A Quick Ride Around Mexico

[strikingviking]

Destinies and Curses
November 26, 2008
Durango, Durango
Mexico

Once in awhile, first-time international long-riders send email requesting travel advice and route planning for their upcoming dream. But since I hesitate to share what are at best, subjective opinions, I invariably refer them to the latest and best technical information available at horizonsunlimited.com But procrastination regarding such lofty endeavors is a common error--so a two-part fundamental concept I do offer is that number one, it is important to quit talking and set a launch date, and number two, do not deviate from that date. Whether it be, “In two years I’m…” or “Next month I’m…” Just state the date and then do it. Don’t bother mentioning “Someday.” “Somedays” never happen. Set an irrevocable calendar day, period. Once making that critical decision, there are no acceptable excuses to postpone. “It was too hard to leave right then because my tummy hurt, my dog was sick or a relative died” are insufficient reasons to delay—take an anti-acid or bury your dead and then leap into the metamorphosis of your epic journey. As a result of disregarding gasping personal crisis a lot can go wrong and your world may dramatically change, but isn’t that the reason we adventure?

So here I sit in a low budget, downtown Durango hotel with no hot water, a victim of my own wisdom. Why abandon the relative peace and security of blissful Mazatlán for a month of cramped, musty rooms and spine-mangling saggy mattresses, further annoyed by sporadic yelping outside my window of malfunctioning car alarms? Is this the result of a masochistic urge to be uncomfortable, or a case of the wanderer’s awkward curse--to only find true solace on the road?

Yesterday afternoon after forcing myself to abide by rule number two, while spiraling upward among the soaring rocky cliffs of the Devil’s Spine (Mexico Route 40) it was a peculiar feeling, departing the warm muggy palm-tree-Pacific coastline into the brisk scented pine forests of the chilling Mexican Sierras. What a unique transition toggling from the proverbial Gringo tourist zone of pink legs protruding from Bermuda shorts into the world of macho horseback hombres in Latin American cowboy country. As always, traveling according to plan of no-plan requires only a firm departure date and a general direction with an optimistic time allotment. With that said and done, the first fork of destiny lays ahead.

Still weighing two options, in a few hours on the outskirts of Durango, for the hundredth time over the decades, I’ll do another mental coin-toss; roam south into the stunning colonial granite plazas of of Zacatecas, or sprint across the empty desert plains of the Mexican Central Highlands to gracefully descend somewhere on the sultry Caribbean beaches. It’s true that wanderer’s wander because they have to, but also, when choosing destinations it’s best to select an unfamiliar one, which will likely eliminate Zacatecas in favor of Torreon and Monterrey.



Because in previous Ride Reports, myself, as well as many, many others, have vividly described the terrain, photographed such stately delights as towering Zocalo cathedrals, favorite canyon lookouts and even colorful zesty local restaurant cuisine, I’m still undecided what to write about or if I’ll even post photographs. And you guys know darn well that when snapping shots of local babes, one thing invariably leads to another, like more intimate posing in private and later appearing here. This may be much to the delight of some but also to the dismay of others who consider reporting this type of activity inappropriate. Maybe we’ll just have to settle for some non-political stream-of-conscious-rambling about the effects of life south of the border from a man wrangling with a rewarding curse.
Andele pues

[strikingviking]

Tropics
November 27, 2008
Veracruz, Veracruz
Mexíco

Two years ago when first arriving from Africa I was relieved to establish a home base and begin the awkward process of reintegrating into the West. Yet after a brief time back in the comfort zone coping with extra-firm king-size beds and regular meals of known contents, I realized what was to be most missed; having a unique direction. While temporarily planted somewhere on the other side of the earth, it was a satisfying sense of endeavor when replying to questions in downtown Cairo—“So where are you heading next?

As though considering a variety of exotic options, I’d simply bait enthusiastic listeners with, “India and maybe Afghanistan.”

Or even once returning to California when curious locals saw my thrashed, sticker-strewn motorcycle and asked, “Wow, where are you coming from?”

With smug anticipation, I’d casually reply, “Africa.” You can only imagine the following delightful interrogation while startling audiences with tales of kindness and hospitality in the most unlikeliest of places. Now back in the groove on the move, although a four thousand mile sprint around Mexico would only be a minor detour on a world ride, astonished jabbering taxi cab drivers aiding this sometimes lost biker, pummel me with questions about destinations in their own country. And within Mexico, from indigenous genes to colonial blood, every state becomes a different country with varying cultures, cuisine and physical characteristics of the people.

As many prosper while others starve, pockets of northern Mexican cities benefit from the overlapping selective affluence from her adjoining neighbor. Basking within the fiscal shadow of a more powerful economy, a closer proximity to the US border results in a questionable blend of what is not always the best America has to offer. Sparkling boulevards of state capital cities lined with flashy US business franchises seem more like upscale downtown Los Angeles than a country labeled, Developing Nation. Durango, Monterrey and Torreon prosper while choking in environmental pollution and fading famous Mexican open arms.

But the criminally expensive toll roads (Autopistas) offer opportunities for spirited bikers to unleash their aching desires--escaping from typical constraints of aggressive US radar wielding traffic cops they can ride here as fast as a fenced-in concrete highway allows. Galloping along WFO, across barren high altitude deserts, after holding the throttle open for long stretches of 110 mph, when rolling back to eighty, it feels slow enough to get off and walk. But unsuccessfully coaxing giggling tollbooth girls to climb on the back of my bike takes the edge off of having to pay ten cents a mile to ride in heavenly near-solitude. Even when spotting distant rooftop cherries of the notorious Federales, if passing them politely enough to show respect, they acknowledge me with an approving nod.

The United States of Mexico, suffering collaterally from a hideous bloody war between rivaling drug cartels and competing corrupted government officials, can also be merely considered a modern-day wild-west in transition. But every situation is a package deal as we accept the bad with the good while balancing what serves us best. The live-and-let-live fundamental principals of Mexican society make this non-pretentious lifestyle a single-male-biker-paradise. As long as you don’t draw blood and avoid illegal drugs, there is little trouble to get into that a few hundred pesos can’t resolve. From a comparatively unregulated dating structure, to immediate social acceptance if merely attempting to speak Spanish, home in Mexico is wherever you want to roam. (And no matter the ultimate outcome, when smiling at dark-eyed pretty senoritas, they always smile back.) Affordable gourmet meals in rustic restaurants, cheap ice-cold robust and a year-round mild climate conducive to motorcycling further define this land of the perpetual do-it-manana mantra. Asking any middle-age expatriate why they choose to depart the relative security of America to live in frightful Mexico, condescending Gringos are shocked to hear the invariable response, “Freedom.”

Alas while exiting the industrial border states of Coahuila and Nuevo Leon, broad sweeping turns gently lower me across the pungent ranchlands of Tamaulipas directly into the vibrant green seaside jungles of Veracruz. A sad descent of the socioeconomic status accompanies a dusty Federal highway turned lumpy patchwork of decaying asphalt. Back at sea level, thick, sweet tropical Caribbean breezes blow in over endless sugar cane fields tended by machete swinging workers of noticeably aboriginal features.

An hour before entering the capital, just enough rain cascades down on a semi-truck congested single lane roadway to keep this from being a perfect ride. In a grand finale of the days adventure, shortly after sunset, rows of blinking traffic lights lead the way into a dazzling El Centro and the liveliest Zocalo in all of Mexíco. Swirling fumes of carbon monoxide are overridden as popular tourist restaurant kitchens pump overwhelming scents of jumbo shrimp simmering in buttery garlic sauces. Roving guitar bands booming baritone vocal harmonies vie with costumed mariachis as serenading minstrels in sidewalk cafés bang away on wooden xylophones. Arm in arm, teams of dark-skinned senoritas with long, curly black-hair parade the massive stone plazas pretending not to notice gawking male admirers. Silently pointing to their wares, standoffish Indian women dressed in similar hand-woven fabrics peddle traditional, colorful sticky candies and cheap souvenirs. Just to the side, well-dressed older salesmen manning bicycle-wheel carts eagerly urge gullible travelers to buy their neatly displayed fake Cuban cigars. And, at the end of long days ride, a weary biker pauses to smile while so at home in this tantalizing circus of humanity.
Viva Mexíco!

[strikingviking]

Mayans!
December 7, 2008
Campeche, Campeche



Much of the eastern coast this week has been an easy, two-hundred-mile-a-day roll across decent roads, over-nighting in port cities from Tampico, Veracruz, Coatzocoalcos and Ciudad de Carmen to Campeche, with maybe a U-turn tomorrow in Merida. So far, most of the downtown Malecons (Seawalls) looked the same with concrete block strips of tempting open-air seafood restaurants, multistory hotels deteriorating in the corrosive salt air and well-maintained harbors clogged with old rusting bow-shaped fishing boats rocking in gentle rhythm next to giant tankers hauling petroleum.





Although still traveling according to plan-of-no-plan, I expected a turn-around anywhere along the most easterly point on a prime chunk of Mexican real estate jutting out to separate the Gulf of Mexico from the Caribbean Sea. The Yucatán Peninsula with its furthermost tip nearly touching Cuba, is bordered to the east by tropical Belize and to the south by Guatemalan rainforests.



The state of Quintana Roo is hardly known except for a familiar strand of spectacular coastline defining the scattered beach-lovers-over-commercialized enclaves surrounding Cancún. Along with the Maya ruins at Chichen Izta and Tulum, except for well-paid petroleum company employees, there’s supposedly not much else out there to draw Americans. And until encountering the blank stares of elite European retirees sauntering about dressed in perfectly creased safari shorts trying to be cool, I had not seen another paleface in the last twelve days. Abruptly departing from a blissful isolation from fellow foreigners, I was dismayed to discover being among organized tours of snotty Continentals equally annoyed to see a grungy Gringo biker park his rumbling machine in the middle of our shared hotel courtyard.



Unlike in more traditional colonial cities, no one here seems happy to see me.



But in this far region of the country primarily populated by indigenous people and their mixed descendants, even Mexicans from the interior are considered foreigners and except for the purpose of leaving behind pesos, are also not much appreciated. Up until 1517 when modern Campeche was accidentally “discovered” by stranded Spaniards, this once scientifically advanced culture stretched all the way to Honduras and Chiapas. And until colonialist Europeans and marauding pirates invaded to viciously squabble over what belonged to the natives for the previous twelve hundred years, ancient Yucatán was occupied by tribes of astronomy savvy Mayan Indians. Judging by the startling departure from typical Mexican warmth, many of these descendants seem to long more for their distant past than in the ensuing centuries of existing in subservience. In the first battle of Campeche, before the massive stone forts were built and soldiers multiplied, those of such short stature did a remarkable job of preserving their isolated domain by repelling conquistadores with simple weapons, requiring a full twenty years to be eventually subjugated.



With disproportionately long arms and short legs, if over five feet high, round-faced Mayans with broad noses and thick lips are considered tall. Although a growing portion of today’s population is considered mixed, heavy cheekbones below almond eyes of black marbles, distinguishes the true natives from those richer in Spanish blood. Lucky for me, I rolled into Campeche, the state capital of Campeche just at the beginning of an annual Telethon parade to aid the handicapped.





Yet the arrival of another towering invader prompted revelers to offer only mild scowls, a disturbing reaction to a man who rode a long way to say hello.

[strikingviking]

While others appeared ambivalent to the imposing stranger,

[strikingviking]

Others became curious,

[strikingviking]

Time for a proven formula for breaking the ice—

“Hola mis amigos! Muy buenas tardes, como estan?” A little bit of local lingo always goes a long way, especially if followed by an explanation. “Soy Glen Heggstad y he estado vijando todo el mundo a conocer la gente. Somos una familia grande, no? Y con su permiso, me gustaria tomar sus fotos.” I am Glen Heggstad and I have been traveling the world to meet the people. We are a big family, no? And with your permission I would like to take your photograph.” Bingo.

[strikingviking]

Invites
December 12, 2008
Chetumal, Quintana Roo

Invitations to private gatherings or a local's home are the traveler’s ultimate dream. An opportunity for unscripted glimpses into the lives of those who we normally only greet in passing give deeper meaning to the journey. And although motorcycles are the ultimate form of transportation for spirited wanderers, in their unique appearance of muddied, bulky luggage, also become efficient instruments for connecting direct to curious restaurant patrons or small crowds of gathering gawkers on downtown street corners. Whether they stop to inquire or not, everyone seeing this unusual site wants to know more—especially Mexicans.



So it was yesterday morning when after serving a requisite breakfast of refried beans and four fried eggs, café owner Miguel had to know more. Gift-giving works miracles in Developing Nations and for these occasions I’m always ready with an EARTH RIDE DVD--three-hundred-twenty slides of a global motorcycle ride accompanied by moving African music. While immediately inserting the disk into the restaurant TV and studying flashing photos of Middle Eastern Bedouins, the coveted invitations arrives. “Please be my guest tonight at our family lakeside retreat near the Guatemalan border.

The only marking for the mile-long jungle road leading to the freshwater lagoon.


















From raising their own animals for consumption to the solar electric panels to provide light, this informal eco-retreat is self-sufficient.



Caretaker Gabriel is anxious to display methods of animal husbandry for their flocks of chickens, ducks and turkeys.







And after a long day, Gabriel's wife makes of dinner of fresh fried tortillas and turkey meatballs.





But after a long day of chores, Gabriel's son Benjamin is one hungry hombre.



And the next morning I ask him if he's ready to trade hats and ride north with El Vikingo.



He thanks me but opts to stay where he's needed on the homestead.



But in the finest of Mexican tradition, he bids me Buen Viaje and a speedy return.

[strikingviking]

Centro Mercados
December 17, 2008
Villahermosa, Mexico
(Disclaimer: For this trip I mistakenly decided to use the old Sony 818 that while banged around the world for several years has been dropped, drowned and subjected to so many temperature extremes that it barely functions)









If the heart and soul of a Developing Nation can be found in a pulsating city center, then the societal spirits can be discovered through the colorful kaleidoscope of their thriving central markets. From Middle Eastern Souks to Latin American Centro Mercados, on early Sunday mornings, this is where the collective vibrancy of a culture can be sensed as well as seen.



Wandering among shoulder-to-shoulder congested, makeshift temporary aisles, scents from countless rows of vine ripened fruits and vegetables compete with contrasting odors from bins of still flopping fish and dangling, recently clucking chickens. Neatly arranged piles of dried chilies and sinus-piercing pungent spices catch me off-guard mid-inhale while vendors bark orders to sample homemade candies.









Frugal housewives with restless children in tow barter for groceries which will later combine into delightful bursts of sizzling salsas. Yet while wallowing through this familiar rhythm of chaos, an invading alien is clearly ignored.

[strikingviking]

In a southern Mexican city seldom frequented by foreigners, a heavily tattooed, six-foot-three, two hundred twenty pound biker stands out as awkward as a puffy-eyed, stumbling Rastafarian, and is initially as welcome.



When wading through crowds of hesitant locals, sometimes I do notice narrowed-eyed facial expressions conveying obvious suspicions “Aren’t you from that place where they are building a wall to keep people like us out?”



But consistent with a prior pledge to never leave a reluctant crowd until everyone is willing to shake my hand, I once again bellow a proven slogan, “I’ve come along way to meet you…”

[strikingviking]

[strikingviking]

[Torquemaster]

Great pictures Glen. shame i have not run into you. I stay in Mexico every winter for 4 -5 months. Last year went to the Mazatlan bike week, that was different but again some excellent pictures. I stay in Celestino and ride my bike all over from there. I also referee soccer (football) so get to ride into the mountain villages to do games. Its a great place and wonderful people i have made many friends over the years but alas could not go this year, due to upcoming surgery on my knee. Last year rode to Colima and Barra and stayed in some awesome beach sites in between. We hear the murders in Culiacan are right out of control though. Will try and get in touch with you before we leave in October, kindest regards, John

[strikingviking]

Originally Posted by Torquemaster

Great pictures Glen. shame i have not run into you. I stay in Mexico every winter for 4 -5 months. Last year went to the Mazatlan bike week, that was different but again some excellent pictures. I stay in Celestino and ride my bike all over from there. I also referee soccer (football) so get to ride into the mountain villages to do games. Its a great place and wonderful people i have made many friends over the years but alas could not go this year, due to upcoming surgery on my knee. Last year rode to Colima and Barra and stayed in some awesome beach sites in between. We hear the murders in Culiacan are right out of control though. Will try and get in touch with you before we leave in October, kindest regards, John

Hey amigo, I live in Mazatlan and always have a spare room for long-riders passing through. And we are well prepared for visitors.

[albert crutcher]

Thats got to be a first for Turkey porn on the Hubb!
Oh! and I,m glad you found some nice looking chicas in Oaxaca,cos I didn,t!
I,ll just have to stick to Medellin.
Al theturtleshead

[strikingviking]

Originally Posted by albert crutcher

Thats got to be a first for Turkey porn on the Hubb!
Oh! and I,m glad you found some nice looking chicas in Oaxaca,cos I didn,t!
I,ll just have to stick to Medellin.
Al theturtleshead

If you like the selection in Medellin, you'll love Brazil.