About thirty miles into Mexico we came up on what turned out to be a huge line of parked tractor-trailer rigs. I would say easily a hundred, lined up ass to nose as far as my eyes could see. 
Of course, I pulled up at the end of the line; I had no idea of what else to do. I inched the Coach House around the rig in front of me to take a peek at what was happening. A huge passenger bus roared by and one of the drivers ahead of me waved me frantically onward. The line of truckers were all waiting their turn to pass through inspection at the Aduana, another checkpoint. Passed through that one easily as well.
Mexican truckers own highway 2; the truckers seem to have systematically established their own rules of the road, which, naturally enough, facilitate the transport of goods more economically; the faster they can safely deliver, the more profit for everyone. One custom of note, which many of the road loggers and bloggers have seemed to have overlooked in their Mexico survival driving advice columns is the custom of straddling the shoulder’s white line, almost at all times, which leaves the center line for passing. 
This enables other truckers to pass in between traffic going in both directions. I learned this within the first fifteen minutes of driving in Mexico. Traffic speed limits are subject to Mexican relativity: even when the posted speed limit is 60 km, every driver goes much faster. I had to adapt to seeing the speedometer as km rather that mph, not made any easier by km numerals half the size of mph on an American-made vehicle.
Our first stop for the night was in Caborca, about three hours from the border. First, we had to look for a little hotel, Hotel Casa Blanca, that has five RV sites in the parking. I had the address and the Garmin, so finding it shouldn’t be a problem. Except the Garmin did not recognize any of the street names. Worse, most of the streets, main streets included, did not have any street signs identifying intersections. One example of the Garmin Mexico maps at their worst is in our search for an ATM in Caborca. Instead of a bank, the Garmin directed us to an abandoned shack. No good. Since I couldn’t find the hotel, I resorted to calling the Casa Blanca, but the lady who answered the phone spoke no English. Understanding directions over the phone in Spanish is probably the most difficult language challenge there is. Jackie spotted a street name that intersected with the street we were looking for. No luck.
Entrance to Casa Blanca
Casa Blanca Office Entrance
After driving around for almost an hour looking for the place, by sheer providence I spotted the hotel’s name atop a giant pole: Hotel Casa Blanca! Pulled in to their parking lot of the street and just opposite of the office, there were five tight little rv spaces of which only three seemed to be usable. The very friendly office lady pointed us to the only spot that had utilities. Tired, hungry, and very thirsty, we lay in for the night. No pesos meant no cervaza at least for that night.
Coach House RV Spot
Coach House backed in for the night
Call and Response 