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The long Road. Part 7 of 9: Mexico

In the Mexican Highlands And then Mexico laid before my wheels. A continent in its own right. From the tropical rainforests in the southern regions Yucatán and Chiapas to the scorching deserts in the northern regions of Sonora and Baja California I would find a country with a fascinating history in which the aesthetic and spiritual Mayans, the warriors of the Aztecs and the gold-hungry Spaniards left the most visible imprints. Mexico is a country of traditions, but it is also a modernizing, politically stable country with a substantial middle class and a good infrastructure. My discovery of Mexico began in the cool highlands of Chiapas. San Cristóbal de las Casas was the logical base to explore the area, beautifully situated in a lush, green valley. I strolled over the cobbled costreets and past countless colorful churches. San Cristóbal was the most touristy location since I left Quito two months ago. Despite the tourists the atmosphere was tranquilo, relaxed. From far and near came residents of the surrounding indigenous villages to the city to make a little profit of the tourist boom. The Indian women and the children tried to sell their fare on the markets and squares. Besides the obvious sombreros there was a wide range of painted wooden tigers, zebras, turtles and penguins. But above all there was a choice of jewelery. Many of these ornaments were made of amber from the nearby mines, but the range of bright shiny plastic bling was perhaps even greater. San Cristóbal is a paradise for all women who want to shine brighter than the sun. A spectacular attraction in southern Mexico is the Cañón El Sumidero, where a deep gorge cuts the plateau into two pieces. A wide river lies between the rock walls. With a boat I entered the canyon. The cliffs rose to several hundred meters in height above the river. Along the banks lived thousands of black vultures. The prey was made readily available by the crocodiles, which were bellying after their meal at the waterfront. The vultures were allowed to divide the leftovers. The division of the prey was not a democratic process. No discussion came to pass and there were no formal decisions. The vultures did not live on the basis of communist principles either; they did not divide according to fair share. The distribution of the loot took place under the laws of capitalism. The rules were equal for everyone: everything was allowed. That creates clarity in the micro society of the the vultures. An empathic, generous inclination meant hunger. Features like brutality and stinginess were obviously considerably more handy. It was common practice to deliver mean and malicious pranks. The result of all this should be food for thought. Despite abundant food not all the vultures were able to eat enough. Those who did get enough, could not enjoy the food too in the rush and stress of the hassle. Not only the hungry, but also the gluttons had a disgruntled look. From this little allegorical drama we might conclude that capitalism is not good for your karma. Hunger, physical pain, jealousy, greed, envy, fear and mistrust, the life of the vulture knew many costs and few benefits. I descended from the highlands of Chiapas down to the Isthmus, where Mexico is at its most narrow. The cool temperatures of the highlands were gone. During the day it was forty degrees and at night it was thirty degrees. The sweat gushed twenty-four hours a day from my pores. There was no wind and the stagnant air was stifling. I wanted to head back to the highlands at the first opportunity. This was offered after two hundred kilometers. From Tehuantepec a small road was leading to Oaxaca in the highlands. I had plenty of mountains to cross to get there. Over two hundred and fifty kilometers of sweltering ridges separated me from the traditional Indian city. Because there would be very few water and food available, I had to go with extensive stocks for at least two days. The trajectory was tough. The ridges were high enough for a few hours of climbing but too low to experience any cooling on top. The more because a climb would be followed with a descent. I went through a fascinating landscape. Thousands of slim cacti rose meters high into the sky and complete hills were populated with these cacti. Cities were lacking in this part of Mexico. There were only a few settlements. There were regular stalls however, where I could buy water or food. Especially for the replenishment of water resources these stalls were vital. On a day, I lost many liters of sweat and the moisture deficits had to be replenished in time. The mountainous route had its fair share of highs and lows, but ended uphill on the plateau. Here were substantial villages again. Over the flat terrain I bridged the remaining kilometers to Oaxaca. Oaxaca is a beautiful colonial city and is also the center for Mexican traditional Indian clothing and jewelry. And it is the city of the moles. Simply stated, the mole is the Mexican version of curry. So there are 'green', 'yellow', 'Red' and 'colored' moles. Internationally, the best known is the guacamole, but in Mexico itself the Mole Poblano was the most popular, a spicy, black sauce with chocolate and spices. Not only in Oaxaca but in every region of Mexico there was a wide range of great food available. Mexican cuisine is one of the top cuisines of the world. The food is based on the tortillas: pancakes of flour or corn, which you can cut, fold, roll up, dab in a soup or in a sauce, fill up with meat, fish, cheese, beans or vegetables. Depending on what you do with it, tortillas are also known as tacos, burritos, enchiladas, chilaquiles, quesadillas or enfrijoladas. I cycled across new highlands to Puebla, the conservative heart of Mexico with the largest cathedral in the country. The visit of Pope John Paul II in the eighties was still regarded as legendary. Successor Benedict XVI had recently summoned not to use contraceptives, but to follow the path of contemplation instead. A very dangerous statement for a country like Mexico, where the fast-growing population caused a complete disruption of the traditional countryside in the eighties. Dozens of millions of people were driven to the slums of the big cities back then. A single trip to abject poverty. The Mexicans loved their pope, but fortunately they sticked to their own plan. Everywhere you could buy contraceptives and the Mexicans were actively exercising birth control. From Puebla a beautiful dirt road climbed up to the pass between the two major Mexican volcanoes. The Iztaccihuatl is a dormant volcano. The Popocatépetl in contrast was extremely active. The volcano turned out to be active right at the moment when I was cycling to the immense cone of the volcano. Heavy ashfall withdrew the Popo from sight. Only a few kilometers from the crater the contours of the volcano were visible. Only now I could see how the smoke rose kilometers high into the atmosphere. The volcano was rumbling from inside. At times a deep, earthy grunt escaped from the crater, as if a Death Metal singer was practicing the growl vocals. I had not seen a living soul for hours. Could it be that the road was supposed to be released from traffic? Was it safe? Through the ghostly, gray, volcanic ash-laden sky I cycled further. The ash particles were razor sharp. It felt like small razor blades in my eyes. After the long climb I reached the Paso de Cortés, just above the tree line. The landscape was gray with thick layers of ash. The Spanish conquistador Hernßn Cortés arrived here in 1519 and looked out over the plains of Mexico City, at the time the location of the capital of the mighty Aztecs. Aztec leader Montezuma thought that Hernßn Cortés was the mythical god Quetzalcoatl. As a result of this misunderstanding the Spaniards could walk into the town without a struggle. They made use of the opportunity to capture the Aztec Leader. The resulting war was won by the Spaniards. The Aztecs were defeated and the Vice Kingdom of New Spain was a fact. Golden Days in the Silver Cities After a short break with Margarita in Mexico City and Yucatßn I could focus again on why I was on the continent in the first place. Cycling. I was able to find a way out of Mexico City relatively easy. The metropolis is the second largest city in the world according to statistics - only Tokyo would have more inhabitants. Mexico City felt not as big as some other major world cities, though. It was a surprisingly livable city with cozy neighborhoods and interesting museums. On a regular basis, creative events were being organized, including a free concert by Paul McCartney at the Zócalo, the main town square. Another initiative took place on Mother's Day. A large square was completely covered with vases with flowers. All the men were allowed to ick up these vases for their loved ones. The traffic was well-organized in Mexico City. The subway was cheap and efficient. The road pattern was laid out smartly. On the main arteries were only a few places where you could switch to the side roads. To actually turn to the left or right, you had to be on such a side road. This system made sure that there was hardly any congestion and within two hours I was able to cycle from the very center to outside of the city. Central Mexico is the region of the Silver Cities. At the time of the Spanish domination silver mines were a huge source of income for the Spanish motherland. The first Silver City on my route was Querétaro. In 1810 secret discussions took place, where Josefa Ortiz, the wife of the Mayor of Querétaro, played an important role. Place of the act was the residence of the man of Josefa Ortiz, mayor Miguel Domínguez. New Spain was a class society where the Spaniards had the highest order. The Criollos, the Spaniards that were born in the Americas, were the second-class citizens. The Mestizos, Indians and African slaves were the third-, fourth- and fifth order citizens of New Spain. Inspired by the emerging European ideals of freedom and equality, Josefa Ortiz, Miguel Hidalgo and others were planning to overthrow the colonial regime. It would not come to that. The group was betrayed and Mayor Miguel Domínguez was given the task to detect the conspirators. To his great surprise the trail led to his own wife. Miguel Domínguez saw himself forced to capture his own wife. Miguel Hidalgo and the other conspirators fled in a rush. Miguel Hidalgo had no choice but to battle openly for freedom. A year after the failed conspiracy his men won the battle of Mexico City. The success was short-lived though. In a subsequent battle two months later, he was imprisoned and executed.It would ultimately take until 1821 that Mexico, after a mad tombola of intrigues and entanglements, conquered its independence. Via San Miguel de Allende I cycled to Guanajuato, a beautiful city in a narrow valley. Brightly colored houses were stuck against the steep slope. The art was omnipresent: in churches, in homes and on the streets. More bohemian a city cannot be. Everyone was an artist. The town lived and roared in a festival without beginning and without end. An artistic party where a discussion would not be about FC Barcelona and Real Madrid, but about Dostoevsky and Tolstoy. Mexico has a poor safety record as a result of the drug wars between different gangs. In the easy chair in front of the television it seems as if the whole world is in fire. The Latin American countries usually only reach the newspapers when it comes to drugs, political instability or slums. Travelling on the bike I saw a different reality. The people seemed friendly and amicable. Most Mexicans live in cities and have a more modern attitude to life than residents of most other regions of Latin America. Beside, Mexicans are family people. Mexico is not a stressed, individualistic performance society. The key word is tranquilo, which in these parts has an almost spiritual connotation. Security was not an issue in Mexico and that held actually true for almost all of Latin America. As a bicycle traveler I was vulnerable to robbery or theft, but after twenty thousand kilometers of cycling in largely poor areas, I had not experienced any incidents, except for one robbery. And even under these dangerous circumstances, there were people who helped me out. Most Latinos and Latinas were jovial, friendly people who tried to make the best of their lives. I had an impressive list of amigos on Facebook by now, which were actively following my Camino and privided the photos of meaningful or less meaningful comments. People who have made a long bicycle trip in Latin America or elsewhere on our planet, will agree that we live in a friendly world. After the Mexican independence in 1821, not much changed in Mexico. A series of unstable governments did not deliver significant improvements. At the end of the nineteenth century, General Porfirio Díaz was the strong man of the country. Under his government Mexico made great economic steps forward, but only the elite benefited. After being almost continually in power for a period of thirty years, he decided to launch elections in 1910. It would be one of the world's largest election gains ever. There were only a few hundred alternative votes counted. Only Saddam Hussein would achieve a numerically more convincing election victory a hundred years later. Everyone in Mexico understood that something had gone wrong with the count. Opponent Francisco Madero fled headlong and sought contact with the rebel leaders Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata. Both freedom fighters had a growing army fighting for fair land distribution, Pancho Villa in the northern desert provinces and Emiliano Zapata in the southern regions. In 1910 the joint forces got Porfirio Díaz on his knees in the Battle of Ciudad Juarez. The Mexican revolution was a fact and Francisco Madero was democratically elected president in 1911. During his brief presidency Madero had to keep unstable Mexico together. He held a middle course between the Zapatistas and the right forces. Eventually the Democrat would be betrayed and killed by General Victoriano Huerta. Just three years after the Mexican revolution the country was saddled with a new dictator. Pancho Villa was fighting many years against the new dictator with varying success to be killed in an assault in 1923. Even more than Pancho Villa, Emiliano Zapata, would be the great hero of Mexico. With his impressive mustache and equally impressive sombrero, he is the archetypal hero of tortilla westerns such as Viva Zapata, starring Marlon Brando. Land of all my Dreams To the northwest, the landscape gradually became drier and more wide-spaced. The nearly two hundred kilometers from San Luis Potosí to Zacatecas was a straight line through the desert. I cycled through a panoramic landscape with lonely ridges and cacti of all shapes and sizes. Loneliness prevailed sovereign in the empty landscape. The wind had free rein and in the afternoon there were whirlwinds on the plateau. It was important to avoid the dust devils. The whirlwinds could not only bewilder my hair seriously, they could also throw a Lonely Cyclist from his bike easily. Once I was too late to avoid a whirlwind. I could stop only just in time and steady myself. One or two seconds I was in the spin. I was completely sandblasted. Or rather, gravelblasted. Gravel, shrub branches and broken glass were part of the whirlwind and were launched like projectiles into my skin. The traveling life on the bike still suited me well. Every minute I experienced as a journey of discovery. Which view would await behind the next corner? Who would I meet in the next inn? What would be beyond the horizon? I had headed the majority of my days on the highway of life, on the main route that most of us follow. I found satisfaction in work, but what had I learned of the world and of myself? Swallowed up in the everyday life I missed the attention to see the beauty of the world, to really experience the miracle of life. I had to abandon the highway of life to feel the meaning of my existence. The paradox was that the rambling life on the road gave direction to my life. Cycling in a strange world I had to do it myself. Alone. On my own. Nobody to help me, I could blame no one but myself. Thoughts drifted past like the clouds, in ever new shapes, sometimes quietly rippling, sometimes as in a storm, to eventually dissolve in the infinite space that is around. Alone with my thoughts I was constantly confronted with my own imperfection. It proved an excellent way to be in peace with the imperfection of the world. It was a miracle: when I was on the bike, life seemed to be nicer, fuller. I was slow enough to be able to sense the world deep enough to smell her, feel and taste her. To experience. Freed from the closed environments of automobiles and office buildings I felt part of a much larger world around me. And that world proved infinitely interesting. I traveled through ever-changing landscapes, passed numerous villages and towns. I met people from all walks of life, people that I would otherwise never learn to know. People with very different lifestyles or way of lives. All people had their own story, their own experiences and all those people were trying to do something special with their lives. There turned that there was so much beauty to be found on the world, even in places where I was not expecting it. Paradise exists and it has been there all the time. In the long, lonely stretches of the Mexican plateau, I was always well accompanied by music in my head. I usually had little to say about the fruits in the musical fruit basket. It was like a jukebox where you do not have to throw in coins, but I had no choice in the record which was playing either. One day a famous Dutch singer was playing in repeat mode: "Mexico ........" "Mexi ... hiiiiii" Then about an octave higher: "Mexi ... hiiiiii" Now very, very high and uncontrolled false: "Hiiiiiiiii ... hii ... iiiiiiiii" Coyotes and iguanas had severe hearing damage and throughout the landscape new whirlwinds were being created. Nevertheless, the singer hit a full octave higher: "Hiiiiiiiii ... hii ... iiiiiiiii" And then, triumphantly, accompanied by a hundred mustachioed Mexicans with sombreros and rattling guitars: "MEXI ... hiiiiiiiii ... COOOOOOO, O land of my dreaeaea ... heaeaeams, with guitar music you brought the romance for him and meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee ........ " The Mexican desert was not only the country of mediocre Dutch singers, it was also the site of shamans and diableros - wizards. Plants like peyote and devils weed have strong hallucinogenic properties and can launch the spirit and the soul in another state and perception and even in another physical reality. In the book 'The Lessons of Don Juan' the American Carlos Castañeda revealed this world of shamanic Mexico. However, even without using the hallucinogenic plants it was easily conceivable that a crow on the cactus was not just a crow, but that the crow also could be a diablero who had assumed the form of a crow. Whether the iguana that was slipping between the stones was not an iguana but a wandering soul. Once you get in that way of thinking, nothing is what it seems and everything is floating, like the surrounding landscape is floating in the heat and is deprived of its perspective. Life is thriving under simplicity and I decided to take things so as they come. And so from now on a stone was a stone, a cactus a cactus and a crow a crow. Nothing more and nothing less. Yet not everything was normal though. I was plagued by a series of mysterious punctures. Each time the culprit turned out to be a minuscule piece of iron wire. On the descent along the spectacular cliffs of the Espinazo del Diablo - the Backbone of the Devil - it was a grand party of punctures again. After another series of punctures the tire was damaged so much that a tear in the tire itself appeared to be the cause of new flats. It was time for a tire change and I exchanged it for a spare tire. Without further problems I went down to Mazatlán along the Pacific Ocean. From Mazatlán I traveled by ferry to Baja California, the peninsula that like a worm-like appendage hangs to the northwestern tip of Mexico. Baja California is not just a peninsula; it is a particularly long peninsula. From La Paz in the south to Tijuana in the north lie 1,500 straight kilometers of asphalt in the desert. Burning Sand It was summer. That was surely not the best time of the year to traverse Baja California by bike. A long ridge separates the western half from the peninsula's eastern. The west has got a significant cooling effect of the Pacific Ocean. Here, the temperature was no higher than thirty to thirty-five degrees Celsius. A good cycling temperarure. After two hundred kilometers of cycling I crossed the ridge crossed to the eastern side. And that was a whole different affair. It was fifty degrees in the shade and the asphalt had become syrupy. The swampy tarmac sucked into the tires and promptly I had a leak. In the full sun I had to change my inner tube. This was burning hot from the friction heat. When inspecting the tube I found out that the patch from one of the old punctures had released. That was strange. It had never happened to me before, that the patch came loose. Quickly I changed the tire for a spare one. It was important not to remain more time than necessary in this scorching heat. After two kilometers descent I had a leak once again. I had no spare tires at my disposal anymore and I had to repair one of the punctures. Once again there was no protection against the sun. I had not seen any trees at all in the last hundred kilometers and so there was not any shadow either. The sun was directly overhead and there was no wind. The rubber of the tire was extremely hot, so I could not touch the tire longer than a fraction of a second. With a lot of diffuculty I was able to remove the tire from the wheel. I saw that once again a patch of an old flat tire had been released. In good spirits, I went to work; in the last few weeks I was unfortunately to be able to gain a lot of experience in the noble art of fixing flat tires. I confirmed the glue, waited patiently and put the patch on. However, the glue remained fluid and the patch came loose. I tried it again. And again. With more and longer breaks between the confirmation of the adhesive and the affixing of the patch. I tried a third patch and a fourth. And a fifth and a sixth. But it did not work out. Was there a diablero at work? I was really nervousby now. Another time I tried. And again the patch came loose. I observed that the problem was much bigger. At various places old patches had released. Slowly, too slowly, it dawned on me that it might be so hot that the glue 'melted'. The old glue performed well in the extreme heat, but all patches with the new adhesive in Nicaragua did not function in the extreme circumstances. Now I had a real problem. I was thirty kilometers away from my destination, I had seven liters of water that was almost at boiling point, and I had two tires with dozens of leaks. The two tubes of glue from Nicaragua that I had at my disposal, would not bring the solution. After sunset, I would probably have a chance to fix the tires, but I could not wait so long. Presumably I would not survive the remaining five hours until sunset with my limited water supply. I had water for at most two to three hours. It was not an option to walk with the bicycle to bridge the remaining thirty kilometers. That would take too much time. It dawned on me that I found myself in an acute emergency. There was nothing else to do than to hitchhike the last thirty kilometers. After half an hour a car stopped and I was able to load my bike in the trunk. I was lucky that we were heading to the most touristic town in 1,500 kilometers. In the town of Loreto was a bike shop. He had glue and he had inner tubes for me as well, but unfortunately he did not have a 28" casing. Therefore I had to cycle to Ensenada and Tijuana. A new uninhabited range of one hundred forty kilometers of scorching desert separated me from Mulegé. A superb track that partially followed the jagged coastline and partially the ridges and valleys filled with towering cacti. After a long climb in the mountains followed by a descent on scorching hot asphalt I promptly rode a new leak. This time no patch could have been released. I was riding on one of the fresh tires. It appeared that there was a mysterious piece of wire in the tire again, which caused the leak in the tube. I removed the new iron splinter and exchanged the inner tube. Without further problems I reached the haven of Mulegé, beautifully situated in a green sea of palm trees and surrounded by bare mountain ridges. Only the old mission church rose like a kasbah above the sea of palm trees. On the way from Mulegé to Santa Rosalía I had despite the extreme heat of fifty degrees in the shade for the first day in a long time no punctures. Slowly my confidence in the tire started to increase again. I was also content with the fact that the glue of the bike shop from Loreto appeared to work fine. The next day I left early from Santa Rosalía and hit the road to San Ignacio. After a long climb I reached a broad valley dotted with cacti and against the backdrop of majestic volcanoes. After crossing a ridge a long trail led through a kilometers wide plain. At the end of the plain lay a new ridge. After a short climb I went down to the oasis of San Ignacio. I found myself on the cooler, western side of the mountains. Thus I had completed the hottest part of the route through Baja California. The last three days I had drunk 25 liters of water on a daily basis to compensate for the loss of moisture. To celebrate that I had survived the sweltering route, I treated myself with fish tacos and coke. After that it was bedtime. Just before sleeping I checked routinely whether my tires were still full. I thought that I was going crazy. The rear tire was not completely full. There must be a leak. Instead of sleeping, I had to first fix the tire. That was no problem. However, the cause of the flat tire was more problematic. The tire was damaged. It had a small tear in the form of a half moon. Exactly the same shape as the damage in the tube where the leak was. The conclusion must be that the damaged tire was the cause of the leak in the inner tube. So I needed a new tire, but I had my last spare tire already in use. What now? For a permanent solution I needed a new tire. That meant that I had to go back 650 kilometers to La Paz, at the tip of the peninsula, with the chance that they would not have a suitable tire for me. Or that I had to cycle 750 kilometers to Ensenada or 850 kilometers to Tijuana. I thought whether it was a good idea to cycle at least seven hundred and fifty kilometers through the desert with the damaged tire. It was clear to me that it was totally irresponsible to continue. With the bus I traveled to Tijuana, on the border with the United States. And so I suddenly stood on the edge of the Latin American world. In the city that had grown in forty years from a tiny settlement to a city of two million inhabitants. In the city with the mostly crossed border in the world. The city where thousands of Americans from San Diego or Los Angeles per day come to visit to gamble, drink or for paid sex. The main street, the Revolución or the Revo, and its side streets were a neon feast of tequila bars, nightclubs, brothels and hotels with hourly rate. Before most of the amusements and souvenir shops a large man was stationed with a promotional task: "Hey come inside, cheap souvenirs." "I do not need any souvenirs Bye..." "Looking is free." "But I do not want. See you..." "It's free man, won't you Goddamn come take a look or do I have to ask again?!?" "But I do not need anything. I told you so, didn't I?" "I kindly ask again: do you GoddamndamnDAMNit take a look at my store??!?" "You can ask me a thousand times if I come in, but I'm going to do have fun. And that's what I recommend to you too: To do something fun with your life." "Oh, bugger off, man." Just half a kilometer from the Revo was the border area where it was really spooky. At night there were drug smugglers and traffickers active, the locals warned me. Altogether Tijuana was not a pretty, spiritual destiny. That was confirmed in an Internet cafe. A few bandits came fighting and rolling in and were fighting between the PCs in the internet cafe. The idealist in me usually wants to jump in between the parties to mediate. This tendency was completely subdued in my mind at this very moment though, between these life and death fighting men. I timidly crept away behind my screen, hoping that they would not see me. 'No, I'm not here for the moment,' was the message. Besides the grim side of Tijuana there was fortunately also the pleasant laidback atmosphere that is so characteristic of Mexico. And the border town knew excellent restaurants serving fine Mexican, American or Italian dishes. From the center of Tijuana, I cycled no more than a kilometer to the US border. I maneuvered my bike between the long line of cars and goy myself in the equally impressive line of pedestrians. America was the promised land. The same was true for myself. After having spent more than a year in Latin America it was good to dive into a new world again. I had never been in the United States. My image of the country was determined entirely by what I had heard or seen or read in the media. I was wondering how my experience would be and how the Americans experienced their own country. When I met the Polish-American Dorota in Mexico, she gave me a little foretaste. About her new country, she said: "America will not seduce you with its cities and its villages. Neither will she persuade you with her culture. America will inspire you with its landscapes." Map of Mexico