Yelling "Basta!" at you in Spanish, you wonder what the locals are trying to communicate. You find yourself in a small village and some of the natives are yelling at you as you ride by.

Think you are tough? Can handle stress? An adventurer? Drop your American pinkish-fat buttocks deep into Mexico and you will find life is different across the border. What they are yelling at you is, "Gringo, leave our women alone. Leave your dollars here, then Yankee go home."

Road signs in Mexico are easy to figure out. The distance is given in kilometers, and often the route numbers are well marked on a map and along the roads. The further south you ride, the less English is spoken.

Not Baja. Baja is nothing more than an extension of southern California. In Baja menus are written in English, so Gringos can read them. The locals laugh at the Gringos, who are spending American dollars, paying too much for a room and beer, and who think they have "crossed the border" and are in real Mexico. It seldom dawns on the Gringos that they have not really crossed into Mexico, unless they stop and ask themselves why they have not had to pay for a vehicle entry fee or fill out the paperwork for a Visitor Permit. When you enter real Mexico their government requires you to pay for and fill out paperwork, as well as show proof of vehicle ownership (title) and citizenship. Not so in Baja or the soft zone along the northern border and Mexican border towns. To really experience Mexico, you have to get away from the borders, and definitely get out of Baja.

Some of my heroes have gone into Mexico to die. Steve McQueen tried to beat the Big C in Mexico because he could not get the injections of animal cells and apricot seed extract he wanted in the USA. Neal Cassady disappeared deep into Mexico. Both McQueen and Cassady came home in boxes. I have a small village on the West Coast picked out for my passover time. I would rather spend it there than in an old folks home in the States or being attended to in my own bed while I drool and drip away my final days. It will not be a Night of the Iguana remake because my consumption level is well below that of Richard Burton. However, I can visualize the cabaña boys fetching cerveza and my last hours drifting in and out of focus while in a slowly swaying hammock. If I am lucky, Seniora Mendoza, who runs the only hotel in town, may look like the young Elizabeth Taylor in my last blurred moments.

On a deserted beach deep in Mexico I used the timer on my camera to capture a photograph of myself making a video of the waves breaking as the sun set. I used the video to produce a documentary film about motorcycling in Mexico. This beach was one of those "secret" places that still exist on the planet. I had to ride on a sand track for nearly an hour to arrive at the water. The ride was so bad, and the view so good, that I decided to spend the night camping, listening to the waves, filming the setting sun and not worrying about the fact I had no food.

I like the people of Mexico. They have a sense of survival not seen elsewhere in the world. Many are a mix of Spanish and Indian, mestizos, and for generations have been walked over by someone. This may give rise to their attitude of "tomorrow," or manana, which means "life is bad today, but will be better tomorrow." If you need a tire today, and there is not one the size you need, the tire salesman will tell you "manana." Which means he is saying, "We do not have it today, but we will have it tomorrow." When you return the next day, of course he does not have it (it will have to be shipped into from Germany or Japan), but again he tells you "manana." After two weeks the tire shows up. The salesman smiles and nods his head, as if to say, "See, I told you, ‘manana,’ and here it is."

You can tell when you are really in Mexico by the toilets. A Mexican toilet is a "squatter," with a trashcan or box in the bathroom for the disposal of toilet paper. Usually you have to carry your own paper into the toilet, because the owners seldom offer free stuff. One virgin traveler friend suggested after a Mexico trip with me that next time he would also pack a toilet seat, as well as a toilet to put it on.

An unscheduled toilet-gas stop in Puerto Angel (about a day ride south of Acapulco) introduced me to Jesus The Hustler. At the gas station Jesus was one of the petro-pumpers. He was curious and impressed with my motorcycle. Jesus spoke broken English with an entertaining laugh when he could not say an English word. My horrible Spanish made him smile and show the impressive gold work in his front teeth.

He asked if I needed a room, and I said, "No." Then he asked, "Do you come for ladies on the naked beach." I said no again, but my Quaker interest was piqued as I wondered what a naked beach was and more so what was with the naked ladies. I asked him "Where is this naked beach?" He pointed back across the street and said, "Many women." I told him, "Pump faster!"

I rode across the street, parked the motorcycle, took off my hot helmet and riding jacket, locked them to the bike, and headed towards the sand. As Jesus had said, naked people were there, and many of them were women. However, all were Gringos and ugly.

I walked the length of the beach doing optical research. There is something about an ugly nudist that reminds me of dried apricots. Where Playboy gets the models for the magazine is not from the beach at Puerto Angel, Mexico. On the Puerto Angel beach is where your ex-Hippie schoolmarm or crazy aunt comes to be free, get right with herself and Nature, and where nobody from her hometown will see her or know she is doing it.

Nudist on the beach at Puerto Angel.

The town seemed safe enough and I needed a shower and decent meal, so decided to stop riding for the day and hunt both down. The room and shower cost me $2.00 which was better than camping in the dirt, although the mattress was filled with straw and the pillow had lumpy, hand cut pieces of foam rubber inside. One of my friends calls them "tumor pillows."

I ran into Jesus on the street while hunting a cheap dinner and a couple of 75-cent beers. Jesus remembered me from the gas station. We decided to have a beer together in a cheap cantina and spent the next hour swilling and learning of each other ’s lives.

Jesus’ goal each day was to finish work early enough to get to the beach before dusk to cast his personal bait and few English words in an effort to catch your aging aunt or English teacher for the night. Jesus was a hustler. He would work himself through the basking female foreign apricots like I work a fish lure through a trout stream.

I learned Jesus The Hustler made more money from hustling dried up women on the beach than he did pumping gas. He proudly told me that the lonely ladies often gave him money after the liaisons in their hotel room, his not asking for it. He kept the job at the gas station for the small income it offered during the "slow season," when it was hot in Mexico and the school teachers were in their classrooms teaching students how to conjugate verbs and not 20 year old Mexican gas station attendants.

When I asked him how he could work himself up to the turgidity needed to entertain the browned and wrinkled nudist skins, he smiled and said, "Is easy for a Mexican man, not so easy for Gringos. We have cajones and hot blood. And we know how to use what we have. Is why Gringo ladies like us."

Jesus jumped up and said, "Adios, I must go. I see a lady from Texas I met on the beach. Maybe I see you later." We shook hands and he darted into the street to intersect a woman who was carefully walking along the broken sidewalk. She was wearing a large blue flowered sack dress, floppy straw hat and seashell necklace, all probably purchased from one of the beach vendors. I toasted him with my beer as I saw her stop to talk, noting that he was a far better man at the sport of engagement than I would ever want to be.

By 10:00 AM the next day my beach research concluded and I checked out of the Puerto Angel Marriott/Hilton Flophouse. On the way out of town I stopped to say goodbye to Jesus but he had not reported for work. His boss said, "Jesus is late today. He sent a message last night saying he was getting English lesson this morning." I left a business card for Jesus with a short note scribbled on the back that said, "Good work last night with your Texas English. See you next time I am in Puerto Angel."

Several days later I met Little Norman Bad Cock. I stopped at a small guesthouse on the beach that advertised "English Speak" and "Rooms Clean." As I was paying the $4.00 for the room, the plump Mexican woman who owned the place, Seniora Lopez, who spoke the English, said, "Little Norman bad cock, stupido. Careful. Norman muy stupido. Play cock. Malo. Bad, bad."

I was surprised because for a moment I thought she was referring to a Norman I know, who, in my opinion is, and I fondly refer to him as, the stupidest man I have met in the world who rides a BMW motorcycle. She had seen my BMW motorcycle and the BMW patch sewed on my jacket, so I concluded she knew my stupid Norman. But she was referring to her stupid Norman.

When I asked, "You know stupid Norman?" She answered, "Si, stupido Norman." Then she he pointed to a large lump of flea infested fur lying on the ground next to the walkway that ran the length of the 8 rooms she rented to tourists.

Little Norman was her pet monkey. She named him after "Norm" from the TV sitcom Cheers because the primate liked to drink beer, all the beer he could cadge, because he never had money to pay for it. He was chained to a stringer wire that was suspended ten feet off the ground the length of the 80 foot walkway that ran in front of the windows and doors to the guestrooms. Little Norman could run the length of the rooms, his chain clattering and singing as it slid along the suspended wire. The chain restricted his access so he could not reach the path, or the rooms themselves, but he could run alongside anyone going to or from their room, or park himself on the ground about six feet in front of a room.

Seniora Lopez’s Little Norman was an ugly monkey. He smelled like backpacker feet mixed with sewer water and vomit. His fur was molted, large patches missing. The exposed skin was red and raw from his picking at it, or festering from some tropical skin disease. Flies buzzed around Norman and often landed long enough to lay eggs in his open sores. Norman was not a petting monkey. To touch Norman with an unprotected hand or foot was not fathomable because it would allow the diseases he certainly carried to be transmitted. A gloved hand would allow the transmission by osmosis. The only way to touch Norman would be while wearing latex or rubber welding gloves.

Norman’s beer drinking was made possible by Gringo tourists who would give him a bottle to watch him drink it while they took pictures. He would hold the bottle two handed and tilt it back, sticking his tongue into it to glean the last drops. The best beers for picture taking and watching his snakelike tongue were Corona’s because they were made of clear glass. The women Gringos would titter like young schoolgirls as Norman’s tongue darted quickly in and out of the upheld bottle. If someone gave Norman a full or near-full bottle he would tilt it back and drain it, chugging it. After he was finished he would puke most of it back up, much of the ejected matter running down his chest and onto him legs and male parts. He could keep down half a beer or less, but anything more was guaranteed to come dribbling back out within minutes. It would dribble rather than spew because Norman would clinch his teeth, trying to keep the beer in, sometimes putting one or both paws over his mouth in the unsuccessful effort.

Little Norman was also not little, weighing nearly 20 pounds, reflecting his capacity to sponge and retain beer. And he was not as stupid as Seniora Lopez thought, because Little Norman could tell the difference between a male Gringo and a female Gringo.

What Little Norman lived for, besides beer and picking at his open sores, was to park himself within sight of a woman’s door or window and play with himself. He would sit on his haunches, eyeball the room, rock back and forth at the end of his length of chain and fondle his privates. The person inside the room would know Little Norman was flailing away outside because they could hear his chain rattle against the overhead stringer wire. If the lady occupant peered out her window or door, Little Norman would go into high speed, working himself into a frenzy to explode if the woman stared long enough. If a woman exited her room and walked towards the front of the house Little Norman would stop his foreplay and run alongside her until she escaped out the front entrance. At the end of his chain, Little Norman would then hunker down, rock back and fondle until the sound of her footsteps faded. Then he would wait for the next woman to enter the foyer and head for her room, or run back down his stringer and park himself in front of some other woman ’s room that was occupied.

Little Norman would hassle only women. Men with short hair were not objects of his attention. Little Norman could differentiate between men and women, which I thought proved him to be smarter than he was.

I stayed at the guesthouse four nights and learned that the only time Little Norman would stop his flagellation was after he had exploded. Then he would roll over in stinking ball of fur as close to the walkway as he could and take a nap. After his siesta he would hump down to his food and water supply, take nourishment, then resume his vigil near the foyer or engage in some more self-applied therapy outside another single woman’s room. He could be distracted if given a bottle of beer, but once that was finished, if the female tourist was still present, he would resume his avocation.

Where I differed with the owner of the monkey was on Little Norman being stupid. Because I have long hair, Little Norman assumed I was a female. He would follow me to my room, then sit outside and perform his Little Norman Bad Cock show. One morning after a long night of debauchery I needed sleep and his chain rattling outside my door kept waking me up. Because I knew what he was doing, and he knew I knew what he was doing, I felt he had entered my personal space uninvited. I got out of bed, put on my boots, opened the door and said to him, in my very best Spanish, "Norman, stupido, muy stupido."

Then, to make sure he understood, I said in slow and deliberate English, "Norman, I thought you were smarter than this. Invading the personal space of Greg Frazier without an invitation is a reflection of your decision-making capability. You must know that there will be some fallout from what your are doing. You should also know I am not someone you want to screw around with. I have ridden and raced motorcycles all over the world, broken bones, been trampled by bulls in Pamplona, have a father who is a Marine, spent a night in a Honduras jail, and suffered through relationships with several evil women. I am also a famous monkey footballer, known throughout the world for kicking monkeys that invade my personal space. Go away, or suffer a punt by a motorcycle boot, after which I will write about how you are dumber than a sack full of hammers."

Like my Norman, the Mexican Norman did not heed my advice, ignored my opals of wisdom, and instead shifted his bad cock play into higher rpms. Just as his eyes started to roll back I sent Little Norman flying with a soccer kick that would have impressed Pele. The kick was so well executed that Little Norman made a complete circle around the stringer wire at the end of his chain and landed with a loud thump on the spot of ground he had just left.

After that small educational lesson Little Norman stopped invading my personal space. When I checked out of the guesthouse I said to Seniora Lopez, "Norman stupid, but maybe not so stupid now." She laughed, looked at him hunched outside some German lady’s room, and said, "Norman, bad cock. Stupido, muy stupido." Knowing that monkeys are close to human beings in evolutionary development and that over the years I have learned that with humans even money can not purchase common sense or good judgement, I smiled and agreed, "Si, like my Norman, muy stupido."

Mexico has gotten a bad rap over the years. I have ridden motorcycles from one end to the other and have yet to find Mexico close to the bad reputation it has. For instance, all the stories I have heard about the bad roads have proven to be false. The Mexican roads are no worse than many on my Indian reservation in Montana, and some of Mexico’s are far better.

Mexico has some super highways where heavy weight Harley-Davidsons and Gold Wings are happy. The downside is some of these are expensive toll roads.

I did get robbed once in Mexico, at gunpoint on a lonely road, when I stopped for what I thought was a police blockade. The police turned out to be bandits dressed like cops (or maybe off-duty cops?) relieving all travelers of their cash and valuables. But in retrospect, the experience was no worse than that of a friend of mine who was robbed by two men who walked up behind him as he was leaving the Sheraton Hotel within spitting distance of the White House in Washington, DC. The men took positions on each side of him and one stuck a knife against his rib cage. My friend was told to empty his pockets while he kept walking. They cleaned him out as he crossed the street, even got his ring, watch and cigarettes. The bad guys in Mexico only got my spare wallet filled with several expired credit cards, $20.00 in $1.00 bills, and some old business cards from people I had forgotten who they were.

Mexico offers some interesting "off-road" riding. Here the Harley and Wing is less at home. Even my ‘round the world Kawasaki KLR 650 finds this kind of stuff a bit difficult. The road was "washed out" in numerous places, and reminded me of roads I had ridden in Africa.

A Honda rider I met had his motorcycle stolen in Mexico. His voltage regulator died and none was to be found in Mexico, so he parked the motorcycle in a hotel parking lot and rode a bus for four days to San Diego where he purchased the needed part. When he got back to Mazatlan the bike was gone. That, to me, should have been no surprise. Each year at Sturgis or during Bike Week at Daytona Beach, motorcycles often disappear from motel parking lots, many while the owners are sleeping in a room less than 20 feet away.

When I asked the Honda owner why he had not just bought a car battery, strapped it to the back of the seat, wired it to his electrical system and ridden out of Mexico, he said, "Never thought of that." I looked at him and concluded there may be some basis to the theory that chimpanzees can be trained to ride motorcycles. What is supposed to separate us from the chimps is our mental capacity, of which the Honda rider did not appear to have much.

I sometimes make mistakes. The only rock on this dried out plain and I did not see it, well not until about 50 feet before I hit it. I did manage to slow the Kawasaki down a little, which was good. What was bad was I fixated on the rock, sliding into it. The rock rolled over, the KLR wobbled, and then fell. I once traveled with a wicked woman who laughed when I had a small crash in India, saying "I deserved it" for doing what I will never know. This time it was me who laughed at me, because I had hit the only rock in the middle of nowhere, and it reminded me how, with her, I had found the only witch in a country of a billion people.

A motorcycle ride into the famed Copper Canyon of Mexico proved to be a let down. Billed as being "seven times bigger, and deeper than the Grand Canyon," the ride to the bottom was nothing more than 40 miles on a twisting dirt road. Buses, trucks, cars and bicycles were riding the same road as I was on a fully loaded BMW motorcycle. One of my Harley-Davidson friends rode his FLH to the bottom, later calling the ride a "yawner."

What might make the Copper Canyon road a little more interesting would be if the government sponsored a motorcycle race from the bottom to the top, like the Pikes Peak Race to the Clouds. The Pikes Peak race is over 12.5 miles of gravel and dirt, with 156 curves, and no guardrails. I have managed that run in16 minutes and some seconds. I would like to try the 40 miles out of the Copper Canyon on a good race bike. That could make the Copper Canyon ride less of a snoozer.

The bridge at the bottom of the Copper Canyon entering the little, and only, village of Batopilas. There is gas there (pumped from 50-gallon drums) and several motels, including a Best Western for the soft tourists.

A motorcycle rider lacking dirt-riding skills could find the Copper Canyon ride a major challenge. A German rider on one of the packaged motorcycle tours that ride to the bottom of the Canyon crashed four or five times before the tour organizer took the motorcycle away from him. For the German, his money would have been better spent by parking the motorcycle in Creel (the nearest town to the Copper Canyon) and climbing on top of one of the Suburban vans Mexican tour operators use. They have bolted seats to the roof of the Suburban and make daily runs in and out of the Canyon with tourists riding up top in the open air. The German might have had more fun on top of the van than flopping around in the dirt and gravel, and it would have been far less embarrassing than having his motorcycle taken away.

I will ride motorcycles again in Mexico. It is fun using my broken Spanish, the people like to laugh and party, and away from the big cities living is inexpensive. I will avoid riding in Mexico City, one of the cities that long ago made my personal list of the worst motorcycling cities in the world. Not only is it located in a hot bowl that collects exhaust, smoke and rotten air, but the driving is so horrible the government has limited the days owners can drive their cars.

Riding at night is suicidal. Pictured here during the day are two donkeys, the same color as the rocks, and a hair smarter than Norman, which means the donkeys can, and will, jump in front of a moving object like a bus, truck or motorcycle. At night they chose to stand in the road, where it is warm. Rule # 1 for riding a motorcycle in Mexico is "Never Ride At Night."

When I return to Mexico, maybe I will pass through the village where Little Norman lives. I often wonder if he is still being stupid or if he learned from his flawed decision-making capability. I would like to think he will not have forgotten the boot, but possibly Norman is too stupid to change.