A Little History
Hernan Cortez, the Spanish born merchant, landed in Veracruz, in what is now the Gulf of Mexico, in 1519, and soon proceded to conquer a land and an empire. He marched, with his small army, even smaller calvary, and few weapons, through the jungles, over the mountains, west, towards the Aztec capitol of Tenochtitlan, in the central valley of Mexico, on top of which now lies the federal Mexican capital of Mexico City. He used cunning and trickery to make friends with foes of the aztecs taking advantage of the discontent among many of tribes of the Aztec empire, and buidling his army which would take down the empire out of these newly forged allies. The Tlaxcalan population provided countless bodies to exhaust in the front lines of this war. Part of the pact between the Tlaxacala people and Cortez was that the Spaniards could not build a city there, in Tlaxcala. This little pact is reflected today in the two separate cities of Puebla and Tlaxcala. The Spaniards marched just a bit south to build their well thought out, symmetrical city with luxurious buidlings, wide streets, and magnificent feats of architecture in the city of Puebla, just 30 km south of Tlaxcala. Tlaxcala was eventually influenced by the Franciscan monks who came to the city of Tlaxcala and left their mark in the very colonial and beautiful church next to the zocalo. Yet the city remains, quieter, with smaller street, and more humble buildings. Tlaxcala boasts one of Cortez's houses (now the government building next to the zocalo), and the first zocalo built in the New World. Puebla boasts the oldest library on the new continents, as well as many other magnificent works of architecture. Both Puebla and Tlaxcala lie just east of Mexico City, up and over a mountain pass over Cortez marched, that runs in between two snow capped moutain peaks. Both are worth a visit. It is a incredible feeling to stand in such historically significant places.
Exercise in Puebla
My host in Puebla was on an ultimate frisbee team. Finally, after some two thousand something miles, my orange frisbee that I have lugged with me from San Francisco was put to use. Also put to use were muscles that I figured would be in great condition but turns out weren't. The morning after ultimate frisbee practice, I could barely walk, let alone run, but I could sure as hell bike. I guess I am not in as great physical condition as I thought. Maybe what gets in conition condition on a ride like this is your will power...
Don't believe the hype
You would think that someone that spends as much time as he does navigating the dips and bumps, curves and straightaways, of all the major highways in Mexico would know a bit more about what the road does. From Puebla to Oaxaca, I took the federal toll road, Highway 135, which crosses a little over 200 km of hot and dry desert, valley, and forest-covered-mountains before dropping into the small valley in which Oaxaca lies. I knew I was going to have to climb at least the first day, at least thats what they told me... ´Pura subida hasta km 110´ they said. ´Pure uphill until km 110.´ I guess the uphills they knew quite well. And sure enough, I sweat and ached my way up many miles of pure sierra. After km 110 though, I was ensured that it was mas o menos pura bajada - pure downhill. And that is the kicker. Once you get an idea in your head of the road that follows, expectations grow inside you. It is these expectations that ruin your mood and make you feel like the world is against you when you encounter something contrary to what you expected. And yet I had to ask.
So as you can imagine, the road after km 110 was not pure downhill. Sure, it did offer some respite from the pure uphill that I had climbed until that point, but after every short descent there seemed to be an even bigger ascent. I spent the night, after 60 miles of this repitition, on a shepard´s ranch. I helped him corral his herd of sheep into their den and he let me set up camp wherever I pleased. The next morning, when I reached the second toll booth and asked them how the road was ahead, I expected the answer to be pure downhill. At least this man knew what he was talking about and did not lie when he told me I would be climbing the next 40 km. And yet, 40 km later, when I was expecting pure downhill the next 60 km to Oaxaca, you can imagine my mood when I came upon moutain after mountain. Not only this, but the downhills I did receive were ruined by a strong headwind that took all the fun out of descending. 30 km outside of Oaxaca, I was at a breaking point. My legs had no more push in them and I was out of water. I stopped at a small comedor (eatery) on the side of the mountain and downed a couple of drinks. There were a couple truckers there finishing up their lunches. I told them how some other truckers had informed me wrongly of the terrain up to that point. They laughed when I told them I had been told it would be pure downhill after km 110. I asked them how the road was from there to Oaxaca. They ensured me that from there to Oaxaca it was pure descent. I guess they had the last laugh. I struggled, huffed, and yelled to the sky that last 30 km and finally entered Oaxaca after a long, hot 70 mile day.
And now, a poem, a prayer, an offering entitled:
Lord, Thank You for the Mountains and the Wind
I will drink this beer, and drink it well, as I curse those mountains all to hell!
For what should have been an easy day, drained all my sweat 'neath the sun's ray.
As well the wind that cunning whore, can burn in flames for evermore...
For pushing against me as I drop, descent becomes a free ride lost,
and when I need it most the breeze, to cool me off she dissapears.
So falling quickly to my knees, I yell to the God that made these things.
Yet somewhere down inside my soul, stirs a peaceful feeling amidst the noise.
I'm humbled by forces I can´t control, and am simply happy I can enjoy
that I exist amidst all these things, the mighty mountains, the towering trees
the air that moves and shakes the leaves - Lord, thank you for the hills and breeze.
A Tamazcal in Oaxaca
I am a very blessed person. Last night, I was fortunate enough to participate in a very old indigenous cermemony under the leadership of a guide and twelve other companions called a Tamazcal. Tourists pay big bucks to experience this. I am lucky enough to be staying with a new friend who participates in this event periodically and so can enjoy it under the auspices of a friendly gathering and not a money making venture. Briefly, it consists of two hours of sitting, chanting, praying, and singing inside a very short and small dome shaped hut constructed of cane and mud. Throughout the time, volcanic rock that has been basking in a blazing bonfire outside the hut is brought into the hut, two by two, and placed in the center. Water is then thrown over the rocks, creating an intense steam bath. The whole process is very rejuvenating. Your body goes through the same thing it would go through during two hours of sitting in the sauna at you local gym. BUT, participating in this ancient ceremony, with a very spiritual aspect, with thirteen other strangers, a guide, in Mexico, on an almost full moon night, and chanting old inidengous songs, is something else.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
Another Christopher is Born
Finding a campsite.
Leaving the city of Tamazunchale, the sun was already going down behind the mountains to the west. I climbed up and out of the valley where the city lay in the foreground of what would be a beautiful painting of a San Luis Potosi sunset. Not wanting to continue riding into the night, I began looking for places to camp. The steep slopes of the hills surrounding me were covered with small indigenous villages and orange and coffee groves; not the best land for backcountry camping. I resorted to other options. I first past a small elementary school with ample playground space that would have been well put to use. The men inside one of the offices were unfortunately not the school administrators and could not grant me permission to stay the night on the ground. They did inform me that the administrators lived in the next town conitinuing down the road and that I could ask them there. Knowing I would have no chance of finding these school officials on a Saturday night and not wanting to waste any more time on this lost cause, I continued down the road to the next group of houses scattered on either side of the road. Two men looking about my age hovered in front of their house washing their car. I don't think they understood that I wanted to put my tent up in their backyard, and offered me a side road, that led off in a trail of mud and dust to another village somewhere down the hill. The point being to get off of the road, and not onto another, I continued down the main road, thanking them, but ignoring their proposition. I wondered down one side road where some teenagers had just finished loading a truck full of oranges at a dead end. They said I could camp there, by the big pile that had been left behind. After they left I sized up the spot - the slightly sloped road ended in a pile of oranges, which unfortunately were all laying on the only flat ground in sight. I road back to the main road and kept going. One small house down a little slope with plenty of flat space outside looked promising, but when I approached, the woman that was there grabbed her baby and ran somewhere inside her abode. After persisting a bit, I realized she was probably scared of me. Thinking she might soon come out with a gun or machete, I turned and quickly pedaled back up to the highway. Next stop was a little store with a dirt patch in front where a small family stood enjoying the cool night air. When I approached with my plea, the man, drunk out of his mind, mumbled something and pointed down the road. Down the road I went, until I finally found a small church with a sober looking group gathered in front. They kindly said I could set up camp on the grass patches on either side of the church. As I did, busily setting up my tent and cooking my noodles, groups of locals saddled by to stop and stare. I tried to make conversation, but they seemed a bit more interested in just looking. Later on, I wondered back up to the little store where the drunk man had been and shared a few beers with several old campesinos. One seventy year old man rode up on his bicycle after a hard day in the field. His hands were bloody from working in the maize fields. He bought me a couple beers and after I asked him to how to say cheers in his native language, nahuatl, the conversation turned into a mess of spanish and nahuatl none of which I could understand. I went to bed that night, camped on the side of the small church in the small hilly village of Dos Patos, amazed at the generosity of this man, who surely had little, but was willing to share the little he did have with a complete stranger.
Monteczuma's bitter revenge.
Several days later, after some brutal climbing into the Sierras, I found myself in the town of Tlanchinol. Fog crept over the mountains from the east and covered the town in a chilly blanket. Having biked 15 miles in about three hours that day, I was exhausted and had planned on stopping here for a rest. A church stood on the top of the hill, overlooking the small town, with a big park in front of it. While napping in the park earlier that day, I saw the priest walk by and asked him if it would be ok to camp in the park. He invited into a side building that housed several priests and church helpers. He invited me into a dusty classroom full of pews. I pushed two of them together and laid down some blankets to create something resembling a bed and passed out. Some time that night, I began to have fits of pain began to pass through my body, concentrated in my stomach. The next morning, when the priest knocked on my door to call for breakfast, I could barely move let alone respond. I spent the next two days in that little catechism classroom, lying on my makeshift bed, sleeping heavily and lost in round after round of lucid dreams. In between the grogginess, I got to know the priest, Padre Javier, the cook, Lucy, her teenage daughter, Brenda, and her five year old son, Eric. We talked about as much as we could, although my mind hurt from a mixture of dehydration. Lucy told me about her desire to legally come to the U.S. so she could make the money needed to support her daughter in university and her need for a U.S. sponsor to make that happen. Padre Javier told me about the financial support given by the Mexican government to the indigenous men to help jumpstart their small plots of land, and the money that these men squander on their alcoholic habits (of which I had witnessed a few nights earlier). A few mornings later, the fog mysteriously cleared, and thinking that I was well recovered, I decided it was time to head out of Tlanchinol. I made one last stop in the kitchen to say goodbye to the kind family that had taken care of me during my stay at the parish. It was then that Lucy informed me that an indigenous couple that had arrived at the church the night before with their five day old newborn babe, and with whom I shared dinner with and a few simple words, had baptized their baby while I was sleeping. They decided to name their baby Christopher. With this news, I took my leave from Tlanchinol, a little bit shocked, very much honored. I can only hope that the saint after whom I was named will protect this little Indian boy as much as he has protected me on my journey through life. After about ten miles of riding, I realized from the grumbling in my stomach and the chills produced by the mixture of sweat and cold air were going to be no help on my road to recovery. I pulled over and stuck out a thumb, anxious to get to the next city and another bed, where I could spend another couple days relaxing, ensuring my full recovery. A man in a red truck picked me up not long after and drove me the next 100 or so kilometers through beautiful deciduous forest resembling Tennessee in the fall to Pachuca. I barely fit in a few words between this man's preaching about how all you need is to fill your heart with Jesus, which is love, and the rest of your life will come into its proper place. Just like the Beatles said, 'All you need is love.'
For now, in between finding my love and finding my way to the bathroom, I rest in a friendly couchsurfers house in the southern outskirts of Pachuca.
Leaving the city of Tamazunchale, the sun was already going down behind the mountains to the west. I climbed up and out of the valley where the city lay in the foreground of what would be a beautiful painting of a San Luis Potosi sunset. Not wanting to continue riding into the night, I began looking for places to camp. The steep slopes of the hills surrounding me were covered with small indigenous villages and orange and coffee groves; not the best land for backcountry camping. I resorted to other options. I first past a small elementary school with ample playground space that would have been well put to use. The men inside one of the offices were unfortunately not the school administrators and could not grant me permission to stay the night on the ground. They did inform me that the administrators lived in the next town conitinuing down the road and that I could ask them there. Knowing I would have no chance of finding these school officials on a Saturday night and not wanting to waste any more time on this lost cause, I continued down the road to the next group of houses scattered on either side of the road. Two men looking about my age hovered in front of their house washing their car. I don't think they understood that I wanted to put my tent up in their backyard, and offered me a side road, that led off in a trail of mud and dust to another village somewhere down the hill. The point being to get off of the road, and not onto another, I continued down the main road, thanking them, but ignoring their proposition. I wondered down one side road where some teenagers had just finished loading a truck full of oranges at a dead end. They said I could camp there, by the big pile that had been left behind. After they left I sized up the spot - the slightly sloped road ended in a pile of oranges, which unfortunately were all laying on the only flat ground in sight. I road back to the main road and kept going. One small house down a little slope with plenty of flat space outside looked promising, but when I approached, the woman that was there grabbed her baby and ran somewhere inside her abode. After persisting a bit, I realized she was probably scared of me. Thinking she might soon come out with a gun or machete, I turned and quickly pedaled back up to the highway. Next stop was a little store with a dirt patch in front where a small family stood enjoying the cool night air. When I approached with my plea, the man, drunk out of his mind, mumbled something and pointed down the road. Down the road I went, until I finally found a small church with a sober looking group gathered in front. They kindly said I could set up camp on the grass patches on either side of the church. As I did, busily setting up my tent and cooking my noodles, groups of locals saddled by to stop and stare. I tried to make conversation, but they seemed a bit more interested in just looking. Later on, I wondered back up to the little store where the drunk man had been and shared a few beers with several old campesinos. One seventy year old man rode up on his bicycle after a hard day in the field. His hands were bloody from working in the maize fields. He bought me a couple beers and after I asked him to how to say cheers in his native language, nahuatl, the conversation turned into a mess of spanish and nahuatl none of which I could understand. I went to bed that night, camped on the side of the small church in the small hilly village of Dos Patos, amazed at the generosity of this man, who surely had little, but was willing to share the little he did have with a complete stranger.
Monteczuma's bitter revenge.
Several days later, after some brutal climbing into the Sierras, I found myself in the town of Tlanchinol. Fog crept over the mountains from the east and covered the town in a chilly blanket. Having biked 15 miles in about three hours that day, I was exhausted and had planned on stopping here for a rest. A church stood on the top of the hill, overlooking the small town, with a big park in front of it. While napping in the park earlier that day, I saw the priest walk by and asked him if it would be ok to camp in the park. He invited into a side building that housed several priests and church helpers. He invited me into a dusty classroom full of pews. I pushed two of them together and laid down some blankets to create something resembling a bed and passed out. Some time that night, I began to have fits of pain began to pass through my body, concentrated in my stomach. The next morning, when the priest knocked on my door to call for breakfast, I could barely move let alone respond. I spent the next two days in that little catechism classroom, lying on my makeshift bed, sleeping heavily and lost in round after round of lucid dreams. In between the grogginess, I got to know the priest, Padre Javier, the cook, Lucy, her teenage daughter, Brenda, and her five year old son, Eric. We talked about as much as we could, although my mind hurt from a mixture of dehydration. Lucy told me about her desire to legally come to the U.S. so she could make the money needed to support her daughter in university and her need for a U.S. sponsor to make that happen. Padre Javier told me about the financial support given by the Mexican government to the indigenous men to help jumpstart their small plots of land, and the money that these men squander on their alcoholic habits (of which I had witnessed a few nights earlier). A few mornings later, the fog mysteriously cleared, and thinking that I was well recovered, I decided it was time to head out of Tlanchinol. I made one last stop in the kitchen to say goodbye to the kind family that had taken care of me during my stay at the parish. It was then that Lucy informed me that an indigenous couple that had arrived at the church the night before with their five day old newborn babe, and with whom I shared dinner with and a few simple words, had baptized their baby while I was sleeping. They decided to name their baby Christopher. With this news, I took my leave from Tlanchinol, a little bit shocked, very much honored. I can only hope that the saint after whom I was named will protect this little Indian boy as much as he has protected me on my journey through life. After about ten miles of riding, I realized from the grumbling in my stomach and the chills produced by the mixture of sweat and cold air were going to be no help on my road to recovery. I pulled over and stuck out a thumb, anxious to get to the next city and another bed, where I could spend another couple days relaxing, ensuring my full recovery. A man in a red truck picked me up not long after and drove me the next 100 or so kilometers through beautiful deciduous forest resembling Tennessee in the fall to Pachuca. I barely fit in a few words between this man's preaching about how all you need is to fill your heart with Jesus, which is love, and the rest of your life will come into its proper place. Just like the Beatles said, 'All you need is love.'
For now, in between finding my love and finding my way to the bathroom, I rest in a friendly couchsurfers house in the southern outskirts of Pachuca.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
La Ruta Huasteca
'There is a place I know, way down in Mexico, high in the old Sierra Madres. Where many outlaw banned, from across the Rio Grande, have found a haven, a holdout, a hideaway...' - The Waybacks (San Francisco bluegrass)
The words of this song echo in my head as I wind my way through the Eastern Sierra Madres, which separate the middle of Mexico from the Gulf of Mexico. Indeed, it appeared like these mountains could provide quite a safe refuge for people trying to escape the law across the border, or even within their own country. Silhouettes of mountains behind mountains cut the sky with sharp irregular peaks like a used saw. Tropical trees and plants cover these slopes, and where possible, orange trees, coffee groves, and fields of cane have left their mark on the hillsides and foothills. I have seen no sign of outlaws though. Instead, what I have seen is a simple people with indigenous roots strecthing back to 600 years Before Christ, adapting to a modern world that seems to be affecting their culture in definite but harmless ways, living in a landscape that is both astounding to see and humbling to experience. The Huasteca people live an area that covers five eastern states of Mexico. Although their dialect changes from place to place, the rest of their culture is much the same throughout the scattered pueblos that dot the hillsides. The Huasteca Potosina is the area in south eastern San Luis Potosi where these people live, although from what I can tell, it is better known for the immense amount of natural beauty clustered in a very small amount of land. This area is home to huge waterfalls, birthplaces of rivers, surrealistic castles, and deep abysses in the jungle floor. Of the many places to visit in this area, I was able to take my time off the main highway and explore some of them...
TAMASOPO. My first stop off Highway 70, which led from the city of San Luis Potosi to Ciudad Valles, on the other side of the mountains, was a small town 9 km down a mountain slope into valleys of sugar cane, where thick clouds gathered every morning to create hidden, wet jewels. I encountered some cascades just off of the main road that wound its way through the valley. Water tumbled down in several different locations into pools 5 to 8 meters deep and then stepped its way along the valley floor to continue into the river which ran through this valley. A little bit developed, but beautifully done, gardens and restaurants surrounded the pools and there were even stone diving planks and rope swings. The water was perfectly refreshing. I dove off every rock and swam in every pool I could, relishing in the rejuvenating coolness. Above from here, high in the foothills, was the Puente de Dios, where the same river's waters, emerging from caves, fell through openings in the rock walls to create deep pools where caves below created a downward current and pulled the water further down along the slopes. The Puente (or bridge) was hard to discern, as it was the part of land that I descended onto to peer onto the pools, but hardly seemed a bridge. It was at this spot, that after hearing about a cave higher up the mountain but not too far away, I decided to make the journey to see the birth of this river. Having left my sandals with my bike 700 something step up the other way, I embarked barefoot, not wanting to put on my biking shoes. Halfway up the half rock, half dirt path, I barely avoided stepping on a four foot long, one inch thick snake, that slithered away quickly into the bushes. Rethinking my thinking, I descended back to my shoes, and away from the Puente. Upon emerging from the wilderness, one of the locals reassured me that the green snakes were not venemous, but that there were four types of snakes that were. I didn't quite catch his broken Spanish to find out which four those were.
TAMUL. The next morning, I had an amazing ride through the valley. The fog soon lifted enough for me to see cane fields stretching their flowery limbs up into the dense jungle foothills. It was flat, windy, peaceful, surreal. I crossed back up and over the 70, this time going south on a road that I only realized I could due to local maps of the touristic area, printed on huge posters at keys junctures throughout the area. At the small, nothing town of Naranjito, I turned off the paved road for a 10 km trek down a dirt, rock road to the Casacadas de Tamul. Although these cascades are probably the best known of the area, they are harder to get to, and because it was the middle of the week, I was the only one on this path. I set up camp by a field of sugar cane next to a blue green river that ambled its way south east. I walked along a path downstream. Soon I saw the towering cliffside of a mountain that rose in front of a huge dropoff. The river I was following suddenly disappeared, and was replaced with the roaring sound of huge waterfall. Making my way to the side provided panoramic views of the cascades that dropped 105 meters to the river below, which had cut its way through these mountains in much the same way the Colorado River created the Grand Canyon, except to say that this canyon was not wide at all. I sat there, by myself, meditating on the side of this huge natural wonder, humbling myself before creation. That night, a few Mexican guys my age drove up and set up their tent right next to mine. Turns out I had seen them at Tamasopo, and they were doing a little tour of the area themselves, a bit more in style though. That night, we traded songs on my guitar, as we lay on a grassy patch by the river, gazing at the brilliant stars in the sky. In the morning, I returned with my new found companions down to the waterfall, and we descended some ladders to the shore of the river below. This provided new sights that were just as amazing, if not more. The morning fog was lifting. The sun was rising behind the falls. The refraction of light through the fog and water's mist created rainbows that contrasted brilliantly against the blue of the river and the green of the cliffs. Although my next destination only lay about 30 or 40 km southeast, I decided to take up my friends' offer for a ride. They were going to be visiting some archeological sites of the ancient Huasteca a bit east of Ciudad Valles, and then going to my same destination. Knowing that I was running of out cash and that I would probably not find an ATM in these remote villages, and also enjoying the conversation and human interaction they were providing, I decided to take my first car ride in Mexico. It was bitter sweet. I watched the km's fly by, and marveled in the feats of modern engineering. The archeological sites proved to be quite,...., boring. They quite possibly could have been the creation of several school children playing in the backyard. Maybe it was due to my previous experiences in Mayan ruins that belittled these sites. However old and brilliant these new sites were, it was obvious that the Huasteca people never amounted to quite the civlized empire that the Mayans of southern Mexico and Guatemala did. After the ruins, we rushed back west and then south along the 85, towards the Sotano del Golondrinos. Running out of time and light, they decided to drop me off half way up the unpaved road that led to the next natural wonder. Luckily, a couple of ranchers happened up behind us as I was beginning to load up my bike. Barely having time to put myself in the truck bed (with no tailgate), they sped off. At a certain point a few km up the road, I guess they decided they were hungry. They opened up a freshly fried chicken, a packet of fresh tortillas, a few coronas, and a tin of jalapenos and had dinner on the hood of the truck right there on the side of the road. Being the generous type that inhabit most of Mexico, they shared their dinner and refreshments with me, left their trash by their feet and loaded back into the truck. Thinking it was not the best time to lecture my drivers about the proper habits of throwing your trash away in a can and keeping the environment clean, I gathered it up in a pile, placed it on some rocks, and jumped back in the truck bed. Sometime later, the sun had set, and the truck stopped. I unloaded my things, as they said I was at the spot. A local kid, expecting a tip of course, showed me to a spot to camp, and there I camped, knowing only that I was high up in the mountains, in some sort of small town, camped a grass patch on a cliffside. I could see nor get the feeling for not much else. What I did feel was the sadness at having realized that I lost a sandal. This was not just any sandal. This was one of a pair of sandals that I had bought in Telluride the year before and had gotten signed by one of the world's great banjo players, Bela Fleck. Now, somewhere in Mexico, this sandal bumps around in the back of those rancher's truck. Surely it will end up on the side of the road, or better yet in one of the many beautiful rivers in this land.
SOTANO DE LOS GOLONDRINOS. At four thirty in the morning, I woke up (don't ask me how), and walked back down the road towards the touristy looking sign I had seen the night before. It pointed down a bunch of steps into darkness. Using my headlight, I descended down after paying my 20 peso fee (all these places have some small fees) towards the abyss that lay somewhere on this jungle cliffside. I finally arrived, and there was just enough light in the very early morning to make out the boundaries of the cliffs that dropped below into the earth. The Sotano de los Golondrinos is a hole (sotano? not quite sure of the exact translation), 55 meters wide at the top, and 512 meters down to the very bottom that suddenly and surely exists on this mountainside. Every morning, a few families of bright green parrots and a huge population of white necked swallows emerge at dawn, circling their way up the air currents that spiral out of the hole and eventually fly out into the jungle to eat their share of the insects. Every night, they descend back into hole, in much the same fashion. A yellow string of caution tape separated me from the very edge, but a local guide provided a rope, with which he tied one end around my waist and the other around a rock, which gave both him and me the security needed that I may inch towards the abyss' edge and peer over into the heart of darkness. The chill of the morning lingered in the air that day, and the swallows refused to emerge at dawn. Instead, almost four hours later, around eight thirty, finally some parrots came chattering their way out. Following them, in not quite the same herds as I was expecting, were the swallows. More silent, except for the whoosh that you felt as they flew past and over your head, they emerged in droves and flew out into the wilderness. The show was not that spectacular (bats flying out of Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico is a bit more astonishing), but the place was indescribable. I eventually tore myself off of the rocky cliffside and back up to my campsite where I packed up and started the descent down the rocky mountain path. I had to stop every few hundred meters to give my hands and arms a rest from clenching on the brakes so much to stop me from careening recklessly down the rocks and braking my bike.
XILITLA. After getting back to the 85, I continued south about 30 km, and then turned off the road once again to the make the eight mile trek straight up into another mountain side towards the small town of Xilitla. This town had a funky vibe to it. The sun of King James III (I think) of England, Eduard James made his home in this mountainside in the 1960's. Modeling his 'castle' after surrealist art, the place is a trip. I didn't visit the castle that night, instead choosing to find a funky hostel close by. The hot shower and bed proved much needed after a week tromping around the jungle. The hostel was very artsy and was run by some foreign travelers that were very nice. I slept in one of six beds that were placed inside one of the six or so teepees on the hostel premesis. In the morning I visited the castle. Sprial steps led to nowhere. Sprial steps led open balconies and rooms. Staircases zigzagged up the mountain walls to pools from a river flowing through the open air castle. These same staircases merged with jungle pathways that led up and up toward a bamboo tree house with an incredible view of the mountains to the east and the small of town of Xilitla far down below.
I could have spent several days wondering through those rooms and pools and gardens. I could have spent several weeks wading in the pools created by the Cascades of Tamasopo. I could have spent a lifetime marveling in the glory of the cascades at Tamul. Instead, I chose to return to the hostel, pack up my things, and return to the main highway heading south. What took me and hour and a half to climb up the afternoon before took me ten minutes to descend this midmorning. I hit the 85 and continued sounth toward Tamzanchule. Here I sit, telling my story. I am not sure where I will stay the night, but I should probably go figure that out before the sun gets completely blocked by the mountains and sets, casting shadows and night over the tiny cities and villages, the rivers and cascades, and any plush camping sites where me and my bike decide to set up camp.
Follow my story with some sights. I uploaded pictures. Sorry for any boring repetition. I have been amazed.
The words of this song echo in my head as I wind my way through the Eastern Sierra Madres, which separate the middle of Mexico from the Gulf of Mexico. Indeed, it appeared like these mountains could provide quite a safe refuge for people trying to escape the law across the border, or even within their own country. Silhouettes of mountains behind mountains cut the sky with sharp irregular peaks like a used saw. Tropical trees and plants cover these slopes, and where possible, orange trees, coffee groves, and fields of cane have left their mark on the hillsides and foothills. I have seen no sign of outlaws though. Instead, what I have seen is a simple people with indigenous roots strecthing back to 600 years Before Christ, adapting to a modern world that seems to be affecting their culture in definite but harmless ways, living in a landscape that is both astounding to see and humbling to experience. The Huasteca people live an area that covers five eastern states of Mexico. Although their dialect changes from place to place, the rest of their culture is much the same throughout the scattered pueblos that dot the hillsides. The Huasteca Potosina is the area in south eastern San Luis Potosi where these people live, although from what I can tell, it is better known for the immense amount of natural beauty clustered in a very small amount of land. This area is home to huge waterfalls, birthplaces of rivers, surrealistic castles, and deep abysses in the jungle floor. Of the many places to visit in this area, I was able to take my time off the main highway and explore some of them...
TAMASOPO. My first stop off Highway 70, which led from the city of San Luis Potosi to Ciudad Valles, on the other side of the mountains, was a small town 9 km down a mountain slope into valleys of sugar cane, where thick clouds gathered every morning to create hidden, wet jewels. I encountered some cascades just off of the main road that wound its way through the valley. Water tumbled down in several different locations into pools 5 to 8 meters deep and then stepped its way along the valley floor to continue into the river which ran through this valley. A little bit developed, but beautifully done, gardens and restaurants surrounded the pools and there were even stone diving planks and rope swings. The water was perfectly refreshing. I dove off every rock and swam in every pool I could, relishing in the rejuvenating coolness. Above from here, high in the foothills, was the Puente de Dios, where the same river's waters, emerging from caves, fell through openings in the rock walls to create deep pools where caves below created a downward current and pulled the water further down along the slopes. The Puente (or bridge) was hard to discern, as it was the part of land that I descended onto to peer onto the pools, but hardly seemed a bridge. It was at this spot, that after hearing about a cave higher up the mountain but not too far away, I decided to make the journey to see the birth of this river. Having left my sandals with my bike 700 something step up the other way, I embarked barefoot, not wanting to put on my biking shoes. Halfway up the half rock, half dirt path, I barely avoided stepping on a four foot long, one inch thick snake, that slithered away quickly into the bushes. Rethinking my thinking, I descended back to my shoes, and away from the Puente. Upon emerging from the wilderness, one of the locals reassured me that the green snakes were not venemous, but that there were four types of snakes that were. I didn't quite catch his broken Spanish to find out which four those were.
TAMUL. The next morning, I had an amazing ride through the valley. The fog soon lifted enough for me to see cane fields stretching their flowery limbs up into the dense jungle foothills. It was flat, windy, peaceful, surreal. I crossed back up and over the 70, this time going south on a road that I only realized I could due to local maps of the touristic area, printed on huge posters at keys junctures throughout the area. At the small, nothing town of Naranjito, I turned off the paved road for a 10 km trek down a dirt, rock road to the Casacadas de Tamul. Although these cascades are probably the best known of the area, they are harder to get to, and because it was the middle of the week, I was the only one on this path. I set up camp by a field of sugar cane next to a blue green river that ambled its way south east. I walked along a path downstream. Soon I saw the towering cliffside of a mountain that rose in front of a huge dropoff. The river I was following suddenly disappeared, and was replaced with the roaring sound of huge waterfall. Making my way to the side provided panoramic views of the cascades that dropped 105 meters to the river below, which had cut its way through these mountains in much the same way the Colorado River created the Grand Canyon, except to say that this canyon was not wide at all. I sat there, by myself, meditating on the side of this huge natural wonder, humbling myself before creation. That night, a few Mexican guys my age drove up and set up their tent right next to mine. Turns out I had seen them at Tamasopo, and they were doing a little tour of the area themselves, a bit more in style though. That night, we traded songs on my guitar, as we lay on a grassy patch by the river, gazing at the brilliant stars in the sky. In the morning, I returned with my new found companions down to the waterfall, and we descended some ladders to the shore of the river below. This provided new sights that were just as amazing, if not more. The morning fog was lifting. The sun was rising behind the falls. The refraction of light through the fog and water's mist created rainbows that contrasted brilliantly against the blue of the river and the green of the cliffs. Although my next destination only lay about 30 or 40 km southeast, I decided to take up my friends' offer for a ride. They were going to be visiting some archeological sites of the ancient Huasteca a bit east of Ciudad Valles, and then going to my same destination. Knowing that I was running of out cash and that I would probably not find an ATM in these remote villages, and also enjoying the conversation and human interaction they were providing, I decided to take my first car ride in Mexico. It was bitter sweet. I watched the km's fly by, and marveled in the feats of modern engineering. The archeological sites proved to be quite,...., boring. They quite possibly could have been the creation of several school children playing in the backyard. Maybe it was due to my previous experiences in Mayan ruins that belittled these sites. However old and brilliant these new sites were, it was obvious that the Huasteca people never amounted to quite the civlized empire that the Mayans of southern Mexico and Guatemala did. After the ruins, we rushed back west and then south along the 85, towards the Sotano del Golondrinos. Running out of time and light, they decided to drop me off half way up the unpaved road that led to the next natural wonder. Luckily, a couple of ranchers happened up behind us as I was beginning to load up my bike. Barely having time to put myself in the truck bed (with no tailgate), they sped off. At a certain point a few km up the road, I guess they decided they were hungry. They opened up a freshly fried chicken, a packet of fresh tortillas, a few coronas, and a tin of jalapenos and had dinner on the hood of the truck right there on the side of the road. Being the generous type that inhabit most of Mexico, they shared their dinner and refreshments with me, left their trash by their feet and loaded back into the truck. Thinking it was not the best time to lecture my drivers about the proper habits of throwing your trash away in a can and keeping the environment clean, I gathered it up in a pile, placed it on some rocks, and jumped back in the truck bed. Sometime later, the sun had set, and the truck stopped. I unloaded my things, as they said I was at the spot. A local kid, expecting a tip of course, showed me to a spot to camp, and there I camped, knowing only that I was high up in the mountains, in some sort of small town, camped a grass patch on a cliffside. I could see nor get the feeling for not much else. What I did feel was the sadness at having realized that I lost a sandal. This was not just any sandal. This was one of a pair of sandals that I had bought in Telluride the year before and had gotten signed by one of the world's great banjo players, Bela Fleck. Now, somewhere in Mexico, this sandal bumps around in the back of those rancher's truck. Surely it will end up on the side of the road, or better yet in one of the many beautiful rivers in this land.
SOTANO DE LOS GOLONDRINOS. At four thirty in the morning, I woke up (don't ask me how), and walked back down the road towards the touristy looking sign I had seen the night before. It pointed down a bunch of steps into darkness. Using my headlight, I descended down after paying my 20 peso fee (all these places have some small fees) towards the abyss that lay somewhere on this jungle cliffside. I finally arrived, and there was just enough light in the very early morning to make out the boundaries of the cliffs that dropped below into the earth. The Sotano de los Golondrinos is a hole (sotano? not quite sure of the exact translation), 55 meters wide at the top, and 512 meters down to the very bottom that suddenly and surely exists on this mountainside. Every morning, a few families of bright green parrots and a huge population of white necked swallows emerge at dawn, circling their way up the air currents that spiral out of the hole and eventually fly out into the jungle to eat their share of the insects. Every night, they descend back into hole, in much the same fashion. A yellow string of caution tape separated me from the very edge, but a local guide provided a rope, with which he tied one end around my waist and the other around a rock, which gave both him and me the security needed that I may inch towards the abyss' edge and peer over into the heart of darkness. The chill of the morning lingered in the air that day, and the swallows refused to emerge at dawn. Instead, almost four hours later, around eight thirty, finally some parrots came chattering their way out. Following them, in not quite the same herds as I was expecting, were the swallows. More silent, except for the whoosh that you felt as they flew past and over your head, they emerged in droves and flew out into the wilderness. The show was not that spectacular (bats flying out of Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico is a bit more astonishing), but the place was indescribable. I eventually tore myself off of the rocky cliffside and back up to my campsite where I packed up and started the descent down the rocky mountain path. I had to stop every few hundred meters to give my hands and arms a rest from clenching on the brakes so much to stop me from careening recklessly down the rocks and braking my bike.
XILITLA. After getting back to the 85, I continued south about 30 km, and then turned off the road once again to the make the eight mile trek straight up into another mountain side towards the small town of Xilitla. This town had a funky vibe to it. The sun of King James III (I think) of England, Eduard James made his home in this mountainside in the 1960's. Modeling his 'castle' after surrealist art, the place is a trip. I didn't visit the castle that night, instead choosing to find a funky hostel close by. The hot shower and bed proved much needed after a week tromping around the jungle. The hostel was very artsy and was run by some foreign travelers that were very nice. I slept in one of six beds that were placed inside one of the six or so teepees on the hostel premesis. In the morning I visited the castle. Sprial steps led to nowhere. Sprial steps led open balconies and rooms. Staircases zigzagged up the mountain walls to pools from a river flowing through the open air castle. These same staircases merged with jungle pathways that led up and up toward a bamboo tree house with an incredible view of the mountains to the east and the small of town of Xilitla far down below.
I could have spent several days wondering through those rooms and pools and gardens. I could have spent several weeks wading in the pools created by the Cascades of Tamasopo. I could have spent a lifetime marveling in the glory of the cascades at Tamul. Instead, I chose to return to the hostel, pack up my things, and return to the main highway heading south. What took me and hour and a half to climb up the afternoon before took me ten minutes to descend this midmorning. I hit the 85 and continued sounth toward Tamzanchule. Here I sit, telling my story. I am not sure where I will stay the night, but I should probably go figure that out before the sun gets completely blocked by the mountains and sets, casting shadows and night over the tiny cities and villages, the rivers and cascades, and any plush camping sites where me and my bike decide to set up camp.
Follow my story with some sights. I uploaded pictures. Sorry for any boring repetition. I have been amazed.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
A New Religion
Its been a week and about 300 kilometers since Zacatecas. I have been riding through Mexico like a fly trying to find its way out of a glass box (and by this I mean confused and zig-zagging quite a bit, in case my metaphors are a bit off). The road to Aguascalientes was similar to the road from Durango to Zacatecas, although I started passing through towns a bit more frequently. There was the desert, and some cactus, and some desert ranches with some cows, then some crops, then an industrial zone, then the city. Once again, I passed through a military checkpoint, where all of the guards walked over to me with their 3 ft. long automatic rifles in hand, crowded around me, and laughed as I told them them details of my journey. Ignoring the trucks passing by which were headed north, surely loaded with illegal immigrants and tons of fresh cocaine and marijuana, trying to make it across the border, they all thought me quite brave and quite crazy for taking this trip. I apologize in advance for any contributions my distraction may have caused for any trouble that advances north towards the U.S. border.
The morning before I arrived in Aguascalientes, I woke up and was playing guitar on an old stone wall in the cactus filled ranch I had camped in. From the bushes come a herd of cattle, who upon seeing me, immediately freeze. As the rest of the group crowded together to protect the youngens, the two bravest headed towards me, testing the waters. Not knowing whether to run or stay put, I decided to continue with the riff I was playing. The cows did not like my song. They bolt in the direction from which they had come, one getting stuck on a vicious looking cactus. I cringed as the cow wrestled to free itself from the spiny plant, and as it finally did.
Aguascalientes was nothing to write home about, so I didn't, until now. Notable incidents were the hosts I stayed with there. Mane (with an accent on the 'e' - an occupational therapist originally from Argentina), lives with her boyfriend Andres (a web designer originally from Veracruz, Mexico) in a little place about seven blocks from the central plaza. Very nice people, they invited me into their home for the night, and invited their friend Evelina, a flamenco singer originally from Argentina, to join us for conversation over a few beers around the dining room table. I found it very difficult trying to explain how I make my own beer in Spanish, but nonetheless enjoyed all the pleasant conversation and the interesting Argentinian dialect. In the morning, Mane presented me with the gift of a small bag of yerba mate and a bombilla with which I can drink it. I now can get my morning fix off of mateine, and not the caffeine with which I have grown accustomed. Among other things talked about, we discussed the route I would take, and we all decided it would be best for me to head east towards San Luis Potosi. As I head east from San Luis I will have to cross the Sierra Madres Oriental, which will put me in tropical land, closer to the gulf of mexico, and enveloped in more indigenous culture and natural beauty. Sounds good to me. Lets do it.
The two day ride from Aguascalientes to San Luis Potosi took me northeast on a very gradual climb through some mesas and valleys until I came to a river, damned to form a lake. I was impressed with how clean the water looked, as I have become quite used to the filthy sludge that most creeks and rivers look like in Mexico. To say the least, I was quite refreshed. I followed the now trickle of a river into San Luis Potosi, which again boasted beautiful cathedrals and old colonial buildings surrounding central plazas and city parks bustling with people moving in and out of restaurants, cafes, electronics stores, clothes stores, and one stop quicky markets. Here I waited until dusk came, at which point I rode the 2km to meet a friend of my sister from San Francisco.
Braulio, originally from Mexico City (D.F. -distrito federal - as most Mexicans call it here), got his phD in the U.S. in Biophysics and has returned to his home country, unlike many others who study abroad, to investigate the movement of neurotransmitters along nerve cells. It was fun to dork out with a fellow scientist for a little while and talk deep, hidden biology. I was able to go with him to the newly built institute here in San Luis Potosi while he worked on writing for a grant and I wondered around the building and read about the upcoming sights of my journey in a book that he lent me about the Ruta Huasteca (more to come on this area soon...).
Afterwards, we met up with the owner of Braulio's house (who lives and works in Oakland, CA, but was in town visiting his sick mother), Ray, and Ray's nephew Lalo at the San Luis Potosi (brown and navy blue jerserys) and Cruz Azul (white and blue - one of Mexico City's 3 professional soccer teams) soccer game. The stadium seemed small and simple. Made of concrete, it was only two main levels. Of these levels, which circumnavigated the entire stadium, you could get tickets for Cabecero (the heads, at the north or south ends, behind the goals), or Sol Numerados (the sides, where depending on when you arrived, you could get fantastic sideline seats, or not as good, a bit higher). The tickets were 100 pesos for Sol Numerado and 60 for Cabecero, and they were sold out of Sol, so we had to get Cabecero. Ray and Lalo already had Sol tickets, and though the plan was to sneak us two spare Sol tickets so we could join them on the sidelines, this didn't happen until ten minutes before the game ended. The lines to get into the stadium extended into streets and parking lots int the surrounding neighborhoods, and kids tried to bum change as you bought your ticket so they could get a piece of the action as well. After getting inside, we walked up a ramp to the north head end and stood at the top, on a deck that walked around the whole stadium, with checkpoints at the sides which you could not pass without a Sol ticket. The crowd was a bit tamer than I expected. A large cheering section at the north end belted out song after song, led by some horns and drums, and standing, moved their arms to the beat back and forth the ENTIRE game. Vendors walked by with buckets of beer and cardboard boxes with bags of churros, chips and hot sauce, and bowls of peanuts and hotsauce. Instead of pigeons flying in the lights above, there were bats, neurotically chasing insects, and there was no announcers voice or loud music blasting from any loud speakers. In fact, there no was no scoreboard either. For a pro game in a country where this sport is religion, the whole show seemed incredibly down to earth. With no timeouts for commercial breaks and an incredibly weak halftime show, the two 45 minute haves went incredibly quick. As far as the game went, San Luis lost 2 - 1, their only goal coming late in the 2nd half when unfortunately we had finally met up with Ray and Lalo and were making our way down to the second row. Those two seemed to be having a much more livelier time, with beer and chips smothered in sauce flowing pretty steadily.
After the game, we waited around till the crowd cleared and caught a taxi to Lalo's mom's house. Lalo's two older brothers were there with their wives and several small children, as well as his pregnant wife, mom, and dad. The mom fed us tacos with beans, beef, chorizo, cheese, salsa, and sauteed onions, and showed me how to officially make a Michelada (ice, salt, lime, soy sauce, horseradish, and your beer of choice). I learned here at the table that you can tell who is the big eater by the way he holds his taco (pinky up, plate in hand directly below - a little dainty if you ask me), as well as the difference between tequila and mezqual, and aguardiente. Of course I was obliged to try them all. They were fascinated by my trip and thought me a bit crazy to be planning the route east, although they all agreed it will be the prettiest, and much safer than going through Michoacan and Guerrero. After supper we sat in the living room and listened to Lalo's older brother sing and play songs on the guitar. I, of course, forgot all the words to every song I could have played for them. Lalo, the youngest brother, made jokes throughout the night, and his parents happily enjoyed their children, grandchildren, and guests, providing whatever snacks and refills were needed. I felt warm, welcome, and as the night wore on, very tired, so we returned home close to 2:30am and I fell quickly asleep. Today I plan to head east toward Ciudad Valles and to greener sights.
I posted some new pictures...
Tidbits....
I pass by the occasional dead animal on the road. These include foxes, dogs, coyotes, rabbits, cats, skunks, and even cows. You can tell that its coming from the stench that precedes it.
I bought a small guitar in Zacatecas. Small and lightweight, it fits nicely into a case that rides on my bike without very much hinderance at all. It is nice being able to put chords to the songs I write in my head all day long while pedaling through Mexico.
The morning before I arrived in Aguascalientes, I woke up and was playing guitar on an old stone wall in the cactus filled ranch I had camped in. From the bushes come a herd of cattle, who upon seeing me, immediately freeze. As the rest of the group crowded together to protect the youngens, the two bravest headed towards me, testing the waters. Not knowing whether to run or stay put, I decided to continue with the riff I was playing. The cows did not like my song. They bolt in the direction from which they had come, one getting stuck on a vicious looking cactus. I cringed as the cow wrestled to free itself from the spiny plant, and as it finally did.
Aguascalientes was nothing to write home about, so I didn't, until now. Notable incidents were the hosts I stayed with there. Mane (with an accent on the 'e' - an occupational therapist originally from Argentina), lives with her boyfriend Andres (a web designer originally from Veracruz, Mexico) in a little place about seven blocks from the central plaza. Very nice people, they invited me into their home for the night, and invited their friend Evelina, a flamenco singer originally from Argentina, to join us for conversation over a few beers around the dining room table. I found it very difficult trying to explain how I make my own beer in Spanish, but nonetheless enjoyed all the pleasant conversation and the interesting Argentinian dialect. In the morning, Mane presented me with the gift of a small bag of yerba mate and a bombilla with which I can drink it. I now can get my morning fix off of mateine, and not the caffeine with which I have grown accustomed. Among other things talked about, we discussed the route I would take, and we all decided it would be best for me to head east towards San Luis Potosi. As I head east from San Luis I will have to cross the Sierra Madres Oriental, which will put me in tropical land, closer to the gulf of mexico, and enveloped in more indigenous culture and natural beauty. Sounds good to me. Lets do it.
The two day ride from Aguascalientes to San Luis Potosi took me northeast on a very gradual climb through some mesas and valleys until I came to a river, damned to form a lake. I was impressed with how clean the water looked, as I have become quite used to the filthy sludge that most creeks and rivers look like in Mexico. To say the least, I was quite refreshed. I followed the now trickle of a river into San Luis Potosi, which again boasted beautiful cathedrals and old colonial buildings surrounding central plazas and city parks bustling with people moving in and out of restaurants, cafes, electronics stores, clothes stores, and one stop quicky markets. Here I waited until dusk came, at which point I rode the 2km to meet a friend of my sister from San Francisco.
Braulio, originally from Mexico City (D.F. -distrito federal - as most Mexicans call it here), got his phD in the U.S. in Biophysics and has returned to his home country, unlike many others who study abroad, to investigate the movement of neurotransmitters along nerve cells. It was fun to dork out with a fellow scientist for a little while and talk deep, hidden biology. I was able to go with him to the newly built institute here in San Luis Potosi while he worked on writing for a grant and I wondered around the building and read about the upcoming sights of my journey in a book that he lent me about the Ruta Huasteca (more to come on this area soon...).
Afterwards, we met up with the owner of Braulio's house (who lives and works in Oakland, CA, but was in town visiting his sick mother), Ray, and Ray's nephew Lalo at the San Luis Potosi (brown and navy blue jerserys) and Cruz Azul (white and blue - one of Mexico City's 3 professional soccer teams) soccer game. The stadium seemed small and simple. Made of concrete, it was only two main levels. Of these levels, which circumnavigated the entire stadium, you could get tickets for Cabecero (the heads, at the north or south ends, behind the goals), or Sol Numerados (the sides, where depending on when you arrived, you could get fantastic sideline seats, or not as good, a bit higher). The tickets were 100 pesos for Sol Numerado and 60 for Cabecero, and they were sold out of Sol, so we had to get Cabecero. Ray and Lalo already had Sol tickets, and though the plan was to sneak us two spare Sol tickets so we could join them on the sidelines, this didn't happen until ten minutes before the game ended. The lines to get into the stadium extended into streets and parking lots int the surrounding neighborhoods, and kids tried to bum change as you bought your ticket so they could get a piece of the action as well. After getting inside, we walked up a ramp to the north head end and stood at the top, on a deck that walked around the whole stadium, with checkpoints at the sides which you could not pass without a Sol ticket. The crowd was a bit tamer than I expected. A large cheering section at the north end belted out song after song, led by some horns and drums, and standing, moved their arms to the beat back and forth the ENTIRE game. Vendors walked by with buckets of beer and cardboard boxes with bags of churros, chips and hot sauce, and bowls of peanuts and hotsauce. Instead of pigeons flying in the lights above, there were bats, neurotically chasing insects, and there was no announcers voice or loud music blasting from any loud speakers. In fact, there no was no scoreboard either. For a pro game in a country where this sport is religion, the whole show seemed incredibly down to earth. With no timeouts for commercial breaks and an incredibly weak halftime show, the two 45 minute haves went incredibly quick. As far as the game went, San Luis lost 2 - 1, their only goal coming late in the 2nd half when unfortunately we had finally met up with Ray and Lalo and were making our way down to the second row. Those two seemed to be having a much more livelier time, with beer and chips smothered in sauce flowing pretty steadily.
After the game, we waited around till the crowd cleared and caught a taxi to Lalo's mom's house. Lalo's two older brothers were there with their wives and several small children, as well as his pregnant wife, mom, and dad. The mom fed us tacos with beans, beef, chorizo, cheese, salsa, and sauteed onions, and showed me how to officially make a Michelada (ice, salt, lime, soy sauce, horseradish, and your beer of choice). I learned here at the table that you can tell who is the big eater by the way he holds his taco (pinky up, plate in hand directly below - a little dainty if you ask me), as well as the difference between tequila and mezqual, and aguardiente. Of course I was obliged to try them all. They were fascinated by my trip and thought me a bit crazy to be planning the route east, although they all agreed it will be the prettiest, and much safer than going through Michoacan and Guerrero. After supper we sat in the living room and listened to Lalo's older brother sing and play songs on the guitar. I, of course, forgot all the words to every song I could have played for them. Lalo, the youngest brother, made jokes throughout the night, and his parents happily enjoyed their children, grandchildren, and guests, providing whatever snacks and refills were needed. I felt warm, welcome, and as the night wore on, very tired, so we returned home close to 2:30am and I fell quickly asleep. Today I plan to head east toward Ciudad Valles and to greener sights.
I posted some new pictures...
Tidbits....
I pass by the occasional dead animal on the road. These include foxes, dogs, coyotes, rabbits, cats, skunks, and even cows. You can tell that its coming from the stench that precedes it.
I bought a small guitar in Zacatecas. Small and lightweight, it fits nicely into a case that rides on my bike without very much hinderance at all. It is nice being able to put chords to the songs I write in my head all day long while pedaling through Mexico.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Painful Progress
The road from Zacatecas to Durango should have been nothing to me... a little less than 300 km, three days of riding, mostly flat, should have been easy. Yet I found these days to be brutally painful, all for different reasons. The first day, maybe due to the comforts of two nights in a bed in Durango, I was not adjusting back to the bike very well. The last twenty miles of my 60 mile ride through mostly flat agricultural land was very tiring, and I thought my bones might crack. I set up camp behind an unfinished work of stone (possibly a house or store) just off the side of the highway around 4pm, and didn't move until 630, when I made dinner, and then went back to sleep for another twelve hours or so. The sun is rising around seven and setting seven in these parts. Days are generally warm in the sun (which is ample), chilly in the shade. Nights get pretty cold, but nothing like the night before I arrived in Durango. It seems I have made it to a highway (Mex 45) that runs from Mexico City up into New Mexico. It is a historically rich highway, as the construction of this road (or path several centuries earlier) aided in the colonization and habitation of northern Mexico up as far as Santa Fe. Although there were many attacks by natives back in those days on the early settlers, the Mexican nation finally subdued these peoples and in so doing secured a vital agricultural part of the nation. It looks by all means like the central valley of California.
My second day, because of a lack of opportune campsites, was my longest day of riding yet... Seven and a half hours pedaling 80 miles. Mentally, physically, and emotionally drained by the end of this day. There were several highlights though... At one point, about halfway through, as I approached the top of a hill, an SUV pulled over ahead of me at the top and a man got out waiting for me. As I neared he approached me and asked if he could do an interview. He was a sports reporter for a local news station and pulled out his video camera and gave me one of those big news reporter microphones. It was a pretty simple interview there on the side of the road - who are you, what are you doing, whats the hardest part, tell me about your bike, where are you going, etc. He said it would air the next Monday. That night I arrived in the town of Fresnillo just as the sun was setting. After asking a couple policemen for some cheap rooms somewhere, they directed me to the firemen station, where I talked to the bomberos (firemen) for a while and they put me up in one of the dorm rooms that they reserve for the public (homeless, such as myself). They opened up their kitchen and bathroom to me, and it was a pleasure to stay with these mostly young men that night.
I thought Sunday would be an easy 40 miles to the colonial city of Zacatecas, but sure enough, nature would not oblige and I had one of the strongest headwinds I have had blowing against me, limiting my pace to a grueling crawl. When I did finally arrive, I checked out the beautiful city, laid gracefully in between three peaks of somewhat large hills. The streets are laid in stone, and the architecture of the many temples, goverment buidlings, and churches are absolutely amazing. I feel that it is one of the most tasteful cities I have passed through yet on this trip. It is clean, and the houses surrounding the center do not appear as if they have been thrown together in a matter of minutes. It might have something to do with the amount of money that the city brings in through its toursim. I have posted up near the central cathedral in a pretty cheap hostel with a rooftop terrace looking out over the city. It has a kitchen, and I have enjoyed making meals fit for a family, which I happily eat in one sitting.
It has been good to relax a bit here in the town and sit in the central plazas and parks watching the people. There are teenagers rolling around the grass, little kids eating icecream, businessmen trying to sell jewelery - pretty typical.
I am a bit confused at the moment in which direction to go, literally and figuratively. I am getting into the central section of Mexico, where cities are easy to come by, and campsites are a bit harder to find. Although it is nice passing through these cities, it is a completely different kind of trip then what I have experienced so far, and I am unsure how my wallet and tent are adjusting. I feel as though I might be better off returning to the mountains to camp peacefully among the trees, rural ranchers, and beautiful scenery. Afterall, isn't this what I would prefer to do in the states? Maybe cobblestones and museums will have to wait for a different trip. We will see.
Today I head south. I can head west to Guadalajara, directly south to Aguascalientes, or more east to San Luis Potosi. I am tired of planning a trip through land and cities I know nothing about, so I think I will just hit the road and which ever one I find myself on, thats the one I will take.
To infinity and beyond.........
My second day, because of a lack of opportune campsites, was my longest day of riding yet... Seven and a half hours pedaling 80 miles. Mentally, physically, and emotionally drained by the end of this day. There were several highlights though... At one point, about halfway through, as I approached the top of a hill, an SUV pulled over ahead of me at the top and a man got out waiting for me. As I neared he approached me and asked if he could do an interview. He was a sports reporter for a local news station and pulled out his video camera and gave me one of those big news reporter microphones. It was a pretty simple interview there on the side of the road - who are you, what are you doing, whats the hardest part, tell me about your bike, where are you going, etc. He said it would air the next Monday. That night I arrived in the town of Fresnillo just as the sun was setting. After asking a couple policemen for some cheap rooms somewhere, they directed me to the firemen station, where I talked to the bomberos (firemen) for a while and they put me up in one of the dorm rooms that they reserve for the public (homeless, such as myself). They opened up their kitchen and bathroom to me, and it was a pleasure to stay with these mostly young men that night.
I thought Sunday would be an easy 40 miles to the colonial city of Zacatecas, but sure enough, nature would not oblige and I had one of the strongest headwinds I have had blowing against me, limiting my pace to a grueling crawl. When I did finally arrive, I checked out the beautiful city, laid gracefully in between three peaks of somewhat large hills. The streets are laid in stone, and the architecture of the many temples, goverment buidlings, and churches are absolutely amazing. I feel that it is one of the most tasteful cities I have passed through yet on this trip. It is clean, and the houses surrounding the center do not appear as if they have been thrown together in a matter of minutes. It might have something to do with the amount of money that the city brings in through its toursim. I have posted up near the central cathedral in a pretty cheap hostel with a rooftop terrace looking out over the city. It has a kitchen, and I have enjoyed making meals fit for a family, which I happily eat in one sitting.
It has been good to relax a bit here in the town and sit in the central plazas and parks watching the people. There are teenagers rolling around the grass, little kids eating icecream, businessmen trying to sell jewelery - pretty typical.
I am a bit confused at the moment in which direction to go, literally and figuratively. I am getting into the central section of Mexico, where cities are easy to come by, and campsites are a bit harder to find. Although it is nice passing through these cities, it is a completely different kind of trip then what I have experienced so far, and I am unsure how my wallet and tent are adjusting. I feel as though I might be better off returning to the mountains to camp peacefully among the trees, rural ranchers, and beautiful scenery. Afterall, isn't this what I would prefer to do in the states? Maybe cobblestones and museums will have to wait for a different trip. We will see.
Today I head south. I can head west to Guadalajara, directly south to Aguascalientes, or more east to San Luis Potosi. I am tired of planning a trip through land and cities I know nothing about, so I think I will just hit the road and which ever one I find myself on, thats the one I will take.
To infinity and beyond.........
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