The mid winter air was pleasingly warm. I wore only jeans and T-shirt as the old Electra Glide beat its familiar rhythm against the broken pavement of this little third-world highway. Beyond the roadside, lush foliage rolled easily across the land and brought almost impossibly green hues to the eyes as strange trees and tropical plants displayed their huge leaves and uncommon beauty to anyone who cared to notice.
I guessed old Betsy and me to be around 1,400 miles south of the Mexican boarder. But this was nothing new, for it had been since the spring of 1994 that I’d been perpetually on the road. In the time between then and now I’d not stayed in any one place for longer than two months—usually less. For the motorcycle drifter it’s best that one follow the sun and it had been many previous winters that had pushed the old FL and myself ever deeper into Mexico.
Thirty miles ahead lay the large city of Porto Vallarta and, since it was already late afternoon, I figured to make camp before entering the city. Surely a suitable place to put in camp for the night would be easier to locate in the countryside, and before the sun had set. To this end the small highway that would soon bring me to the little coastal town of San Blas had been chosen. But the town was not unfamiliar. I’d been here before.
The broken pavement soon passed by the small and tattered block homes that lined the streets of this little town. Some residents displayed their laundry from clothes-lines strung across the yard while an occasional dog or even pig kept watch. The hotels ranged from shabby $10 a night places to the fancier $30, $40, and even $50 suites built to accommodate the modest sprinkling of mostly Canadian and American tourists who come for the winter sunshine that warms this relaxed beachside atmosphere.
Eventually the road turned to dirt that lasted for only a short stint before ending at the beachfront. After shutting the motor down, I leaned the bike onto her kickstand then craned my neck to better survey the seascape; for this place was unlike any I’d seen in the industrialized north. Built directly upon the sandy beaches sat a slew of restaurants and even a few homes. But these places in no way resembled the modern houses and eateries to which I’m accustomed. No. Here a restaurant may consist of little more than a cabana built from bamboo and other materials of the surrounding forest and roofed with woven palm leaves. Inside they might use a funky propane burner for stove, and cooler to serve as frig while outside plastic chairs and tables sat on the sand beneath a large thatched roof. Hammocks were hung everywhere, and surfboards too—lots of them. The few homes that occupied the beachfronts were constructed in this same manner.
The sun was already dropping into the ocean as I dismounted slowly then walked to the nearest restaurant. I was the only customer. After sinking into one of the chairs I was soon greeted by the proprietor who informed me that he’d just closed and was going home. Knowing that the laws in Mexico are far more relaxed (or possibly just less existent) than in the U.S. I asked if he’d mind my making camp beside his place.
“Dormir aqui,” the man said as he moved some of the tables and chairs. “Comer en la dia”. He was telling me to sleep beneath the thatched roof of his restaurant (to keep the evening dew off my camp) then eat breakfast here in the morning. Readily nodding approval, I went to fetch the bike then backed it into his restaurant. Next I threw up a tent against the sand-flees. Upon the sands of a deserted beach it’s only the constant sound of waves slapping against shoreline that remain to keep one company.
Sleep was the best.
Come morning the proprietor never showed (must’ a been on Mexican time), and once the bike was repacked I putted down to Stoner’s Surf Camp (another beach-top restaurant) to buy a cold shower before sitting to a plate of Huevos Mexicano. Feeling clean and refreshed, I relaxed into a plastic chair that furrowed the sand below while the cabana roof offered shade from above as I gazed across the plate of hot food to the loping waves beyond.
It was a good day indeed.
Momentarily my attention was averted to a slender woman who approached from nearer the sea. Once beside my table she stopped for a moment of conversation. Her manner was easy and outgoing. After pushing the last bite into my mouth, I regarded her with rising interest. She was American.
One slender hand pushed forward and she introduced herself as Amy. I offered a chair but she only stood and chatted on.
“What are you doing way down here Amy?”
“I’m riding busses to the state of Chiapas in southern Mexico. You know where that is?”
I did. It was far down the western seaboard almost to Guatemala. The road that way is said to be a hotbed for banditos, but is also noted for its uncommon beauty. Also, while most of the inland highways are unbelievably expensive toll-roads, the coastal route is free, which is the reason I too was headed that way.
“I just came from Hawaii,” she continued, “and now want to see Mexico. There’s a nude beach in Chiapas and seeing it is my excuse for being here.
“You got a ride?”
“No. I’m taking busses then camping along the roads.” Amy had just come in from her night’s sleep on the beach. “I really don’t have shit for money and all my friends told me not to come—especially my mom. But here I am anyway.”
I contemplated this strange girl. Amy was undeniably an interesting person. She seemed intelligent and, of course, spoke clean English. A big problem is that my nominal command of the Spanish language is by no means conversational. And although the Mexican people are friendly enough, the inability for real communication keeps me in a state of almost perpetual isolation. It can get pretty lonely. I decided to take a chance.
“Well Amy, you can ride with me if you’re willing to buy half the gas.” The stuff’s expensive down here.
Amy’s face lit notably as she readily agreed. With a promise to return quickly she started off down the beach. In a moment the girl was back with a bedroll, a big handbag, a few odds and ends, and a big and half-empty bottle of Crown Royal. I began the process of repacking the bike for two riders but it quickly became apparent that there would not be room for all her junk. To my surprise Amy just started throwing stuff out.
I was impressed.
The sticking point was that damn bottle of Crown Royal. She just didn’t want to give it up; nor did she wanna drink it. Finally, with a promise that it would not be with us for long, I consented to carrying it.
When all was packed, Amy planted her slender ass on the back seat and I started the engine. After a half hour of Mexican jungle highway had disappeared beneath the old Harley’s wheels, Amy put her mouth against my ear and said, “I’m a lesbian.”
“What! Why are you telling me this now Amy?”
“Well, I figured if I told you before I might not be goin’ with you. Am I still going?”
What the hell, I thought, she was certainly interesting company. Then there was that English thing—and the gas too. My mind simply switched her from romantic prospect to friend. “Of course you are.”
The day was uncommonly warm as we passed through Puerto Vallarta then continued along the beautiful highway-200 that would lead us down the coastline for many hundreds of miles.
On that first night I stopped to make camp at a secluded and easily accessible spot located not far into the woods. I worried that my crude methods might not hold to those standards generally designated by the fairer sex. But this was the deal and she’d just have to live with it.
As usual the mosquitoes were with us and I put up a tent against them. But Miss Poorly Prepared had no tent so I invited her to stay in mine.
There was little choice.
At first she was nervous about the funky predicament into which she’d put herself. But Amy soon realized that I would offer her no grief. Things relaxed a little then. Real friendship began.
The morning’s sunshine promised another beautiful day while again I packed the overloaded bike. “That Crown Royal’s gotta go Amy.” She resisted; but after a short debate it was decided to just leave the damn thing along the trail. Some Mexican would thank her later.
Again we set out and before long the small highway came to pass, as it would for well over 1,000 miles, directly alongside the Pacific Ocean. This far down, Mexico’s tropical southern region had already begun to permeate the land and the date-palm and other large and leafy green plant-life colored more heavily the seascape with each mile that passed.
That night we made camp on the beach and by day’s end were completely immersed in rich tropical jungle. We traveled slowly, ate at roadside places, and stopped whenever we pleased. Coconut trees began to litter the land and many roadside stands sold them by the hundreds. At one of these Amy showed me how the Mexicans machete the end off a green coconut, shove a straw inside and, for only five pesos (50 cents) sell it as a crude coconut drink. I quickly became addicted and consumed many of these every day after that.
On the third morning we pulled into Ixtapa. It’s a big-money tourist town filled to brimming with the fine luxuries of fantastic excess. And although I simply enjoyed the place for what it was, Amy could not stand it. Ixtapa was for those who came looking for fine cuisine and fancy pampering—not adventure. And for both Amy and I adventure was the primary objective. Besides, my new companion was somewhat of a naturalist and the land and sea was what called to her most. By now it had become quite evident that it would be almost impossible to get Amy inside a hotel room. No way. It seemed silly that only a few short days ago I’d been worried that my rough-camp ways might not meet her standards. On the contrary this crazy girl would have it no other way.
By evening we made camp on the edge of town and in the morning were on the southbound road once again.
Although those places that reside closer to the boarder are generally under far greater influence of the industrialized United States, we were now deep into old Mexico and there was hardly a trace of westernization. As had been the way on other trips through this strange country, the sights that passed constantly by the motorcycle were often almost unbelievable to me, and far too many to list here.
On the fifth day the old Harley Davidson made its way onto the streets of Acapulco. I’d not known this city was so huge. Auto traffic smothered us along the highway over and under passes. Pedestrians were everywhere. It was a melee of concrete, motion and activity.
We became lost.
I’ve learned that when one is lost in such a place he really only has two options: Ask directions then stand looking stupid when the answers come in a different language, or: Pay a taxi cab then follow him to the destination. Fortunately however, most of this city resides on a great hillside and from there I could see the ocean. I simply followed the roads down to it.
All town roads that run along the water’s edge in Mexico are called the Malecon and for Acapulco this was definitely where they kept the tourists. Huge hotels littered the waterway while restaurants, bars, souvenir shops and other such places occupied the land between them.
But it was here in Acapulco that I’d come to rendezvous with a very wealthy girlfriend who spoke almost no English; and in her company there would be no place for a token lesbian. Amy knew that she would soon walk off again to reclaim her solo journey and as we explored the crowded coastline my unusual friend was unable to conceal the fear that shown through brown eyes like a deer caught in headlights. I tried to make consolation and came up with ideas whereupon we could spend a few more days together while Amy gathered her bearings. But the girl’s mind was made up. It is said that the measure of courage is only one’s ability to accept the fear and move forward anyway and I was truly impressed with this Amy’s determination to follow her dream irregardless of the risk.
It was from the bus station that she would leave tomorrow and in due course we made the journey there. The station was combined with an airport and to reach it a ride over the small hill at the city’s south end was necessary. Once beyond this natural barrier the change was dramatic. The nearby suburb offered far less congestion amid the potholed roads, small businesses, and little houses.
The bus station was in an even more secluded area at town’s far end. Across the street the woods were thick and I helped Amy find a suitable place to make camp.
We’d shared some unforgettable times together and it would be a lie to say that there were no emotions as I left her to that place.
But once again freedom’s call had found us both.
It was mid summer of the following year that Amy came to camp with me for a week at the Laconia Motorcycle Rally in New Hampshire. Before her arrival I asked if she had her own tent this time.
“Why?” she asked.
“Well, if not you have to sleep in my tent again. And although you’re gay, I’m not and sleeping beside a young girl’s unavailable body in my own bed is not my idea of fun.” So it was that she put a tent up beside my own and it was for hours that we talked through thin mosquito net set between tall trees and beneath a star laden sky. And she told me her story:
After the nude beach Amy had gone into Guatemala because, as she said, “Mexico was just too expensive”. But now she was heading for a job offer as wilderness instructor for a school in Canada where, as she put it, “I’ll be teaching kids how to shit in the woods”.
When a week had passed we again parted ways. Although telephones gave us contact for a while, it was somewhere down the dusty road that wonders through life that we eventually lost track.
Best wishes to you my freedom loving friends.
–Scooter Tramp Scotty
