I liked Matamoros. It was clean and nicer than Nogales. I did not walk into a line of vendors selling tourist stuff. I walked right into a residential area of old homes and colorful yards. There was little trash in the streets. I wasn’t harassed by vendors to buy stuff. All I was asked for was “Lady, Taxi!” but I wanted to walk. One driver told me the main market was two miles away. Perfect I said, a perfect walk!
And walk I did, taking photos of everything, the overhead electric wires from one brittle home to another. Crumbled sidewalks, faded signs, men in Panama hats. This is the Mexico I like, in its natural state.
However, I never forgot that there is a drug war going on here. Mexican soldiers in their dark green jungle fatigues guarded the exit and further down I saw a van load of Mexican police drive toward the border in their dark blue uniforms. People stared at me as if I were an illegal entrant; the shoe was on the other foot.
I didn’t buy a thing, not even a bottle of tequila. I was too buys walking the streets and taking in the sites. This town is nice! I made it to the market and its brush-lined pedestrian wav. Vendors stood in corners selling cayenne-sauced maiz, plantanos, sweets. Others walked around with arm full of balloons of various size, the suspect I assume of all the helium balloons I found on the beaches. No one harassed me. Some men even whistled at me. A few boys yelled mean things at me, followed by mean stares.
There was hidden wealth in Matamoris, too. Perhaps these were the narcotraficos. One house had a German shepherd guarding the upper deck while it barked at two men down in the street. When I took that photo the two men came toward me, but didn’t cross the street.
My turn around was the big square an open market lined with pretty trees and statues of Mexican leaders. A lot of people of all ages were sitting or sleeping on benches here. Taco shops lined this square and people sat to talk, feed pigeons or just watch others.
My only concern was getting back to Bville by 4pm when my meter would expire. I walked all the streets, sticking to the same route going back as I did going in, walking Sexta Blvd. I stopped to eat at “Mi Pueblita: an American-looking restaurant with high ceiling, ceiling fans and Mexican flags from the ceilings. The servers wore sombreros. I was waited on immediately. A nearby American told me this place was very good and affordable.
And it was/ for me. Unbeknownst to me a Spanish-looking man came up to my table, told the server to give me a basket of the “better chips” which the server immediately did. These were bigger, dryer chips with a slight burned taste and I thanked the man, Daniel for offering me these chips. Before I could eat any more, though, my chicken enchiladas had arrived. My two margaritas were explosive though: The Mexicans do not scimp on tequila!
Daniel paid my $13 bill. I thanked him in English. His friend next to him told me “He always surprised people with his good English, he doesn’t look Mexican.” Daniel Sanchez is of Spanish descent, what in Mexican is “europeano.” Daniel was surprised that I knew that term, smiled and took my hand to kiss it. I was very flattered. I tipped the server $5. I am not sure why Daniel would want to kiss my hand. I certainly wasn’t dressed elegantly like the Mexican women were (they always dress sexily, even in clothes four sizes too small. Here I was dressed for comfort nd not looks and a stranger pays my bill. This certainly gave me a positive impression of Matamoros. I hope I will be back,
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