Mexico Highways: 5 - Mexico

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Mexico

It was an almost-December morning. The only sounds from my garden were whispered, barely-heard beating of the emerald hummingbird's invisible wings. A velvet helicopter. Not even a distant dog broke in on the song to disturb my tea ceremony. Electric red hyacinth petals waved at me in the slight breeze of the bird's movement.

I poured my third cup of black assam and thought of the beauty and quiet I would be leaving.
But, "Get a grip!" As a champion of weather wimps I knew what I had to do: pack up and head on down the Sierra Madres before the December winds had a chance to swirl around and chew on my toes and ears.

Each year was the same; that peaceful lovely Colonial City in the mountains of Central Mexico changes her habits overnight, around Dec 1, from a sunny, still, bright and beautiful, full-of-flower blossoms-town she transforms in to a very breezy and chilly and also noisy center of historical and religious fiestas. If one loves bombs, artillery, and cannon, which the mega-fireworks here replicate astonishly, or really icy winds, then this is where they'd want to be at this period. Me, no.

December brings winter to San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato, Mexico.

Compounding the chilly evening scenario, what arrive at this time of year are copious festivals in honor of the Virgin of Guadalupe; she who is worshipped in Mexico at a level apparently quite above that of her famous Son, who only gets a day or two on occasion. So, instead of a day or night, Mary gets a week and a half of rollicking celebration. Replete with all-night firecracker-booming, which left me with permanant tinnitus three years back during that same annoying period...I just get the hell out now-a-days.

Aiming at one of my favorite beaches in the state of Michoacan, heading west, the first day I drive through high mountain pine ridges and in to early evening, only to discover absolutely no hotels. The great beauty of this landscape would have been the dream of U.S. motel and lodge entrepeneurs but 'Mexican method' no longer confounds me, just regularly surprises. And probably keeps me here in this unpredictable and often dreamlike country.

So, after nightfall, too timid to drive these highways then, I found a cleared area and pulled away from the noisy road and made my first camp. The night was deep and dark and quiet, and the 'kid' slept like an old log.

Waking to a sound like a raging forest fire coming fast, the redder than normal dawn also seemed to have an aroma of sweet barbecue on her breath. I force my eyes open from dreaming-state to see flames rising up to the red sky, crackling like a million branches being snapped by the jolly green giant. Gradually I became aware that I'd driven far enough down the huge mountain-side to have reached the sugar-cane fields of the lowlands. The sweet smell of burning cane trash made fitting company to morning coffee: cold, instant, powdered Nescafe; no time to build a fire to heat it since it'd be getting hot soon and it's good to get early starts.

Up again through the coastal range, around a bend and suddenly there's Colima, the active volcano who was blowing her top just a month ago, now just a simmering and a puffing in the morning sun.
Later in the afternoon puts me on the Pacific coast and I drive expectantly into one of my favorite beach towns in Michoacan, Maruata.

The annoying wait of 4 hours for guests to move out of the cabin I was used to - but the wait evolved into true disappointment when I discovered that the village had recently discovered their new and real identities as 'tourism entrepreneurs' instead of only fishermen. Far easier and more profitable too! When the cabin was ready I was informed that the price had doubled from last time and that all cabanas in the tiny village had followed suit. At this I felt compelled to make my ire evident.

I left, driving the long, hard, and ever so twisty highway, 4 hours to Lazaro Cardenas, an unlovely city down the coast where I only could dream of the beach from my concrete motel.
Once you leave Michoacan behind, the coast highway becomes a dream. Not much sighting of the Pacific but straight and smooth; like a rocket-ship to the moon

Guererro comes next, heading southwest, and Zihuateneo suddenly appears just over the ridge of the mountain after Ixtapa, the tourist hotel monolith where I never stop. Then, ogling the huge 'Zihua' resort and the expensive billboard ads for the hotels makes me wonder if the small inexpensive one I normally stay in still remains. But I'm in luck. Hidden only a couple of blocks from the downtown sea-wall and beach I'm greeted amiably by the owner lady of a very sweet and clean pension; she remembers me. 100 peso nights usually slow me down if the hotel is nice so I stay for two, enjoying the fabulous market area and the fine local cuisine offered around it.

The mornings on the southern coast are fresh and cool...sort of, maybe 78 degrees or so. So I usually start early, hoping to end early, before the real heat blast.

The drive from Zihua to Acapulco, passing dozens of thoughtful patient buzzards, provokes reminiscences of my first trip to Mexico:

I'd stayed in Pie de la Cuesta, just north and outside of Acapulco, for a month or two. In those days, 30 years back, the road became a dirt track right on the outskirts of the resort city, so we'd normally be dusty returning from the market in the city. But the real difference was that Zihuateneo was at the very end of that dirt 'path' and it took everyone 2 or 3 days of driving 10 miles per hour, max, to reach it. The Pacific Coast highway wouldn't be built for another 15 years.

It took me an incredibly swift 2 hours on the straight-as-an arrow blacktop to reach the turnoff just before Pie de la Cuesta. And this time, the first time ever, I found the express highway around the megalithic monster that Acapulco has become. So I actually reached the state of Oaxaca and a tiny town with a brand new motel that same afternoon. It was just waiting for me to be the only guest of the night. I had a couple of cold beers and crashed.

Puerto Escondido
Next day, and into the afternoon found me finally reaching the outskirts of my favorite beach town on the Pacific Coast. Huge birds: herons, cranes, frigate birds and gulls, circled the cliffs as I maneuvered my way down to the white powdered sand.

I found to my delight that my old Oaxacan Indian friends Elpidio and Guadalupe were still minding the most hidden of all the cabanas, right on the main beach of the town. It was just 75 yards from where the local fishermen brought in their catch each morning and I salivated at the thought of fresh ceviche from mahi-mahi or blue-fin tuna for breakfast next morning; I unpacked my lime squeezer.

Lupe, the strong Indian woman manager, had warned me that there were a couple of noisy gringos staying there. She had remembered my aversion to racket in the night and wanted to prepare me. I told her that I might be able to reason with them being they were paisanos of mine.

Dora and Dusty were indeed paisanos, AND noisy at night, at least the first one. The second morning I explained to them the possibility of being evicted from the cabins and that seemed sufficient at the time. Why they rolled over so easily is interesting, a tale within a tale:

D and D had left their digs in Catfish Creek, a little Missouri town near the banks of the Mississippi at 3 a.m. when the bars closed. It was November, about a month prior. Not knowing or paying much attention to where they were heading, they drank beer and popped pills night and day for a week before landing on the outskirts of Puerto Escondido. The looked into each other's bloodshot eyes and stammered: "Mexico!"

After soon meeting and hooking up with the worst of the beach hustlers, sharing each others drugs of choice, they embarked upon the second phase of their 'journey', a three night and day bash, complete with one of the hustlers side-swiping their new Ford van.

They finally ran out of all that rare good luck by swerving in front of a highway patrol car and getting rousted. The cops found copious supplies of pills, empty and full beer cans, pot, and a half dozen bullets, which were under the front seat. Dusty claimed they must have been there when he'd bought the rig a few weeks before since he didn't "own a gun to go with them"...his "proof" of innocence.

Well, since they seemed to be serious stoners who probably be a nuisance in the local jail, the feds (the highway patrol in Mexico is a federal government branch of police) decided to just to pull the famous old Mexican extra-income-producing rif. They confiscated their visas and driver's license and told them to come up with $300 dollars, American, to stay out of jail and get the papers back.

Not speaking a word of Spanish, being completely out of their country and western, beer-binging milieu of Missouri, and running low on drugs, the logical thing to do in their minds was to get as fucked up as possible. At least that would dampen down the terror of being locked up forever.
In a hung over stupor, the next day they decided, since they were now out of money, to sell the truck immediately, for very little, just so to get the $300 and stay free...for as long as possible.

They got $500 for the $4000 van and immediately took the 3 bills requested over to the police station. Fortunately for them the officer 'in charge' of their papers, was off duty and not there. Frustrated in their attempt to be in 'compliance' they proceeded back to their beach cabin and began drinking up the $200 they had left. They goofed however, and forgot how much they'd gone through and when I met them 3 days later they only had $5 left, which they were cost-analyzing to see if they could make it through another day and night of binging away the paranoia, or not.

Well, though it was difficult to relate to this young, wild, and crazed life-style, I DID kind of feel sorry for them and noted the dramatic similarity of themes to old Kerouac novels (they could've been dumb versions of Neil Cassidy and Anais Nin, reborn). I decided to counsel them a tad and maybe help them out. Besides, I hated to hear stories of crooked cops taking advantage of tourists, especially since I was one too.

Knowing that they'd need an upstanding local citizen to help work this out I pried sufficiently to learn that the only acquaintances they had at all were drug dealers and shady hustling-types they'd met on the beach while carousing. That made them vulnerable to further police harrassment if it went on. I tried to explain all this as clearly as possible to them, trying to get through to the mind-set they were in.

To help them out of the expensive tourist rut of expensive food and drink from restaurant life I walked with Dusty up the long hill from beach to market to show him how cheap he could live by buying and preparing their own food. On the way I spotted a tiny office on a side street, tucked away neatly in the shadows but with a faded and nearly legible sign. It revealed itself, after walking closer, to be the Officina del derechos humanos. "Bingo", I think. I tell Dusty we should go in there for a minute, and though reticent to encounter any more 'authority', he was finally trusting me to an extent. He sheepishly followed me through the door of the office.

The official, in civilian dress, looked up expectantly, salivatingly. Sure enough, we turned out to be the first real clients he'd seen in months, his office hidden, his budget small, and his job, investigating official corruption, one of the first of its kind since, maybe, Benito Juarez; - government and police corruption aren't a general topic of polite conversation. But, now, maybe: "Thank you Vincent Fox and your new regime", it might be happening.

Since Dusty didn't know chicas from chiles (well, yah, I know, there ARE similarities) I told the avidly listening 'human-rights' man the kids' story from start to finish. The crux, for the couple at this point, was that without papers they couldn't even receive money wired from the States to the local Western Union office and they were broke. They also still feared nocturnal visitation from the cops that had started it all.

Sure enough, we'd made the Human Rights guy's day...and month. It turned out that we were his first customers all year, and it was December! After all, human rights and Mexico have been like night and day, for centuries.

Of course I survived several attempts by the official to determine my full name, saying "I don't want to be involved". Actually I was terrified that the bad cop would find out I was frustrating his plan and be out for some additional vengeance.

But in a few days the couple had their papers back and the cop, who turned out to be the commander of the night shift, had been severely chastised AND suspended for a week without pay.

I kind of felt this had saved a few future tourists the ignominy of the same situation. I'm always happy to pat myself on the back.

I spent a lovely 3 weeks on the beach. Then, tanned-burned and relaxed I watched the thousands decend upon the resort for Xmas holidays. It got plenty noisy about 5 days before the big day itself so I packed up and moved on down the line. Also, once they had a few bucks, the D and D wild pair were up to their old tricks with pills and booze again. That worried me.

I camped overnight in the fancy resort area of Huatulco since the hotels there start at $150/night. The beaches there are some of the most spectacular in the world though, and I pulled up my pickup near to one and spread out my gear.

I left in the morning feeling $150 richer and well rested for the long trek over and through the Sierra Madre del Sur.

The road to Tuxtla Gutierrez, the capital of Chiapas, is smooth, straight and is half way through a gradual rise into those spectacular mountains. From there the view is outrageous. Looking back and down to where you've just been is a dizzying and unforgettable thing. Eagles and vultures fly in circles thousands of feet below your windshield.

Right at the edge of this huge and heavy-trafficked city I found a new and very clean motel. Say what you will about these so-called sex-hotels (the edge of most towns in Mexico have them available for middle-class men to bring their girlfriends to without spousal awareness) they're often your best bet when seeking out decent night's lodgings, even though most clients pay by the hour for the rooms...

Over the mountains, through Zapatista territory (though there's been little action on that front for the past few years that the Mexican Army, or two thirds of it, has been camped in the state - see an earlier Mexico: Highways story for more on this), then two days and nights at the amber mines to pick up my annual supply of that magical mineral, and then finally down the other side of the 'Sierra Madre del Sur'.

Right at the base of these monster mountains appear the ancient ruins of Palenque, and I feel melancholy with memories of here.

The 'Rainforest' used to be called the jungle but the term is politically incorrect these days; probably because we've nearly wiped it off the face of the planet and want somebody to help - God, or rain or something! Nice friendly word: 'Rainforest'. And apt; lots of trees and it rains a lot.

But Palenque is one of the sweetheart 'jungles' on the planet...at least for visiting humans; there are nearly no biting insects! I can invariably count my bites on one hand when the trip's over. And most snakes have been macheteed and dispensed with long ago. The trees are so huge that small, irritating, scratchy plant-life has seldom stood a chance of taking hold. And medicine plants! Wow! Since they've been my special project for a long time I begin to tremble at the site of all that lush green around me.

Of course the most famous aspect of Palenque is the spectacular pyramid complex just a few miles down the road from the town. It's long been my favorite of all the Mayan sites, though I haven't visited in years since these days it's always crawling with tourists, mostly European. They flash away with their picture boxes and generally change the atmosphere, keeping old hands like myself away. Twenty years back there were seldom tourists here before 11 a.m. and one had the entire ancient city to himself in the morning, thrown back into time and surrounded by monkey calls and bird sound.

I pulled into Mayabel, the oldest campground in the region, on Christmas Eve. So far there weren't many people there but as the evening wore on it filled up...to the brim.

There's a large sweet and very clean swimming pool here, a decent restaurant under palapa thatch, a common bath house with hot water, and a separate campground in the far back where 'hippies' and hard-core travellers with camping gear and drums can hang their hammocks under palapas for a buck or two.

But the partying drove me crazy. Most of the night was filled with loud, eclectic music from all sides and was accentuated by laughter and yelling. Besides, it rained about 3 a.m. and I don't enjoy camping in the wet.

So I moved in to the Canad'as section of Palenque town, the nice quiet area where they've never cut down the huge and famous indigenous trees. Also there live a few howler monkeys up in the tops of the giantest ones.

Safely ensconced from the rain and the rowdies in the well-maintained 'Ambar' hotel and hostel, I enjoyed the weather and the cool it brought along, at least the first day. The second thru 5^th day were actually cold and I even had my heater working for the last 3. They're called 'Northers' and come through every couple of weeks in the winter, cutting nicely through the usual humidity and heat.

The month went by smoothly and not without interest since the art-medicine village called Panchan and the campgrounds at Mayabel always house some fascinating characters, including herbalists and artists, musicians and dancers, from around the world.

Since 9/11 the ratio seems to have changed radically. Now I'd say that there are approximately 50 Europeans to one American whereas before there was about an even split; what wonders disasters bring. I met nobody from the States there during the whole month!

So, as the frog prince said to the pond: "How in the hell big are you...?"

I decided to hop over to Belize to see old friends; I've been incessantly deterred in this effort for the past 3 years by the lack of decent transport in these parts. One thing I DON'T want to do is to take my own car. Not only is the last stretch from Palenque to the Belize border a long one but it's one of the most boring landscape-wise. Also that border is one of the worst to come back across. Mexicans believe that Belizeans are from hell.

Besides, I just want to fly out to the islands where my friends live and there's no good place to stash a car safely on the Belize coast.

I finally decide to hop several short distance busses to get there, which worked OK. I flew to the keys (tropical islands) and saw some old friends. Spent several relaxing sunny days there.

Then took in the city for a few nights, always a fascinating movie. Belize City hasn't really changed much for 30 years as far as I can tell. Still a tad spooky in some areas and with cool music and unique, tasty, creole food in others.

Belize can be called many things but never boring or uninteresting; when I was nearing the end of my island stay there, the pilot of the famous big dive boat, the 'Winnie Estelle' invited me to cruise with him and a large group of 'vegetarians' from the NE United States down the reef, past the shark-ray alley where they stopped to dive amidst hungry sting rays and nurse sharks and on to Key Caulker, where I'd lived awhile when I resided in Belize some 15 years back. I dropped off on this island, leaving the group to go on to other dives.

I go back to Mexico by a route I never experienced before, being just built the last few years: you get in a small Guatemalan tourist bus early in the morning downtown by the island water taxi terminal. It takes you all the way through Belize, across both borders and right in to Flores, Guatemala, which is a funky small town set on a bit of an island on one edge of Lake Peten-Itza. Lots of Mayan history there, and the lake is gorgeous. I spend 3 days and nights revelling and then make the final hop through the jungle and across the Usamacinta river by combinations of rattly buses and small dug-outs with outboard motors. This way is more decidedly interesting I think, but longer and more wearing.

Getting back to Mexico brings a sigh of relief to all of us intrepid jungle tourists when we reach the nice black-top highway on the Mexico side: "Civilization" is what is expressed and agreed upon by all-Guatemala and Belize having been a bit chancy, dicey, and quite disorganised in method and organization.

Back in Palenque I'm feeling at home again, reunited with my little truck and all my toys. Now I have my laptop, pots and pans to cook with, boxes of books, frisbee, jewelry making tools, and, praise-the-lord, my cassette player and large stash of fine jazz and classical tapes. Civilization!

A couple of days in Flores was nice since it was unusually cool, then deciding against the Honduras run and instead braving the 8 hour (beginning at 4 a.m. goddammit) chicken-bus trek through the Peten and finally back to Palenque. I had to agree with the other tourist passengers that it was GREAT to be back in the 'real' world again: Mexico forever, I'm thinking. GREAT to see you ole buddy, thanx for the hospitality, Doc.


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