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Published: March 3rd 2017
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March certainly came in like a lamb for us at Rio Grande Village. We did a few chores around the campsite first. I pulled the front tire off my bike, turned it inside out, and searched it for thorns. I quickly found two – that would account for the flat tire I guess. Then the tube was dunked in a bucket of water to locate the leaks, and they were quickly patched. Meanwhile, Cathy took some orange paint and some little brushes and filled in the missing color from our “Avion” badges front and rear. They look great now, just like it's 1977 all over again, but without the awful clothes.
Work done, we loaded up and headed the couple of road miles over to the Boquillas crossing point. It's an interesting point of entry, as there is no customs official present. There is a National Park ranger who checks your ID and fills you in on what you can and cannot bring back. No meats, vegetables, fruit, minerals, fossils, or any arts/crafts made from animal matter. Also no food or alcohol, excepting what is contained in your stomach. We told him that last criteria would conform perfectly
to our plans for the day. After that, he handed us back our passports, and we were on our way.
There is no bridge here over the Rio Grande, and no ferry, at least not in the conventional modern sense. What there is, is a guy with a beat up old aluminum john boat – with oars. We climbed in, took a seat, and he rowed us the 40 yards or so across in no time. We climbed out, and paid the boss $5 a head. He gave us tickets that would be redeemable for the return voyage. He also offered us the services of a guide, and rental (really!) of a burro for the ½ mile trip to the town. We politely demurred on both, and he seemed not a bit offended. We were also met there by the first of many cute little kids offering to sell us trinkets. These too were fended off with a simple “no, thank you”. We then went on our way down the gravel and sand track across the wide flood plain towards town. The chief obstacle in our path here were the inevitable piles of
burro effluent that we had to weave through all the way.
The town is tiny, and even by Mexican standards I think, poor. It is isolated by nearly 100 miles of rough dirt roads from “modern” Mexico. No phones, no cell service, no electric (except some solar) power, truly third world standards, just a stones throw from the richest country in the world. The town's only source of income has always been across the border in Texas. For generations, the men of the town worked as day laborers in the mines, processing plants, and ranches of the Texas Big Bend area. With the coming of the National Park, and the end of those other endeavors, the people of Boquillas turned quite naturally to tourism. That came to an end after 911, when in a frenzy of paranoia and overreaction, the crossing here was closed. After that, hard times came to an already struggling community, and the town nearly died. A few years ago though, after the hard work of locals on both sides of the river, and by those in the National Park Service, the crossing was reopened.
In truth, there's not a lot to see there. At almost every house on the dusty main drag, women and children hawk gee-gaws, the guys drive around in dusty, (but never rusty!) beat-up pickups, while the scruffy mongrel dogs do their doggy thing. There are three restaurant/cantinas, but only two were open the day we were there. We picked the one with a patio area overlooking the river. It was a nice place by any standard, clean, well run, and neat as a pin. We started with a plate of chips, salsa, green chili sauce, and a huge bowl of guacamole – and it was super, especially when washed down with an ice cold Carta Blanca or three. Just a word (if I may) about Carta Blanca -- when I was a lad, one of my favorite travel writers used to scibe his travels in Road&Track magazine. His name was Henry Manney, and he was a hoot. Whenever his travels took him to Mexico, he would be unstinting in his praise for that noble brew. This was my first opportunity to lift one on it's home turf -- and I did so with pleasure, in old Henry's honor
-- salud! Then it was time to order, so Cathy opted for the chicken casedea, while I went for the chicken enchiladas in more of that green chili sauce – yummy! Just as we were finishing up, a Canadian couple that we had met at Seminole Canyon came in, so we invited them to share our table. They're practically neighbors of ours, hailing from Picton Ont, just west of Kingston, and we had a nice visit there in the warm Mexican sun. We also spoke and yakked it up with the friendly folks sitting around us, ah beer – the catalyst of conviviality.
Our restaurant also had an attached shop, and after lunch Cathy saw that as an opportunity to further support the local economy, so she did just that. Then we packed up all our goodies and headed back to the river. We gave the same boss our tickets and were loaded back into the same tin boat for the return crossing. Interestingly though, our oarsman had been replaced. On the way over, we had a young Mexican lad who spoke only rudimentary English. On the way back north, we had a middle aged (and well educated, judging by his conversational abilities) American with a Texas drawl manning the oars. That was a puzzler to us, and we tried to think up scenarios that would explain that career path for this particular gentleman. A ponzi scheme, mutual fund scofflaw on the lamb? A life insurance death-faker? A burned-out neurosurgeon who just likes to row boats? Or just another dead-beat Dad, skipping on his child support? Perhaps this is a mystery best enjoyed by being left unsolved.
Back at the entry point, the ranger took our passports and loaded them into a machine with a phone handset. Through the wire we gave our answers to a customs officer in some remote location (El Paso, I think). After that, we were released back into Big Bend NP, Texas, the US of A, and the 21
st century. We enjoyed our brief visit south of the border, the folks were friendly and we felt completely welcomed. This being a tourist town, language was not an issue, besides, it has been my experience that a smile is universally accepted. It was a fun trip, and a cultural experience, we were both glad to have done it.
Back in Moby Dodge, we drove past our campground for a few miles and turned off on the hot springs road. A few more dusty, bumpy miles brought us to the spring. Next to what seemed to be an abandoned hotel of some sort, we found the spot. There was an old and somewhat crumbling stone pool right next to the river. At one time, some enterprising individual had piped water from a natural hot spring to flow into the pool. As the water came in, it then overflowed the riverside wall, pouring right into the river. You could lie in the pool, moving around to find your favorite temperature, or, as Cathy found, you could sit on a rock shelf in the river and have that warm spring water pour over you. It was great, and we both swam in the river too. It was too cold for most there, but we found it only cool by St Lawrence standards, I'd guess upper 60's, maybe 70? We talked to an older couple there from Austin, experienced trailer campers for many years. They now have a big modern 5
th wheel, and they asked us if we were camping. We told them we were, in an old Avion. They were tickled to hear that – turns out they had camped in an Avion for about 20 years – they said there were a lot of days when they wished they still had it – funny.
After a good long soak it was back to Camp Fred, dinner, and sleep. It was another great day -- on a trip made up entirely of them.
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