There are two things I don’t care for being back on the road. The first is eating out every day, and wondering will the hotel have coffee in the morning (most likely not). Second is unloading the bike, then packing and repeating in reverse order a day or two later. At least now after 14 nomadic months, I pretty much know where everything is. We shed some clothes and camping gear before leaving Merida but it hasn’t made a huge difference.
Click to enlarge photos.
After three days on the gulf in Campeche we headed south to Chiapas. On the way, we stopped to help a fellow biker stranded on the side of the road. Luckily the Green Angels (Mexican Roadside Assistance) showed-up as Fran wasn't able to provide a long-term solution. Chiapas will be our last state in Mexico, but not until year-end. For now we would drive as far as Palenque and the Mayan ruins. Back in May, Winston told us not to venture further south than that. It’d require going over the mountains where there’s frequent village unrest, road blocks and general dissatisfaction with either the government or the inhabitants of the next town. When the time comes, we’ll approach the rest of it from the south west.
Just outside of town we were surprised by a very large, modern customs post. Maybe it’s there because Guatemala is so close. We got stopped by a heavily starched, jackbooted agent (business-like but not unfriendly) and his sidekick (Mr. Smiley). They wanted our passports and bike permit and copies weren’t enough so a big unpack of the trunk began. The paperwork bag was at the bottom and just as we reached it, Sr. Grande got bored and said ‘never mind, we trust you’.
Palenque was a bustling little town with breastfeeding women chatting on corners and plenty of Cosina Economicas (cheap local eateries) filling the back streets. At US$2.73 for ½ barbecued chicken, beans, tangy salsas and tortillas, we rarely went back to main street. There were a few tourists, some Mexicans, but mostly Germans looking terribly healthy in their shorts and backpacks. The ruins weren’t far and we spent a day wandering after being forced to buy bags of roasted chestnuts and fried plantains by persistent 5-year olds at the entrance.
The second day we drove 65 km to Misol-Ha and Agua Azul on a curvy, country road with never-ending topas (speed bumps) and potholes. It took two hours and a heavy toll on Fran’s shoulders but the countryside was simply beautiful. I was smiling at the peacefulness of it all when I remembered Winston saying not to drive too far in and began to worry a bit. One village had a couple of very determined little girls at the entrance and exit trying to stop oncoming traffic. They ran into the middle of the road and leaned over with long sticks to block off the other lane. Being forced over to the wrong side was bad enough but having an unpredictable child hopping about didn’t help. Another town seemed deserted until we saw a schoolyard full of people involved in some sort of protest. We heard later there’d been protests all over the state that day.
I really wanted to take photos of the villages but after reading how the people here do not like their picture taken, I didn’t dare. I don’t blame them, though not sure I’d go as far as putting people in jail for it. At the end of the road, the jungle opened up to a turquoise river, shimmering pools and waterfalls. It was well worth the drive and we had the place almost to ourselves. With empty restaurants and lonely stalls, we’d picked the right time to come, but it made you feel sorry for all the effort people had put into exotic fruit and craft displays. Our 11-year old bike minder did all right though.
Fueling-up on our way out of Palenque, we met our first ‘Overlanders’ of the trip. A Dutch-Filipino couple on an overburdened BMW, they were on their way north from Argentina. It was like meeting old friends and for 20 minutes we compared notes. What a joy to know we are not alone! Now heading towards Veracruz, with the palm-fringed beaches and jungle behind us, also gone was the laid-back atmosphere of the gulf coast. Camouflaged soldiers and black-clad police in trucks were once again a familiar sight. We stopped in Acayucan for Yessi’s birthday party. The town was much more fun this time round. They were celebrating their patron saint’s feast day and the plaza was hopping. San Martin really transformed those streets with processions, traditional dancers and battles fought by men in drag. Folk drag.
The birthday party was in a large room in the funeral home belonging to Octavio’s family. It probably was used as a chapel during business hours. As it was, the baby Jesus was the perfect audience for the Karaoke trials and if his later self on the crucifix was upset by the festivities, there was enough tequila and frothy pink cocktails to take the edge off. We were gone before midnight but the party continued. Our breakfast the next morning was cancelled due to the other participants only getting to bed half an hour after the breakfast was supposed to have started. That left two very subdued turistas sitting in the lobby temporarily at a loss, and wishing they’d stayed in bed.
After a memorable moment putting the bike jackets back on for the first time in 6 months, we drove over some cold and foggy mountains to Puebla. We were hoping the Ural dealer would be open by now but Mexican customs had other ideas. Still, the owner ordered us two new tires (security for further down the road) and a saddle cover for Fran’s delicate derrière. Sadly, we got a nasty surprise during the service. The front and sidecar wheel rims are cracked. It’s only 10 months since we replaced the sidecar wheel for the same reason but it seems we got more than our fair share of a bad batch of rims. It took most of the week to contact Ural HQ in Seattle and convince them they had a warranty issue. Our three days here have extended to over two weeks and there are so many fingers in the pie our heads are spinning. To date, the new wheels are somewhere on a dusty road between Matamoros and Puebla.
The silver lining is this city is a World Heritage Site, and pretty breathless at over 2,000 meters. It’s also the home of Mexico’s famous dish, Mole Poblano. Restaurants abound and Thanksgiving couldn’t have been better planned. In-between phone calls to Ural and utterly confusing texts, we’re walking the city. Every street seems to be dedicated to a certain profession. There’s the tools street, and the bathroom fittings and floors street. The most entertaining is the Mariachi band street while the most reverend is the religious statues (their busy season is coming up soon). Popocatepetl the volcano is ever smoking in the background, providing a nice backdrop. It’s appropriate that we’ve reached the verb “Fumar” in our online lessons ‘Spanish with Paul’ (or as Fran calls it ‘Suffering con Paulo’).
The road into town is choked with traffic and every time the lights turn red, some 5 or 6-year old stands at the white line juggling rubber balls and whistling. Others hog the limelight by doing handstands between cars. With nothing but tiny feet visible above the endless hoods, it’s every mother’s nightmare. Or maybe not, it could just be their way of teaching kids to stand on their own two hands. (I’m sorry. I had to say it.)
When we had our fill of free-for-all orchestras, folk dancing and music on the plaza, we ventured out to Cholula. Its famous church, the sanctuary of Our Lady of the Remedies is built on top of the Great Pyramid and overlooks the town and distant volcanoes. The virgin (Our Lady) has an extensive history and her story could be read in a room behind the altar. Whatever was lost in translation she more than remedied in the interpretations of the translator. Below is an excerpt I had to memorize (no photos allowed).
“After 8 centuries, by a rummy privilege, or maybe by a trading act, the priest of that church give the virgin to a soldier, who went to the Italian war.”
If only our catechism lessons in school had stories like this, I might have been a more devout student.
Waiting it out like this, our life as Jubilados (a much more cheerful word than ‘retirees’) in a foreign land seems to be, like our Spanish, permanently in the present tense. We struggle to understand and be understood, and a lot of the time we only think we know what’s going on. The past is past and right now there won’t be a future if the bloody wheels don’t show up. All you can really do when events are out of your hands is find a shady café and have another coffee. Being grounded in a city like this isn’t all bad, in fact, it could even be considered a darn, rummy privilege.
