Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
left off and the sky began. I looked up and there it was, the Milky Way, spread out like a
bride's train, which I hadn't seen for years.
Two log cabins were San Pedro. One was a restaurant with no bathroom, or at least for
men it was the shadow behind the building. The other cabin seemed to be a house. I could
see a weak, yellow light from within.
My heart raced as my thoughts warned, “What if there is no bus?” I'm too old for an
overnight in a field with cows. I waited. Shadows approached. A family of four crossed
the road and assured me that the Noreste bus would arrive shortly.
We waited about half an hour. There were cheers when the Noreste bus pulled off the high-
way, rounded the corner and stopped. There were plenty of seats for the one-and-one-half-
hour ride to Creel. I was surprised. I never thought I'd arrive in Creel my first night out
from Hermosillo.
The Noreste bus was First Class, with TV but no bathroom. So I was confused as to whose
definition was reliable. Maybe different companies have different rankings. I was ready to
sit and watch a film after standing for seven hours. The movie was
Aviator
, the story of
Howard Hughes. The film was in English without subtitles. I think I was the only one on
the bus who understood the dialogue.
In Creel, Victor, a guide, met the bus. He was eager to show me a hotel. At 11 p.m. I was
eager, too. He gave me a pitch on tours as we walked two blocks to a hotel. It had no name
but was recently remodeled, and the price was $25, a bargain.
I asked for a restaurant; Victor took me to Veronica. I asked what I owed him. He said,
“Nothing.” He was hoping that I'd come by in the morning and look over the tours. I
thanked him, but also gave him 20 pesos for his advice and help.
I entered Veronica's at the same time as another man. We were the last customers. I
ordered vegetable soup that was mostly cauiflower, and a beer. I greeted the other man,
who seated himself across from my table. He carried a carbine rifle, wore green camou-
flage fatigues with a U.S. flag patch, and some army insignia on his shoulder. He said that
he was a “policía” in Urique and he invited me to sit at his table.
I asked about his rifle. He showed me his ID card, Leonardo Lopez Carrillo. He unfolded
an official document, which was his permit to carry a .223 carbine. He was the strangest
looking cop I ever saw, but the papers were all documented, stamped and notarized.
I
