Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
These missions were neglected until the 1960s when their Baroque façades, with indigen-
ous elements in the iconography, were appreciated. Tilaco, the most elaborate and known
as the jewel of the Sierra Gorda Missions, was so remote that a road had to be built before
renovating the mission. The first workhorse truck had to be dismantled, carried over the
mountains, and reassembled.
I started early, although I hate to roll out of bed before the dawn. When I get up, I want
to see sunshine, or at least be aware that the sun is up before me. But dawn comes about
7 a.m. in Río Verde and that was the hour my bus left the terminal for the Sierra Gorda, a
paradise of mountains, gorges, a river and valley towns.
The Río Verde taxi driver must have felt the same about rising before dawn. There was no
cab waiting at the stand to take me to the bus terminal, but I had time to walk the mile or
so, about twenty minutes. The clerk remembered my name, Ricardo, and when I asked for
a ticket to Concá, she automatically typed in my name and assigned me seat number three,
same as the day before, when I went to Tamasopo.
I had five missions to visit, three on the same route, two hidden in the mountains. I figured
I could take the bus to three and negotiate with taxi drivers for the side trips to the other
two. Yes, buses do trek into the Sierra Gorda, but some routes are daily, not hourly, when
you leave the main road, highway 120.
The day went smoothly. I was soaked in the rain, burned in the sun, rode buses and taxis,
marveled at the missions, ate breakfast in Concá, met the Secretary of Tourism, took a zil-
lion photos, skipped lunch in favor of Cokes, checked into hotel El Castillo in Xilítla, ate
a supper of Pollo a la Mexicana (Chicken Mexican Style), and by 6:30 p.m. I was using
the Internet at the Cyber Café. That's a lot of activity packed into twelve hours.
The early morning bus driver from Río Verde believed his passengers had snoozed enough.
Before backing out of the stall, he turned on Norteño polka-accordion music. He liked it
loud and because he was the driver, he got his choice. We oompahed, oompahed, oompa-
hed, oompahed for the next hour, in and out of three towns. The lyrics were clear. It's not
a bad way to practice your Spanish on a trip.
I rummaged through my shoulder bag but found that I had left my notes someplace. I
wasn't sure of all the missions' names. I asked the driver, "Is there a mission in Concá?"
"Concá?" he repeated. "There is nothing there. There is an old hacienda."
