180° South

I woke up somewhere outside of Indio, eastbound on the 1-10. It was hot, my eyes were dry, and my muscles cramped from beating myself up on El Capitan then jumping into a car and sitting. A friend of a friend told me that this guy Mike would be driving down to Zihuatanejo in early October. If I pitched in for gas he could give me a ride.

So there we were – two strangers in a Chevy Suburban with a pit bull-Labrador mix named Indy – driving south in the ever-increasing heat. So far I had just been sleeping. Mike had been silent, listening to music, patiently watching the road. When I woke up, I said hello and he nodded and smiled. I drifted back to sleep.

The slowing of the engine awakened me again. It was midnight and we were stopped on the side of a dark road near the town of Navajoa. Mike was talking with a federale outside. I know very little Spanish, but from the sound of the conversation and friendly gestures I figured he was helping us, maybe giving us directions. Mike came back to the cab with a sharp gleam in his eye. “He’s taking us for three hundred dollars,” he said. “Some bullshit about my registration. Three hundred dollars or he impounds the car and everything in it.”

In the rearview mirror I watched Mike count bills into the federale’s open hand while his other hand held back the tail of his jacket exposing a holstered revolver. The federale looked casual, a slight grin on his face. Mike returned to the cab angry, almost laughing. “He says he’ll escort us out of here so we don’t get pulled over again.”

We followed the brand-new, government issued, four-wheel-drive SUV toward the highway. By the side of the road we saw two more cars that had been pulled over by federales. Surprisingly they were Mexican families, not tourists – luggage and furniture tied to the roofs of their cars, sullen faces counting bills into open hands.

Mike drove as far as his eyes would allow, and at around 2 am we pulled into a no-tell hotel near Los Mochis. Every town along this road seemed to have a by-the-hour place where men take their mistresses, or vice versa. Mike pulled off the highway and a man pulled a gate open for us. We followed him, idling past rows of blue tarps that hung over parking stalls and hid the parked cars, keeping identities a secret.

The room was dirty and odd looking. A sad attempt at a Byzantine motif: cracked cement columns, arched doorways, a cement floor with thin, coarse carpet. Pillows made of cardboard. Mike took the bed; I slept on the floor with Indy. In the morning we found condom wrappers in the bathroom and an empty packet of Viagra. I made coffee on a lopsided lamp shelf below a light that burned out as soon as I turned it on. We left just after sunrise.

Local surfers spar on the beach. Near Manzanillo, Mexico. Photos: Jeff Johnson

Isla de Janitzio, Lago de Pátzcuaro, Mexico. Photo: Jeff Johnson

Some believe the island villagers are the purest of the P’urhépecha bloodline. Only the young villagers speak Spanish while the old, some of whom have never left the island, hold on to their language and traditional ways. Isla de Janitzio, Lago de Pátzcuaro, Mexico. Photo: Jeff Johnson