Days
88-92 – Naucalpán de Juárez, Estado de México, México to Loma Bonita, Estado de
Oaxaca – 13,584 km
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| The route: A) Naucalpán de Juárez, B) Izúcar de Matamoros, C) Oaxaca de Juárez, D) San Juan Bautista Valle Nacional, E) Tuxtepec, F) Loma Bonita |
‘They
had just put the clothes in when I got there,’ I said.
‘They were supposed to do it last night,’
Jess said.
‘They said the city turned the water off
last night and it only came back on this morning.’
‘So
how long do we have to wait?’ she said.
‘Two
hours,’ I said.
It
had drizzled last night but early in the morning it stopped and now it had
started again. I was flecked with droplets when I got back from the lavandería (‘laundromat’) so I took my
riding pants off and hung them in the hotel room while we waited.
We had been ready early that morning
because we expected to collect the laundry and make an early start. Tomorrow
was Christmas Eve and there was a lot of road to cover if we wanted to be
somewhere nice like maybe Palenque or San Cristobal de las Casas. In order to
avoid a notoriously windy 150 km stretch of Carretera 190, we opted for a wide
detour north and then east along the Gulf coast instead of going directly east
from Oaxaca. Now the weather report showed a massive storm system pushing
inland from the Gulf and then spreading across our entire route for the next
two days.
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| Carretera 160 in the state of Puebla |
We had left my friend Memo and his
motorcycle shop in Naucalpán de Juárez three days before. We rode through the
Distrito Federal, which is what the Mexicans call Mexico City, and then we went
southeast on Carretera 115 to Cuautla and then east on Carretera 160. It was a
good feeling when, after 50 km or so of traversing one satellite city after
another, we left the urban sprawl around Mexico City and we were once again in
the familiar Mexican countryside of desert hills and rocky scrubland. We stayed
that night in Izúcar de Matamoros where we took an evening stroll among the
market stalls that lined the central plaza. Each was dedicated to variations on
the same theme: figurines and backdrops to decorate your family’s nativity
scene.
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| Jess rides Carretera 160 in the state of Oaxaca |
The
next day we continued riding through a beautiful countryside of rocky,
bush-covered hillsides as we left Puebla state and entered Oaxaca. In the evening
we reached our destination of Oaxaca de Juárez shortly before sunset. The
mountainous region around Oaxaca had been under settlement for thousands of
years when the Spanish founded a military outpost there in 1521. They came
because Moctezuma II had told the conquistador Cortés that it was the source of
the Aztec’s gold. The churches and buildings are a beautiful example of
colonial architecture and now, as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, Oaxaca is one
of the gems of Mexican tourism.
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| The Cathedral and lovely plaza of Oaxaca |
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| The rocky, dry, and desert-like southern side |
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| The lushly green, vibrant northern side |
After
hanging about the hotel for a couple hours and then hopping on our bikes and
riding to the laundromat, it was just passed 11 when we had our clothes still
hot from the dryer stuffed into our panniers. Leaving Valle Nacional, we took
Carretera 175 north with the expectation of a quick 50 km into Tuxtepec and
then a hook eastwards to hopefully reach Sayula de Alemán or Minatitlán with
still the better part of the day before us.
But this was not to be.
Less than a kilometer outside of the town
proper, we came upon a line of vehicles that were stopped in the outbound lane
of the highway. With the idea that, being on two wheels and being narrower than
a car despite our side cases, we edged into the opposing lane and proceeded
slowly towards the source of the delay. A few dozen meters ahead, we reached it.
Here at a narrow point in the highway, several stones and logs were thrown
haphazardly but sufficiently across the highway to form a complete roadblock.
Several villagers stood beside the roadblock and nearby there were various of
the drivers who had emerged from their vehicles to discover the cause of this
sequester.
As
we neared the makeshift barrier, I raised my helmet visor and spoke to the villager
nearest to me.
‘Es
una huelga?’ I said. ‘Is this a strike?’
‘No,’
he said.
‘Yeah,
Ok,’ I said. ‘Can we pass? We are not from here.’
The
man shrugged and said nothing but in his look he said, ‘I will take no
responsibility for what you do.’
We
are fortunately that this one is weak in his commitment, I thought. I slipped between
two of the large rocks and, when I saw that Jess had followed me through, I pulled
hard on the accelerator. Just in case one of the more committed ones appears
and wants to create an incident, I thought.
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| Yes, we could definitely jump this 'barricade' |
We passed a bend in the highway and at the
straightaway I noticed two things. First, the ground sloped steeply away on
both sides of the highway with a creek on the left hand and a densely forested
hill on the right. Second, I saw several more parked cars, which were empty as
though abandoned by their drivers. Passing these cars I then saw that we had
not escaped. We were in the no man’s land between the two sides of the
roadblock. They are smart to separate the opposing traffic and especially with
a blind corner, I though. Probably this is not their first time.
‘No
se puede,’ said a woman who stood along the second barrier before I had raised
my helmet visor. ‘No you cannot.’
She
was young, short, and stout, and she had an intelligent look about her. The
stern expression she wore looked like it was from the circumstances and not from
her character. Under different circumstances she probably would have invited us
into her home for a cold horchata (‘rice
milk drink’) but now there was this of the roadblock and she was playing her
part well.
‘Es
esta una huelga?’ I asked as I had before. ‘Is this a strike?’
‘This
is not a strike,’ she said. ‘It is a manifestation against the municipal
government for the failure to fulfill a commitment to the people of the village.’
‘Ok,’
I said.
I did not want to ask for further details
because I did not want to be on a side. I thought, if they explain it to me and
I still try to break the roadblock, they might take it personally and then it
might get ugly.
‘You can see that we are foreigners and so
you understand that we have no vote or involvement in this,’ I said.
‘We
welcome you here and we appreciate your support by waiting with us for a while,’
she said.
Her
colleagues who stood beside her were mostly older but it was clear that she was
the leader and the most committed. I made a few more attempts to get us through
but her companions gained confidence from her obstinacy and soon I had no hope
for success. I pressed my kill engine switch, flipped the kickstand out, removed
my helmet, and walked back to Jess.
‘Why
are they blocking the road?’ she said.
‘They
have a complaint against the municipal government,’ I said.
‘What
about?’
‘I
didn’t ask,’ I said.
‘Ask,’
she said.
‘I
will when I’m certain that we are stuck here,’ I said.
It
had been ‘spitting’, as Jess says, when we left with our laundry but now it was
drizzling again so we retreated under the shelter of a large tree beside the
highway. Jess was wearing the waterproof lining inside her riding pants, which
made them retain her body heat even with the vents open. She also wore a rain shell
over her summer weight mesh, riding jacket and the shell was also trapping in
the heat and humidity. My riding suit had the waterproof layer baked in and
larger vents, which better expelled the heat, but still they were plenty uncomfortable
in the rain and humidity without the airflow from riding to cool me down.
Jess’s
mood was became unpleasant because of this discomfort and because of this
second delay to our itinerary in the lead up to Christmas Eve. We stood under
the poor shelter of the tree not saying anything and we both watched the villagers
and the events of the roadblock.
‘There
are all these drivers stuck here with us – they who have jobs and
responsibilities that are put on hold – and I am realizing how maybe it is arrogant
that I am thinking we should be exempted from the roadblock,’ I said.
‘Maybe,’
she said, ‘but they are all thinking of ways to get passed it too.’
We
continued to watch the scene and to make calculations. The opposing lane was
blocked by several large stones, which were too tall and too close together to
ride over or between. Across our lane there was a wooden pole about six inches
in diameter laid against a square timber – like the roof beam from someone’s
house – that was a little bit thicker.
‘Could
we jump the pole with our bikes?’ Jess said.
‘Sure
our bikes could,’ I said. ‘It’s good that the pole is in front of the beam so
it would be like going over a big tope
(‘speed bump’). But we’d have to power hard to get the front wheel over it and
then keep powering until the rear was over it too. I think I’d manage to jump
it but then you might come up too slowly and get caught there. Then your would
probably get rushed by a horde of angry villagers and I would have to decided
whether to run back to save you or to ride off while I have the chance.’
We had a good laugh at the thought that
developed of Jess being pulled down from her bike and torn apart by a crazed swarm
of zombie-like villagers. This and the remembering that our timetable was not
ours to control helped to lighten our moods so that soon we were joking and laughing
again.
Eventually I spoke to one among the
villagers who was cool-headed and apologetic about the delay. He had no
authority to let us pass – or maybe it was no desire to countermand the
stern-faced young woman who seemed to be the comandante (‘commander’) of the group – but he did explain the
cause for the demonstration. The now outgoing municipal president, or mayor,
had promised to fund the construction of a school for this pueblo at the
northern outskirts of Valle Nacional. Among the several points, the school was
agreed to include a specific number of classrooms, girls’ and boys’ bathrooms,
and a septic tank.
‘The school that was eventually built,’ the
young man from the village explained, ‘has neither the agreed number of
classrooms, nor separate bathrooms for the sexes, nor the septic tank as
promised.’
He
paused while I filled in the parts that Jess did not catch in Spanish and then
he continued.
‘Our
village representative – the one who you see talking to that group there – went
with some others this morning to the palacio
municipal (‘city hall’) but the offices were closed and there was no one to
receive them.’
‘But
today is Monday,’ I said.
He
nodded.
‘They
didn’t show up for work because they didn’t want to deal with it,’ I said.
He
nodded again.
After
the young man from the village had excused himself to return to his colleagues
at the barricade, I said to Jess, ‘See, isn’t it harder to think about jumping
the barrier when you know they have a valid complaint.’
Then
I turned to listen to one of the drivers who was delayed on his trip from
Tuxtepec to Oaxaca.
‘Look,
I’m on your side,’ he said to several villagers grouped beside the barrier. ‘The
government representatives will not present themselves – cowards! But you don’t
want to hold the traffic up forever or you will have bigger problems.’
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| The villagers convene to discuss their next steps |
He was a good talker and his timing was
right to catch their attention. Almost three hours had passed since they had
laid siege to the public highway and they were becoming weary just as we were
becoming very impatient.
‘What you need to do is to end this in a
way that continues to cause trouble for the municipal government,’ he said. ‘Permit
me to suggest that what you should do is to collect a small tribute from each
vehicle that wishes to pass.’
Quickly this idea circulated amongst the
villagers and, eventually, it is what they decided to do. It took them some
time to organize themselves but soon they had set up a makeshift tollbooth
beside the roadblock. Jess and I were at the front of the line and I quickly offered
40 pesos, or about 4 dollars, which was the amount that the smooth-talking
driver had suggested and is about what two motorcyclists would expect to pay
for a short stretch on an autopista de
cuota (‘toll highway’).
‘Son 100,’ the stern-faced young woman said,
refusing the bills I was offering. ‘It’s 100 pesos.’
‘No, that’s too much,’ I said, thrusting
the two 20-peso notes again towards the cardboard box that was their cash
register.
‘Son 100 cada uno,’ her older colleague
replied. ‘It’s 100 pesos each.’
‘Venga ya!’ I said. ‘Come now! 100 is too
much. I will pay a tribute to support the cause and so that we may pass. But
this is not legal what you are doing and 100 each is too much to ask.’
‘Fine. Then move the motorbike aside for
the others who will pay,’ the older one said.
‘No. I am offering you 40 pesos to pass on
this, which is a public highway. 40 pesos is a good amount and it is fair
considering that this that you are doing is not legal.’
We went back and forth a few times and I
grew angry and my anger showed in my voice because 200 pesos, which is almost
20 dollars, seemed to be much more than a symbolic tribute to their cause. With
our two bikes fanned across the outbound lane, Jess and I were now acting as
our own roadblock against the villagers who now wanted to open the road. Despite
my anger over the 200 pesos, I was amused to think about the irony of this
reversal. My amusement vanished instantly, however, when the old one tried to
move me by pushing on my motorbike. It was a silly attempt because I had only
to clench the brake lever but the man’s hands on my bike infuriated me and I
cursed at him.
‘Joder, coño! Quítese las putas manos de mi
moto!’ I said. ‘Mother fucker! Remove your fucking hands from my motorcycle!’
He jumped back in surprise and then tried
to calm me.
‘Tranquilo, tranquilo,’ he said but I would
have none of it.
‘Please move out of the road and we may
talk,’ he said.
I did not move but soon I paid the 200
pesos and he immediately stepped aside. Damp from the persistent drizzle, 200
pesos poorer, and now five hours delayed, we were anxious to bolt passed the
roadblock and carve out at least some of our intended route with what remained
of the day.
But first there was one more delay.
On the other side of the roadblock we
quickly discovered that the three hours of pile-up had created a massive
bottleneck. The curious and impatient drivers of sedans, trucks, and buses had
advanced forward into the outbound lane of the highway. Now it was a long, infuriating
process as these vehicles attempted to retreat one after another until they
could merge back into the inbound lane and the traffic in our direction was
free to advance. It was another half-hour of impatiently idling, inching
forward, and wherever possible squeezing motorbike and side cases between tightly
packed cars until we were finally free and traveling briskly away under a
persistent drizzle.
‘I was concerned that you were going to
stick to your principles and you weren’t going to pay,’ Jess said later that
evening over dinner in Loma Bonita only about 80 km from where we began the day.
‘No, I
had no principles involved in it,’ I said. ‘From the start I had every
intention to pay whatever it would take to finally get us of there. But, come
on, after three hours of waiting I wasn’t going to part with 20 bucks without
giving them some fucking grief when I finally had the chance.’
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