A Narrow Escape from Mexico City

Day 12 - Tuesday, November 13
San Miguel de Allende to San Juan del Rio (David, Gary, and Alex)
Lagos de Morena to San Juan del Rio (Jim and Jay)

Morning chores were the first priority for David, Gary and Alex. David cleaned the men's bathroom, Gary swept and mopped the men's dorm, and Alex swept and mopped the common area. Such hard work fired their appetite which was sated with bread and jam provided gratis by the hostel.

The fellow travelers they had met the night before, Nicolet from Holland, Luiza from Australia, and "Harvard" from Harvard, were all into the idea of piling onto the bikes and taking a trip to the nearby hot springs for some true R&R. About 10 minutes out of town towards Dolores Hidalgo, El Escondido Hot Springs consists of three interconnected pools, each hotter than the other, enclosed in a spacious brick structure. The water was sublime, and for two hours, the six travelers let Mexico float away and existed instead in this watery world, drifting.

Checking Out the Sites

While heading back into town, the bikers and their companions stopped off in a small village in a state of incredible disrepair save for the ornate church in the main square or zocalo. This centerpiece of town was very obviously the most important of their assets. While the town crumbled away, the church was being lovingly restored (at no small expense, we are sure).

We toured slowly back through San Miguel de Allende and wolfed down some wonderful chow at the markeplace. (Once again, David's navigation from memory was uncanny.) But the pulqueria was definitely the high point of the day. Pulque is the fermented juice from the maguay plant, kept in large vats, and doled out in beer mugs. The town's menfolk gather here in shabby bars to sip this concoction. Outside a sign states "no mujeres" and no men in uniforms. This preference apparently extends only to the locals, as Nicolet and Luisa were not turned away at the door. We quickly came to understand why women are not allowed as one of the pulqueified gauchos stumbled to the wall behind our table and relieved himself into a bubbling trough. Quaint. The six of us managed to finish maybe a 1/3 of our potions, before the clock said it was time to hit the road again.

Fortunately, our predetermined rendezvous point with our fellow riders was only an hours ride away, so we said our goodbyes slowly. On a snaky incline of cobblestones, we rose to a magnificent vantage point of the entire town and valley below. It was getting chilly. The sun broke though the darkening clouds just above the town, bathing it in a celestial light. We know it won't be long before we come again.

Meanwhile in Lagos de Moreno...

Jim and Jay got up early, took a couple of pictures to remember this completely forgettable place, and then hauled ass to San Juan del Rio. They arrived at 3pm, found a decent hotel, and left a note for the others at the hotel across the street which we had all chosen from the guide book as our rendezvous. They bought some cheap oil (MexLub) and performed some maintenance on their bikes at a nearby mechanic's shop. The mechanic was very friendly; he had lived in Texas, but preferred the cooler and slower life of San Juan del Rio. Jim and Jay helped him push start a car he was repairing, and he in turn gave them some advice--don't use MexLub!

San Juan del Rio looked like money, smelled like money, hey, it was money. The grocery store on the edge of town was a match for the best in America. Huge, well-stocked, and very modern, David found the hard salami he'd been looking for for days and Jim supplemented his supply of undies.

Jim Meets his Match in an Unripe Persimmon

The group took the opportunity to really figure out the days to come, as the Yucatan was replete with so many options. Since we were a few days behind our schedule (flexible though it may be), and although we have been enjoying the country, we craved the warm weather of the tropics. We decided to make a bee-line for the Gulf coast and cut straight through the southern Yucatan, hopefully to be into Belize by Tuesday.

David and Gary burned the midnight oil again going over the digital pictures for the web. Eventually Gary and the others decided to call it a night. David remained dutifully at the computer for a while until exhaustion overtook him and he crawled into bed.

As we innocently slept, dreaming of the open road, none of us had any idea what was in store for the next day.

Miles - 98 miles (David, Gary and Alex) 181 miles (Jim and Jay)

Day 13 - Wednesday, November 14th

San Juan del Rio to Cordoba
The Day from Hell!

That blasted alarm sounded off at 6am for Gary, Jay and Alex. They would be doing errands in Mexico City as Jim and David would get a later start and meet up with them in Cordoba, Veracruz.

David, having not gone to sleep until the wee hours, was visibly irritated at the number of "snoozes" the alarm went through before the early risers would awaken. After four resounding, increasingly louder BLEEPS he and Jim buried their heads further testing their tolerance.

Tolerance is a big issue which plagues us every day. None of us are naturally followers and though occasionally we have agreement on the how, when, what, why, and where of the trip, our typically symbiotic dependancy has us struggling not only against each other but within ourselves as well. Perhaps it is like the Democrats and Republicans in that each wants the best for "The People" but each also has a "better" and different way to do it. In a marriage where there are merely two people, two separate universes attempting to create a new world, we are five pig-headed Martians, usually in separate orbits completely.

Jim has been at war all by himself for a couple days now. His opponent, the digestive tract. This is not a funny thing. Whenever this happens to anyone it can become critical. Dehydration and starvation are dangerous effects if his symptoms continue for an extended period. Especially if we keep on pushing ourselves physically by keeping a 185 mile/day average. If one is healthy this is hard work, sick it can become miserable. He has had to curtail his eating habits, staying away from the spicy stuff and the heavy stuff, but things are improving.

The day's hell to come was heralded by the freezing cold ride to Mexico City for Gary, Alex, and Jay. A quick stop of hot cocoa at a road-side truckstop allowed us to briefly warm up, but it was back on the bikes all too soon for more cold riding.

Although it is winter here in Mexico, the arid climate and lower altitudes have granted us hot days. None of us expected to see cold weather until South America, and even then only while crossing the Andes. But the central region of Mexico, including Mexico City, is at considerable altitude - 4000 to 7000 feet. During the day it does warm up, but this morning's ride was easily not too far above freezing.

The worsening air quality announced our arrival into Mexico City. Carlos, a resident of the capital whom we had met the night before, suggested we stop outside of town in a suburb called "La Satellite" in order to accomplish our errands. Alex wanted to get the Bolex 16mm camera serviced and his bike checked out at a bike dealership; Gary wanted to send the satellite phone back to get that fixed (hopefully to return to us), and everyone needed to augment their supply of Malaria pills.

We failed at the first two tasks, although Gary and Jay loaded up on more stickers for their bikes from the dealership (we are all becoming sticker fiends). We found a pharmacy and bought 30 pills for 14 pesos or $2. In the United States, malaria pills are available only by prescription, and they can be very expensive - around $8 per pill! In Mexico, however, since malaria is a constant threat, pills are available everywhere and are extraordinarily cheap. So we left the states with just enough to see us through the first few weeks with the intention of getting more on the way. Finally, a plan that went right!

Skysite had given us a UPS account number to ship the phone, but to our dismay UPS doesn't send electronics out of Mexico anymore (effective Nov. 4th). DHL was just up the road, and gladly accepted our state-of-the-art paper weight. Alex sent the Bolex back with the phone. Relieved to get the prodigious weight off his rear end (his bike's rear end, that is), Gary led the others into the smog-ridden, traffic-clogged highways of Mexico City and straight into the waiting arms of la policia.

A smarmy looking cop on a motorbike waved us over onto the shoulder. When Gary's "no entiendo's" pissed him off too much, he informed Alex that since Gary's license plate ended in a 2 (the restricted number for the day, a policy designed to lessen auto emissions), he was going to impound the cycle for 24 hours and charge Gary a 30 day parking charge. The letter from the national police force did not impress him in the least. Not wanting to totally bog down his own day with such a paperwork hassle, he would gladly settle for some dinero. Gary whipped into his boot stash and came up with 3 crisp US $10 bills. No, he wanted $40 more. Gary gave him another $10 and a 50 peso note. With a smile (or smirk), he agreed to let us pass through town under his kind escort. In essence, we just paid for a very expensive taxi but had to take our own vehicles for the ride.

In traffic to rival Los Angeles at 5:00 pm , with one bike cop in the front and one at the rear, we blazed down the highway, squeezing through bumper to bumper traffic, weaving like a drunk from lane to lane to the outskirts of town. Here, these two most-kind policemen left us to the ever-vigilant eye of the next two cops, seemingly waiting just around the bend.

Whether they noticed Gary's license plate or not, this time we all seemed to be in the wrong, and they had the rulebook to prove it. It seems we had inadvertantly been driving on a section of road where motorcycles are not allowed. Of course, we were not the only motorcycles on this stretch, but we were the obvious targets, brightly colored, loud, and reeking of mucho dinero. Another roadside negotiation left us 440 pesos poorer all together. At first they wanted 800 each! "You've got to be kidding me," Gary exclaimed in English. So ever so discreetly in front of God and the hundreds of cars passing, money changed hands and we got our second "taxi" ride to the toll road out of town.

Usually, we opt for the free road over the toll road, and although our wallets had been grievously lightened, we just wanted to get the hell away and chose the toll road. Tired, pissed off, and looking at another 2 hours at least until Cordoba, we rode straight into the next debacle... rain.

So far, except for when David, Jim, and Jay all came down to Los Angeles, the trip was dry as a bone. Alex and Gary had yet to test the waterproofness of their gear. As the first drops descended, we suited completely up, covered our tank bags, and rode off. Fortunately, the rain lasted only for twenty minutes and we got through it dry underneath.

Our hats are off to all of our sponsors whose gear should enable us to get through all of the rain we expect to encounter with flying colors. The Aerostich Darien suits, which we wear without fail, from morning to night, through cold and heat, rain and humidity, are comfortable and durable. To Pelican and Rob Roy, we thank you for the cases which resist the invasion of water and dust while taking a never-ending beating of shocks, bumps, and falling bikes. To Cascade Designs for the dry bags, Geier for the Elkskin gloves, and Aerostich again for David and Gary's Combat Touring boots, we thank you all from the bottom of our hearts.

Beyond the rain was more cold (again, ugh) and then a stretch of swirling pea-soup fog. Our speed dropped to a near crawl as trucks and buses loomed out of nowhere directly in our path. Alex found the whole experience religious, while Gary and Jay were just annoyed and frightened. Not to mention that we were no doubt in a magnificent mountain pass and unable to see a damn thing.

Finally, all the bad weather ended and we bolted through the warm, flat stretch to Cordoba. We relished the thought of the day finally being over. We had braved the elements, confronted the corruption, and paid more money in tolls than any other day; it seemed we'd just gotten through one when the next would arrive - $25 for each rider by the end of the day!

We pulled into town, found the hotel, bumped into David and Jim who had just arrived and were sadistically heartened to hear that their day hadn't been much better.

David and Jim hit the road from San Juan del Rio at mid-day, gassing up on the way out of town. As Mexico City came nearer, David's throat felt clogged as if a bull-frog was stuck in there trying to blow out his cheeks like Satchmo. Mexico, as we had learned days before, had a major gasoline fire at a refinery where millions of gallons burned wildly for days, spewing thousands of cubic meters of vile smoke into the open air. An advisery was placed thoughout the entire state. Restrictions on driving (even plates and odd plates alternating days) were to be highly enforced.

As the city came into view David remembered Jim's gas tank leak. He looked up ahead and saw something familiar that he had seen years before with Yolanda... the Kawasaki dealership! Jim and David pulled over to get a quick fix. The people at this dealership (well-armed doorman the exception) were much less than friendly. In fact we might go so far as to say they were indifferent to our predicament. (Alex, Gary, and Jay had run into the same attitudes only hours earlier.) They did have a new 1996 KLR 650 in the window, likely brought down from Monterrey. It was placed as their finest centerpiece on a pedestal above the Ninjas, ZX7s and Harley Heritage Soft-tails. It was nostalgic to see our KLR brother clean and lean, naked compared to our wide-loaded monsters. It made us wish we were so unencumbered, young and irresponsible. Ah, but those are only dreams now. In a huff hopefully big enough to express our dissatisfaction, we left the dealership.

We vacuumed up a loaf of bread and queso fresco and prayed the road through this living hell would be short and quick. Bumper to bumper for miles, choking, hot, dizzy, eyes burning and scared shitless from inconsiderate local drivers, Jim and David desperately scanned the highway for an exit sign to Puebla, the major city en route to Cordoba. Ah, there's the sign for Puebla, straight ahead. Knowing you are going in the right direction after feeling totally lost is like taking out a splinter; the irritating pain from such a small object disappears immediately.

Signs in Mexico could be better. One must have knowledge of the surrounding towns and cities in order to navigate here at all. Highway numbers are usually excluded as are indications of which direction one is heading. And there is never a mention of how far away the next interchange or exit is, causing us to sometimes blow right by the road we are supposed to take. Then it is a chaotic ballet of turning the bikes around on a narrow road with traffic careening by in both directions.

Heavy traffic split us up near a critical fork in the highway. David went left towards the airport, disregarding the big sign to Oaxaca. He wasn't too sure Jim had seen him go left, but very soon thereafter Jim appeared in his mirror. How do you spell relief?

The relief didn't last very long. While comforted in the fact that we were together within this chaos, we both realized that the airport was the wrong way to go. Some shmuck had changed the "Puebla" signs that we were locked onto to a "Oaxaca" sign at the last fork. Nasty trick.

We decided to head East figuring that eventually we'd hit the right road somehow. Bad, bad, bad. We kept the setting sun to our backs - but once you are outside the network of city streets the roads often lead nowhere. It is sort of feast or famine - either you are overwhelmed with highway options or you are running into dead ends.

David and Jim tried to use their best judgment and sense of direction, but to no avail. After several sets of hopeless directions and a blocked road due to construction we were in the middle of a dusty soccer field. It was driving us crazy, too, that above the closed road there was another sign for Puebla. Up ahead, after David ACCIDENTALLY kicked up some dust on Jim and the soccer players, we found an exit that required the bikes to be just an inch more narrow. Jim, with a clear view from behind the bike (except for the dust in his eyes) tried to tell David they wouldn't fit but David wasn't ready to take his word for it until a couple of locals also gave knowing nods; he was dissuaded.

Finally after two-hours of eye stinging smog, we saw our salvation from this tangled maze - the sign for PUEBLA! It looked like it would be smooth easy sailing from here, but they forgot that this was the 13th day of travel. Not normally the superstitious types, they soon learned to fear the mysterious number.

Mexico City lies in the middle of the Sierra mountains. It is considerably cooler than the tropical climate we experienced on the coast. The road to the east out of Mexico City climbs straight up and over the Sierras - so it gets, you guessed it, COLD.

Thus, our exit of Mexico City commenced with a long, frigid ascent of the Sierras. Trucks, buses and cars pushed aggressively up the mountain, passing dangerously close to our bikes. Compounding our peril was the first rainfall we had encountered in our trip thus far.

We stopped just shy of the pinnacle where a series of roadside stands catered to truckers. We approached one to see what they had to offer a pair of cold and wet bikers. The cooks were all indigenous women, dark skin and long black silky hair, well-worked hands, they only stood about four and a half feet tall, barely tall enough to see into their enormous clay pots. David, fingers numb from the ascent, was eager to try the hot soup boiling over the wood fire. It was reddish in color and had chunks of vegetables and something else in it. "Something de res (beef)", she said. David understood veggie-beef soup. "Sounds good, I'll have that!" The something turned out to be stomach lining of a cow. Only the broth and veggies were eaten.

Our final descent into the valley and the town of Cordoba must be wonderful during the day being a windy mountainous land, brimming with life. We were sad to have traded it for a cold dense fog.

What should have been a final uneventful stretch into the city became just one more 13th day snafu. We took a wrong toll road, got separated, David cut a new path onto the toll road up the side of a hill with a little help from a Mexican driver (too long to explain), Jim had to plead his case all the way to the Director of Toll Roads to avoid paying a second time, and 30 miles later we were reunited for the final miles of the trip to Cordoba and Gary, Alex, and Jay, who had only arrived themselves minutes earlier.

The five of us were all way beyond the point of disgust and fatigue to be joyful at our reunion. The Hotel Gorbe–a had only a top floor room big enough for all of us. Four flights of stairs lugging all our gear took what little energy we had left.. A parking lot around the corner secured our bikes for the night.

And then just before we fell asleep, a perverse enjoyment of the day's hellish events spread over the group. We had told our respective stories, and in retrospect, found them funny and exciting. We had yet to experience any difficulties until this day and were curiously relieved that finally we were experiencing some of those things everyone suspected we'd experience. We fell asleep knowing that if we could handle a day like this, we could handle anything.

Miles - 300 miles

(This entry uploaded from the home/office of Chris Clarkson of Island Expeditions in Dangriga, Belize. Thanks Chris!)