August 9, 2024, México. I bid Evan goodbye, thanking him for his hospitality, and stopped at Salt & Pepper Cafe to pick up a giant breakfast burrito. We had eaten there the day before, and it had been excellent. Huge portions, a fancy greasy spoon.

I headed for Nogales, not realizing I had 5 more hours before I’d reach the border. I had an Airbnb reservation that night in Hermosillo and wasn’t sure I’d make it, especially as I had to get currency, get an electronic toll pass, and buy a Temporary Vehicle Importation Permit (TVIP) at a nondescript building 20 miles inside the border. I was afraid it’d be closed by the time I arrived.

Murphy (of Murphy’s law) was not on my side that day. I was pulled over just as I crossed the border. A Mexican guard told me to stop, then changed his mind. I headed to an Oxxo, Mexico’s 7-11, to buy an electronic pass for the toll roads. I’d been told to drive the toll roads whenever possible and avoid the libramientos. While the latter might be more full of potholes, they

I was looking for a particular pass recommended by a website on driving in Mexico. Unfortunately the Oxxo didn’t carry this pass. I then headed to an ATM and discovered that I couldn’t get any cash. Thinking my card had been blocked for security purposes, I called my bank and reached someone despite the late hour (it was 6:20pm). They reassured me that it was still working. I hadn’t been able to get an internet signal, so couldn’t check online to see what was happening. Finally, T-mobile told me I was in Mexico, and I logged onto the bank website. It turned out I had been trying to withdraw money from my savings account. I had asked a local whether ahorro meant effectivo (cash). They had said yes. Turns out it means savings.

It was beginning to get dark. I grabbed 2,000 pesos and pointed my car out of town, now that I had access to google maps. I quickly learned to hug the shoulder of the pothole-riddled libramiento to let faster motorists pass while staying out of the way of oncoming traffic. Two lanes become four on roads without central barriers in Mexico. Luckily, I’m a quick study. I stopped at another Oxxo and decided to buy an easy pass, the only pass they offered. Turned out it worked at most casetas.

I still had hours to go. I was headed to Hermosillo, where I’d reserved an Airbnb for the night. I ended up using Airbnb more than hotels, as they were cheaper and often a nicer stay. I generally found a room for $35 to $40. I had been warned not to drive at night under any circumstances. Ironically, the only night I did drive, I wasn’t stopped at any inspection points. Maybe being under the cloak of darkness helped. At both points I crossed that night, a man stood in front of the blockade, shining his flashlight on each license plate. I presume they pulled over cars that were from outside Sonora. Perhaps my California plate looked like a Sonora plate in the dark. Who knows. All I know is that I got into town at 10:30pm, exhausted, and crashed hard. It was still hot, about 85F, and I thanked my stars to have A/C. Most Mexicans don’t. Some sleep on the roof, others have a small fan, and others don’t sleep.

August 10. I was wakened by a loud knock at 8am. A man, quite the entrepreneur, was washing the neighbor’s car and wanted to wash mine. To seal the deal, he had already placed a wash rag and soap on the roof of my car. I controlled my desire to shout and answered with a polite no, as I had a long way to go. He didn’t give up easily. I suddenly had the “I’m not in Kansas anymore” realization and my heart filled with compassion, realizing that not only are people baking alive in the Mexican summer, but they are forced to drum up work wherever they can. I hadn’t been in Mexico 14 hours and already the reality of how hard life was here hit me. Hard.

I was surprised by the blast of heat when I opened the door. It was already 87F. I decided to pack up and head out, since I wanted to get to Los Mochis with time to spare. I spied a man sitting on the side of the driveway across the street, rocking. I wondered whether he was the man of the family, and imagined that he had to work so hard just to survive. It was hard to see. Over the next 2 days I would cross 6 drug inspection points, and be pulled over for inspections at 3 of them. I found out that Sonora and Sinaloa are currently the most drug-infested states, and thus had the most draconian inspections. By the time I left Sinaloa for Nayarit, I was considering going back via the ferry from Mazatlan to Baja, just to lessen my chances of being stopped. It was that traumatizing.

I was asked everything, from wanting to see my permiso (temporary vehicle import permit), my ID, how much money I had, to whether I was carrying drugs. Three times I was pulled over for inspections. The first time, it was 105F, and there were 6 cars ahead of me. The inspectors were digging through the first car and seemed hell bent on finding something. I decided to get out of the car and await execution. I had stuffed everything into the trunk, and had removed anything else that someone might want to pocket during an inspection: flashlight, pocket knife, lighter, knick knacks, even mints. I had done my best to not call attention to myself. Unfortunately, my California license plate had other plans.

I was deeply discouraged and wondered how many more of these I’d face. These inspections are pop up and their locations often change daily. As I drove deeper into Mexico, I would see the iconic white trucks filled with armed soldiers pass or cross to the other side of the highway. I had no idea where the next blockade would be. I looked back at the military officer who had told me to pull over. One of the men in his squadron saw me and waved his arm, indicating that I should go. I hit the road before they could change their mind.

I got stopped twice more that day. First time I was asked for my permit, and second time my destination. Both innocuous questions that thankfully didn’t result in an inspection. Thank the gods. I had been warned against telling my final destination, possibly as far as Chiapas. I said I was heading to Los Mochis for the evening, which was true. A most pleasant man, he smiled and waved, telling me to have a nice day. There seemed to be a big difference between inspectors. I wondered whether some were drug traffickers masquerading as federalis. I’d been told it happens. The fact that they wore a face cover made me suspicious. Why did they have to protect their identity? Fear of reprisal?

Before I left on the trip, a friend had told me that Los Mochis is full of narcos. Ironically, it seemed like the most livable town I’d seen since crossing the border, and I wondered whether it was safer to live amongst drug traffickers. Not that I knew if my friend’s comment bore any truth. I unpacked my things, briefly relaxing on the spacious bed in the tidy studio, listening to the shouting of kids across the street who were kicking a soccer ball up and down the street. Happy to have some day light, I walked to the Sinaloa Park and Botanical Garden and was surprised by its grandeur.

Originally the private garden of the local sugar mill’s German supervisor, its 16 acres now contain ruins of the casa grande, a rose garden, towering non native trees, and paths and playgrounds. I had passed a grandiose, crumbling brick factory on the way in, and wondered at its demise. What a waste. It could still serve a function. But it would require an influx of capital. And given how impoverished Mexico had become, thanks in large part to economic sabotage by the US and other capitalists, investment for public benefit was rare to nonexistent.

I walked along the bottom of the grand pool, imagining the lives of the Europeans who had lived like royalty here. It was probably the usual story: indigenous Mexicans are worked to death, European colonizer lives like a king in their castle. It made me sad and was a recurring theme throughout my stay. On the way back to my studio, I walked by a huge mall complex, shocked by the grand cars and fancy clothes. Apparently these people had money. Maybe my friend was right. Drug trafficking probably generated a good income. I was to find out that narcos dealt in all things lucrative. Like modern day colonizers, they treated the countryside and people in the same extractive way that the Spanish first stole gold and other riches. They force the locals to sell their land and forests for next to nothing, then clearcut and make a bundle on the wood, and plant agave to make expensive tequila or mezcal. Anything to make a buck.

I got back to the studio only to find the kids still shouting and chasing each other back and forth. The windows that separated me from them didn’t close completely, and sounded like I was on the street. Finally at 11pm, I asked if they could keep their voices down. Many kids play on the street all night, or until an elder makes them obey. These kids were unruly and probably wouldn’t stop until forced. Luckily it started raining around 11:30 and they packed up their toys. I collapsed in bed, exhausted.