me. As Mexicans put it perfectly: "No hay que llegar primero, pero hay que saber llegar." (One doesn't have to be first, one has to know how to get there) Indeed, as long as I get to point B, I mind very little. Now just imagine those incommodities I just summed up, but in a similar bus with the afternoon heat fomenting human's unpleasant odours. Yummy. Was I glad when we arrived in Hidalgo Del Parral.

I picked Parral because of its low number of visiting tourists and its general unknown aura. Therefore I spent my time walking around, reading and writing. I missed my guitar already. Luckily there was some kind of religious procession on the go which made the visit more interesting. The procession showed, to my guess, first how the indigenous people of the Pre-Hispanic era were submitted to the best religion in the word, Catholicism, and how happy they were replacing there more intriguing deities and customs by God Allmighty and his loser son. Right after them a bunch of white-clothed happy Catholics and nuns grouped together to sing glorious, three-chord church songs in repeat. The funny thing about it was that in the car were a set of giant, loud speakers were attached to, half a dozen nuns were trying to sing the lead while one of them played the songs on guitar, aided by another nun who was holding up the microphone and score simultaneously. Believe me, that was a some comical sight. Too bad my shitty camera didn't take a decent picture of the scene.

Another thing I encountered in that little town is the apparent surprise and/or fear regular, uneducated, mostly male Mexicans inherit towards my clothing and appearance in general. From the start, I've noticed lots of attention, i.e. penetrating looks, from both men and women as I stroll through the streets. Female attention obviously I don't really mind, but having men looking at me with a mocking smile is quite disturbing. The worst of them are youngsters, adolescents, pre-teenage fellows. Usually, in chorus, laugh and occassionaly even point at me. I find that kind of bizarre. Apparently, my hat, my jeans, my indigenous sandals or even my hair is reason for them to look over surprisingly. I guess I don't look that Mexican after all, unfortunately. In the course of my voyage, I've been assigned several nationalities, ranging from Chilean to American and Canadian. European or Mexican don't really come up in their heads. Albeit, not éveryone thinks alike. Still, not being recognized as Mexican by my fellow compatriots is not only a punch in my insignificant ego, it is sad. A remarkable example thereof is this guy who halted in the middle of street to observe me and shout the following unflattering remark: "Hey! Está bueno el disfrás, cabrón!" (Nice dress you got there, boy) Idiot. Ignorance reigns here. And believe me, if there's someone dressed like a clown, it's those wannabe American cowboys with their cowboy hats and fake leather boots. Voilà, that was my childish remark to it. From a more adult perspective, it's their inner fear for the unknown/uncommon, and most of all showing that fear, that result in those typical joking remarks. Hiding fear by protective laughter. It makes sense to me.

Despite the incomprehesion, I still enjoyed that little town. The old man, far beyond the official age of retirement, and his lady friends at the hotel made my stay pleasant. Old people and mature women always make nice people to converse to. Next stop, Durango.

Actually, I wanted to go straight to Zacatecas, a small (but mindwise more open) colonial city. But seen that the road thereto is pretty long, and I didn't want to skip too much, I decided I'd stay in Durango for a few days. Maybe the most interesting for my dearest readers about that city is the fact that many old western movies of Hollywoodian manufacture were filmed in the desertland surrounding the urban area. More interesting is the host I stayed with. Pablo has probably been the most considering, caring host I've met so far. He treated me like a long-lost brother or cousin that he hadn't seen for ages, more or less. Also his parents were absolutely kind to an indecent-looking vagabond, randomly invading their house. It strucks me every time how nice people there are on the couchsurfing project. If I were a priest, I would bless it with my most faithful of prayers and holy water. Also there, I have been trying to nail some of my books so I can give them away in order to reduce the total carrying weight. I've been feeding my soul intelectually, that's for sure. Durango hosted me for three days, so it was time to move on to the next destination. Before I left off, the parents told me goodbye at 05:30. The mother, just like Jozabad's grandmother in Monterrey, gave me la bendición, the blessing, athough not as emotional as the granny's. One doesn't have to believe in their god to feel their emotional attachment to it.

In Zacatecas I had trouble contacting my host, Marbel. Something in our bilateral communication went wrong, as a result that I ended up waiting in front of closed door, unable to call or text him (later I discovered he hadn't paid his phone bill). "No problem", I thought. I'll just read one of my many books I carry around. But since I can be quite unpatient sometimes, I grew more frustrated by the minute. I just hate it when people don't attend an appointment, especially when they don't inform. Luckily, my impatience didn't grow into anger. Suddenly, one of Marbel's friends, Abraham, shows up with a Slovenian girl, Natasja, also a couchsurfer. She too was going to stay the same place I was. But since there was no sign of Marbel, we decided to have some beers and hang around. To make a long story short, our host finally showed up with a lousy excuse. I didn't bother that much anymore. The important thing is that he was there and all was well again. He proofed to be an excellent host during the four days I stayed there. Two nights in a row we both ended up plastered. The first one because I'd smoked weed and I hadn't smoked in about a month. Weed+beer+tequila= ... Many of befriended readers have witnessed me in that condition. The next day it was just beer and whiskey. But instead of an informal friend's apartment, the second night of debauchery took place in a big, lower upper class house where a familiy was having a calm reunion. Only, the 31 year-old son, who still lives in that house with his paremts (!!!), converted it into a typical Mexican come-together-with-friends-drinking-occassion. Delightful...

Marbel the host, was kind of tiring me. He had much interesting to talk about, especially when it came to food and his brand new hostel. But the subject slided all to often to women. I don't mind, but talking in repeat about girlfriends, their abilities in bed, wanting to hook up with 'horny' European women, or the boobs on that broad walking by, can get boring. No bad word on him, don't get me wrong. But you know, you got to find a balance between your topics. He is someone I like to call in Dutch a tettenzot, or a breast madman. Someone with a mammal fixation. I have it too, but in a more healthy dosis. We men all have it.

That's about it for now. I still have much to write about, but I'll leave it from here to not make this post too long. I wouldn't like to bore you, of course. At the moment I'm in San Luis Potosí, about which I'll write on another occassion. Stay out of harm, and don't let the routine monster eat you.

Kind regards,

Faes