The Cause of This Sequester

Days 88-92 – Naucalpán de Juárez, Estado de México, México to Loma Bonita, Estado de Oaxaca – 13,584 km

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.

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.

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.

The Cathedral and lovely plaza of Oaxaca

In the evening, we left our bikes at the hotel and we went out on foot to visit the lovely, lively main plaza where we took dinner and drinks at one of the courtyard restaurants, listened to mariachis, and then watched a wedding procession. In the morning I ran a careful circuit along the cobblestone streets to visit the several noteworthy churches and then, after a pleasant breakfast in the plaza, we loaded the bikes and set off.

The rocky, dry, and desert-like southern side

The lushly green, vibrant northern side

We left Oaxaca going north on Carretera 175 and we spent the better part of the day weaving through one series of twisties after another as we traversed the heart of the Sierra Madre de Oaxaca mountain range. It was a gorgeous day to be riding and the scenery was every bit equal to the weather. On the southern side of the range the mountains were beautifully rocky, dry, and desert-like. Then as we reached the northern portion of the range, the mountains became lushly green, vibrant, and densely forested. For a few dozen kilometers of snaking highway, this was among the best, most spectacular riding we had encountered anywhere. When finally we reached San Juan Bautista Valle Nacional about 50 km short of Tuxtepec it was after 5pm and we were ready to settle in for the night – and to find a laundromat.

         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.

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.’

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.’

By the End Our Hearts Are Heavy

Days 82-90 – San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato, Mexico to Naucalpán, Estado de México – 13,326 km

The cuadrilla and the bull during the first tercio
of the bullfight

First, the three matadors enter the arena as the plaza de toros (‘bullring’) fills with the lively melodies of classical pasos dobles (‘double-steps’) played by the orchestra that sits arranged in the balcony. The matadors enter surrounded by their cuadrillas (‘teams of bullfighters’) and they parade within the circle of the bullring, waving and casting salutes to the applauding crowd and the presiding dignitaries. Each torero (‘bullfighter’) wears an ornate, colorful outfit inspired by the style of dress of 17^th century Andalusia, Spain, but the costumes of the three matadors – their trajes de luces (‘suits of light’) – are most decorative as first their status.

Once the bullfighters and their complements complete the paseíllo (‘parade’), the toreros of the matador Rafael Ortega arrange themselves around the ring and the name, breeder, and weight of the toro (‘bull’) is presented on a placard. Then the bull is released into the ring to the roar of an eager crowd. In his fear and his anger, the bull charges the toreros, making passes with his horns, as they and the matador instigate him with the large pink capes, called capotes. When the bull draws close and they do not trust their cape and skill, then they leap behind the protection of the wooden barriers that are built into the arena. During this opening stage of the first tercio (‘third’) of the bullfight, the cuadrilla is draining the freshness from the bull and learning his movements and preferences so they will know best how to face him.

The banderillero studies the bull before the charge

When the bull’s chest is heaving from the exertion, two picadores enter the arena mounted on large, blindfolded and heavily padded horses. Each carries a vara (‘lance’) and, with the help of the cuadrilla, he who is closest entices the bull to charge him. When the bull charges, he goes in head down and horns raised, colliding brutally into the flank of the horse, knocking it backwards with all the force of its weight and inertia. As the horse struggles not to buckle, the picador lances the bull with his pike to draw the first blood of the corrida (‘bullfight’). The loss of blood and the weakening of the neck muscles will cause the bull to hold his head lower during the rest of the fight so that he will be less dangerous to the matador. When the picadores leave the ring, the orchestra announces with a flourish that the first tercio of the fight has ended.

         The second tercio begins upon the conclusion of the first when the first of three banderilleros enter the ring. Sometimes the matador performs the roll of the banderillero and this is the case with Rafael Ortega and also with Juan José Padilla, who will follow Rafael to confront the second of the six bulls we will see tonight. Ortega studies the bull, straining to read him and to hold his attention amidst the distractions of the crowd and the other toreros. It is now when the bullfighter experiences the first connection, or intimacy, which the bull does not know or would not care about if he did. When he is ready to perform his maneuvers, Ortega raises the banderillas (‘little flags’ with sharp spikes at one end) in a pronounced, lofty posture. Although he does not have the height of the tall Spaniard Padilla who is naturally graceful, Ortega does much with what he has. He raises himself on tiptoes and, as the bull begins to charge, he ranges to one side slowly at first and then more quickly and, at the last instant, he drives the banderillas into the bull where the back converges with the already bleeding neck. Ortega performs this maneuver twice more so that, as the second tercio of the fight ends, six long, flag-like objects dangle from the bull’s hide and Ortega leaves him heaving and bleeding more profusely than before.

         By now the bull is weakened and nearly all of his early vigor and fury has been drained from him. This is when the third tercio – the Tercio of the Death – begins. Ortega, the matador, enters the arena alone with the weakened bull and approaches slowly, cautiously as the bull watches him and struggles to regain its strength and breath. As he approaches, Ortega carries a muleta (‘small red cape’) and a false estoque (‘sword’) of aluminum. Using the muleta to antagonize the bull who is colorblind and so cares nothing about the color, Ortega performs a series of passes, called tandas, during which he attempts to maintain control while presenting the appearance of danger. The bull is very weak now and it is with some effort that Ortega can entice him to charge. After each tanda, Ortega detaches himself from the bull with a flourish of head, cape, and sword and, recognizing the queue, the crowd erupts into applause.

The matador instigates the weakened bull to charge

I watch the bull rather than Ortega. Heat is rising from his hide, blood and sweat are streaming from his flanks, and mucus is oozing from his nostrils. Ortega continues the faena, which is the name given to this series of interactions with the bull, for about 10 minutes, which feels like an eternity to me and certainly is one to the bull. Finally, Ortega has decided that the bull has given all that it has to him and to the fight and to the audience. He approaches the barrier and exchanges his false estoque for the real one made of steel then the he returns to the bull in several graceful strides. Ortega engages the bull in one last tanda and then finally the moment of the death is come. Ortega assumes a posture that appears at the same time graceful and contorted. Ortega sights the bull along the line of the sword. The entire bullring quiets to whispers and held breath.

Ortega charges. The bull charges. There is an instant when anything can happen. Will he be gored? Then the sword penetrates deeply into the neck between the shoulder blades. Ortega raises his arms in triumph. The audience roars. The bull staggers. He is surrounded by the matador and toreros and, when he falls, one among the number quickly approaches and inserts a puntillero (‘dagger’) into the neck. This severs the spinal cord and brings the bull finally to its death.

         For his skill and showmanship, the president awards Ortega an ear and a tail – this is the grandest award of the corrida. The peon cuts these from the corpse of the bull and presents them to Ortega. Ortega parades around the ring, holding his trophies in his upraises hand. People from the crowd throw hats and sweaters and wineskins into the ring as Ortega passes slowly before them. Ortega picks nothing from the ground – his peons do that for him – and he or they throw the symbolic tributes back to their owners within the adoring crowd.

We stay for the whole corrida – the death of six bulls – and by the end our hearts are heavy. Most of the spectators began leaving at the moment of the final estocada (‘strike of the estoque’) but I insisted that we stay to watch as the last bull is dragged out of the arena.

‘It’s the least we can do to see it out of the ring,’ I say. ‘Like some kind of show of respect to the bull who has died here.’

‘I feel bad for the bull,’ Jess says.

‘I remember there being more grace to it when I first saw a bullfight in Spain,’ I say. ‘Maybe it’s because I wasn’t sitting so close that time or maybe it’s because I was different then, but this time it just felt ugly and brutal.’

‘Once was enough,’ Jess say. ‘I don’t want to do this again.’

A) San Miguel de Allende, B) Morelia, C) Ciudad Hidalgo,
D) Angangeo, E) Naucalpán de Juarez

It was a Sunday bullfight at the Plaza de Toros in the Distrito Federal (‘Federal District’), which is what the Mexicans call Mexico City, because, like our Washington, D.C., it does not belong to any of the 31 states of Mexico. We had arrived the previous evening after a circuitous two-day route from San Miguel de Allende. I had missed out when a week earlier several guys from the San Miguel motorcycle club had organized to do the ‘Mil Cumbres’ ride. Jess had discovered the motorcycle club while searching the Internet for information about where to get dual sport motorcycle tires in Mexico City and we had visited the club the previous Wednesday at the Longhorn Smokehouse for their weekly meeting. The club president had sent me an invitation to join the message group but I had failed to sign up early enough to receive the email that went out about the ride. At the following meeting, George had shared a glowing report on the ride and later after the formal meeting had ended I picked him over for details about the route and the roads.

A beautiful day for the Mil Cumbres ride

         From San Miguel we had taken Carretera 51 south through Celaya and then to Salvatierra. Here we veered onto Carretera 52 and took it to Yuriria, which is a surprisingly lovely town that is located beside a lagoon of the same name and was holding a Feria de los Cuentos (‘Short Stories Fair’) in the central plaza during our short visit. From Yuriria we continued south on Carretera 43, traversed the marsh-like Lake Cuitzeo, then skirted the city of Morelia – another of Mexico’s numerous UNESCO Heritage Sites, and picked up the Morelia-Toluca Carretera 15 going east.

A view of not quite a 'thousand peaks'

         Shortly outside of Morelia, Carretera 15 begins a winding ascent into the nearby mountains. This 70 km stretch of mountain road from outside Morelia to shortly before Ciudad Hidalgo is the route commonly referred to as Mil Cumbres because it is supposed that you can glimpse a ‘thousand peaks’ during this traverse of the mountain range. For us, the Mil Cumbres route was fun but actually a bit underwhelming perhaps for the expectations we had built.

Jess rides through the forested hillsides

         ‘I didn’t see a thousand peaks,’ Jess said when we stopped at the mirador (‘lookout’) at the climax of the ride.

‘It certainly wasn’t the Devil’s Backbone,’ I said.

         The Devil’s Backbone was the jaw-dropping traverse of the Sierra Madre Occidental mountain range from Mazatlán to Durango along Carretera 40 that had caught us by surprise upon our arrival on the Mexican mainland about one month before.

         That evening we found accommodations in Ciudad Hidalgo and the next morning we left Carretera X for a northerly detour to the monarch butterfly sanctuary at Angangeo. Each year between November and March, the monarch butterflies migrate south to the temperate climes of Michoacán state in Mexico. When I first heard of the natural butterfly sanctuaries in Mexico, I let myself imagine standing amidst a swarm of butterflies as I raised my arms heavenwards like the classic scene after his escape in The Shawshank Redemption. During my first motorcycle trip in 2009, I had tried three times to visit the butterflies at various locations and each time I was thwarted by fickle weather. Visiting the monarch butterflies was like a book left open during the several intervening years.

View as we ascend to the monarch butterfly sanctuary

         At Angangeo, we followed the locals’ directions until we veered onto a rough stone paved road into the forested hills outside of the village. When we arrived at the village adjacent to the Santuario de las Mariposas Monarcas El Rosario we paid an entrance fee and then again we paid to enter the sanctuary itself. Inside the sanctuary, it was a 45-minute ascent through the dense forest until we reached our objective. At first we saw no butterflies. About 30 minutes in we saw one and then a few minutes later we saw a few more. Then they appeared in droves. When we reached our destination, which was a small clearing amidst the tall trees, monarch butterflies swarmed overhead and all around us. They were so dense in the trees that the branches looked to be alive and the sky was dotted with fluttering wings of orange, yellow, and black colors.

Jess relaxes while I am anxious to see the butterflies

         We took photos and then I stood as close as I could get without trespassing from the clearing. The butterflies came fluttering and swooping all around me and I held my hands out as and let myself believe for a time that this swarm of butterflies had been brought down from heaven as a sign just for me.

         After the butterfly sanctuary, we retraced our route down the paving stone path into Angangeo and from there south again back to Carretera 15. At a petrol station back on the main highway, we reviewed the map and made calculations. We were close enough to reach Naucalpán, which is beside Mexico City and where I have a good friend whom I met on my first visit. For the first time on the trip we took the paid highways – the autopistas de cuota. We made good time and, except for a few isolated cases at tollbooths and junctions, we largely avoided the infamous Mexico City traffic.

Butterflies swarm overhead - photos cannot do it justice

         Four years before during my first trip to Mexico, when I had finally left Erssel in San Miguel it was with my motorcycle anchored to the flatbed of a pickup truck destined for the motorcycle repair shop of Motoservicio Garrido. Guillermo (Memo) Garrido, the owner of the shop, had traveled the four hours to San Miguel de Allende with his late adolescent son who was then a novice mechanic to collect my bike when it was badly ailing. The hacks at a local shop had, after only a little listening to the engine and no diagnostics, tried to convince me that my forward cylinder need replacing. I had called Memo’s shop near Mexico City because it had been referred to me by the Yahama headquarters in Mexico City.

         Over the phone Memo had asked me a series of questions, collecting information to diagnose the condition like a physician performing telemedicine.

         ‘No deje que se toque el motor,’ he concluded. ‘Don’t let that they touch your motor.’

         He then offered to drive out and collect me and the motorcycle for USD 100. I considered this a steal and within 24 hours from that phone call, my bike was in the shop, I was set up in a hotel, and I was on my way to forming a very special friendship.

I had spoken to Memo by phone a couple weeks before to tell him that we would be coming but now that we were approaching I decided that it would be best to surprise him. Unfortunately, when we reached the motorcycle taller (‘workshop’) it was past sunset, the twilight was quickly fading into night, and the shop was deserted.

‘Let’s find a hotel,’ I said to Jess over the idle of our engines outside the workshop in the fading light. ‘We’ll go to the bullfight tomorrow and then we surprise them here on Monday.’

Monday after the bullfight we arrived at the workshop in the late morning and we were welcomed by the faces of all the friends I had made during the month I had stayed in Naucalpán four years before. There was Julio and José – Memo’s younger and older brothers, respectively – and Marcos, his nephew, and Fabiola (Fabi), his wife who manages the accounts and places the orders for parts, and Uriel who is not related but is a good person and a hard worker and later explained to me that he is very serious about his new girlfriend. Only Lalo was missing – Lalo who always wore motorcycle pants and boots and a bandana as he worked on fixing bikes – and Josue, Memo’s son, was also absent.

         ‘Now he is a mechanic at another workshop,’ Memo explained when I asked after his son. ‘I wanted him to go back to school and I offered to pay but he likes what he does. He just bought himself a new sports bike.’

         ‘And now he works for the competition,’ I said. ‘But probably you get along better as father and son and not employee and employer.’

         ‘Yes, it is much better this way and they pay him better than I did,’ Memo said.

         In fact, Memo was not at the shop that Monday because he had engaged the workshop on a job assembling, painting, and equipping 2,000 motorbikes for one of Mexico’s largest logistics and shipping companies.

         ‘It was a three-month job,’ he explained when we finally connected at the workshop the next day. ‘We worked night and day and we only just finished the last of it yesterday.’

         ‘Well, I’m glad it’s over and especially since your timing worked out very well for us,’ I said.

         That day I had drained the oil from both our motorbikes, replaced the filters, and arranged with Fabi to order several liters of new motor oil for delivery the following day. At the end of the workday, Memo took Jess and I out for steaks and beer.

         ‘He is kindhearted and generous and just a very good person,’ I had explained to Jess some weeks back when we talked about coming to Naucalpán.

         During the conversation over dinner I think she came to understand what I had said about Memo and it was very important to me when that evening she said, ‘Yes, I understand what you were saying and I like him very much.’

         After dinner, Memo took us to another place for Micheladas, which are a kind of beer mixed with other flavoring, chili, salt, and lime. After Jess ordered a wine spritzer and Memo ordered a straight beer, I felt the pressure to order a proper Michelada.

         ‘Try this,’ Memo said as I took the first sips of my beer.

         It was pickled pigskin.

         Jess crinkled her nose and then she said, ‘Yeah, love, try it!’

         I obliged and ate the whole piece and then washed it down with the Michelada. It tasted ok but the texture was disconcerting and the Michelada was no better than I remember it from four years before even though this time I knew enough to order it without salt.

         ‘Where did the Mexicans come up with the crazy idea to add salt to beer?’ I said to Jess when Memo excused himself to the restroom.

We had a very nice evening, talking about motorcycles and our trip and about many things unrelated. When Memo drove us to our hotel it was after 10 pm and the traffic on the main boulevard was horrendous.

‘Really, thank you for dinner and for the beer and for the ride home,’ I said to Memo as we exited the car. ‘We will see you at the workshop tomorrow. If you go there now and do not stop at home you might just arrive in time to open tomorrow.’

All during the evening my stomach felt off and, during the last couple hours after eating the pigskin and making an effort to drink the Michelada, it felt increasingly bad. When finally we reached the hotel room, my nerves were broken. I was in and out of the bathroom all night and most of the next day.

‘We’ll go by the shop in the afternoon. I’m just not ready yet,’ I said to Jess late in the morning the next day but we never made it out of the hotel room.

         The next morning when we arrived at the workshop, Memo greeted us at the entrance and then he turned and shouted to the mechanics who were busy at work, ‘Keep this space clear in case he has to run to the bathroom!’

         That day Jess and I poured in the new motor oil and then we washed our bikes and Memo instructed me on adjusting the chain and on a few other points of general maintenance. He also had one of his mechanics grease the clutch cables and replace the air in our tires with nitrogen.

         ‘It costs almost nothing and it gives a smoother ride because the gas stays constant with temperature and pressure,’ Memo explained.

Memo, Jess, and me at the taller

The next morning, we packed up as Memo and my friends at the workshop watched and awaited the opportunity for a group photo. When it was time to say goodbye to Memo, the words stuck in my throat a little because I had a very heavy heart.

Sharp Jolts of Recognition

Day 56-81 – San Felipe, Guanajuato, México to San Miguel del Allende – 12,380 km

A) San Felipe, B) San Miguel de Allende, C) Mineral
de Pozos, D) Xichú, E) Santiago de Querétaro

As we neared San Miguel de Allende, I began to feel a vague sense of déjà vu. It grew stronger as we entered the city and then it came in sharp jolts of recognition as we left the smooth tarmac of Carretera Dolores de Hidalgo-San Miguel de Allende and rumbled along the uneven cobblestone streets of the colonial city. The city is a maze of cobblestone and paving stone streets that may not be paved over – despite the locals’ preference to do so – because, as a World Heritage Site, any modification must be submitted to UNESCO for approval. These cobblestone streets are made even less comfortable on two wheels because many of the them steeply traverse the hillsides. But, also because San Miguel is laid out over the slopes of a hill, it is easy to orient yourself because from almost every corner of the city you can catch a glimpse of the colonial era parochial church and know exactly where the jardín (‘central plaza’) is. This was a huge relief for me as we entered the city because the narrow one-way streets of many of the colonial cities that we have visited in Mexico played tricks on our GPS so that the robotic female voice that we heard over the earphones frequently sound perplexingly like this: ‘Turn right then turn right. Turn right then right. Now turn right.’

San Miguel seen from the 'mirador'

            After parking our bikes near the jardín, we found a great hole-in-the-wall on Avenida Hidalgo that became our staple lunch spot during our time in San Miguel. After a lunch of quesadillas we strolled down hill in search of my friend Erssel’s gallery. I met Erssel during my first motorcycle trip in 2009 when I connected with him through couchsurfing.org as a way to meet people and save money on accommodations. During that visit I stayed with Erssel for about 10 days during which we brought in the New Year and when I finally left after one failed attempt it was with my bike on the back of a mechanic’s pickup truck.

After the death of his wife, Erssel first moved to Romania for a year and then, on his way to Ecuador, he stopped over in San Miguel, fell in love with the place, and never left. Erssel makes woodcarvings with a precision tool called a scroll saw. When I stayed with him in 2009 he had a few showpieces hanging in the boy’s quarter of the colonial area house that he was renting. After I left and he moved from that house, he hustled between local art festivals for a few months before he decided to open his own gallery. When we strolled up to Erssel’s gallery on Callejón del Pueblito, which is a few cobblestone blocks from the jardín, he was busily working his scroll saw in a series of intricate cuts into a block of wood.

            I recognized him at first glance and it was comforting to discover that he looked the same as in my memory and my photos especially since, as he presently explained, not many weeks after I left him last time he had three successive heart attacks.

            ‘When we arrived at the hospital they had pretty much given me up for dead,’ he explained that afternoon at a little shrimp bar as caught up on the last few years. ‘But my friend wouldn’t accept it and he forced them to take me to the hospital in León where they have a heart specialist.’

            He described the series of events from the heart attack to the ambulance ride to León and through the recovery during which a nurse sat bedside 24 hours a day for more than a week. We sat with blank stares but somehow managed to continue sipping at our pints the bottoms of which were strangely but not unpleasantly filled with large shrimps.

            At the end of the story I said, ‘I’m just glad that you pulled through it and, so that we’re clear, there will be no heart attacks when we leave this time.’

            ‘That’s fine,’ he said, ‘because I will keep finding excuses so that you can’t leave.’

            After finishing our beer and shrimp cocktails, we locked our motorbikes within the premises where Erssel’s friend Miguel lives and we went to Erssel’s apartment. Where the old colonial house had enough rooms to host several guests, the new apartment had only one bedroom and most of the excess space was filled with wood scraps and carving tools. At first we adamantly refused when Erssel insisted that we install ourselves in his bedroom but, when we realized that it would be a battle of wills, we soon relented.

'Músicos' celebrate Día de la Revolución

            ‘People in San Miguel love to celebrate,’ Erssel explained that evening. ‘Almost every week there is some festival or other and, if there isn’t one, people will come up with something to celebrate.’

            That night and during each of the 23 that followed, we heard intermittent fireworks set off from improvised batteries set up on nearby rooftops and soccer fields.

            ‘It’s worse than in Baghdad,’ I said only half joking the next morning.

            ‘Oh, when I first got here I had flashbacks to Vietnam,’ Erssel, who had spent two years there as a Marine in the early 70s, said very seriously and then he added more lightheartedly. ‘I tried to hide under my bed except the bed was only a few inches from the floor.’

And Jess thinks she is tall...

            During our stay in San Miguel there was also an official holiday to celebrate. On 20 November, Mexico celebrated its Día de la Revolución (‘Revolution Day’), which commemorates the start of the Mexican Revolution by Francisco Madero in 1910. The festivities had already started several days before our arrival and they continued for several days after. Besides the obligatory and ubiquitous fireworks, there were concerts in the parks and in the plazas outside the churches. At the same time the city celebrated a Festival de Lana y Lata (‘Wool and Brass Festival’), which brought together numerous local artisans and crafts-persons.

Parochial church and Christmas tree

Then as the Revolution Day and Wool and Brass festivities concluded, preparations for Christmas began in earnest. The trees in the jardín and other plazas were trimmed to near perfect symmetry, banners and lights were hung over the streets, larger-than-life figurines were placed on street corners around the downtown, and an enormous, lavishly decorated Christmas tree was erected in the jardín beside the parochial church.

Thanksgiving feast at Paula's house

In between these events, we also found an opportunity to celebrate Thanksgiving. Paula, a friend of Erssel’s and fellow retiree, cooked a traditional southern Thanksgiving meal at her beautiful home in the Independencia neighborhood and we stuffed ourselves to bursting on turkey and gravy, sweet potatoes, cranberries, Erssel’s famous deviled eggs, and assorted pies including pumpkin.

            But back to that first night – on that night we also discovered that the next-door neighbors raise fighting cocks in a pen on the rooftop just outside Erssel’s bedroom window.

            ‘I thought cocks are only supposed to crow in the morning,’ Jess said when we were both awaken in the middle of the night to the screeching and rustling of feathers.

            This too was another exhausting nightly feature of our stay in San Miguel de Allende.

The country around San Miguel

            In Los Angeles before embarking on the southern leg of the trip, Jess had discovered that San Miguel is a popular place to learn Spanish. It turned out that Erssel’s gallery was part of a much larger complex that Erssel’s friend Miguel and his business partner Luís rented as the premises for their Spanish language school for expats. For a number of years, San Miguel de Allende has been a destination for foreign artists and especially retirees because of the low cost of living, the pleasant surroundings, and the amiable, accommodating sentiment among the local people. Today there are thousands of expats – primarily North Americans – who live in San Miguel for several months or more out of each year and most of these make an hour’s worth of effort each day to learn some Spanish.

One of the trails around San Miguel

I take Jess's Moxie for a spin on the dirt

            For three and a half weeks we stayed with Erssel at his house in San Miguel while Jessica attended private Spanish lessons each morning. For the first week I brought the blog up to date with a few new installments and the second week I put together an article about our ride through the national parks of Utah that I am hopeful will be published in a future issue of Rider Magazine. During the third and fourth weeks, I got back on my bike and stuck out for several day-rides. On one of these trips, I went to Mineral de Pozos, which I had visited during my last trip and where I had had a pleasant time taking photos among the ruins of old farmhouses. On another of these trips I followed George from the San Miguel motorcycle club’s advice and I went to Xichú, which is actually easier to pronounce than it is to get to, if you take the southern approach as I did. It was a few dozen dirt road kilometers of ascent into the hill country within which Xichú stands out like a deserted island. The rest of these day trips had a direction but no destination because they were really just an excuse to go riding and to explore the dirt roads and trails while our bikes were so much easier to handle without the luggage.

            On one daylong excursion, Jess and I went to the colonial city of Guanajuato about 100 km from San Miguel. We went on Sunday after I had the bikes washed at a local autolavado (‘car wash’) and when Jess was out of class and Erssel was busy with the gallery. Guanajuato is the state capitol and it was initially founded as Real de Minas de Guanajuato after the Spanish found nearby gold deposits. Then in 1810 it was the site of the first battle between insurgents and royalist during Mexico’s War of Independence. For this rich history and for its narrow, winding streets, subterranean alleyways, and numerous plazas, churches, and colonial mansions, UNESCO named it a World Heritage Site in 1988.

Mummy of an infant girl

            In Guanajuato we experienced plenty of trouble navigating the narrow streets with our iPhone-based GPS, especial when traveling through the underground tunnels but with a little help from the street signs and a bit of luck, we managed to find the Museo de las Momias (‘Mummy Museum’) without getting lost. The Mummy Museum is located beside the municipal cemetery where in 1870 authorities exhumed the bodies of those whose descendents refused or failed to pay a burial tax. The climate and dry conditions caused the natural mummification of many of these bodies, which were eventually put on display in 1970. Like the Torture Museum in Zacatecas, this exhibit had Jess and I transfixed.

‘It’s just so strange to see them still wearing their shoes and clothing,’ Jess said and then went silent at the sight of the mummy of an infant girl who still clutched the desiccated remains of a toy doll.

After the Mummy Museum we went to the Casa de las Leyendas (‘House of the Legends’) on the recommendation of one of Jess’s Spanish teachers. It was a steep climb and then turn up to the parking lot beside the House of the Legends and here I took my first proper fall on my bike. I was looking too far over my shoulder into the blind turn as I climbed the hill and failed to adjust my balance against the camber of the road. It was barely moving when the bike went down and the crash bar and aluminum pannier caught the brunt of it with no damage to the bike itself.

‘It hurts the ego more than anything else,’ I said to Jess after I had righted and parked my bike and then descended on foot to ride hers up the hill and parking it beside mine. ‘You ride in on this expensive, hulky bike and then you fall over and the locals must be thinking, “who is this fucking clown of a gringo?!”’

Inside the museum we were introduced to our 12-year old tour guide who led us in a very professional and well-rehearsed manner through a series of animatronics dioramas that illustrated the region’s colorful local legends.

‘Look, he broke his tooth!’ Jess said, pointing to an animatronics gopher in one of the first displays of the exhibit.

‘That’s Señor Coco,’ I explained as I listened to our guide’s explanation and paraphrased it in English. ‘He was lazy and didn’t like to work but one day he was tunneling and he broke his tooth when he struck a vain of diamonds.’

‘Señor Coco,’ Jess said, trying out the name.

‘In the end Señor Coco, the gopher king, and all the gopher people became rich from their diamond mine and Señor Coco was able to buy a gold tooth and never had to work again,’ I said at the conclusion of several dioramas about this legend.

Me, Miguel, and Erssel have shrimp cocktails and beer

            Most evenings during our stay in San Miguel we had dinner together with Erssel at one of his usual places or at one that we had discovered in the course of our day’s activities. Sometimes Miguel would join us or would stop by Erssel’s to share a few beers with us. On these occasions one of his favorite things was to rib Erssel for his utter lack of Spanish after nearly seven years in Mexico.

            ‘He’s certainly not a good advertisement for your Spanish school,’ I said unable to resist the chance to take a shot a both of them at once.

Miguel and friends play at Spanish school's party

            One evening during our stay, the Spanish school held a party. Several students brought food, Erssel bought beer and made Jello shots, and Miguel and a couple of musician friends played popular Mexican and American songs. This went on late into the night until most had left and those hardy few of us that remained were completely smashed. On another evening, we joined Miguel, Erssel, and Erssel’s friend Susana for a drive to a fish farm where we ate imported fish because the farm’s stocks were too low. Another evening we went to the Teatro Angela Peralta for a Flamenco show and another time we went to St Paul’s Anglican Church for a classical violin and piano concert.

            Probably (but of course not really) for Jessica the highlight of the stay in San Miguel was the afternoon of our much anticipated visit to the estética (‘salon’) for a trim and highlights.

            ‘Ok, so we need to be sure that you know how to explain to them in Spanish what I want,’ she said with earnestness as we walked the block and a half from the jardín up San Francisco to the stylist’s.

‘I know what you want and I can explain it,’ I said.

‘Let’s just go over it one more time so that I’m sure you know it,’ she said.

‘You know my preparation for my doctoral dissertation defense was less rigorous than this,’ I said.

‘Yeah, sure, fine, whatever,’ she said. ‘Just one more time.’

When we arrived at the estética I explained it in good, clear, grammatical Spanish and the stylist understood it just fine. But, when she had questions during the procedure, she just asked Jess in English.

Jess in the Querétaro plaza

Finally it was time to load the bikes and resume the ride but first there was the matter of a day trip to nearby Querétaro. Erssel had an appointment with the heart specialist at the Tech 100 Hospital and we volunteered to drive him home because he would probably be exhausted after the battery of tests. The day before the appointment, Miguel and Susana decided to join us so now we were a band of four. The hospital had a clean, professional appearance and the attendants moved Erssel through the procedures with a minimum of interpretation assistance from me and Susana. The appointment was over before noon and by then Erssel was very hungry because he had been required to submit to the tests on an empty stomach. We drove to the historic downtown and then Jess and I scouted out a restaurant while our three companions smoked cigarettes. After lunch we took a short walk through the streets around the central plaza and among the market stalls. Here we finally found the right gift for Jess’s nephew, Xavier, who would celebrate his first birthday on December 21^st. It was a knit sweater with embroidered animals and Mexican desert scenes and I in particular loved the embroidered cactus.

Time once again to hit the road...

            The next day was our last in San Miguel. We did laundry and organized our gear, which had fallen into disorganization after almost a month of neglect. The next morning after an early run I felt a new sense of déjà vu as I dressed in my riding clothes and loaded the luggage onto my motorcycle. It was hard to say goodbye to Erssel who had been so hospitable and generous to us. Jess said her goodbyes and then he and I had a quick goodbye, which are always the best, and then we mounted our bikes and set off for the next adventure.