Down In Mexico

Who is taking the picture? It could be Jenny. Only Darjeeling knows. But whoever she is, she’s his partner, the same one who, a week before was so pissed off she practically destroyed him with her look of anger when they were at the Mission and she was standing in the rain. Walking along in the mission in the rain he had snapped a photo of her being pissed off. He took her for granted she said. He had taken her too early from her mother she said. She said, she said. “You married young, just like your ma,” he said. He just took her photo with his Konica C-35, pushing it right up next to her face and laughing and telling her to come on and get in the car. “Let’s get on down to Mexico,” he said. Two days later, they camped in Monterrey, eating enchiladas and drinking Tecate, and listening to some American kids singing gospel songs in the camp next to them. It irritated him to hear them sing like they were on some mission from God to “save” everyone who didn’t think like they did. The two of them lived on a bag of oranges and bread and peanut butter they brought from the States. They drove and camped, not saying much but watching in awe as Mexico unfolded before them in the windscreen of the ’71 Duster.
They blew through Saltillo, laughing as they passed the Colonel Sanders logo of the Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant. “Dedo lickin’ bien!”, Darjeeling yelled out the window, laughing at the reaction of the little Mexican kids on the street and reaching back to grab another Tecate. In the desert near Concepcion del Oro they encountered the first of the dust devils that escorted them as they drove the highway, alone and together. Near Zacatecas they began seeing the miles of what appeared to be a rock wall, the rock being round and smooth. But for what purpose? To divide what? Following this along the highway, they came to the Olmec ruins of Las Ruinas de Chicomostoc where Darjeeling watched as mushrooms popped up behind him as he made his way to climb the desert ziggurat of the ruins. A true Mayan pyramid shape reaching into the Mexican sky. He climbed it to the first level and leaned back against the slanted stonework, crossing his arms and gazing into the sky. The old caretaker of the place came up to him when he walked back, taking him by the forearm and leading him into the little hut that served as a museum. On shelves were stacked bowls, utensils, and a few human bones. And a bottle of cheap Mezcal. The oldtimer held out his hand and pointed to his palm. Darjeeling understood and reached into his pocket pulling out some 50 peso coins and placing them into the old man’s hand. He continued to point to his palm and talk in Spanish which Darjeeling did not understand. Darjeeling kept putting more and more coins into the old man’s palm, and each time the old one would point again. Finally, his partner told him that the old man wanted American money, not Mexican. Darjeeling looked at her with the look of “How did you know that?” “You take me for granted,” she said. He looked puzzled. They left and the Dust Devils picked them up where the dirt road met the highway and the smooth rock wall led them on into the desert.