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| Corner of Calle 16 de Septembre and Ugarte, Juarez Mexico |
Walk about the rock
It may give you a few answers
Don't lie about the rock
Walk about the rock
It gives me all the answers
Don't lie about the rock
Rock I knew. I'm from Utah. Sandstone monoliths and craggy canyons were not unfamiliar. But Mexico, that blank space on US maps below Texas, called to me like some uncharted frontier. Why? I don't know. Dream time. Something unknown that could perhaps provide either escape or answers to that riddle, I why? / Why I? (as one of my professors had worded it). What Mexico had to do with knowing my place in the universe, I don't know. I guess it's no different than generations of Americans who have backpacked across Europe in search of who they are. There is something essential about crossing into the unknown to find ourselves. At least that is the impulse of youth. For some, it's Europe. For others, drugs. For some, a combination of both. For me, it seemed glimpsing Barrancas del Cobre might possibly be enough, and certainly not as unnerving as an acid trip. I've always been driven to experience life, but I've never been driven to dangle a leg over the edge. I want to experience vertigo, but I want a handrail to hold on to. This was to be my short, safe, structured journey into the unknown.
I can't remember if I drove through the night from Dallas or if I camped at Monohans Sand Hills. I do remember I could see the jagged mountains around Van Horn in the early predawn. I remember also a jagged outline at Sierra Blanca. Then there was almost a canyon--the freeway curved a bit, this way and that way--and then the world opened up, the lights of El Paso / Juarez spread across the valley floor like a galaxy. Near by, a thin arm of scattered stars swept by along the river. Far up ahead, I could see the hot white core. The sky behind me lightened, and slowly the Franklin and Juarez mountains were tinged in that predawn pink that occurs right before the sun tops the horizon in the east. Somewhere around what I think was probably Fabens, I pulled over at a truck stop. It sat on a slight bluff before the freeway dropped off an alluvial fan into the valley. I remember I wanted to savor the moment. I bought a chocolate milk and a doughnut and sat on the trunk of my car and watched the sunlight hit those mountains for the first time. I even thought I could see the border. There was a line. On one side most of the city lights were bright white, and on the other side they were a softer yellow. The pink climbed down the peaks, moving forward across the valley floor, and then the ranges exploded in a warm golden light as the sun peaked over the horizon behind me. It was glorious. There is nothing like seeing a desert range blasted by first sunlight. Desert landscapes absolutely glisten in the morning. That I already knew from my trips to the Davis and Guadalupe Mountains. The Chihuahua desert was built to be viewed at low sun angles. The golden grasses, cacti and yucca glow; rocky cliffs throw great shadows received by deep canyons. It is stark. Bold. Blazingly beautiful.
In my handy guidebook I'd read that the safest place to leave your car on this side of the border was in the parking garage across the street from the courthouse. So, that's what I did. By the time I exited the shade and hit the streets of El Paso, the sun was fierce. I'd never experienced such intense light. I later lived in El Paso for four years, but I never did get used to that morning sunlight. Even in the winter it feels like it will burn your face off. It must have to do with the dry air, although I spent summers in Reno as a kid, which is just as dry, and I never experienced anything like it there. I don't know what it is, but it's connected with the angle of the sun because in the winter, if I remember right, it occurs between 9:00 and 10:00. Summers, it's more like 7:00 to 8:00. I was in awe, shielding my eyes, as I stumbled through the grid of streets squinting at old brick and brightly painted concrete block buildings, a steeple of an old church sticking up now and then into that hot white sky.
I crossed the border at the Stanton Street bridge. I still remember the anxious anticipation I felt as I slipped my coins in the slotted window and headed down a concrete sidewalk to a bridge that spanned a river and two nations. A stream of vehicles ahead shot back intense light. Just beyond the flags at the border, an abuela leaned against the concrete wall of the bridge, her long dress pooled around her, while her two nietas worked the cars, holding up boxes of gum and yelling, "chicles, chicles," as they moved in and out of the stop and go traffic, smiling grandly, ponytails bouncing behind them.
And then I was headed down the other side of the bridge. Juarez here isn't as immediate as it is crossing the Santa Fe Street bridge. There is some open space, a few wide sizzling parking lots, and then, after crossing a wide street paralleling the border, you enter blocks of low dentists offices. It took a few blocks to enter the cozy congested busyness that is Juarez. I was looking for what I remember now as the Hotel Juarez. According to my guide book it had the cheap rates ($12, if I remember right), and yet was still reasonably clean.
I'm not sure if I have the name right, but whatever the name, I remember it was a small, two-story motel, and next door was a military institution. The men in service wore camouflage uniforms and marched up and down the street in groups of around six. As I'd been told since I was a little kid that in Mexico you are guilty until proven innocent, the military presence made me quite nervous. In my mind, I was now all alone in some place akin to Nazi Germany. I entered the hotel as quickly as possible and took the room without any question simply because I wanted to get off the street until the soldiers were gone.
So, I checked in. I think I remember being taken to my room. It was on the second floor. It was small but clean. I was exhausted from driving most of the night. The way I remember it, I opened up the window, turned on the ceiling fan and fell asleep on a thin, white bedspread. Perhaps I dreamed of gas chambers and tall chimneys where ash spewed out and floated across the city, blanketing the roads with a thick, gray silent hush. Perhaps I did not. I do know I slept from lack of sleep not from peace of mind.
Towards sunset, I woke up rested, but hot and sweaty. I decided to take a shower. The bathroom was small with a white porcelain sink from the 50s. The toilet had some hard water stains, but other than that seemed clean. The shower was the first solid sign this room was not rented in the States. When I turned on the water, the pressure was low, and there was definitely an odor. Probably just minerals, well water, but still it had a smell other than the normal U.S.A. chlorine. It was somewhat difficult to wash my hair under such a small stream of water, but I got the job done.
Fresh and clean, I looked out the window at the hard light and deep shadows thrown on the buildings across the street. I looked down to the sidewalk below; the soldiers were gone, and so I decided it was safe to hit the streets and see just what this other town, this other nation, had to offer.
That this place was nothing like the United States hit me immediately. As I followed Avenue Lerdo south, the street tightened, the buildings rose from mostly single-story to mostly three and four stories, and the traffic increased. Although there were no high-rises, it was denser than any city I'd experienced, and I lived in Dallas. Old Spanish mission-style adobe buildings with peeling pink plaster stood next to bare-bones European modernism with horizontal runs of black ribbon windows, which stood next to cheap concrete-block, build-it-yourself enterprises painted the most fantastic colors--orange, hot pink, bright yellow, and even purple. Letters were everywhere: Copias, Fotos, Comidas y Platillos Variados, Caldos Res / Pollo, SALIDAS DIARIAS A. Amazing. Bold colors. Bold print. Clearly screaming, Come fork out your money! but in a language I could only occasionally understand.
Eventually, I passed Plaza de Torez, the bullfighting ring, a dingy, stained concrete stadium that looked far less stable than the 1,900 year old Colosseum in Rome. From there I jogged my way over towards where I later learned the cathedral was, and watched a city bus almost disappear before my eyes in the biggest, wettest pot hole I'd ever seen. I hadn't been aware that it rained, but it must have. It was an astonishingly busy corner, and this great narrow side street angled off at a 30 degree angle boasting hole in the wall diners with bright signs announcing pollo asado y rostizado or carnes aves y mariscos. I was dazed and amazed by all the movement and color. I would later learn that I was on the corner of Calle 16 de Septembre and Ugarte, which would remain my favorite corner in Juarez the four years I lived in El Paso.
I don't remember what all I did. I do remember I felt oddly at home standing on that corner all alone in a country not my own, completely isolated from the language, the history, the culture. The next morning, I was supposed to catch a bus to Chihuahua where I'd board the train to Copper Canyon. I never did. I felt I was where I needed to be. I walked many hours that night, and when I returned to the hotel, I booked another night. The next day, I walked some more.
Later, I moved to El Paso, and walked that great city spread across three states and two nations for four more years. It's now been 25 years since I left, and yet often in my mind, I'm still walking there. I don't know why.
