One languid Sunday afternoon in Bucerias we took my uncle’s Bug past the cantina out of town to where the road narrows and eventually turns to gravel.
To the left meanders a brackish canal. Nameless countryside unfolds outside my window, and before us rise the Sierra Madres.
We pass fields planted row upon row with minatory agaves. The carcass of a cow lays rotting in the hot midday sun. A grizzled campesino emerges from a stand of gnarled thicket. The look that appears on his face transcends the usual expression of indifference shown to most gringos.
“I wish he wouldn’t wave his machete at us like that,” Steve said.
I spot an ersatz monument to the Virgin Mary on the side of the road. I ask my uncle to pull over so we can get a better look. Housed in crude wood, the honorary has near fallen off the primavera tree from which it hangs. Mary looks solemn as ever though, her image set against a backdrop of cherubs and other holy things. Numerous candles adorn the incondite memorial. I wonder what people out here pray for?
The ride grows less sinister from there on. Picnicking families smile from beneath their shade trees. Dogs run out to greet the car. Laughing children splash in the canal.
We stop in San Jose del Valle to buy beer. Modelo in cans. The man behind the counter tells me that it makes more sense to buy bottled beer because you can bring the bottles back in and recoup the deposit. I say I know it but that I prefer cans. He pushes me the beer and a complimentary bag of corn chips, and says something in Spanish that could be suit yourself, or have it your way.
