In the winter of 1975 I rode a train south from Mexcali. The journey was slow on the sun-warped rails. Our stops included towns without names as well as bigger cities.
Hermosillo-Guaymas-Los Mochis.
I got off in Culiacan at dawn.
The city lay on the Gulf of Cortez. The temperature rose with each hour. I had not come to Mexico to be here and took a bus a short distance to Teacupan, a small village on mangrove estuary. I traverse the town and bought three tacos and six beers. I found an abandoned hotel on the beach. The sheltered ruins echoed the waves crashing on the sand. I pulled out my transistor radio and listened to Mexican rock, watching the stars cross the evening sky to a destination before the dawn. After the fourth beer my eyes closed for the night and the universe tugged my soul not to the cosmos, but oblivion. It does give a good sleep.
Foto by Jocko Weyland