There is one road into bufalo. Off higway 34 and straight on till morning. No turns no side roads, the term `big sky`comes to mind as huge clouds sop up the sky and the mointains in the distance are dwarfed by the hilless dessert between here and there. The road ends in bufalo. Four blocks wide and all points radiating from a plaza hosting a bird stained gazebo a few whitewashed benches and couple of tetter totters that teeter more than they totter. The pavement ends and the curves of the road follow the puddles of horse trodden mud that form there tire tracks have carved away a street. Believe it or not there is a good side of town and a bad side of town and the only thing that separates them is a trodden down shack called Bufalo Bills Bar, that rarely sees a patron but we are prohibited to go near it as there may be some idea that either of us have some virtue to protect.
Houses are piled next to each other and painted vibrant colors you might find at a home depot fire sale. As if an electric shade of teal might give their cement and rebar matchbox a touch of the same vitality of it´s owners. Unfinished, faded or abandoned by the son´s ´por el norte´ what is left is a sleepy little town inhabited mostly by mothers, young women, chilrden and their grandparents.
Dogs you can´t pet and children you can kick up dirt in droves ont he dusty streets, the most comon short cut from one house point to another is to pass through someones living room and out the back door, grabbing a soda or a snack on the way.
We are the first and only gringos that have ventured down the road, for there would be no other reason than ours and no one really understands why we are there including ourselves. At every corner little old ladies sit and chirp like hens and grow silent when we pass by, little kids follow us like the pied piper, and the boys just stare from a distance wondering how to get their little brother or sister to bring us over.
There is one stor in the middle of town that we believe houses of of only a few phones in town, at any hour you can hear the shopkeep over a loudspeaker ^Señora Juanita tienes una llamada de su hijo ine chicago´ ´Mrs Juanita your son is calling from Chicago´at other times she might announce that Maria has brought down some of her rico tamales and you can bring them home for only a peso.
Every minute here is a surreal adventure in patience, wonder, and staying awake. But and adventure non the less.
Stay tuned for our visit to the glass filled swimming pool, a fight on the mound at the bufalo vs. jimenez baseball game and how we discovered the only way to sleep through the vermin howels and donkey brays.
Ps sorry bout spelling... no check and very spotty computer so I had to make it fast.