El Pinche Desierto - Part 1
So this is where I’ve been wanting to return to without even knowing it. I’ll finish the road trip in January and then find a job, I had told myself. Months raced by before my eyes however and I had no intention of following through on that thought. No intention of doing anything anyone advised me too. Do whatever you can to stay in America; old men, who in their decades since moving there as young men had come to be filled with fear, told me. Others were more constructive and sensible. Go to South America where your money will go further. Volunteer at music festivals around the world. Come back to India and plan your next move in peace. Entirely reasonable suggestions, but I wasn’t some European cunt who works six months as a waiter and spends the rest of the year in the third world pretending like they don’t belong to the most powerful and racist nation-states of the world. You want a challenge? Forget competitive hitchhiking, burn your fucking passports and let’s see how far you get. No, I wasn’t interested in currency arbitrage. (Don’t you dare mention that this is what I’m basically doing now.) Music Festivals? See above. Replace European with a blank. And peace? Nah. I was a savage now. Heeding none of their words, off I drove into the night. Howling in my car. However, the visceral feeling of freedom was ephemeral. As it always is. The fog of depression descended. As it always does. Except deeper. Crap.
Oh right. The fucking desert. Although technically, it’s actually the edge of a mountain range in the middle of a desert.
Harbouring some notion of taking a train through the Copper Canyon, I had made my way to Chihuahua. Except, I was told it would be cheaper to start in a small town to the east. The next economy class one doesn’t leave for another two days. There’s no hostel here, so aside from a few visiting families, I’m the only tourist here. The season hasn’t started yet. I usually like that, except there’s no one to talk to. And no wifi in the hotel. A day and night of lying in bed, polite smiles and consuming nothing but chocolate milk and corn on the cob passes by. By the time I run into Louis in the lobby, I’m close to exasperation and ask if he wants to go for a hike. No hello. No introduction. It turns out he’s in a bit of a funk as well. And he’s from California, although he’s raza. Later he introduces me to Davíd. Outfitted in mostly vans, I assume incorrectly that he’s a bit soft.
As they were headed to the barrancas by bus the next day, I ditch the train idea and tag along. The lads had already visited it a few days prior and scouted a cave where we could camp. Davíd has a tent, but neither Louis or I have any camping gear. A pillow and my yogitoes should suffice, I foolishly think. A short bus ride and a quick supply run later, we start following the path into the canyon. There’s no sign, but the man who dug it up greets us at the entrance. Does he want money? No, just a nod of appreciation. As with all trails in such terrain, it’s a winding one. Louis is nearing the end of his particular voyage. He started in Guatemala, but spent most of his time in Mexico. He’s the first one in his family that has had the opportunity to travel at leisure; making me see just how privileged I am blah blah etc etc. Our conversations are in English when David isn’t around. After his great-grandparents immigrated to California in the 1930s, the pressure to assimilate meant that by the time he was born, neither his parents nor abuelos spoke español. The result of this “adaptation” at large is an interesting albeit sometimes hilarious hispanic culture without the Spanish part.
After about an hour on the trail, we scamper up a sheer rock face to take a short cut. Ok, so maybe sheer is an exaggeration. Can we agree on steep? It’s our first clear view of the barrancas. Louis, despite hauling a more cumbersome backpack and way more water makes it up easier than I do and is even magnanimous when I bring it up. Cunt. Of course, he’s just a lovely dude. Long-term travel brings out a humility in some people. And speaking of things that come out of people, this is about when it started. The flatulence. The soundtrack to this story. A deep fried chile pepper stuffed with cheese and then wrapped in a frijole-soaked tortilla? En serio, Louis? Everyone in this country is probably going to die a Coca-Cola induced diabetic death, but fuck me they do know how to live. In any case, I would later eat a simple gorditas con nopal and yet my contributions to this symphony are equally impressive. Maybe more frequent even.
We are soon at the campsite. Except much better. A cave. Or a cropping. A large one. There are other ones of varying sizes all around the canyon wall. There’s donkey shit around. Not too much. Leaving everything behind, we set off again. Children from the nearby school greet us as we cut through a farm on a long hike. A large rock formation hangs off the edge and we cautiously climb atop it. The wind is strong. This is fun. We find a goat shelter. The gap between the “ceiling” and the earth is walled-off using stones. There is a small wooden door large enough to allow one to crawl through. It’s cozy inside. No more than 3 feet high. The floor is soft. Made of manure. There is nothing else. A place to rest, which is really all you need. Sleeping under the stars sounds lovely, but the twinkling fuckers are bright.
A few hours later we are on another cliff. The sun has begun it’s slow descent filling up the canyon with light and the skies with colour. The moment is so beautiful that some words flow through my head. A respite from the usual barrage of bullshit.
`I opened my eyes.
I opened my mind.
I opened my heart.
Why didn’t you?`
Davíd explains to me that not everyone understands the value of the ephemeral. I myself often forget. Louis cracks open a bottle of tequila. It ought to have helped us sleep, but we talk and walk through the night. And fart. It’s nearly a *luna llena***** . The moon’s glow on the greyish-white canyon walls occasionally makes us feel like we’re on another planet. As usual in the desert, it’s fucking cold. Sade is playing from a bluetooth speaker. I don’t like it, but pretend to until I do. We eventually rest our eyes one by one. But I can’t sleep. Only after crawling into Davíd’s one person tent do I manage to achieve something resembling slumber. Barely.
The next morning we make our way back to our hotel a couple of hours away. I need to shit. Badly. The resulting bowel movement is exquisite. I can feel every pound being squeezed out of my sphincter. Louis is on the interior balcony typical of Spanish-style haciendas with a similar look of serenity. He was even tempted to take a photo to celebrate the monumental size of his excrement. El Dia de las Cagadas.