A journal of our travels.
December 6, 2001
(Kyle) Most of we intrepid folks awoke at first sun and began our last minute tasks for the crossing of the Mexican Border. We decided the night before that we were not going to fritter away valuable time at a cafe sipping coffee today, and just beat it on down the line to deal with the intricacies of crossing a border. Some of us headed directly for the showers, most likely our last for quite a time, some went for a jog around the perimeter of Mission RV Park in El Paso. I had made the jog the previous night and found it less than pristine. I enjoy running yet huffing the fumes of semi tractor trailers left a bit to be desired and so I opted for a nice long hot shower. The showers were nice, clean, hot, and mine was definitely long. I savored the shower, even after the plumbing of Mission decided to scald my scalp and caused me to yelp loudly. The joggers returned, we dealt with squaring the bill, pilfering free bad coffee, filling our water, emptying the trash, and now we were ready to hit the road!
James decided that the free bad coffee wasn't worthy, and so we had one stop before we hit the border at a Barnes and Noble for the Starbucks which seems to come standard with most B&N's that I am familiar with. A few bathroom stragglers and again we were road bound.
We crossed the Mexican Border simply through the
trucks lane into Ciudad Juarez and were ready for what usually seems the
logistical nightmare of crossing to a foreign country with no real solid grasp
of the language. Truthfully, that is not fair. Many among us on this
trip have solid groundings in Spanish, with Mace, Marth, and Ally at the top of
the list. Most of the rest of us are trying feverishly to learn rudiments
with which to cope in our new landscape. Lots of our attempts, though have
been at pick up lines which we may need while traveling. Sort of jokingly
(I think). We passed quickly through the geopolitical boundary that is the
border and pulled over at the visitors center to start finding out what it was
we needed to get through into the interior. Several of us went in to speak
to the poor defenseless girl at the turista counter. Ally coughed out a
barrage of nonsequetious questions, then back paddled, and asked if, perhaps,
the woman might speak English. She did. Ally was asking her where we
might be able to get our Tourist Cards and where we might be able to purchase
Mexican insurance. The woman confidently pulled out a map of Juarez and proceeded
to tell us where a Bar and Grill was. We were confused. Ally asked
again, this time the girl said that we needed to head 30 kilometers out of town
to do all of the following. We were confused. One thing we want to
try to avoid during this journey is backtracking on the bus, for even turning
the bus around can be quite a process. But with further pressing, it
seemed, that, yes, we needed to head on down the road to an actual customs-type
border crossing point.
Our contingent continued South and we came upon the 30 kilometer point and found said crossing. Armed with our papers, photocopies, passports we headed to the officials. I actually detoured to the banos caballeros directly and then on to the office. I handed dude my passport, he handed me my tourist card to fill out, I filled it out, I was done. Marth and Kristin dealt with doggie dealings, others dealt with papers, James and Ally dealt with the bus insurance and we were done. Largely, it was painless. I think that we really expected more monkeys in the wrench. Or monkeys with wrenches. Or something like that.
We headed further South along Highway 45 into Ahumada at which point the sign proclaiming "burritos faty" seduced us into stopping for lunch. We parked at the town square and disembarked. The bank was closed but the cash machine was not and some of us filled our pockets with Pesos. After a few moments of playful dialogue exchange with a fellow tending a portable CD and tape kiosk we ventured off to find ourselves a faty burrito. There were scant folks walking the streets when we were walking, possibly because it was siesta time of day. We poked our noggins into the restaurant/tienda and were sold.
Sitting down at the picnic tables we were greeted with chips
and salsa. Several types of sauce came with the chips, one red with seeds
(muy caliente!) one white with jalapenos, and one green. The red was my
favorite, but it was a love hate relationship, and I am sure that my internals
will remember this favorite a bit after my mouth forgets it. At our table,
we labored through the ordering process, Erica and Kristin working towards being
served no meat in their meals. Eventually we thought that we had it all
worked out, but what I had told Erica was "green peas" ended up in
actuality being "soggy fried pork rinds." She wasn't too into
eating it.
My meal of avocado quesadillas was wonderful, even after I drowned it in the red caliente salsa, and it washed down wonderfully with the Modelo that Mace had rounded up for the whole mesa. It seems that everyone enjoyed the meal, and most of us shopped a bit more at the tienda portion of the establishment, depleting their supply of drinkable yogurt.
A walk back to the bus split us up, some seeking out alcohol for our pending second round of "Battle of the Sexes" where all would be determined, some went food shopping, I contributed to and then promptly emptied our bucket of urine, being careful to rinse it with bleach and then purell my own hands. We rallied out of Ahumada, turned left onto the free road, then quickly changing our minds and deciding upon the toll road as the better option. About an hour later we pulled over to camp out. Which is where I clack out these letters. Somewhere in Chihuahua Mexico in cattle country...
<James>We needed a Starbucks outlet. Unfortunately, we were in El Paso. More specifically we were in the part of El Paso zoned for trailer parks. On the fortunate side, we had asked the Applebee's waitress the night before where the closest Starbucks might be. The only one she knew of was located in Barnes & Noble.
I cruised the service road heading west with all eyes peeled for the familiar come-hither mermaid logo. Just before succumbing to another Denny's, a Barnes & Noble magically appeared saving us from a gustatory fate worse than death. Tanked on Starbucks, we were ready to wade through the border.
December
7, 2001
<James> Incredible. We have become embroiled in our second protest while driving through Mexico. On our Costa Rica journey, in southern Chiapas, we discovered the Pan American Highway closed by protesters, and we were forced to camp until the protest ended despite our own protestations. This time, a couple of kilometers passed Delicias, we stop beyond a toll booth to take advantage of the free bathrooms. Other than a roadside vendor selling nuts and a stand selling burritos and various cookies, the place was quiet. All of us stretched our legs and crossed the road to patronize the stand and relieve ourselves.
The next thing we know our colorful, vagabond school bus, harmlessly parked off the road, has been hemmed in by legions of parked cars. All of sudden, the Saucillo Caseta (tollbooth) is the hottest ticket in town. Cars are lining both sides of the road, the police have arrived, folks are handing out flyers and the sideshow is only missing marching bands. Like it or not, we are witnesses to a civil action by the locals protesting tolls that have persisted for three years beyond their 'sunset' date.
Time to break out the beach chairs, the beer and get comfortable on the roof. See what happens. Rumors fly that the governor will arrive from Chihuahua and have something to say. The farmers and workers and parents of students who feel put out by the toll have closed half the lanes and booths and are egging drivers on to ignore the fee. All of them do and the spectators cheer each small act of defiance.
Meanwhile,
we have become unwitting celebrities, especially the blonde women. A bus
passes with a wolf whistle. Another bus' shotgun rider blows us a
kiss. Parade waves all around. Before long a newspaperman and
cameraman visit the rooftop for what will undoubtedly pass for local news.
I want to tell them we are Bush Ambassadors for Enduring Freedom, spreading
goodwill toward every example of freedom we can find. Alas, I don't have
the vocabulary to pull it off.
But in the immortal (paraphrased) words of John Cusack's character in Roadside Prophets "Free Roads for the Poor!"
December 8, 2001
<James> I feel a need to clarify the photo capturing my own damn self engrossed in an 'article' in Cosmo. Clearly, I was enjoying the content. Out of curiosity, I picked the magazine up to get a better understanding of why someone felt the need to include it in their manifest of items for an excursion to Belize. Little did I know that I would stumble across a survey two of our members from Bend had taken and had unwisely initialed their preferred answers. It was a gold mine of insight into our fellow travelers' outlook about dating, men and sex. After all, what else is Cosmo about?
I thought it appropriate to share the responses with the group for levity. Thus, the intent reading and sly smile cum smirk on my face. The two respondents had contrasting philosophies on many subjects but both heartily agreed that wearing their boyfriends' t-shirts to bed was a real turn-on. (Are you guys out there paying attention?) One preferred playing hard-to-get, one was decidedly not in favor of delayed gratification. I wish I could remember more without sneaking another peek but, minus my Senior Moment supplements this trip, I am at a loss.
The state of Chihuahua,
basically the western extension of far west Texas, consists of immense frying
pan flat basins rimmed by rows of mountain ranges lined up in the
distance. The ranges reminded me of ocean waves beginning to break along
an extensive sandy shelf along the coastline. Perhaps where the tide has
withdrawn and you can see that the beach extends for hundreds of yards out
toward the horizon. The colors are subdued. The sky is expansive.
The vegetation, from a distance and at the speed of a trundling bus, seems very
sparse. No cactus or saguaros or trees interrupt the monotony. The
landscape is dry and brown and scrubby. Towns are few and far between.
Today we are driving between Torreon and Zacatecas. Our objective is Guanajuato. Home of new Presidente Fox and a mountain town my niece has often spoken. She spent some time there learning Spanish. We are still in basin and range country but we begin to see green and water and vegetation other than shrubs.
Leon/Guanajuato
We succeeded in reaching Guanajuato today. It required many Pemex gas stops, roadside taco stands and random relief breaks to reach this point. We are parked in a vacant lot fifty yards beyond the tollbooth as you enter the city of Guanajuato. It has all the prerequisites for a four or five star bus dweller campground. It is close to free bathrooms, it is flat, it isn't posted, military personnel are nearby, it has its share of darkness, it is more than fifty feet off the road and, most importantly, it is free.
The 'free' aspect is key. Especially when you stop for a meal at a classy place called Las Provincias in Leon and dine predominantly on margaritas. What we are saving on camping, we are spending on meals at restaurants. Some of us might need to fast soon. Or switch to beans and rice.
At this point, we are still
living it up. Everything is different, exotic and exciting. Pesos
are the equivalent of Monopoly money in our minds. The exchange rate is
simple (about 9 pesos per dollar), but the extra digits on the bills and the
wads of cash you are forced to carry around makes you feel wealthier than you
are. This can become a recipe for monetary disaster for those of us with
'fixed' incomes, or diminishing incomes.
Las Provincias Restaurante was
celebrating chile relleno dishes. Chiles rellenos are my favorite Mexican
food. I eat more chillaquiles year to year, but I love rellenos and sample
various relleno plates whenever I wander into a Mexican restaurant. Ally
and I ordered a dish that turned out to be a mountainous pile of sizzling deep
fried Anaheim peppers. One stuffed with cheese, one with chicken and one
with beef. It was topped with a pearl onion carved into a floweret.
The 'presentation' of the tortilla soup everyone else ordered as an appetizer
was astoundingly artistic. We had chanced upon one of Leon's finer
establishments.
While waiting for our meals, we struck a conversation with Joan and Walter from New York who were traipsing about south central Mexico in celebration of their 52nd anniversary. A gift from their daughter Cindy who works for Microsoft in Seattle. Joan was chatty and gregarious and eager to pass along pearls of wisdom about places to see in the surrounding environs. In fact she had initiated the conversation with our table when she overheard our American banter.
Walter was less talkative, but when he spoke, it was usually a notable quip. I'll bet he is known as the master of understatement and a great 'josher'. I'll bet he's kept Joan in stitches for decades. Like this one --- when we said we were considering the one hour detour to Guanajuato --- he shot back, "If you are driving to Belize, what the hell is an hour?"