Monday, January 28, 2013

The Best of Both Worlds (Part I)


Here I am, back in Oakland, trying to figure out what to make of the past year or so on the open road. Can't say I've got an excuse for putting off the final installment of my journey for so long other than good ol' fashion procrastination. There's been a good amount of time to reflect on the past twelve months and try to extract some all-encompassing narrative, yet I'm struggling to find some way to connect it all together into one grand telling. I've been home for a couple of months now, and with my focus tuned back to work and school, I suppose the biggest struggle at the moment is getting back into my nomadic mindset in order to tell this story. I'm curious to see how all this time has affected my ability to recall and interpret the events of the past year. I'm gonna let this play out and see if I can sift the meaning of life out of all this craziness. So, with all that out of the way, let's get back to June 2012...

My last two days in the city of Oaxaca were spent following a few developments in the teacher camps. Urgency is probably the best word to describe the atmosphere at the time, and with national elections slated next for next month (July 1st), educators and their supporters were marching on the city streets in greater numbers, expanding the boundaries of the camp to a few more city blocks. From the safety of my rooftop camp above Luna Hostel, I could see all that transpired below. I think it was Vania or someone else working at the hostel who pointed crew-cut jackboots lining the sidewalks, police officers in plain clothes with pistols stuffed in their belts, looking all too anxious as they watched the teachers take to the streets. As someone else pointed out to me, the last time police officers removed their uniforms was 2006 when officers killed twenty six people over the course of a few months.


As luck would have it, just as the crowds started to swell, the clear blue summer skies turned gray overnight. Heavy rains rolled through the parched valley, putting some hot tempers in check as the summer showers brought a welcome remission from the stifling heat. Protesters sought shelter in their tents while others returned home. The heavy police presence disappeared in turn, and with that, I guess some level of normalcy was restored as a few busy streets opened up to traffic again, though the teachers continued their occupation of the central plaza.


It was time to bail. The skies opened up just long enough for me to roll out on ruta 135, then a sharp turn west into the mountains on a carretera libre towards Nochixtlan, roughly 80km's north of Oaxaca. What should have been a half dray trip stretched out to a day and a half by a steep ascent into the mountains around La Herradura, where I was welcomed by more shitty high-altitude lightening storms and one sleepless night in a staring competition with some base-head losers looking to nab some gear from my camp. The next day was spent speeding downhill for 30 km's before reaching Nochixtlan.

How to describe the next 250 km's...slight climbs, tedious routes on , especially between Huajuapan and Izucar de Matamoros. To be honest, by the time I reached Cuernavaca, I was kind of wishing I'd stuck to the coast. I was skirting along the border of DF and despite staying to the side roads, traffic was a pain in the ass, possibly some of the worst I'd encountered since some of the bigger Central American cities. Other cyclist I met further south insisted a bike trip through Mexico would not be complete without a detour to the Big City itself, but with the southerly approach inundated with fast moving kill machines coming from every angle, it took only a day in Cuernavaca to decide against it. So I cut northwest on a small mountain road towards Huitzilac, followed by a sharp left up some serious switchbackery through Parque Nacional Lagunas de Zempoala, a serpentine route that launched me into high alpine paradise with a dash of mid-summer snow and the occasional ice patch. The road eventually plateaued by noon and from Coyoltepec it was an easy ride on the way to Toluca, a city that sort of crept slowly over the horizon with the setting sun. This was not a bike-friendly city by any means, what with all the four lane traffic and blind merges at every turn. I stuck around long enough for some tacos and slipped out on ruta 15 under cover of darkness, continuing for another twenty kilometers before setting up camp near a moonlit lake.

This guy crashed a funeral service to get me coffee, so
I bought him breakfast
I hit some nice looking mountains pretty early the next morning, nothing nearly as grueling as the road out of Cuernavaca but enough climbing to squeeze some sweat. I'm sure all the volcanic scenery around me would've been absolutely breathtaking if it wasn't for the inveterate rainy season always fucking with my ride. I missed out on some decent tourism, speeding through two ancient towns (Zitacuaro and Ciudad Hidalgo) that each probably merited a day long stay if not for the weather. I was getting fatigued, stinking heavily with the flavor of unwashed towel and trench foot. My frustration with central Mexico's unpredictable climate was hitting a boiling point. I'd been under the impression that the country's infamous heat was bound to be unbearable, yet here I was in the middle of summer in Purepecha territory struggling to stay dry in frigid temperatures, freezing my balls off. To make matters worse, I blew up my alcohol stove and spent an evening digging aluminum shards out of my right foot.  

BORElia
Morelia was a welcome reprieve from the string of bad weather-luck. The skies immediately opened up as I dropped into the valley. I finally had a chance to warm up and dry off on the roof at Tequila Sunset hostel, where I spent the next three days recuperating and chilling with Damian, getting shithoused, and making a fool of myself in front of a bunch of Argentinian backpackers, all in good fun. Biking around this fair city was a blast, but after three days of checking out the sights and with the weather finally at my side, I jumped on the steed and continued west on ruta 15.

Zacapu
The road was BEAUTIFUL. The big climbs through snow capped mountain were finally behind me. The next three days on the road were spent gently meandering through mountain valleys, lake sides and rolling hills. With the exception of an overturned tour bus a few k's west of Quiroga, the route couldn't be better, yet despite the sights and sounds along the way, I wasn't trying to take any breaks. I had one destination on my mind, one place that seemed to be the talk of the town everywhere in Mexico...

Guadalajara: the Spaniards used to call it "City of Dreams"
Fellow travelers are always eager to share their recommendations for places to go when you're on big trips like these. They'll say things like 'check out the thermal baths at yerba buena', 'go feed the monkeys at Portobello', 'come with us to this ayahuasca ceremony' or 'you gotta check out the brothels in Panama City'. I generally don't take recommendations to well, especially when someone's trying to get me to shell out $200 for a day long leisure hike in some enchanted Olmec forest, at which point I tend to fuck off and do my own thing like a cheap asshole. However, if everyone along the way is pushing me in one direction, I might buckle and hang a right somewhere. Other folks spoke of Guadalajara as if it were the nucleus of any Mexican journey, that I'd be a fool to circumvent it as I had done with so many other cities.

First impressions: this place is biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig! Panama was my last big city navigation. Guadalajara proved to be an entirely different monster, albeit equally challenging to a first time visitor. Centro was easy enough to get to, but finding the elusive casa ciclista tacked another two hours to my trip for the day. I arrived unannounced. The fellas working the shop/bike hostel were perturbed to say the least at this grimy biker riding in at the last minute, speaking terrible spanish and asking for a place to stay, but since turning away strangers goes against the inherent hospitable nature shared by most Mexicans, I was hooked up with a bed, a hot shower and keys to the palace in no time. 

Loyal servants of Bernardo
 I was introduced to Jorge and Izhak, an inseparable pair bound to one another by duty, kinship, and a strong, manly love for bikes and bike tools. How to describe this dynamic duo without delving into their clashing idiosyncrasies? I never  thought a techie DJ Tiesto aficionando could get along so well with a luddite who leaves Glenn Frey's greatest hits on repeat all day long, but there they were, working side by side and answering to no one except Bernardo, the unquestionable superior and boss of Casa Ciclista and all cyclists in Guadalajara. One can see by the way Jorge and Izhak lock eyes that this duo was and will forever remain inseparable. Whenever I witness such a special relationship develop between two individuals, I like to leave the magic a mystery and let others witness the miracle for themselves. I haven't spoken to these two since leaving GDL, but something tells me the sparks are still flying.

Speaking of sparks and love and magical adventures, Izhak warned me the last gringo who stayed at Casa Ciclista ended up sticking around for two months before continuing southward. When I asked how this could happen, he spoke of how a fair maiden from the city held my countrymen captive by lust. I dismissed the anecdote and re-assured my hosts I'd stay for no more than a week. They laughed and forced me to mop the floors, a task I performed flawlessly and much better than Izhak or Jorge. I then proceeded to put three bikes together from scratch while simultaneously developing flawless planning measures to develop new bike corridors in the city by the New Year. Unfortunately Jorge burned my plans in a jealous rage.

Five days went by without incident. I collected replacement parts from around the city, overhauled my wheels, degreased the drive chain and prepared for the next and final leg of the journey up to the border. Just as the fifth day was coming to an end, two ladies--Fernanda and Mina--pull up to the shop with brake problems and asked me (not Jorge or Izhak) to fix it, which I did in no time. In return, I demanded they take me to a bar and not invite Izhak or Jorge. An hour later, I was at a bar without Izhak or Jorge.

The night was off to a good start. These two ladies tolerated a few minutes of shitty Owen Spanish before telling me I suck at their language and made me speak in American. No matter what, with so much cheap beer slammed on our table, I was sure to make an ass of myself sooner or later, no matter what language I was speaking. The conversation eventually segued into my journey and how I came across their fair city. As I got into the details of the trip, Fernanda's eyes did the thing my eyes do anytime I see Neo fly into the sky at the end of the first Matrix. She strategically waited for Mina to use the bathroom before she hit me with it. I don't recall her exact words, but I think it was along the lines of, "Take me with you."

As it turns out, Guadalajara is not only the city of dreams, but also the city of love at first sight. I didn't know this lady at all. I didn't know what she was about, what movies or songs she liked the best or what star sign she was, but after Fernanda hit me with her request, I knew right away I'd be sticking around a lot longer than a week...

To be continued

(Part II coming up in a few days)