Chihuahua is not just the home of bug-eyed, handbag-sized dogs. Believe it or not, most people don`t go there for that.
They go there because it is the terminus of the infamous copper canyon railway. I´m going there essentially for the journey, and because someone told the ticket seller to send me there.
The coach is well padded and cool. A womb to carry me on until I feel the need to stop.
The scenery looks like a child`s drawing of Mexico. Cacti reaching swollen fingers to scratch at a sky liberally sprayed with stars. Mountains irregular ink blots along the bottom of the page. Petrol stations and roadside tiendas boxed in neon. Lorries like giant gemmed christmas trees, looming.
The road is ruler straight and endless.
I have a half-hour pause in Monterrey, during which time a friendly face with perfect English buys me a hot chocolate and registers my Mexican sim card for me. He tells me to get a coat.
The journey sands down the cacti of the central desert to the wild west of the north, complete with ranches and grassy plains. The sun bookends the trip, crimson through the window tint, bleeding over the horizon.
I am ejected from the bus at 7am to Chihuahua´s generically clinical station.
I stay long enough to gulp down a Nescafe and decide to get the hell out.
Not that it is so bad a first impression, but rather the sprawl of concrete under musty skies is just not at all appealing to my restlessly flitting mind.
In my flick through the guide book one name along the rail route stands out. Creel. I think I`m going to meet someone there. I don`t bother to question the intuition, just buy a ticket and get on my fifth coach in a row, gluing my eyes to the window for four more hours.
Canyon country begins. Grasses give way to clusters of pines, pierced by strange rock formations. By the time I`m in Creel I feel like I`ve landed in a lost Alpine world.
I`ve been travelling for 24 hours. Lost one hour to Mountain Time. I could go on. But I need to see what this place has to offer.
They go there because it is the terminus of the infamous copper canyon railway. I´m going there essentially for the journey, and because someone told the ticket seller to send me there.
The coach is well padded and cool. A womb to carry me on until I feel the need to stop.
The scenery looks like a child`s drawing of Mexico. Cacti reaching swollen fingers to scratch at a sky liberally sprayed with stars. Mountains irregular ink blots along the bottom of the page. Petrol stations and roadside tiendas boxed in neon. Lorries like giant gemmed christmas trees, looming.
The road is ruler straight and endless.
I have a half-hour pause in Monterrey, during which time a friendly face with perfect English buys me a hot chocolate and registers my Mexican sim card for me. He tells me to get a coat.
The journey sands down the cacti of the central desert to the wild west of the north, complete with ranches and grassy plains. The sun bookends the trip, crimson through the window tint, bleeding over the horizon.
I am ejected from the bus at 7am to Chihuahua´s generically clinical station.
I stay long enough to gulp down a Nescafe and decide to get the hell out.
Not that it is so bad a first impression, but rather the sprawl of concrete under musty skies is just not at all appealing to my restlessly flitting mind.
In my flick through the guide book one name along the rail route stands out. Creel. I think I`m going to meet someone there. I don`t bother to question the intuition, just buy a ticket and get on my fifth coach in a row, gluing my eyes to the window for four more hours.
Canyon country begins. Grasses give way to clusters of pines, pierced by strange rock formations. By the time I`m in Creel I feel like I`ve landed in a lost Alpine world.
I`ve been travelling for 24 hours. Lost one hour to Mountain Time. I could go on. But I need to see what this place has to offer.
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