DAY NINE: JEREZ TO DURANGO
A Cemetery Museum, Cartel Country & Durango Mezcal
Last night’s rain had cleared the air, setting up a nice early photo walk.
I happened across one of the oldest cemeteries in Zacatecas, with burials dating back to 1809. In 2015, it was formally declared a “Panteón Museo,” which was new to me.
It’s full of funerary art: mausoleums, crypts, obelisks, and sarcophagi in pink cantera stone. The cemetery is laid out by social class: the front section with the fanciest mausoleums was for the elite; the rear areas were for middle and lower classes. Of course, the rich always get to sit up front. There are 4,000 tombs, plus a hefty dose of Masonic symbols on monuments, reflecting the liberal, Masonic elite that ran the town in that era.
On my way to the cemetery, a lady standing on the corner of the Jardin saw me coming, pointed, and mumbled something. She had done the same thing the previous night. I thought she didn’t want her picture taken, something that hadn’t crossed my mind, as she wasn’t distinctly photogenic. On my way back to my room, I deliberately walked to the corner where she had staked her little patch of public real estate. This time she yelled at me, “Aquí no!” It wasn’t about my camera; she just didn’t like ME being in Jerez. It made me chuckle.
Okay, time to pack and go. On the way out of town, I would once again pass by this grumpy grandma. I made sure to give her some rapid-fire horn toots, stood on my pegs, waved, and yelled: “Have a nice day.”
I headed North on Highway 23, which would take me through Fresnillo on my way to my final destination, Durango. Along the way, the farmland turned a solid brick red, and with the green mountains as a backdrop, it was beautiful. So beautiful, I slowed down to savor it. That’s not something I do when I ride. Faster is always better.
When planning my route with my sidekick Perplexity and her brother Claude, it came up that Fresnillo had been a real cartel hotspot in the last few years. One of them suggested I take a detour through Zacatecas. That would have meant riding on roads I’d already taken, and I consider that poor form.
So I did a little more research, and Fresnillo has been one of the hottest cartel war zones with open conflict between the Sinaloa Cartel and the Jalisco New Generation Cartel (CJNG). The fight has produced mass killings, bodies dumped in public spaces, and narco-messages left with victims as warnings to rival groups.
Zacatecas and the federal government have deployed the Army, the National Guard, and state police to bring the situation under control. In 2024, they launched massive patrols and checkpoints. It’s worked, as homicides in Zacatecas have dropped sharply between late 2024 and 2025.
As all scaredy-cat entities that issue travel warnings say, “avoid non-essential travel and travel at night.” It was broad daylight, and my travel was essential. Nonetheless, I have to admit to being “on alert.” I didn’t observe any problems and noted that there were lots of cars on the highway, including expensive ones that are eye candy to cartelians.
As I entered town, I passed a police car and took care to go much slower than usual. I kept an eye on my rear-view mirror, and he was there, but not following me. At an intersection ahead, the green traffic light started flashing, not yet turning yellow. So I decided to slow down, let the light turn yellow, and then stop, like the ultra-good law-abiding citizen I am. The police car pulled up, moved into the left-turn lane, and was soon out of the picture.
So, all’s well in the world. In a sudden blur, a large motorcycle pulled alongside me. He didn’t roll up; he came up quickly, and we had about four inches handlebar to handlebar. This wasn’t your average Italika dude. I turned my head, and all I could see was a machine gun slung over a shoulder...and a man dressed in black from head to toe, jackboots and a balaclava covered his eyes.
He said, “Guanajuato?” to which I replied in the affirmative. “San Miguel.” The light turned green, and we both let go of our clutches, his quicker than mine.
As he rode away, I noticed a large patch on his jacket with the letters “FRIZ.” Was he some type of bad-hair-day cop? Nope. “FRIZ” refers to the Fuerza de Reacción Inmediata Zacatecas (Zacatecas Immediate Reaction Force). An elite tactical and rapid-response police unit created by the state government to combat high-impact crime. They are composed of former military and federal personnel and are highly trained. So he was a high-security dude dressed for a kinky night out.
The remainder of the trip was yawningly boring by comparison. I settled into my room and headed out to enjoy a well-deserved first Durango Cenizo Mezcal, while taking in a warm, stiff breeze. I felt like Durango.
Gringos sure the hell wouldn’t be seen in Fresnillo.
Tomorrow, I stop saying “Durango!” and start living it.