Back on the road with two new wheels we stopped in Tehuacan. Nestled in a valley and surrounded by hundreds of spindly cacti, we visited the brothers Nelson and Eduardo. I don’t know where all the Joses and Juans are; we only seem to meet Winstons, Edwins and Nelsons. We spent a week here on the other side of town in May and didn’t care for it at all. Now, in centro with the little plaza decorated for Christmas, it had a whole different atmosphere. Before we left we had breakfast in Eduardo’s restaurant: lamb tacos, gorditas and a sweet, white corn drink that came in a china cup and saucer.
The drive to Oaxaca was entertaining. First there were runners followed by Jesus in a pick-up truck, with the guy in the lead carrying a flaming torch. Further on a series of cyclists panted their way up the hills. They were bent over under the weight of shrink-wrapped holy statues strapped to their backs. The Virgin of Guadalupe doesn’t look so slim now. Finally we passed two men and a flock of sheep with a pink-hatted child bouncing excitedly on her dad’s shoulders. It’s never a dull moment on the toll road.
They were erecting a massive Christmas tree at the plaza the day we arrived in Oaxaca. Hopping over lighting cables and speakers, we sidetracked various ladies selling embroidered blouses and found solace in the darkness of the cathedral. Oaxaca really was beautiful but I kept forgetting where I was. After 11 months of cathedrals and cloisters, the cities begin to flow into one another. That said, it really is quite unique with at least 16 different indigenous groups all with their own customs and languages. The main square was larger than most and very lively. When night fell, a band played Mexican and Cuban music and everybody danced the old-fashioned way. We came away feeling life can indeed be simpler, if only we let it be.
We could also let out a big sigh of relief now because our 2019 bike registration and sticker had arrived at FedEx with no problems, apart from us getting lost looking for the place. I’ve never been in a FedEx office before that looks like someone’s old garage when the door is closed.
We decided to delay winter in the mountains by going down to the coast. There were three options for getting there, the short road, the next short and the long. The short was apparently full of curves, topes and potholes and took a normal motorbike over 8 hours. A mini-bus was recommended for the second and further advice revealed it would be best to sit in the front. Those in the back got sick shortly after departure whereas those in front only got sick at the end. We were out of sick bags so we took the longer route to the port town of Salina Cruz and planned to backtrack up the coast. Fran had convinced me that this was a main route but reality still had me leaning into corners better than Sheryl Sandberg. A small, two-laner, it climbed, twisted and turned until we descended again into tropical vegetation. Every spare patch of land and hillside was growing blue-green agaves and we lost count of the small, wooden Mezcal distilleries.
Back on the Pacific coast for the first time in 8 months, we drove north to the seaside town of Mazunte. Tiny and dusty, there was no traditional center, only palm-fringed streets and a few hippy stores, hostels and simple restaurants. The few other tourists were about 30 years our junior, all in heavily-patterned clown pants, with dreadlocks or man buns. We spent a blissful few days on the beach and left only to visit the turtle sanctuary where we were handed a basin of babies to release into the ocean. We ran and waved like lunatics at the hovering seagulls until the turtles reached the water’s edge. They may have made it off the land but I wondered how on earth something so small can survive such a huge sea.
I could have stayed there forever but the Christmas season had started early and there was no room at the inn. Back down the coast in Huatulco, the beaches were bare, the sand whiter but most of the hotels empty. Any semblance of life was in the old town, just far enough away to feel unconnected to the water. It was so hot it was almost a relief when we felt our first wintery weather at La Ventosa, a very windy town on the road that links the Pacific with the Gulf coast. This is the narrowest part of Mexico and surrounded by windmills in every direction, we got well-battered and bruised. At least we didn’t need the police escort which happens when it gets particularly bad.
We entered Chiapas, our last Mexican state, and shortly after crossing the border we got stopped at a police checkpoint. They didn’t want to see our papers, just took out their phones, posed around the bike in turns and clicked. What a welcome! Later in Tuxtla-Gutierrez the sun was shining and we came once again under the care of the Nanny state. Every day we were taken for a different drive and explored the Sumidero Canyon with its 1,000 meter walls, crocodiles and spider monkeys, by boat. One morning we ate breakfast in a huge, tiled, hanger-like building. The entrance had rows of sinks, with soap marked ‘Shampoo’, for everybody in this country is expected to wash his hands first. A 10 AM on a weekday, the place was hopping. We drank a cocoa drink from a gourd and ate tacos. More meat for breakfast. Oh, be still my straining heart. The evenings were late with dinners of local specialties, none of which Google Translate could decipher. I've learned to put the phone away when 'neck', 'tongue' and other innards appear on the screen. Sometimes it's just better not to know.
The Tuxtla group contacted their friends In San Cristobal de las Casas and we were passed-up the chain and over the mountain. At 2,130 meters, the mornings and evenings were brisk. All the local ladies wore the same heavy, black skirts whose texture looked like a cross between fur and feathers. On their backs were bulky shawls; it’s hard to hide a sleeping 3-year old in there but they were pretty expert at it. Our small apartment had no heat and was colder inside than out so Christmas Cheer wasn’t on the menu. We were invited to a post-holiday dinner on the Thursday and in spite of the meal being centered round a cow’s head, I’d been looking forward to it. But it got cancelled. ‘Got to wait another while now to taste those succulent cheeks.
The plan was to cross into Guatemala on January 3rd and the final two stretches of highway were on my mind. We were told roadblocks by the local population were frequent, as were demands for money. How much money, and in what currency, was unknown and I admit my imagination went a little wild. However, it turned out there were ways to find out in advance if a road was blocked on a particular day and better still, several of the moto group decided to escort us to our last town, Comitan. After all my worries, and the front brake piston seizing coming down the mountain, it turned out to be nothing more than a breezy Sunday drive. Even the repair job went well. We were only 40 minutes on the roadside, tools spread, two sheep grazing and a hellfire and brimstone sermon wafting from a nearby church like the rich aroma of a Sunday roast. There were no roadblocks, no pitchforks and nobody asked us to step aside as they had a hood they’d like us to try on.
After shocking the hotel staff in Comitan by returning at 10 PM on New Year’s Eve, we got ready for the 84 km ride to the Guatemala border at La Mesilla. In a final gesture of the massive generosity Mexico has shown us, a friend of the Tuxtla group left his newborn baby for the day and drove north from his home near the border. He met us at the hotel and turned right around and drove south again, even crossing a few yards into the chaos of Guatemala before saying good-bye. That’s Mexico in a nutshell, being embraced into a family you didn’t know you had, and sitting comfortably in a spot you thought was outside your comfort zone. And while I adjust my cushion let me paraphrase some old Mad Men and say, “We’ve come a long way baby".
But this says it much better. Mexico Lindo y Querido | Playing For Change https://youtu.be/BvDdtEVAo-U