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Quick Motorcycle Loop Around Mexico
strikingviking
Registered Users Posts: 99 Big grins
Destinies and Curses
November 26, 2008
Durango, Durango
Mexico
Once in awhile, first-time international long-riders send email requesting travel advice and route planning for their upcoming dream. But since I hesitate to share what are at best, subjective opinions, I invariably refer them to the latest and best technical information available at horizonsunlimited.com But procrastination regarding such lofty endeavors is a common error--so a two-part fundamental concept I do offer is that number one, it is important to quit talking and set a launch date, and number two, do not deviate from that date. Whether it be, “In two years I’m…” or “Next month I’m…” Just state the date and then do it. Don’t bother mentioning “Someday.” “Somedays” never happen. Set an irrevocable calendar day, period. Once making that critical decision, there are no acceptable excuses to postpone. “It was too hard to leave right then because my tummy hurt, my dog was sick or a relative died” are insufficient reasons to delay—take an anti-acid or bury your dead and then leap into the metamorphosis of your epic journey. As a result of disregarding gasping personal crisis a lot can go wrong and your world may dramatically change, but isn’t that the reason we adventure?
So here I sit in a low budget, downtown Durango hotel with no hot water, a victim of my own wisdom. Why abandon the relative peace and security of blissful Mazatlán for a month of cramped, musty rooms and spine-mangling saggy mattresses, further annoyed by sporadic yelping outside my window of malfunctioning car alarms? Is this the result of a masochistic urge to be uncomfortable, or a case of the wanderer’s awkward curse--to only find true solace on the road?
Yesterday afternoon after forcing myself to abide by rule number two, while spiraling upward among the soaring rocky cliffs of the Devil’s Spine (Mexico Route 40) it was a peculiar feeling, departing the warm muggy palm-tree-Pacific coastline into the brisk scented pine forests of the chilling Mexican Sierras. What a unique transition toggling from the proverbial Gringo tourist zone of pink legs protruding from Bermuda shorts into the world of macho horseback hombres in Latin American cowboy country. As always, traveling according to plan of no-plan requires only a firm departure date and a general direction with an optimistic time allotment. With that said and done, the first fork of destiny lays ahead.
Still weighing two options, in a few hours on the outskirts of Durango, for the hundredth time over the decades, I’ll do another mental coin-toss; roam south into the stunning colonial granite plazas of of Zacatecas, or sprint across the empty desert plains of the Mexican Central Highlands to gracefully descend somewhere on the sultry Caribbean beaches. It’s true that wanderer’s wander because they have to, but also, when choosing destinations it’s best to select an unfamiliar one, which will likely eliminate Zacatecas in favor of Torreon and Monterrey.
Because in previous Ride Reports, myself, as well as many, many others, have vividly described the terrain, photographed such stately delights as towering Zocalo cathedrals, favorite canyon lookouts and even colorful zesty local restaurant cuisine, I’m still undecided what to write about or if I’ll even post photographs. And you guys know darn well that when snapping shots of local babes, one thing invariably leads to another, like more intimate posing in private and later appearing here. This may be much to the delight of some but also to the dismay of others who consider reporting this type of activity inappropriate. Maybe we’ll just have to settle for some non-political stream-of-conscious-rambling about the effects of life south of the border from a man wrangling with a rewarding curse.
Andele pues
November 26, 2008
Durango, Durango
Mexico
Once in awhile, first-time international long-riders send email requesting travel advice and route planning for their upcoming dream. But since I hesitate to share what are at best, subjective opinions, I invariably refer them to the latest and best technical information available at horizonsunlimited.com But procrastination regarding such lofty endeavors is a common error--so a two-part fundamental concept I do offer is that number one, it is important to quit talking and set a launch date, and number two, do not deviate from that date. Whether it be, “In two years I’m…” or “Next month I’m…” Just state the date and then do it. Don’t bother mentioning “Someday.” “Somedays” never happen. Set an irrevocable calendar day, period. Once making that critical decision, there are no acceptable excuses to postpone. “It was too hard to leave right then because my tummy hurt, my dog was sick or a relative died” are insufficient reasons to delay—take an anti-acid or bury your dead and then leap into the metamorphosis of your epic journey. As a result of disregarding gasping personal crisis a lot can go wrong and your world may dramatically change, but isn’t that the reason we adventure?
So here I sit in a low budget, downtown Durango hotel with no hot water, a victim of my own wisdom. Why abandon the relative peace and security of blissful Mazatlán for a month of cramped, musty rooms and spine-mangling saggy mattresses, further annoyed by sporadic yelping outside my window of malfunctioning car alarms? Is this the result of a masochistic urge to be uncomfortable, or a case of the wanderer’s awkward curse--to only find true solace on the road?
Yesterday afternoon after forcing myself to abide by rule number two, while spiraling upward among the soaring rocky cliffs of the Devil’s Spine (Mexico Route 40) it was a peculiar feeling, departing the warm muggy palm-tree-Pacific coastline into the brisk scented pine forests of the chilling Mexican Sierras. What a unique transition toggling from the proverbial Gringo tourist zone of pink legs protruding from Bermuda shorts into the world of macho horseback hombres in Latin American cowboy country. As always, traveling according to plan of no-plan requires only a firm departure date and a general direction with an optimistic time allotment. With that said and done, the first fork of destiny lays ahead.
Still weighing two options, in a few hours on the outskirts of Durango, for the hundredth time over the decades, I’ll do another mental coin-toss; roam south into the stunning colonial granite plazas of of Zacatecas, or sprint across the empty desert plains of the Mexican Central Highlands to gracefully descend somewhere on the sultry Caribbean beaches. It’s true that wanderer’s wander because they have to, but also, when choosing destinations it’s best to select an unfamiliar one, which will likely eliminate Zacatecas in favor of Torreon and Monterrey.
Because in previous Ride Reports, myself, as well as many, many others, have vividly described the terrain, photographed such stately delights as towering Zocalo cathedrals, favorite canyon lookouts and even colorful zesty local restaurant cuisine, I’m still undecided what to write about or if I’ll even post photographs. And you guys know darn well that when snapping shots of local babes, one thing invariably leads to another, like more intimate posing in private and later appearing here. This may be much to the delight of some but also to the dismay of others who consider reporting this type of activity inappropriate. Maybe we’ll just have to settle for some non-political stream-of-conscious-rambling about the effects of life south of the border from a man wrangling with a rewarding curse.
Andele pues
0
Comments
Tropics
November 27, 2008
Veracruz, Veracruz
Mexíco
Two years ago when first arriving from Africa I was relieved to establish a home base and begin the awkward process of reintegrating into the West. Yet after a brief time back in the comfort zone coping with extra-firm king-size beds and regular meals of known contents, I realized what was to be most missed; having a unique direction. While temporarily planted somewhere on the other side of the earth, it was a satisfying sense of endeavor when replying to questions in downtown Cairo—“So where are you heading next?
As though considering a variety of exotic options, I’d simply bait enthusiastic listeners with, “India and maybe Afghanistan.”
Or even once returning to California when curious locals saw my thrashed, sticker-strewn motorcycle and asked, “Wow, where are you coming from?”
With smug anticipation, I’d casually reply, “Africa.” You can only imagine the following delightful interrogation while startling audiences with tales of kindness and hospitality in the most unlikeliest of places. Now back in the groove on the move, although a four thousand mile sprint around Mexico would only be a minor detour on a world ride, astonished jabbering taxi cab drivers aiding this sometimes lost biker, pummel me with questions about destinations in their own country. And within Mexico, from indigenous genes to colonial blood, every state becomes a different country with varying cultures, cuisine and physical characteristics of the people.
As many prosper while others starve, pockets of northern Mexican cities benefit from the overlapping selective affluence from her adjoining neighbor. Basking within the fiscal shadow of a more powerful economy, a closer proximity to the US border results in a questionable blend of what is not always the best America has to offer. Sparkling boulevards of state capital cities lined with flashy US business franchises seem more like upscale downtown Los Angeles than a country labeled, Developing Nation. Durango, Monterrey and Torreon prosper while choking in environmental pollution and fading famous Mexican open arms.
But the criminally expensive toll roads (Autopistas) offer opportunities for spirited bikers to unleash their aching desires--escaping from typical constraints of aggressive US radar wielding traffic cops they can ride here as fast as a fenced-in concrete highway allows. Galloping along WFO, across barren high altitude deserts, after holding the throttle open for long stretches of 110 mph, when rolling back to eighty, it feels slow enough to get off and walk. But unsuccessfully coaxing giggling tollbooth girls to climb on the back of my bike takes the edge off of having to pay ten cents a mile to ride in heavenly near-solitude. Even when spotting distant rooftop cherries of the notorious Federales, if passing them politely enough to show respect, they acknowledge me with an approving nod.
The United States of Mexico, suffering collaterally from a hideous bloody war between rivaling drug cartels and competing corrupted government officials, can also be merely considered a modern-day wild-west in transition. But every situation is a package deal as we accept the bad with the good while balancing what serves us best. The live-and-let-live fundamental principals of Mexican society make this non-pretentious lifestyle a single-male-biker-paradise. As long as you don’t draw blood and avoid illegal drugs, there is little trouble to get into that a few hundred pesos can’t resolve. From a comparatively unregulated dating structure, to immediate social acceptance if merely attempting to speak Spanish, home in Mexico is wherever you want to roam. (And no matter the ultimate outcome, when smiling at dark-eyed pretty senoritas, they always smile back.) Affordable gourmet meals in rustic restaurants, cheap ice-cold robust beer and a year-round mild climate conducive to motorcycling further define this land of the perpetual do-it-manana mantra. Asking any middle-age expatriate why they choose to depart the relative security of America to live in frightful Mexico, condescending Gringos are shocked to hear the invariable response, “Freedom.”
Alas while exiting the industrial border states of Coahuila and Nuevo Leon, broad sweeping turns gently lower me across the pungent ranchlands of Tamaulipas directly into the vibrant green seaside jungles of Veracruz. A sad descent of the socioeconomic status accompanies a dusty Federal highway turned lumpy patchwork of decaying asphalt. Back at sea level, thick, sweet tropical Caribbean breezes blow in over endless sugar cane fields tended by machete swinging workers of noticeably aboriginal features.
An hour before entering the capital, just enough rain cascades down on a semi-truck congested single lane roadway to keep this from being a perfect ride. In a grand finale of the days adventure, shortly after sunset, rows of blinking traffic lights lead the way into a dazzling El Centro and the liveliest Zocalo in all of Mexíco. Swirling fumes of carbon monoxide are overridden as popular tourist restaurant kitchens pump overwhelming scents of jumbo shrimp simmering in buttery garlic sauces. Roving guitar bands booming baritone vocal harmonies vie with costumed mariachis as serenading minstrels in sidewalk cafés bang away on wooden xylophones. Arm in arm, teams of dark-skinned senoritas with long, curly black-hair parade the massive stone plazas pretending not to notice gawking male admirers. Silently pointing to their wares, standoffish Indian women dressed in similar hand-woven fabrics peddle traditional, colorful sticky candies and cheap souvenirs. Just to the side, well-dressed older salesmen manning bicycle-wheel carts eagerly urge gullible travelers to buy their neatly displayed fake Cuban cigars. And, at the end of long days ride, a weary biker pauses to smile while so at home in this tantalizing circus of humanity.
Viva Mexíco!
Mayans!
December 7, 2008
Campeche, Campeche
Much of the eastern coast this week has been an easy, two-hundred-mile-a-day roll across decent roads, over-nighting in port cities from Tampico, Veracruz, Coatzocoalcos and Ciudad de Carmen to Campeche, with maybe a U-turn tomorrow in Merida. So far, most of the downtown Malecons (Seawalls) looked the same with concrete block strips of tempting open-air seafood restaurants, multistory hotels deteriorating in the corrosive salt air and well-maintained harbors clogged with old rusting bow-shaped fishing boats rocking in gentle rhythm next to giant tankers hauling petroleum.
Although still traveling according to plan-of-no-plan, I expected a turn-around anywhere along the most easterly point on a prime chunk of Mexican real estate jutting out to separate the Gulf of Mexico from the Caribbean Sea. The Yucatán Peninsula with its furthermost tip nearly touching Cuba, is bordered to the east by tropical Belize and to the south by Guatemalan rainforests.
The state of Quintana Roo is hardly known except for a familiar strand of spectacular coastline defining the scattered beach-lovers-over-commercialized enclaves surrounding Cancún. Along with the Maya ruins at Chichen Izta and Tulum, except for well-paid petroleum company employees, there’s supposedly not much else out there to draw Americans. And until encountering the blank stares of elite European retirees sauntering about dressed in perfectly creased safari shorts trying to be cool, I had not seen another paleface in the last twelve days. Abruptly departing from a blissful isolation from fellow foreigners, I was dismayed to discover being among organized tours of snotty Continentals equally annoyed to see a grungy Gringo biker park his rumbling machine in the middle of our shared hotel courtyard.
Unlike in more traditional colonial cities, no one here seems happy to see me.
But in this far region of the country primarily populated by indigenous people and their mixed descendants, even Mexicans from the interior are considered foreigners and except for the purpose of leaving behind pesos, are also not much appreciated. Up until 1517 when modern Campeche was accidentally “discovered” by stranded Spaniards, this once scientifically advanced culture stretched all the way to Honduras and Chiapas. And until colonialist Europeans and marauding pirates invaded to viciously squabble over what belonged to the natives for the previous twelve hundred years, ancient Yucatán was occupied by tribes of astronomy savvy Mayan Indians. Judging by the startling departure from typical Mexican warmth, many of these descendants seem to long more for their distant past than in the ensuing centuries of existing in subservience. In the first battle of Campeche, before the massive stone forts were built and soldiers multiplied, those of such short stature did a remarkable job of preserving their isolated domain by repelling conquistadores with simple weapons, requiring a full twenty years to be eventually subjugated.
With disproportionately long arms and short legs, if over five feet high, round-faced Mayans with broad noses and thick lips are considered tall. Although a growing portion of today’s population is considered mixed, heavy cheekbones below almond eyes of black marbles, distinguishes the true natives from those richer in Spanish blood. Lucky for me, I rolled into Campeche, the state capital of Campeche just at the beginning of an annual Telethon parade to aid the handicapped.
Yet the arrival of another towering invader prompted revelers to offer only mild scowls, a disturbing reaction to a man who rode a long way to say hello.
While others appeared ambivalent to the imposing stranger,
Others became curious,
Time for a proven formula for breaking the ice—
“Hola mis amigos! Muy buenas tardes, como estan?” A little bit of local lingo always goes a long way, especially if followed by an explanation. “Soy Glen Heggstad y he estado vijando todo el mundo a conocer la gente. Somos una familia grande, no? Y con su permiso, me gustaria tomar sus fotos.” I am Glen Heggstad and I have been traveling the world to meet the people. We are a big family, no? And with your permission I would like to take your photograph.” Bingo.
bsvirginian
I've been meaning to go on a long solo roadtrip for the past two years now and it hasn't happened - for really no valid reasons whatsoever. Time to stock up on some Tums and dig a hole in the backyard - just in case. Thanks for the inspiration.
December 10, 2008
Merida, Yucatán
Mexico
More impressive than the abundance of wireless connections now available in most thirty-dollar-a-night-hotels, is the vast network of new highways crisscrossing the entirety of Yucatán Peninsula. No meandering livestock eyeing asphalt trails, and lightly traveled by commercial vehicles means pleasantly relaxed riding minus the constant danger distractions so prevalent in other rural regions of the country. Since by the time Mexicans expanded their telecommunications infrastructure, installing cell towers were cheaper than wires and poles, builders appear to have engineered wider signal coverage than exists in the US; much of that being 3G. And for travelers, keeping in touch allows more freedom.
Setting off to roam for a month is easy, staying in decent physical shape on varying restaurant food while hotel hopping and contending with business affairs in two countries is challenging. Ten years ago when a tech-savvy cousin from Norway first explained to me the Internet, a long-term goal became to develop a computer-connected career that would permit earning a living without being confined to one place. Today, if timing departures and returns, with a laptop and fast connection, I can download the latest audio financial reports in MP3 format into the GPS for playback while riding. Or for those almost mandatory personal appearances, it's a breeze to conduct free video conferences via Skype.
Suddenly it’s easy to toggle from sitting in a 15th century Spanish Plaza using inalambrico (wireless internet) to a California real estate office for a market check and then download property photos. And only minutes later perform an impromptu Earth Ride slideshow to a small crowd in the Zocalo. Amazing no? From El Centro de Campeche to Palm Springs to Africa and just in time for a free concert by visiting Cuban musicians and dancers flown here as a goodwill gesture to perform in tonight’s telethon for aiding the handicapped.
A laid-back, harmonizing band of Cubans casually strum, toot, and bang out captivating Caribbean rhythms while most of a seated audience eagerly leaps up to dance with them.
But wild Cuban dancers in conservative Colonial Campeche? Whether it’s elaborately costumed pros from Havana’s internationally famous Copacabana or sassy street corners chicas high-speed-wriggling to thumping beats from plastic boom-boxes, nowhere in the world do women move like Las Cubanas. With jolting hips whipping side to side and rapidly churning buttocks, even when increasing camera shutter speeds, they still appear out of focus.
bsvirginian:D
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December 14, 2008
Yucatán, Mexico
Although most Mexican cities will awe first-time as well as seasoned travelers, Campeche does it best with immaculate stone corridors enclosed by plastered walls of soft color pastels. As the primary seaport-trading gateway to the Yucatán Peninsula, this once colonial marketing center for foreign and domestic goods was violently coveted by rivaling European powers while constantly subject to pirate attack. An enormous granite block fortress designed to protect the first invaders from subsequent invaders, still encloses the entrance to the city. As though guarding this ancient stronghold, rows of deteriorating metal cannons make this UN declared World Heritage Site one of the most remarkable in Mesoamerica. And like all Mexican cities, public life centers around tree shaded plazas well equipped for early evening and Sunday afternoon strolls. Ice cream vendors and sidewalk cafés encircle raised rotundas while entire Mexican families spend hours together arm in arm.
From the smallest of backstreet restaurants to alleyway barbershops, one can always hear music or singing from blaring radios or roaming bands of street musicians. In comparing cultures of other developing nations, as evidenced in the unique smiles and laughter of their children, Mexicans recognize the importance of enjoying life. Despite pathetically low national wages, the bonds of material gain are balanced against the qualities of life, sharing, and the abundant love of la familia. Across the country, Sundays are dedicated to extended family gatherings--El dia de familiar. Mexicans seem more content with simpler pleasures of romance, food and music, than impressing their neighbors with new cars and expensive jewelry.
Part of the original fortress has now been converted into a small museum of Maya artifacts.
Three days was not enough to absorb magical Campeche but there were plenty of opportunities to interact with locals. The most interesting by far was Eddy, a Chinese national, who after living in Ecuador for a year learning Spanish, moved his wife and three children to recently open the best Chinese restaurant in town. What an experience that our common language was Spanish.
Invites
December 12, 2008
Chetumal, Quintana Roo
Invitations to private gatherings or a local's home are the traveler’s ultimate dream. An opportunity for unscripted glimpses into the lives of those who we normally only greet in passing give deeper meaning to the journey. And although motorcycles are the ultimate form of transportation for spirited wanderers, in their unique appearance of muddied, bulky luggage, also become efficient instruments for connecting direct to curious restaurant patrons or small crowds of gathering gawkers on downtown street corners. Whether they stop to inquire or not, everyone seeing this unusual site wants to know more—especially Mexicans.
So it was yesterday morning when after serving a requisite breakfast of refried beans and four fried eggs, café owner Miguel had to know more. Gift-giving works miracles in Developing Nations and for these occasions I’m always ready with an EARTH RIDE DVD--three-hundred-twenty slides of a global motorcycle ride accompanied by moving African music. While immediately inserting the disk into the restaurant TV and studying flashing photos of Middle Eastern Bedouins, the coveted invitations arrives. “Please be my guest tonight at our family lakeside retreat near the Guatemalan border.
The only marking for the mile-long jungle road leading to the freshwater lagoon.
From raising their own animals for consumption to the solar electric panels to provide light, this informal eco-retreat is self-sufficient.
Caretaker Gabriel is anxious to display methods of animal husbandry for their flocks of chickens, ducks and turkeys.
And after a long day, Gabriel's wife makes of dinner of fresh fried tortillas and turkey meatballs.
But after a long day of chores, Gabriel's son Benjamin is one hungry hombre.
And the next morning I ask him if he's ready to trade hats and ride north with El Vikingo.
He thanks me but opts to stay where he's needed on the homestead.
But in the finest of Mexican tradition, he bids me Buen Viaje and a speedy return.
My Gallery
December 17, 2008
Villahermosa, Mexico
(Disclaimer: For this trip I mistakenly decided to use the old Sony 818 that while banged around the world for several years has been dropped, drowned and subjected to so many temperature extremes that it barely functions)
If the heart and soul of a Developing Nation can be found in a pulsating city center, then the societal spirits can be discovered through the colorful kaleidoscope of their thriving central markets. From Middle Eastern Souks to Latin American Centro Mercados, on early Sunday mornings, this is where the collective vibrancy of a culture can be sensed as well as seen.
Wandering among shoulder-to-shoulder congested, makeshift temporary aisles, scents from countless rows of vine ripened fruits and vegetables compete with contrasting odors from bins of still flopping fish and dangling, recently clucking chickens. Neatly arranged piles of dried chilies and sinus-piercing pungent spices catch me off-guard mid-inhale while vendors bark orders to sample homemade candies.
Frugal housewives with restless children in tow barter for groceries which will later combine into delightful bursts of sizzling salsas. Yet while wallowing through this familiar rhythm of chaos, an invading alien is clearly ignored.
In a southern Mexican city seldom frequented by foreigners, a heavily tattooed, six-foot-three, two hundred twenty pound biker stands out as awkward as a puffy-eyed, stumbling Rastafarian, and is initially as welcome.
When wading through crowds of hesitant locals, sometimes I do notice narrowed-eyed facial expressions conveying obvious suspicions “Aren’t you from that place where they are building a wall to keep people like us out?”
But consistent with a prior pledge to never leave a reluctant crowd until everyone is willing to shake my hand, I once again bellow a proven slogan, “I’ve come along way to meet you…”
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F800GS
It's the biggest series of thumbs up pictures I've ever seen!
Your pictures remind me that I'm trying to overcome my shyness about taking portrait pictures... afterall, it's so much more interesting to look at a facial expression than a series of landscapes (although there's room for both!)
Very nice trip story! I'll have to remember what you said about breaking the ice.
I'm just learning, teach me!
C&C always appreciated.
Southerners
December 19, 2008
Oaxaca, Oaxaca (Wah hah kah)
Still traveling according to plan-of-no-plan, a short circuit in my left wrist, nerve wiring has trimmed riding time to two hundred miles per day, or until my hand finally cramps open, whichever comes first. This means a detour from Tabasco halfway across the southern most state of Chiapas, to hang a right at the state capital, Tuxla-Guiierrez and zigzag the Sierra Madre ridgeline north to Oaxaca, Taxco, Puebla, Mexico City and maybe Guadalajara before returning to Mazatlán. But holiday traffic beginning to coagulate along the single-lane coastal route can’t compete with empty mountains roads of banked curves—the kind high-performance motorcycles devour. Other than a few lounging burros and occasional lumbering big-rig, the black and grey asphalt patchwork of Federal Highway 190 is deserted, interrupted only by rumblings from 1200cc motor winding through the gears. On a blissful soar into biker-nirvana, it’s hard to imagine an end until rolling into the imposing grandeur of 15th century Mexico—just in time for another parade.
Although Mexico’s breath-taking colonial cities are North America’s best-kept travel secrets and easily accessed by a sophisticated network of modern toll freeways, it’s these poorly maintained free roads with far too many speed bumps that offer closer connections to the delicious pace of local life. Rich green farmlands and remote mountain towns in-between hidden blue lakes and thick pine forests make Chiapas and Oaxaca the most stunning natural scenery of Mexico. But their abundance of foaming whitewater rivers harnessed to supply fifty percent of the countries electrical needs are also symbols of exploitation. From Siberia to Africa, as people of lesser means around the world similarly languish in the sinister grip of corruption, familiar venomous fangs paralyze these Southerners on the edge of survival.
Like in Russia, where a more populated half of the country rapes the other of energy and natural resources without sharing the wealth, so it goes with Chiapas and its impoverished indigenous people still hopelessly struggling for their share. A mid-nineties uprising of the Zapatista movement was brutally repelled by right-wing paramilitaries and then temporary cooled when then President Fox granted a few of their demands. As in some Islamic countries, fundamentalists prefer their own legal system and today in Indian regions of Chiapas, tribal law has replaced the Federal system. Although legal disputes can now be resolved with methods more reasonable to them, there is still an obscene lack of education and general suffering of the people. It’s from here in Southern Mexico that the long, arduous journey to El Norte begins with desperate hopes for an opportunity to scrub floors and clean toilets of American households. In other parts of Mexico, people ask, “De donde viene?” From where do you come? Here they simply assume, “De la otro lado?” From the other side? Still if willing to sit and speak direct to them and listen to their voice, they all have interesting stories.
These are two of twenty students from Mexico City who during their university breaks, travel six hours by bus, to peddle trinkets in the El Zocalo to finance their education.
Imagine how long it took to convince her to pose so people around the world, on this thing called the Internet, could appreciate her beauty.
And as the weak become weaker, with each of six journeys into Mexico over the last ten years, I’ve noticed a pronounced hardening of the people’s once-lively spirits and cooling attitudes toward foreigners. Seeking a scapegoat, embezzling politicians and corporate monsters responsible for their misery, redirect the anger north, pointing a manipulating finger at a familiar favorite target with the rest not seeming to care. A rising middle-class in more affluent regions of Mexico is leaving behind their most vulnerable citizens with hardly anyone realizing that the southern half of the country seethes in silent revolution.
Still, 15th century Oaxaca with its dramatic, early Spanish architecture was as spectacular as ever, only for a change, the city center had more Mexican tourists than foreigners.
Preferring cushy beachside resorts padded with upscale US retail franchises, few Americans venture into the aging glory of real Mexico. Once outside of artificial luxury bubbles like Cancún and Cabo San Lucas, the only other foreigners are European. In this peak of tourist season with hotels at half occupancy, all were offering promotional rates making this the most likely stop for a three-day program of catching up at the gym. Whereas health clubs in the US compete with high tech mechanical weight lifting apparatus, normally in Mexico, I’m lucky to find sets of rusty old dumb bells to bounce around in the sweltering heat. So imagine the shock when in the shadows of the conquistadors, discovering state of the art facilities.
Silver
December 19, 2008
Taxco, Guerrero
Mexico
It should have been an easy half-day cruise from old-world Oaxaca to the ancient silver mining city of Taxco, but without a direct route, and figuring there was sufficient time, I lounged until noon before twisting the throttle out of the last intersection heading north for the border of Guerrero. And although Mexico’s free-roads are more scenic, they are also unpredictable for quality and traffic congestion in busy pueblos along the way. Between a single-lane highway partially under construction with unmarked detours and several crowded towns with no signs indicating exits, a four-hour ride turned into eight.
As late afternoon dimmed into early dusk, freshly hydrated agricultural fields pumped out swarms of flying insects—all determined to investigate my probing headlight. While riding deeper into chilling planetary shadows, temperatures dropped faster than the fading rays of sunlight as I foolishly resist the need to stop and bundle up. Now shivering on a moonless night, through the translucent glaze of yellow bug guts, I peer out through a tinted face-shield straining to spot wandering livestock made invisible by high-beams of oncoming big-rigs streaking their blinding high-beams into splinters of piercing multicolor light. Between dodging ghostly silhouettes of shaggy-haired goats mixed with wandering cows, packs of wild burros remained motionless in the center of the roadway, seemingly unconcerned of an impending fate. Through their stubborn mindless gaze, they remind me of who would fare worse in a collision. Locked into an edgy hyper-awareness, I ease off on the throttle while my attention flickers back to focusing on gaping potholes disrupting the rugged texture of sharp mountain switchbacks. All this in order to reach Taxco in time for the Saturday morning jewelry market?
Originally founded by the Aztecs, centuries later in 1530, Mr. Cortez confirmed tales of subterranean precious metal of a particular shiny gray and immediately summoned fellow Spaniards to declare dominion on behalf of the Crown. Ever since, Taxco with its subsequent generations of famous artisans, has been considered the silver capital of the world. Along radically inclining mountain cobblestone streets, trendy tourist restaurants and quaint stone hotels blend among repeating glittery jewelry shops, all behind hand-chiseled granite facades of 15th century architecture. But arriving exhausted at 8:00PM left little time to savor mysterious alleyways separating whitewashed colonial buildings beneath their uniform red tile roofs—after a long hot shower I stumbled directly into zee-land with dreams of photographing an awakening city and acquiring riches at dawn.
Saturday mornings in Taxco, when local silversmiths offer their handmade goods direct to wholesale buyers as well as the public, are an eager bargain-hunters ultimate dream. Hundreds of temporary steel-pole booths line the crowded steps descending deep into makeshift labyrinths of countless aisles revealing even more brightly lit booths manned by anxious vendors. (And all of them assure that they have a special deal just for me.) Nowhere else in the world lies better opportunities to shop unique gifts for lucky friends at home. From elegant dinnerware to intricately carved bracelets, necklaces and delicate earrings, prices range from pennies to hundreds of dollars. With negligible labor cost, most items are sold by weight, at a fraction of US retail prices.
December 25, 2008
Mazatlán, Sinaloa
Two wheels are better than four, or so my first martial arts teacher preached in the winter of 1982 when I was recovering from knee surgery after one too many spin kicks on a hundred-pound heavy-bag. Out-patient arthroscopic procedures then were in preliminary development, so my first operation was done the old fashion way, with an eight inch cut, prying the joint apart and scraping away damaged cartilage. After four days in the hospital, Sifu Cazarez explained that knee injuries were the most common athletic career-cancellers and to make sure I stayed focused on rehab, we’d need a significant goal. “Glen, you are going to ride a bicycle from Ensenada to Cabo San Lucas. But don’t worry, for the thousand mile journey, I’ll be periodically catching up in a motor-home.”
After ten grimacing days of pedaling among blossoming desert cactus and nasty crosswinds, I rolled into the hard-packed dirt streets of Cabo San Lucas in time for a much thought about evening of cerveza-guzzling. Then, except for a few tilting palapas, the beaches were empty and there was only one bar, The Giggling Marlin. But what impressed me most was the lack of Christmas marketing hype. Absent bogus parades, droning radio Holiday jingles and obnoxious television ads demanding to buy buy buy, the silence was heavenly.
The roar of tranquility seized my spirit as locals celebrated the birth of Jesus with a sole candle in kitchen windows of their small adobe houses. After an afternoon of prayer, large family gatherings turned into feasts of commemoration and love of one another. As once learned from the soft humility of gentle Himalayan Sherpa guides, again, I was struck by the notion that connecting with other humans was paramount, and that maybe the adage is true, “Less is more.”
Ever since, to avoid what most other Americans complain about, I’ve made it a point to be outside of the US for the ritual holiday fiasco. And although commercialism is creeping into Mexican culture via subtitled Hollywood media, without the public hoopla, it’s easier to ignore. Still, a few Zocalo plazas have been alight in long strings of subtle flashing LEDs, and much to the wonderment of wide-eyed Mexican children, even a few Santa Claus outfits. But three days catching up on workouts in Oaxaca was sufficient, as an itch to ride needed scratching, and maybe a change in cuisine.
If the some of the tastiest food in the world is found in traditional Mexican kitchens, the best of that lies just east of Mexico City in Puebla—home of the internationally acclaimed regional dish, Mole Poblano, a quarter chicken smothered in lightly spiced, unsweetened chocolate sauce. Ever since rolling out of Mazatlan a month ago, I’d secretly hoped that an eventual twist of fate on the plan-of-no-plan would lead to dining amidst the drama of its 15th century colonial cathedrals. And I knew just the restaurant to recharge my batteries before heading home.
Normally when out on an extended ride, the first few days become an impulsive bonsai blast to get as far away from home as possible in the shortest time. (Hurry up in order to relax.) Yet even though I resist the urge, the reverse becomes true for final few days. No matter the silent pledge, it’s always the same, start on the Autopista and end on the Autopista. And while relaxing in arguably the most imposing Zocalo in Latin America, I stared at the map, computing remaining options with intentions to overnight in the next three major cities for visiting friends. In the next nine hundred miles I could easily divide the last few days, enjoying pine-forested, high Sierra, free-roads and spin into Mazatlán the day after Christmas.
Maybe because the sprint from Puebla to Mexico City was so short, an urge to continue became an ache. Once bundled up in cold weather gear, slicing through crisp mountain air and before realizing it, I was westbound on the Autopista passing the second targeted overnight, my most favorite Mexican city, Morelia. Screw it, the town is likely crowded with tourists anyway…in few more hours, I can be in Guadalajara. Yet once there, re-energized in a roadside café feasting on a plate of steaming barbacoa, the next option came to mind, riding to just beyond sunset would allow on overnight in Tepic, a leisurely three hour cruise home in the morning. But while refueling in downtown Tepic, while mulling the options, the notion of entering a forbidden night-ride also meant sleeping in my own bed.
Most of the Mexican Autopistas are double lane, but it’s only a single, north from Tepic, with the best advantage being that it’s fenced-off from cattle. But this danger is canceled by the blinding bright lights of oncoming traffic a car-length away. Within moments of departing a semi-lit city, I questioned the logic of not stopping at the last hotel. Further to seize my breath, suddenly, a few feet back from my saddlebags a set of high-beams flash bright enough to illuminate the road ahead and to both sides. Knowing who loses this one, I ease to the right allowing two shiny black SUVs with tinted windows to whoosh past close enough to almost graze a hand-guard. In Mexico, there’s no question about who drives vehicles like these, Los Narcos, either powerful drug traffickers or their deadly henchman.
Still, with their blazing, quad-halogens peering far deeper into the pitch-dark countryside than my feeble single, if following in their wake, while alert for swerves or brake lights, they could run sufficient interference to unwittingly guide me in a WFO blast to at least the next gas stop, a hundred twenty miles away. Then again, if following too closely, maybe a half-drunk desperado becomes annoyed enough to poke his 9mm Uzi out the rear window and just for fun, pepper this lame Gringo into ga-ga-land. Weighing the latter against creeping through inky darkness for another three hours, I opt for shadowing the convoy at a polite distance.
And after two hours of a pulse-quickening pace, my engine sputtered, burning fumes, coasting into the only Pemex station for another fifty miles. Relieved at being so close to home, I could imagine smelling the fresh salt air and tasting sizzling quesadillas de pollo. Since other than to spin the odometer toward a particular turn-around point in Yucatán, and hopefully hone my Spanish along the way, from day one, this has been an un-defined mission. But as always, I did get to experience more than I deserved with no proper evaluation of the last five thousand miles, except to state that I am far happier now than a month ago. After all, aren’t we supposed to live life on our own terms? I don’t always know where I am heading, but I always end up exactly where I want to be.
Happy New Year Amigos!
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Andrew