Winter, 2014 – Read Part 1 Here.
Compared to the U.S., deep Mexico is another universe; but after two weeks in the city of Oaxaca I was beginning to settle in. My $3.50 a day campground was set, membership in a local gym offered something of a daily routine, and I’d begun to meet some of the local gringos—most of whom are retired folks. Down here the retired throw get-togethers almost constantly and it was at one of these I met a Mexican guy who was about to expand my world.
Although he’s never been to the U.S., Antonio prides himself on speaking, reading, and writing almost perfect English and spends as much time with Americans and Canadians as he does Mexicans. For whatever reason, possibly because I’m a little younger like himself, Antonio decided I was gonna be his new best friend. From that first gringo-party he took me directly to a hopping Mexican fiesta. It was mostly a bunch of kids in a keg party and tequila setting. But all were very friendly and, especially for the strangeness of this situation, I had a great time! Once Antonio learned my home was the city’s only campground, and to my astonishment, he began dropping by every afternoon. He knew where all the happenings, both Mexican and gringo, were and we began carousing the town together almost constantly. Sometimes we took his beat up little car and other times my motorcycle. The big FLH is an abnormality down here and everybody wants to ride on it.
In deep Mexico the gringo’s pension goes considerably farther and many live in very nice houses. A lot of parties were thrown in these homes and, being an exceptional cook, Antonio sometimes showed up early to prepare food. Everyone seemed to know him.
Among these retirees there’s a lot of art freaks and I began making forays with them to different exhibits, museums, and sometimes the distant and secluded homes of one artist or another. One day Antonio picked me up in his car and we went to meet the others in town. I’d no real clue where we were going. First stop was Cathy’s little house. An American of 35 years living in Mexico, I’d seen Cathy around, been to a few art shows with her, and we’d even gone to dinner once. She seemed a dingy, jovial, happy, and fun-loving old broad who was impossible not to like. Before long a handful of others showed up and, once assembled, six of us piled into an SUV and started out of town.
For years there’s been some ongoing political disturbance in the city of Oaxaca. They say it’s about a teacher’s strike but no one really seems to know the details. As we reached the city’s edge the reality of at least some of this disturbance stood directly in our path. Immediately ahead, the highway’s toll booth had been taken over by teacher’s strike bandits and as our car approached it was stopped by a crowd of bodies and we were asked for money. The toll was under a dollar, which was obviously no big deal except that our driver was adamant we weren’t gonna pay even one stinking cent. As they moved in around the car, some with masks and most carrying clubs, our driver started yelling about how they were thieves and wouldn’t get a penny from anyone in this car! Next he turned to yell at us gringos, “Nobody pays anything!”. The situation was heating up and we were about to get our asses kicked over 50 goddamn cents. Finally one of the bandits told the others to let us pass and the crowd parted. I later learned that one of the women had thrown 10 pesos out the back window. What a stupid-assed scene that was.
It was a long ride to the tiny nowhere town in the mountains. The small yet comfortable home of the coveted (at least among these gringos) artist and his family was filled with clay statues and creations. Having been an artist all his life, this guy now enjoyed some success. Still, he was delighted to have so many come so far just to acknowledge his work. We got the grand tour and he even broke out the good mescal. Everybody but me spoke Spanish so I missed a lot of the conversation, but I’d become used to that by now.
Cathy bought a piece of the man’s work.
On the ride back to Oaxaca our driver stopped at an ancient, and extremely grand, church. These things seem to litter Mexico and were ordered built by the Spanish conquistador Cortez sometime in the 15th century. I find it interesting that this guy killed everybody then made slaves build monuments to his God. What kind of insanity is that? Anyway, Mexico holds some of the most elaborate churches I’ve ever seen.
At the church-driveway a variety of vendors sold papaya and other fruits in slices or cups and I thoroughly enjoyed this cool treat on such a hot winter day. Inside the church I learned that the Spanish were unable to build such outrageous structures until they learned from Roman architecture how to brace the tall ceilings with an intricate lace of spider-web bracing. An opulent old organ was set up high near the ceiling and Antonio informed me that a company had been going around Mexico restoring these ancient things. Pretty cool.
In the parking lot the other four gringos cornered our driver about what he would do on the ride back through the bandito toll booth. Finally he conceded to use the secondary road that passed around them.
On the ride back we all stopped at a locally famous Chinese restaurant and the oriental owner sat into a long conversation with our crew. All in all it had been another wonderful and, for me, seemingly surreal day.
The fun loving Cathy lived at a small house in town so she could rent her big fancy duplex—which sits high on the hill with a beautiful view of the city—to tourists as part of her income. She told me that the upper level would be vacant for two weeks and I was welcome to stay if I liked—free of charge. In the world of lavishness there are two kinds of folks: those who love such luxuries and are willing to spend much of their lives working to achieve and maintain these things, and those who could really care less. I, of course, fit into the second classification. Still, this offer sounded like a fun adventure so I graciously accepted Cathy’s offer. Next day I pulled the fully loaded Harley up to my grand new house.
The small courtyard of Cathy’s fancy pad was guarded by steal doors operated electrically. From inside, Antonio hit the gate button and I pulled in. At my left was Cathy’s pottery studio where she and Antonio, who also makes his living as a pottery artist, spend their time creating sculptures and the like. After hanging with the clay for a while, I was ushered upstairs to the new pad. What a crib! The luxury was undeniable and Cathy’s love of fine art had prompted her to deck this place from floor to rafters with extravagant handmade creations. The kitchen and bathrooms were done in beautiful tile; I had two bedrooms and a library; the living room was wonderful; and the view from my balcony to die for. It seemed strange that a technically homeless, rag-tag, wondering motorcycle vagabond who’d only blown into town a few weeks ago should now be living alone in the lap of such decadence. But there it was.
My two amigos came to visit often and, once Antonio’d figured out how to get the DVD properly connected to the big screen, we began watching movies together by evenings. Cathy liked to fill the frig with extravagant food and we made a habit of spending dinner together over the wonderful meals Antonio prepared. One night Antonio arrived early. He then walked from the bedroom carrying one of Cathy’s super-sized brassieres and said, “I’m gonna hide this thing in the freezer and you have to write a note that gives a clue where to find it.” After protesting for only a minute, I grabbed a pen and jotted down, ‘Your big-assed boob binder is at this very moment freezing its nipples off in the coldest place in the house!’ Upon Cathy’s arrival I handed her the note. She read it, stood up, stormed directly to the freezer, grabbed the garment, and walked back laughing hysterically at our stupid joke.
After a couple weeks in the fancy house I noted the spring air was heating up. Some of the local gringos were snowbirds and I’d recently attended a few going away parties thrown to see friends off. As for myself, it was time to think about money. To this end, and starting in Florida, there’s a string of spring motorcycle rallies that run almost consecutively up the east coast until they eventually reach New Hampshire and it’s been my habit to work three or four of these to fund the coming summer’s travels.
It was time to go.
With a promise to return at some later date, I packed the old Harley and bid my new friends adieu.
Although back roads are my preferred place of travel, Oaxaca is a very long way from Florida and secondary Mexican roads tend to be beat up, full of speed bumps, sometimes turn into little chicken trails, and generally require a lot of time to go a short distance. The interstates (I use that term loosely here) are almost all toll roads and in the interest of making better time on this dramatically long journey I’d decided to ride them for a while. This brought up the question: should I pass through the bandito toll booth, or take the road around it? I’d come upon these overtaken Mexican toll booths before and always noted how much cheaper they are than when the authorities run them. What the hell, I’d brave the outlaws.
I approached the booth with camera held inconspicuously low in hopes of grabbing a few shots. It just didn’t seem wise to stick a camera in the face of a bandit who was shaking me down. Once again I was stopped by by these outlaws. Happily, this normally high toll only cost $0.50 today, and the masked man who took my money was extremely friendly and even tried to be helpful by offering directions. Pretty trippy.
The evening was spent in a fantastically beautiful camp and beside a monstrous three ton cactus. But it was still a long way to the border.
Read Part 1 Here.
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