A journal of our travels.
December 9, 2001
<Mace> Commercialism has spread from the United States like a plague. I can't say that we invented it, but we certainly perfected the beast. We spent the day in Guanajuato, and I felt like we were stuck in the middle of an interstate tourist trap most of the day. The sites were certainly different, but you really had to dig, and dig hard, to find something that wasn't ridiculously some kind of money making plot.
We hired a guide as we entered the city proper, and
I'm thankful for that. Andres, as he was called, was most helpful in
keeping us from getting Greg into tight spots. Our first stop was at the
museum of mummies. Yup, that's right, Mexico has mummies too. Nasty
little dead people stuck in cages like some kind of art display. I can
appreciate the ancestral importance of their rituals, but it all seemed a little
morbid to me. There were actual dead people, just sitting in little glass
cases for us to look at. 20 pesos later (22 for me, I used the bathroom),
and I was ready to move on.
Our next stop was a vista over looking the city. Clark, Jessica and I aren't doing well with the name right now, but it definitely started with a 'P'. Pipila or something like that. It was the name of some famous person in the city's history. I'm not sure what he did, exactly, as my limited hold on Spanish only got me one out of every 2 or 3 sentences. By the fourth, you're so lost it doesn't matter, and you just soak in the visual scenery. Wow, look mom, I'm a tourist!!! I dared the food fare at the vista and found it quite delicious, much better than I expected.
A short trip around the vista loop surrounding the city, and we
stopped near the gardens. Andres was taking us to a 'museum of torture'
as he put it. James and Ally decided to take a walk in the gardens while
the rest of us went into the museum. It was supposed to be some haunted
house where the oldie Spanish governors had lived before the revolution.
We passed through the spectacle, and saw what there was to see. Mostly was
just a couple of Mexicans seeing if they could spook the tourists. Some of
the rooms we were taken into were quite amusing, and once a door slammed on us,
and that actually got a jolt out of everybody. They stuck us in a dark room at
one point, and the result was most amusing.
A little driving later and we were at the mines up in the hills. Quite a fun trip really, they had a really nice set up there. We ditched the fellow who wanted to be our guide, and took off on our own to explore. They had what used to be the first part of the mine shaft open for you to wander down into, and wander we did. It was incredible just how much the humidity in the air changed from that short of a drop. The air felt tangibly heavier than at the surface, much like that of a sauna. Hard hats in place we descended as far as the shaft allowed, and then climbed back up to the top. There was a bar there, but no one seemed to be serving margaritas, and we were off. There was a small festival celebrating the Immaculate Conception in the town square, and we took the opportunity to see what there was to see.
After a little poking
around, I managed to wander into a store touting itself to sell the arts of
Mexico. I had no idea of the treasures we would find there. The
proprietor of the store, Randy, 
was a native of New York. He had been
living in Mexico for three years, the last in Guanajuato. He and a friend
had found that there was a lack of anyone selling native artwork in the area and
opened up a shop. I have to say that to this point, his store had the most
appealing wares that I've seen so far. Was it because he's American, and
understands consumerism so well; or simply that he had the widest variety of
'trinkets' to offer that I had seen in one place. Some of it was his demeanor,
I think. He certainly knew a lot about the various cultures he collected
art from and had a story for everything. Clark, Jessica and I all walked
out with quality items; something to liven up the decor of poor old Greg.
Who, by the way, has livened up; honking at random times when he's bored.
That could certainly prove interesting.
<James> Guanajuato. City of white doves lighting on tall acacias. Young couples kissing in the park. Richly colored houses spread among the hills and dips and ravines. Tortuous byways and alleyways along with claustrophobic tunnels following the old channel of underground rivers. (Thanks to our ambitious fifteen year old guide, we did not get ourselves permanently wedged into one of those labyrinthine passages definitely not designed for fun-hogs like Greg stacked high with plastic toys.)
City of
panoramic vistas and bands playing in the parks. Ghoulish museums and the
Palace of the Governor. Stone Frog statues and vibrant purple and deep red
splashes of bougainvilleas gracing walls and terraces. Cobblestone streets
and a wearying Gordian knot of roads and roundabouts. 
We never even made it to the city center. We never came upon the grand central plaza. The soul of every south of the American border town. It was a whirlwind tour, and sadly we elected to say goodbye. I got the sense that it is a town that needs time, just as an uncorked fine red wine needs time to breathe.
Andres saved us from certain vehicular doom, but, once we requested to see the Museo de las Momias (mummies in all of their dessicated glory) we were, in his mind, the common tourist. Shills destined for his own personal amusement park ride. It wasn't his fault. We might have been a little more focused.
Dec 10, 2001
<James> Howling packs of dogs pierce my dreams. A Dante ring of hell with a soundtrack from 101 Dalmatians. Braying, barking, yipping. In my semi-conscious state I am on an island surrounded by dazzling neon lights, loosely lashed to the railroad tracks as trucks with jake brakes perform a tightrope act on the train rails, desperate to stop, swerving amongst the mongrel canines that serenade our slumber.
It is only a dream, and it is not a dream.
We have chosen one of our lesser star campos por la noche. It was time to eat. It was time to stop driving. Our options were limited. As Kent and I once discussed over coffees at Tullys --- as you reduce your options, you heighten the likelihood for disaster. Thus the need to keep your options many, rather than few. Driving two lane blacktops in Mexico at night is a means of drastically restricting your options --- feeble illumination, shoulderless roads, oncoming traffic, dodging deranged dogs. Don't go there unless the situation is truly desperate.
Fortunately, we are a hearty and flexible group. Bus dwellers are forced to be 'simple folk', and not ask much. A darkened slot between two buildings for a latrine. A flat space just big enough for Greg's tires beneath low-strung Christmas lights. This will suffice under dire circumstances. Of course, there are consequences for 'settling' on a place for the night. Thus my darkest hours being hounded and annoyed while tossing and turning on a makeshift bed inside Greg. I thought my chances for sleep were better within the interior of the bus. The majority of my nights have been on the roof.
It was a fitful sleep, but that is about all that passes for exercise these days.
We are calling our Bend posse 'ringtail cats'. Well, I am anyway. It is, of course, a term of endearment. One guide training we had a contingent of vivacious females we affectionately called the Spice Guides, as they were in charge of the heavily laden support rafts.
Why ringtails? Because they are fascinated with bright, shiny objects --- street vendors with jewelry attract them likes flies to a goatshead --- and they come alive at night --- threatening a disco stop at every municipality sporting street lights and flashing neon signs. I can't report that they are as quick as the ringtail cats I have seen darting between rafts late at night trying to abscond with any loose gear, but they do have the endearing, luminous eyes and, occasionally, they have widened.
It is as much a pleasure to have their company on our journey south to Belize as it would be to have a mask full of oxygen as relief from the stale Mexico City airs.
December 11, 2001
Outside San Miguel de Allende
<James> Yesterday we serendipitously found some lovely domesticated hot springs --- thanks to the tenacity of Kyle and Kristin. We finagled our way into a campsite for the night and spent the day soaking in a three-beaded necklace of springs covered by beehive-shaped brick enclosures. It is a little difficult to describe without going into great detail. It was an oasis and a respite rightfully deserved at the conclusion of a day of white-knuckling Greg down another dicey passage Mexicans call a "principal highway".
We were seriously thwarted in our efforts to reach downtown San Miguel in Greg. Apparently, no es posible. Three times we were turned away and twice we caused a traffic ruckus. At one point, we were mixing it up with shuttlebuses, taxis, bicyclists and men on burros, but, fortunately, no men with guns. And then consider the multitude of pedestrians loitering on every corner and attempting to dart between moving vehicles!
So far, we haven't managed to hospitalize anyone --- yet.
La Ciudad de Mexico...again
<Ally> This time around we
made a conscious decision to drive through Mexico city. The last time we
drove through Mexico city only after exhausting all other possibilities to drive
around it (on our way to Panama 1998). Well we were ready. Armed
with a GPS, half a dozen maps, and one of which was specifically of Mexico
city. We're not sure if we made better time this go around but we were
definitely more efficient. No ten point turns in the middle of the city
and at no time did we have to get out of the bus to stop traffic. Our
timing was a little better as well. We drove through, or on the outskirts
of the city, during daylight hours as opposed to during the twilight as we did
in 1998.
Even after adding all of the amenities we were not immune from a few
hair raising experiences. If you have never driven through one of, if not
the largest, cities in the world and are looking to truly test your driving
skills this is the place for you. James's believes driving through Mexico
city should be included in the Drivers Ed curriculum. I drove us up to the
outskirts, luckily rescued by a Pemex station for a gas stop. James took
over for the two and a half hour drive through the city. Like something
out of NASCAR
vehicles wove in, out and around us. Lane lines are mostly
absent so what begins as a two car street can quickly become a four or five lane
street at any given moment depending on the audacity of other
drivers.
Topes (abrupt speed bumps) are sometimes marked, sometimes not. The best indicator of topes are the street vendors that stand directly on top of them, tempting drivers with food, toy airplanes, or the daily paper. We managed to slow down in time for all but one tope. Greg, with James at the helm, screeched to a halt as quickly as a multiple ton 1975 International school bus screeches when we hit the tope at maybe 15mph, sending all of are neatly stacked boxes and a few kitchen items tumbling to the ground (not to mention the jolt our internal organs received). <James> That unmarked speed bump was cleverly placed on the clover off ramp of the main highway. Which will lead me to describe the various types of topes, or speed bumps, you encounter while traversing Mexico, once it is my turn to write again. . .
<Ally> Then there were the stray dogs with suicidal tendencies lingering ever so close to the curb. Oh, yeah I forgot to mention one other thing...the parade. We were driving through Mexico city one day prior to the 12th of December. This is pertinent only because the 12th of December is the celebration of the Virgin of Guadalupe, one of the largest celebrations in Mexico. Apparently the 11th of December is when the parade is held...in, around and outside of the city. In the far right "lane" were slow moving vehicles displaying the Virgin of Guadalupe followed by dozens of bicyclist, mostly men, and an occasional runner carrying a torch. With most things about driving in Mexico we couldn't distinguish a pattern or even where these folks were going. They appeared on every street we came to, even on the toll road where the only regulation on your speed is that it can't exceed 110 kilometers per hour.
Once we thought we were clear of the city Kyle took over driving. I'll let him tell you about the public bus that tried make two lanes out of one and nearly ran us off the road. When Mace realized why James was calmly yet urgently demanding Kyle move over he began guzzling his Tecate. Later Mace confessed that he didn't want to die sober. We could have shook the hands of the passengers in the encroaching bus if their windows were rolled down.
<Kyle> I'm just not ready to talk about it yet.
<James> Topes are my subject at the moment. Greg encountered hundreds navigating the suburbs of the largest mass of humanity on the planet. Some were wide and serrated. Some were steep and angular. Some were smooth asphalt. Some were broken chunks of cement which once had the semblance of roundness.
A few were individual football helmet-sized lined up in a row (in a design, known in my youth as 'road titties'), others were the same design, but nipples in comparison. At times, their presence was only indicated by the brake lights of the vehicles in front of you, or a jam up of cars slowing down in hopes of not to jarring the fillings out of their teeth or the lug nuts off the tires. Other times you had no more warning than a sign placed precisely at the tope. Occasionally, and if you were very fortunate, warning signs were erected as far as 500 metres ahead.
We've jounced over dozens that were vividly painted in road caution yellow stripes, but most of them blended into the hubbub of the street. A couple of times, the transportation department slyly painted a tope crossing but the pavement wasn't raised an inch. Apparently, they were deviously counting on conditioning to influence drivers' behavior, or they had simply lacked the funding to build that 10,000th community tope.
For a few moments yesterday, we speculated that topes were used when overhead pedestrian crossings were not available. Because the bumps were a blessing to the thousands of pedestrians that would saunter, scuttle, run or crutch across the busy freeway. But we were mistaken to believe there was a system of any kind at work. There were speed bumps with pedestrian crossings and without them.
Some towns use topes to collect donations for their local fire department or medical clinic or (fill in the blank) charity. Sometimes it seems the street vendors build the speed bumps to facilitate their personal commerce. Especially in the smaller communities. Some vendors accost the vehicle, particularly street urchins with squeegees. Most stand ramrod straight straddling the midline of two lanes as multi-ton tractor trailers and buses crawl slowly by. One misplaced foot or slip and they would be as mangled as the myriad of mongrels that line the ditches.
Topes are Greg's nemesis. (Nemeses?) Every jolt and jar pushes him one step closer to entropy. One loose nut closer to the end of the line. We have learned to peer keenly ahead in an attempt to give ourselves as much a head's up as possible. Even so, they surprise us with the eccentricity of their selected locations. Thus the spine-realigning, chassis-rattling meeting with the bump on the off ramp.
Can you imagine that?!
December 13, 2001
Cardenas, Tabasco on toward Palenque
<James> We meant to camp near Cardenas last night. Not because Cardenas had any special appeal but merely because darkness was falling and I was intent to NOT camp beside a pack of diesel spewing trucks. The morning before, outside Puebla, we parked in what was an empty Pemex parking lot when we arrived, but quickly filled with truckers on the move cross-country. For some reason, vehicles are attracted to Greg like the proverbial moths to the flames. Or Hispanic men to North American women. Whenever we park, people choose to nuzzle up next to us.
And so it was at the Puebla Pemex parking lot. In the evening, after all nine of us chowed voraciously on gas station restaurant tortas (eggs, ham, avocado, mayo, etc. on white buns --- not exotic exactly, but tasty) and another slightly less spirited game of Battle of the Sexes, eighteen wheelers began to collect to either side of Greg. Initially we were worried they might back into us, but then we forgot all about them.
In the morning, however, there was no way to ignore the unearthly rumble of the slow-to-warm diesel engines and the smothering diesel fumes that enveloped those of us who regularly plant our sleeping bags on the top of the bus. While sucking in the noxious smoke for what seemed like an hour, I thought, "I will never intentionally sleep beside a tractor trailer again". At least not the next night. So that is why we were intent to find a camp AWAY from gas stations and truck stops. And why we were circling the barrios of Cardenas.
But, as we learned on our Costa Rica journey, trailer parks are a bitch to find in Central America.
So, we got lost dinking around Cardenas in search of a resting spot for Greg. Cities are a challenge for Greg for all of the obvious reasons and because of the drooping wires, festival banners and tree branches that have survived being pruned by other oversized rigs. When this happens, we send someone to the roof to serve as our human periscope. (In the town of Palenque we went high-tech and equipped Mace with a two-way radio. More about our technological wonders later.)
We got trapped on a one-way street in Cardenas that funneled the bus inexorably toward the City Center. We came to a quiet plaza we first presumed to be the central plaza and I parked. A promenade off the quiet plaza was ablaze with lights and people and music in celebration of Doce de Deciembre. It had grown dark, but sustenance now took precedence over camping
The bright lights off to our left drew us toward them. The group splintered into two as Marth became engaged in a conversation with a young woman who wanted to practice her English while the Bend contingent and Ally and I got sucked into the throngs on the promenade. Two long city blocks of celebrating Cardenans, intense illumination and blaring Hispanic pop and we arrived at the real Plaza de Armas where there was even more of the same and a carnival.
A white church with its doors wide open and people spilling out into the street stood off to our left. Little kids were having their photos taken on top of fake ponies and in front of statuettes of the Virgin Mary. Many little kids had mustaches penciled onto their upper lips and costumes resembling peasant revolutionaries. I presumed they were pint-sized versions of Emiliano Zapata, but, for the life of me I could not determine how Zapata related to the celebration of the Immaculate Conception.
I tried a vegetable that looked like an olive --- same size, same color, same texture --- but it had been pickled in something I also could not determine. The flavor was indecipherable. Not sweet completely, not sour, not salty. But it was closer to sweet than sour, and I decided it might be pickled in an alcohol of some kind. The aftertaste was definitely not pleasant and I discarded most of the minute vegetables with pits. (I wonder now if Erica's midnight gastronomic eruption was related to her trying those sickly-flavored treats.)
In any case, we went looking for a camp near the city and wound up diving waist deep into the life of this random small town not highlighted in any of the guide books. . . and that epitomizes our Travels With Greg. We rarely know with any certainty where we will wind up. It doesn't work that way on these bus trips. It is all about rolling with the punches. Surviving contact with the enemy and changing the battle plan on the fly. Sun Tzu and Randy Newman would be proud of us.