Deep in Mexico now. Here the world, as I know it, does not exist. All the rules, land, and language, are different. The roads had become potholed and twisted as they ran through such jungle foliage as the U.S. has never seen. With only a motorcycle for company, I rode alone.
Aside from the obvious adventure, my reason for being here was an effort to perpetuate the endless summer; for land this far south seldom sees winter cold. But it was late in the season and, although I’d hoped to spend time along the beaches of Mexico’s southern tip, the air already grew warm. Because my always-subject-to-change plan was to stay a couple of months, the humid heat of those distant beaches would soon grow far to hot for this wondering-vagabond lifestyle and it seemed wise to make adjustment to my almost nonexistent agenda. High in the mountains, at an altitude of 5,500 feet, the city of Oaxaca would probably remain a perfect temperature for the duration of my stay.
A course was set.
Jungle scenery was impossibly green as the narrow road twisted upward into this sparsely populated area. Traffic dropped to only the occasional passing car as a small house or restaurant came to pass now and then. Eventually a little town appeared. Ahead, a group of men and women stretched one thin rope across the road. One man held a sign written in Spanish.
I was about to be robbed.
A middle aged woman approached, smiled, and held up an empty can. She seemed nice. Reaching into my pocket I produced the peso equivalent of 30cents U.S. and gave it to her. The rope was dropped and I continued on. Mexico’s another culture and many of the rules are just different. This little road crime is not an uncommon way for folks to get a few pesos to feed their kids. I’ve been stopped at these while riding behind Mexicans in a car or truck and noted how willingly they hand a few pesos out the window. I’ve also noted many times how quickly poor Mexicans are to give to those in need. This also seems a part of their culture.
As I climbed, the jungle foliage gave way to thick pine forest. A nice change. An hour farther a lone restaurant came to pass and it seemed a nice idea to stop for the fresh-fish lunch advertised on the sign. Little did I suspect just how fresh this fish would be. Upon ambling inside to take a seat it became apparent I was the only customer, while one woman and her teenage daughter were the only proprietors. I was sure they lived in the back somewhere. Once the order was taken I followed both girls into the back yard to watch the event at their little concrete pond. Upon our arrival both handled sticks with a net stretched between them. As they circled the pond the net herded fish to one side where mom scoped them out, dropped ’em in a bucket, and picked the largest for my lunch. Back inside the restaurant she killed, scaled, and and gutted my fish before cooking it on a little fire built upon her counter-top. In truth it was more fun to watch this meal’s preparation than actually eat it.
I paid the $3.50 and left; little suspecting that the real adventure lay ahead…
Some hours later the road began its long and extremely steep decent from the serene mountains into a wide valley that holds the bustling city of Oaxaca. I began looking for a backup camp spot before entering the city. It was an old routine and did not take long.
Continuing into the thick of it, traffic quickly became a mass of noisy insanity while pedestrians hustled all around. Lost and alone in the great sea of teeming humanity, strange roads, and ridiculous traffic, I fought for a good decision. It was an old scenario, for so many times I’ve pulled into an unknown town only to endure the discomfort of knowing no one, being oblivious to the lay of the land and roads, and having no idea where I’d sleep, eat, shower, etc. This is an old routine for my version of drifter life and almost always, within a week or so, these inconveniences have been solved to then allow a new adventure in yet another new place. Besides, I’d acquired a procedure for handling such situations long ago. Still, I was now lost in the big city of a foreign country where no one spoke English. The real challenge was to figure exactly what move came next.
Spotting a Sportster parked in a car-lot, I pulled in to see if it were possible to ask questions. Although their English seemed no better than my Spanish, I was given basic directions to the city’s only trailer park, which in Mexico means ‘campground’. Shortly thereafter I pulled into this beat up establishment only to remember that I’d been here10 years before. Astonishingly, this place was still run by the same host. He said spot rental cost 50 pesos a day ($3.50 U.S.). I paid for a week. Strangely, the campground was empty. But the weather was perfect so I picked the best spot under tall shade trees and put in camp.
The next order of business was to snoop the town a bit, which seemed a daunting task for the lack of a proper map. I set anyway. Oaxaca is a grid of narrow, traffic infested, streets that generally pass between tall buildings, city parks, and some of what are probably the most fantastic churches in the world. It’s also quite obvious that, although mostly filled with Mexicans, this town’s been heavily infiltrated by Americans, Canadians, German, and even a sprinkling of French. In other words, there’s a lot of white folks.
In Mexican cities the best place to make connections and pick up info is generally the English library, and somehow I found it. This mellow place was mostly filled the retired X-patriots, as they sometimes call themselves, who either moved here years ago, or simply come for winter. Most seemed pretty cool and for a while I hung with a little entourage of older women. I also picked up a city map and later took to carousing the town on foot. In one of the city parks I was entertained by the drumming and dancing theatrics put on by a group of young hippies. Entertainment like this would prove nonstop in this city. One interesting cultural difference is the young lovers that can generally be seen making out all over most any city park. This seems customary throughout Mexico. After a few hours of sight seeing I moseyed home.
Days passed.
My screwed up campground offered only cold water in a shower that was so nasty it appalled even me. No matter, for my hobby of physical fitness generally leads to local membership at a rec center or health club anyway. At $55 a month the gym I liked most was pretty spendy. The woman who owns this establishment speaks some English and, although older now, she’d won many awards in the fitness field throughout her life. I liked her. Turns out she had some broken equipment and I was able to make a partial membership trade for a few repairs.
Oddly enough my campground began to fill up and it was good to enjoy the company of new neighbors. Many of these fell into that strange category of “world travelers” I’ve occasionally had opportunity to spend time with in past. They come from most everywhere and travel in rigs that vary from outrageous foreign machines, motor homes, trailers, campers, and Toyota Land Cruisers—which seems a coveted vehicle among them. They often speak of their travels and, of course, their vehicles. One couple from Oregon had just completed a 14 month trip through Africa and Ethiopia. Another couple from Canada had been traveling Mexico in a truck and trailer for three months with their three little children. Then there was the German guy in the little Land Cruiser next to me. Although his English was spotty, Sid liked to cook and we ate together often. That guy’d been all over the world. There was also a Frenchman and family in an old motor home. Disgusted with the politics at home, they’d left France for this ride into south America with no intention of ever returning. As the list of these world travelers went on, I sometimes felt my own little drifter life to be chicken feed by comparison.
I grew up in a tourist town and know that one major difference between the vacationer and traveler is that those on vacation generally wish to live it up for the time allotted. They’ll eat in nice restaurants and participate in local tourist attractions. The local is kind to this man as he takes his money, but does not see himself in this guy and would probably not offer invitation to his home. For neither the local or tourist tend to live like this when not on vacation. But the traveler has more time and less money. He tends not to spend extravagantly but has plenty of time to make friends. Often times the local business owner, family man, etc. has entertained dreams of such travel and, although perfectly happy with home life, he may be attracted to the traveler for just this reason.
So I began to make friends. With no jobs as distraction, the retired gringos throw a lot of parties and I became a geezer-party animal. This was a lot of fun. While at the festivities one day I was befriended by a Mexican who spoke perfect English and spent as much time among the foreigners as the indigenous locals. He knew everybody. For whatever reason, Antonio decided I was gonna be his new best friend and began to come by my campground every day. This opened the doors to a whole new world and I began to frequent Mexican parties and events as well as American. Oddly, there were many art freaks among the retirees and Antonio made his living creating pottery art. Even stranger was the way his work would bring contact with a crazy white woman of 35 years in Mexico (she’s never coming back to the states), and my very own, strikingly beautiful, art filled home on a hill that overlooks the city. For in truth, my adventures in Oaxaca had only begun…
Read Part 2 Here.
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