I'm more or less at a loss on what to say about Potrero Chico. 'Game Changer' comes to mind, but I've yet to completely understand what has changed and/or why. Climbing -- the main focus at the onset of my journey last week -- is but a small part of the overall experience. While the main poolside topic is what route you sent, epiced, or bailed today, there are numerous other continuing conversations between a group of world travelers. Nowhere else have I ever genuinely experienced so many cultures simultaneously; everyone, everything, everywhere is legitimate.
Since the resident climbers are minimalist, down to earth, compassionate people, the local Mexican culture foregoes the typical 'Gringo' fallback and reveals it's primal legitimacy: a small town where each trade and craft -- no matter how trivialized in 1st-world culture -- is openheartedly shared and appreciated by all... without judgment, and with mental ease and contemplative exploration.
Looking back, last Sunday I sat paralyzed as I stood on the side of the road in Austin with a group of Spanish (only) speakers (i.e. no English). I knew cero engles and just knew I was going to get killed, lost (and then possibly killed), or mugged, drugged and then left for dead somewhere; why was I standing here waiting for a bus to drive me into the heart of a country at war with itself over pixie dust and magic trees, when I could instead climb into the comfort of any ole' local Austin crag? My room mate - who wasn't coming on the adventure - silently acknowledged my fears with idle chit chat as we waited and paced.
I almost bailed... almost... so close... got up and left...
...but I didn't, mainly because I'd been looking forward to Potrero for months. And then the bus came (I only knew this because the number on my ticket stub matched the number on the side of the bus; reassuring). I got on, sat down silently, and waited to get robbed. Then I woke up to the weary yawns of other tired souls suddenly awakened at the US/Mexico border. It was 5AM. I still had my passport, money, and possessions in hand. Nobody took my backpack from under the bus. Everything was ok.
Due to what I can only imagine was a lapse in normalcy, a grueling five hours passed before we cleared the border. The first thing I noticed -- and I'm not sure how anyone would miss it -- was the armed sentry trucks with five gunners cruising down the highways of Nuevo Laredo. In a martial attempt to disband the drug runners, it appears the Mexican government has made the entirety of northern Mexico a bona fide police state. Somehow, I am oddly at ease with this strategy, mainly because I don't know the Mexican Constitution and because everyone else seemed ok with this. Rest assured, if I ever saw this in the states, I'd flip a shit and cite the civil liberty violations... but I guess this is what a developing 3rd world country must resort to.
Several hours on the road in the heat of Mexico found us at the outskirts of Monterrey with fewer armored truck and overall less consternation; mainly around the numerous football events and other large gatherings. In the few years since I last visited Monterrey it feels like the soul has become more constrained, molded, and jaded... the people moved with more promptness, less open eyes, but optimistic enthusiasm, as if they approved and appreciated the efforts of the installed military brass. Anxiety either strives to achieve something, but fears the repercussions of doing it, or attempts to achieve something knowing that the repercussions might not be what it wants. I feel that the Mexican military -- and more importantly the people of Mexico -- are striving for the former, which is hopeful anxiety, compared to the later, regretful variety...
At the bus station the military had a strong enough presence that I felt locally safe from 'them'. After a poorly constructed sentence asking for (and then pointing to) the bus ticket to Hidalgo, I was visually pictographed to follow a random stranger, who smiled with his heart, but knew no English to convey his good intentions. After wandering through tunnels at the central bus station, I found myself once again trying to match any of the numbers on my ticket to the proper local bus, but alas this didn't work because none of the buses had numbers... I resorted to repeating 'donde es hildalgo autobus' and ' Yo soy encampinada en Pagoda en Potrero Chico' until someone put enough of the broken fragments together to point me in the right direction...
Once on the presumably correct bus, I sat contemplating when I was supposed to get off... the bus stopped every few minutes. Each stop looked the same as the last... but then someone recognized my climbing intent (via my backpack) and kept repeating 'un poquito' and then 'aqui' when my stop finally arrived. I got off the bus and wandered around the town for a bit, finally coming upon a taxi cab that once again translated my broken Spanish into rotating wheels that dropped me off in front of La Pagoda...
...as a recap, I just travelled to a small camp ground in a different country twelve hours away with multiple potential failure points and not a confident drop of Spanish...
And now here I am standing at the steps of a house, with a smiling man I'd later find out was Mario, the owner, who promptly pointed me to the duo from Washington that turned me on to the Potrero in the first place. They came in three days prior and had already sent a ~10 and 23 pitch climb... and were now resting in hammocks reading novels. Sweet!
And that gets me to my arrival at Potrero... due to my lack of sleep, I'll have to discuss the actual meat of the trip and the return journey home -- including a 10 mile walk from the bus station to home this morning from 4:20-7:20AM...
