Day 1 Off the Beaten Track

Dawn in Mexcaltitan spurs the sandflies into action and by extension ourselves. Described by Lonely Planet as Mexico’s version of Venice, it is a small settlement of about 500 on an island surrounded by wetland. An hour’s drive from the highway, life for locals here means work in fishing the plentiful marshes. Bird-life is abundant also and the area stands as an isolated oasis among arid rolling scrub that otherwise dominates the small state of Nayarit.
A half hour walk satisfies our curiosity of the town - we have walked along every street. It is difficult to find a restaurant that is open; in a town like this, it is obvious they don’t eat out for breakfast often. People exit their houses with their breakfasts in tin foil pouches as the move to work. We have the choice of two stalls, opting for the school canteen which happily serves us toasted buns of ham and glasses of orange cordial. The sky is a clear deep blue and the temperature mild. I am glad for this and keen to get on the road. Jon and I are today leaving our travelling friends Tim and Lauren who we have met in Baja. A young Kiwi and his Australian girlfriend they are traversing Mexico on a Chinese scooter bought in a Mexican department store. And we thought we were daring! We made great friends but the call of the road beckons as does the knowledge that we need to cover some distance.

I look through our map, keen to venture inland where cities like Zacatecas bear witness to Spanish conquest and architecture. All reports of travellers comment on this region’s sense of history and culture. Having decided to spend more time in the small villages and bypass Mexico city, we felt we could not miss a flavour of the heartland of the country. Our map does not bode good news. Our route is blocked by a sierra necessitating a long ride north to reach our destination. The road into the sierra stops abruptly but on the map, resumes about 200 kms later on the other side of the range. I consider what this means; either the range is impassable or the road is minor and used by the local population. Given the distance required to reach Zacatecas by highway I am confident of a route.

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“Look, look un explorador!” A young boy jumps and points at me excitedly. Just 15 kms off the highway we are obviously the only tourists through the town of Ruiz today. Our motorcycles everywhere attract attention - it is rare to see a motorcycle larger than 200cc anywhere in Mexico. In town however people openly stop, stare and point. When off the bike, the reaction is similar. Comment has been passed that with my red jacket and motocross pants I closely resemble a power ranger. Thus I do not know if it is my garish outfit, white skin, unwashed and unkempt appearance or fledgling beard that provokes such bewilderment (in Mexico every month is Movember, the style of upper lip seems to be a mark of one’s station in life). I stop and ask a policeman about the road ahead who confirms it exists and easily passable by motorbikes. The day is now warm and I am told the drive is likely to be about eight hours before reaching the other side. I quickly find a fruit shop and stumble across a prize - fresh green peas and crunchy apples. We mount our trusty steeds and set off into the unknown road. I have nothing more than a compass and a map which doesn’t show the road or the town names but am assured, ‘there is only one road to follow’. “Did you see him, did you see him?, shouts the boy to his parents as we move on.

It is evident that we are in for an experience of spectacular scenery, such is the deep green country we pass through alongside the river. Obviously attracting some precipitation, the trees are tall, strong and green. The foothills of the sierra consist of steep ridges with rocky outcrops piercing through the forest and the tarmac winds gradually up. We stop by the river in the early afternoon for a swim. Two boys are swimming in the river and I jump in. They have spears for fishing rigged similarly to a sling and wait for a fish to cross their path. The water is beautifully warm but the current is weak and some form of algae is in the water. I move over to some rocks and wash in the running water. We stumble across an orange tree and pluck some fruit from the branches. The oranges are not fully ripe but some are edible. After this we are back on the road. Within minutes the tarmac ends and a graded dirt road begins.

Coming across a small village there is a junction which I pass through. I decide to stop and check our directions with a family whose house is on the corner with no windows. They re gathered together for their afternoon meal but ask where we are from and confirm the road pass. I thank them and ride on but have to return when Jon doesn’t follow. He is waylaid which turns out to be a lose battery terminal which gives me an opportunity to speak to the family. Rogelio and his family welcome me to sit down and impress on us to try some of their food. They are eating tortillas and nopal - a popular type of cactus commonly eaten by Mexicans here. Rogelio explains that this is largely staple food for them. With the nopal, I am served beans and the tortillas have a purple hue, from unrefined maize. He unashamedly describes this as their lifestyle due to being poor and how it will keep you skinny. I am struck that people openly describe themselves as poor but in a village such as this I suppose everyone is of the same class and no one is ashamed of the fact. Everyone seems able to eat and I see no evidence of real poverty. These people have no industry other than food production and live a subsistence lifestyle. For their obvious lack of money they do not seem to want for much and ask more about New Zealand and volunteer their insight into Mexican life.I could happily sit here all night with such a friendly family but we have barely started on the road and we set on.

Leaving this village the track gets rougher and potholes emerge from passing traffic. Signs proclaim the government is establishing a road further north and some heavy traffic passes the other way. For our part we are very comfortable on the bikes but would not want to drive the road with less than a four wheel drive. This theory is blown apart when four Mexicans in a two door Hyundai blast past us the other way presumably heading home after a day’s work. We are not fresh and drive at a gentle pace, knowing we will be camping today. The main reason to ride slowly however is the staggering scenery. Passing through high ridges we look down sheer gorges and up to rock faces hundreds of metres high. The bush is arid but rich, reminiscent of dense Australian forest.

With about a half hour of daylight we look for a suitable camp site. Traffic is light but a space off the road would be preferable. The road gets rougher and our bikes are in their element, yet I wonder at the state of mind of the light trucks driven through here. Descending a steep track, we find ourselves at the bottom of a gorge next to a river when we come across a truck and an old Ford pickup with Mexicans head-down under the bonnet. I ask them if they need help. ‘Are you a mechanic?,’ they ask, which I am not. Their fuel pump is not working and they can explain that the carburettor is not being fed gas. The owner of the truck speaks English and asks a little of where we are from and what we are doing. He explains that they will seek a mechanic in the next town and return. His two companions are quiet but seem friendly. One produces a half-full bottle of tequila and I have a swig. Smooth and warming, he smiles at my approval of the drop. The Mexicans do not seem in any hurry so I seek a camp site down by the river. I consult a passing woman who confirms that it should be safe to camp down by the river - there seems to be no question of permission. The site is currently occupied by cows who quickly abandon their position to my tent. I pitch the tent and while Jon is pitching his I walk to the truck which has started up and is heading down the road. They are going to eat under a bridge of the river before leaving and invite us along. I accept and tell Jon to come along. He is reluctant and voices a fear that they may be trying to separate us from our possessions. I dismiss his misgivings out of hand but when he asks me to return to the campsite for his cigarettes I happily comply. I disagree with his reading of the situation but when suspicious it’s best to follow your intuition. No one is near our gear and I return to our friends who share a roast chicken with us and tell us to eat as much as we want.

Although the men are not aggressive, there is a strange feel in the gathering. Otoniel introduces himself and explains he lived in Santa Barbara for some years where he learned English. He is erratic in his speech and I see that the bottle of the tequila is now empty. He explains his is from Tepic, 200 kilometres to the south and wants us to visit him there. The other men say nothing and I watch them closely more out of Jon’s sense than any feeling of ill-ease. Conversation shifts abruptly and Otoniel asks us if we smoke drugs. The missing piece fits and we do not say much. I merely nod as Otoniel sways from side to side. I am not comfortable in discussion with the men but there is no hint of aggression. They are obviously just interested in our company than harming us. Curiosity gets the better of me and I ask them what they carry in Spanish. Otoniel looks toward the sky and for the first time his strongly accented English stutters as he searches for a reply, ‘well, we are carrying, horse…stuff’. His companion doesn’t speak English and makes no bones about their cargo. ‘Mota’. Everyone laughs but the Spanish-speaking men shift a little nervously on their feet. It is time to cut our contact. The men are friendly but there is no assurance they will stay this way and Otoniel certainly appears to be wired. ‘Drugs are not so bad. I smoke drugs 20 years and I still work, every day.’ I ask the men about their plan for the mechanic and they decide they have stopped for long enough, to my relief. Otoniel who has been on his feet smoking a cigarette turns and says, ‘we will go now to find the mechanic and bring him back to fix my fucking… fucking truck.’ He reaches into his pocket, says he wants to give me a present and hands me a rock of crack. I am perplexed and what is going on but want no part of the drugs and give it back to him. ‘Man, we aren’t going to smoke this. It is better you keep it.’ Otoniel accepts his parcel back but the men give me the rest of the chicken, back their truck on the river rocks and disappear up the road ahead leaving a surreal situation and we comprehend exactly what has just happened. We have just tried to help broken-down drug runners who befriended us and offered us drugs.

We return to the camp and discuss moving on but there was no hint of bad intentions with the men. Out of sight from the road, we decide that drug-runners would have little to gain by hurting us but the encounter leaves us nervous. For their part they seemed to be genuinely interested in us.

We set a campfire more for interest than any warmth and share our remaining beer while Jon plays his guitar. We both relax and eat the rest of the chicken.
I estimate the time to be about 8pm when we are astounded to see a 5 metre semi descending the gorge. As stated before I was astounded at Mexicans driving their car on the road with deep potholes and large rocks and to see a truck cross this road was mind-blowing. Jon and I look at each other flabbergasted when another truck is heard. Then another, and another in convoy making about 8 in total. What could their cargo be, and why would you drive trucks through this road, at night? The conclusion seems obvious and we are glad to be out of sight but can do nothing about our campfire. Luckily the trucks pay us no attention but the consequences of being seen are unknown. It is 20 minutes before we relax and believe the road to be clear again. It seems in finding a road on no map we have stumbled across Mexico’s second economy. We douse the fire soon after and retreat to our tents not feeling threatened but a little puzzled at the contrasts of peasants and modern trucks. Dogs howl at one stage which echoes through the gorge and this sets off the seemingly ever-present roosters making a spooky symphony as we fall asleep.

Day 2 Through the Sierra
We get up at sunrise and pack quickly. Jon has been up for some time as dew wet his sleeping bag and I didn’t sleep well on a riverbed of rocks. We set off before breakfast and the scenery improves further. Essentially sheer rock faces and steep forested descents into deep gorges the sierra is complex and the road flanked by pine trees. We see more people by the road, walking to their tasks. The dress has gradually changed and the women are generally in indigenous dress, bright colours and wide dresses. The men still seem to have acquired baseball caps and grubby T-shirts but some wear the indigenous clothing also. They are attractive people, dark leathered skin but handsome. We pass through a small town and are uniformly stared at although people smile and wave in friendly fashion. Leaving the town, there is a working party repairing the road with lumps of dirt. Numbering about 100, everyone stops to see the spectacle of two large red motorbikes fully loaded. Moving on, the next village has working parties on the descent above the road. A group of three teenaged girls stand around shovels dressed in smart aqua blue, red, and yellow dresses. They are filling in potholes presumably caused by the trucks the previous night. I wonder what motivates these people to repair the road and wonder if they are doing this to allow their own passage or are doing this under some form of kickback from the convoys. Whatever the reason, it is a strange sight for a simple people.
I notice outside some of the stick huts solar panels so there is some commercial impact here. Pensive, I have no one to ask about the road or the trucks and it seems best to move on. We are still in the heart of the mountains and the temperature is mild, the air crisp.
We reach the town of Jesus Maria about 11 am, still deep in the mountain. We stop and purchase bread and fruit for breakfast and decide to push on. Traffic here is heading east towards Zacatecas including an ambulance and a police ute packed deep with hitchhikers on the back. Another ute stops by the store packed with people and they ask where we are from. They jokingly ask if one of the girls can ride with us and then set off on the road. When we catch up with and overtake them they are shouting, whistling and pointing out my would-be-companion. I blow them a kiss and set off on the road but can not relax too much. Although definitely ridable the road has several deep divots and troughs and I need to pay attention around sharp corners for nasty surprises lurking. Passing the ambulance, I get a deep feeling of irony and back off on the throttle a little. Thankfully we pass through unscathed and continue along the road for Zacatecas. I stop and confirm with a red ute that we are on the right road and they point us further on. 10 minutes later we come across a sign pointing ahead with distances for Jesus Maria and Ruiz - where we have come from. I check my compass but the ridge is heading south. I was sure we were heading on the right road. Closer inspection shows that the sign has been hit and swung around so as to point the wrong way. Only in Mexico. We climb steep ridges with large rocky sections. A fully loaded truck approaches from the other direction bouncing alarmingly along. I stop and stare at them, mystified at their progress. They wave back and I see they are loaded with 3 king size beds and many large beams. Hopefully delivery was included in the cost!

We stop at the next village by a fork in the road to confirm our choice and are temporarily responsible for stopping a game of volleyball. The red jeep swings through and explains that they are going to Zacatecas and we can follow them along the gravel. They then launch their vehicle down the road at about 90 km/h streaming dust everywhere. 5 minutes later they stop with a flat tire. We stop grudgingly and discover that it is their second puncture and they have no way to get to a ‘Llantera’ puncture repair in the next town. They ask if I can dub one of them in with the tire on the back. I am hesitant about how this can work. There is no real way to secure the tire as there would be no space for the passenger.

I unload my equipment, strap the tire on the back and my unwitting pillion Vicente gets on. Vicente works for the state government as an architect and together with his companions travels the state looking to assist the villagers quality of services. They have a vast distance to cover to do their job and it is certainly not easy. My immediate concern however is for my overloaded bike on the difficult road.

Riding over essentially dirt with large rocks jutting out, there is no gentle route through and I aggressively use the throttle to pull myself down the track and keep balance. The rear suspension groans in protest and I don’t like the abuse. I gradually slow down to lessen the impact but abruptly a hill in the road forces my hand. Deep dust to about 6 inches is up ahead and I must go full throttle over an unknown track. Bone dry, the dust resembles icing sugar coating a bed of unseen rocks. Suddenly the front tire rears to the right in response to a rock and the bike is beyond my control weaving to and fro with nothing to find traction on. I adopt full panic mode, keeping the throttle on as well as I can and kicking the bike back up where she seems about to surrender and lie down. Blessing that quality boots are, this kick rights the rear tire enough to gain traction and I am able to stop and keep the bike upright. I order Vicente to walk the remaining 30 metre climb and blast through the hazard - no problem by myself yet a trap with so much weight. We reach another section soon after and Vicente walks again as a precaution. An army truck full of soldiers in battledress passes the other way. Another reminder that Mexico’s drug situation is real.

I am dreading another 10 kms of riding two up but we are directed to a llantera only 5 minutes away. We enter a small village of about 30 houses and search out our man. Jose is a weather-beaten wiry man who sends us to the store because he ran out of patches. It says something about Mexico’s utilitarian focus that the one corner store stocks two sizes of car patches.

While waiting on the puncture repair, we are directed to the school ground where women and children are sitting at school desks in the concrete basketball court. Each has their own food, tostadas or tamales and are selling these as a fundraiser for the local school. I wonder who they are trying to sell to exactly but we oblige a snack. The tamales are ground maize cooked in corn leaves seasoned with chile in the middle. This simple food, high in starch is filling and popular through Mexico as a staple. It is becoming evident that the food in Mexico is based around a tight budget as opposed to Argentinians’ relish for steaks and fine wines.

We return to the tire repair and decide that I will carry the repaired tire myself rather than have Vicente accompany me on the rough road. I strap a ratchet around the tire and pull away. The day is coming to an end and I am thinking of where we will stay. I make good time back to the truck where we replace the tire and return to pick up Vicente. They are thankful for the help and linger for a photo, sharing fuel and a bag of peanuts with us. Jose the llantera offers us two bed in his house and we are all set.

Jose comes from the beach city of Veracruz originally and moved to the mountains when he married his wife. They have 3 sons living in Zacatecas and one teenage daughter still living with them. With space from the departed sons, they rent a space to the local schoolteacher and together we spend a night asking about Mexico and fielding questions about New Zealand. Jose confirms the drug situation and says it is particularly dangerous right now. I am thankful to be off the road away from any potential trouble. It is a Saturday night and we watch a game of soccer on a 14 inch black and white television. They have to carry their drinking water from the communal tap in the village and cook over the top half of an oil drum adapted with a chimney through the roof. We eat more tamales and share a coffee. Jose openly discusses being poor but again without any suggestion of embarrassment. Children go to school until 12 here. The village has no way of attracting a secondary school teacher. In their company, with a bed to sleep on, their generosity is indicative of people we have so far met on the road. I sleep deeply and relax after an amazing two days travel.

Posted on Wednesday, February 28th, 2007 at 4:39 pm in Uncategorized, Josh's Journal.
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