As a Doornail

Everybody told me that if I went to Guanajuato, I had to see El Museo de las Momias. They were wrong. I could have lived the rest of my life very well without it.

It takes a lot to creep me out. I’m pretty sure I could watch gory surgeries without fluttering to the ground. I can handle a variety of realities, including death, even though they make me sad. I don’t know when I’ll get around to forgiving Dad for dying. And Mom — if you’re reading this, remember what I told you: I will ground you if you so much as think of kicking off.

But I digress, as Mom would say.

I said hasta luego to my man Jorge at Casa Bertha, who gave me a million parting abrazos y besos. Once again, after kissing my cheeks and my hand, he tried to land one on my mouth. But as I told you, my lips move fast and he didn’t catch them.

But really: you’ve gotta love someone who calls you hermosa. I understand Mexican men even less than American men. The stereotypical Latino machismo is very much in evidence. But the flip side — maybe it’s rooted in Catholicism — is that they also actively appreciate women. And not just young ones. I’ve gotten more attention here than I have in twenty years. I used to hate catcalls. Now I’d pay good money for them.

Don Quixote is a big deal here in Guanajuato. He’s like the town mascot, but I can’t figure out why. Cervantes was born in Spain, so that doesn’t explain it. But all the buses have Mr. Q’s face rendered in brown on the sides. I know this because I watched every single bus in Guanajuato pass, one by one, as I waited for one to Las Momias. Exasperated, I climbed aboard one and asked if it was bound for the mummies. The driver said it was. He spake not the truth. (Or I spaked the question wrong.) I had to climb some steep hills and winding roads before I reached the museum.

I’m going to show you pictures, but now is your chance to turn back. They are very, very creepy. The exhibits aren’t the nice kind of mummies we’re used to. Some are the remains of those who died as recently as the seventies. When they were exhumed (I don’t know why) in the eighties, someone must have thought, “Hey, these still have skin and clothes and hair on them. Let’s put them on display!”

And so it was. Infants and aged people, drowning and murder victims, each with a whimsical description (in Spanish) of their death. As I’m sure you know, Mexican tradition is big into death, and I think that’s a good thing. Someone I interviewed once talked about how the culture “plays with death” which seems to me a healthier way to acknowledge mortality than we do in the US.

But really — and this is your last warning — I don’t know if it’s necessary to see the little holes in our skin that bugs make to get to our juicy bits. I’d also never stopped to ponder that our jaws gape open (like me when I’m asleep) when there ain’t no muscles to keep us looking prim. I could also tell you what a mummified penis looks like, but I won’t.

Okay, here we go. I’ve edited it down to only eleven horrific images.

It helped to see nice, bright, blood-red houses once I re-emerged into the sunlight.

As I walked through town, I got conned. I knew almost right away it was happening but I didn’t have the energy to change the course of events. A nicely dressed, guapo man stopped me as I passed. He seemed surprised that I didn’t recognize him. In Spanish he asked, “You’re the teacher, right?” Apparently I’d ridden in his cab a few days ago. We chatted about his wife who had just had twins early this morning. The hospital, he said, was demanding 600 pesos by 3:00 that afternoon. (I happen to think $50 is a bargain for twins, but I’m American.) In a hurry to get to the bus, I gave him 50 pesos and wished him luck. Unfortunately, he’d spotted the 200-peso bill in my wallet. “Can you give 200 pesos?” he asked, pointing. I declined. As I speed-walked away, an interesting thought hit me: I haven’t taken any cabs in this part of Mexico.

The next bus out of town unfortunately (because of cost) was first-class. However, I never figured out what made it superior. Certainly not the directness of the route, and my seat didn’t even recline. Perhaps it was the lunch they provided, with unidentified ingredients.

The bathroom wasn’t much fun, either. First of all, using the toilet when the bus is lurching is quite an art. The worst part was the soap. I was trying to pump out a bit when the whole container gave way, spewing pink goo all over the walls and the floor and down the front of my pants. Barbie Pink on light grey gave an interesting effect. There weren’t enough paper towels to clean up. When I ran the water in the sink, it steadily spouted back up from the drain like Old Faithful. It took courage to leave the bathroom in that state. I sidled down the aisle, turning back and forth so that my backside was always pointed at the passengers. The rest of the ride I was encrusted in hardening pink.

By the time I got to Mexico City, found another bus to Pachuca and fought our way through rush hour traffic, it was dark. At the Pachuca bus station, way out of town, I pondered whether to take a cab or to choose the more difficult option: find the right city bus. I’m gonna need to learn to get around this confusing city quickly, so I opted to brave the bus. But I had no idea where I was going. Something about semí¡foro Ceuni. I asked the bus driver and a bunch of passengers, and they rallied round to help me get off at a reasonably close stop. Once alone on the dark street, walking back and forth on dimly lit side streets dragging my suitcase, I endured mounting panic. But I found home. There’s spray-painted graffiti of a black horned devil that told me I was a block away.