Tónachi to Parral
I awakened early. The hotel restaurant wasn't open so I ate Marias (vanilla wafer cookies)
and drank bottled water for breakfast.
I walked to the taxi stand. It was vacant. It was 7:30 a.m., and since the Tónachi bus oper-
ates only three days a week, a taxi was my only choice, or so I thought.
A fellow pulled up in front of the tortilleria across from the taxi stand. He was driving
a 1984 white Chevy pickup with a black hood, and a green right fender. Steel posts and
wooden stakes fenced in the pickup truck bed.
I asked, “Where can I get a taxi?”
“Here's a taxi.” He said he hauled pigs, goats, cows and firewood, and he'd take me. His
name was Lucas. He was a solid five feet nine inches and was gifted with personality. He
could have passed for older brother of the boxer I met ten days ago on the bus to Santa Ana.