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.