Day 4: Tampico to Catemaco, Mexico

Overlooking a small town nortwest of Catamaco

We awaken to a light rain spattering the windows. The sun is rising to the east, casting everything in a pale pink glow. I crawl out of the bed and put up the tarp with the aluminum supports I have fashioned that stick into the back of the rack. A brief breakfast and a little repacking and we're off.

We make our way south through Tampico on 180. We run into a problem, however, when 180 leads into a residential area and peters out into nothing. It begins to rain harder now. We crawl through the tight streets, bouncing over topes and searching for signs which might point us in the right direction. We find ourselves relying heavily on the dashboard-mounted compass. Finally we come to a toll booth and get on a fairly nice two-lane highway heading south. It's short-lived, unfortunately, and we soon come to an intersection. At the roadside, a dozen Mexican men stand at a bus stop in the light rain. I remember seeing a sign indicating that the road to Tuxpan was to the left, so we turn. But this heads us northeast according to our compass, while the road we were just on heads straight south, the way we want to go. I change my mind and turn around. We stop again at the intersection and consult our maps. Unfortunately, non have a blow-up of the Tampico area.

At the recommendation of the waving, gesturing men at the bus stop, we turn back to the left again. We cross a bridge, upon which a young boy is patching a pothole with sand. Immediately afterwards, the road takes a sharp left turn, now heading straight north. We come to another toll booth.

I'm not about to pay a toll to get on a road heading north, so we turn back. Past the intersection in the direction from which we've come, I try to find that sign that suggested we take the original left. It's nowhere to be found. We turn around, heading south again. At the intersection, the crowd of Mexican men is again quite emphatic that we turn left. How the heck would they know where we're going?

I do as they suggest, but later stop to ask the young Mexican boy working on the bridge. "A Tuxpan?" (To Tuxpan?) He replies: "A Tuxpan, a Poza Rica, a Catamaco..." then starts asking me something I don't understand. "Gracias" I reply, and begin rolling away. He yells after me, imitating my poor Spanish.

"'Graahhciiaahhs.'"

The roads are alternately excellent and terrible. A half-hour out of Tampico, the rain has stopped as we enter the village of Cuatemoc. This is the first town we enter that looks truly poor to me. Row after row of palm branch and plywood shacks in the hills above a dirty stone street. We stop in the town square (photo left), which is clean and meticulously landscaped- very out of place.

Oitside of Cuatemoc we are stopped for a drug inspection. It's just a guy standing by the roadside in a Federales T-shirt waving at select people to pull over. In front of us, he's stopped a big RV from the States. He comes to Sean's window and starts half-heartedly poking around in the glove box and in the pile of cameras on the floor.
"Drogas?" (Drugs?)
"No!" we assure him, amused at his candor. He demands US$50.
"Para Que?" (for what?) I ask repeatedly. Finally he relents.
"Diez." We dig up US$9 between us and he waves us on.

Into the mountains again, navigating the narrow, twisting roads, we come upon the small town of Temapache as we crest a hill. On a point of land overlooking a fertile valley to our left is a quaint old stone church. We are trying to figure out how to get out to it when a Mexican man leaning against the wall of a shop waves us towards a narrow road leading between two low buildings. I keep rolling past him, then think back to the men at the bus stop this morning who pointed us in the right direction when we were leaving Tampico. I turn back and go where he says.

The little alley opens into a grassy field between a schoolyard and the huge church. We take pictures of the church and of the schoolchildren dancing nearby. We cause quite a stir, making it very difficult for the teacher to keep the kids focused on the dance they're learning. Sean explains to me that the church windows are of different sizes and shapes to confuse the evil spirits. Interesting.

We come down out of the mountains and enter the town of Poza Rica. Poza Rica means 'rich hole', and is Mexico's largest oil town. It begins to rain again as we enter the dirty little city. I use most of the windshield washer fluid in the tank just trying to stay on the road. Before long the rain stops and we enter the downtown area. By the time we stop at Pizza Hut for lunch, the truck is covered in road grime. As we eat, a Hispanic gentlemen from Kansas, a meat packing inspector, introduces himself and we talk for a while about traveling through Mexico. He says he grew up in the States speaking Spanish, but can't get by very well here. "They're always stickin' X's and Z's and shit in everywhere."

Outside, children swarm the truck as we leave. I refuse to pay them when they wash the already clean windshield, instead handing them a box of Cheez-its. They start munching hungrily as we pull away. I watch as one child's face slowly twists into a look of utter repulsion. He marches over and dramatically hands me the box through the open window. I guess they don't like Cheez-its in Poza Rica. The children chase us out of the parking lot laughing and yelling.

We continue on. There is a breathtaking view of a small shrimping village on the Gulf coast as we climb over a tall bridge. I'm driving, and consider stopping traffic to snap a picture. Later, we stop near the top of a hill overlooking a very small town Northwest of Catamaco (photo top of page). Sean gets a great picture of an old woman with her child (photo left).

Catamaco is a beautiful little town from the moment we enter. It sits on a hillside on Lago Catamaco, a huge blue water lagoon in a wildlife preserve area. As we enter town, I see a bicyclist peddling like mad to pass me on the left. I slow and drift to the right as he pulls up to my window.
"You speak English?" he asks between breaths.
"Yes."
"Are you camping?"
"Yes." How do they know where we're going?
"Follow me!"

At this point, we know that it's just best to trust the Mexicans. We follow him through the twisty streets and alleys of Catamaco to a restaurant/bar called La Ceiba. Painted on the side in black letters are the words "Trailer Park." There's a grass yard next to it and he tells us to park there. He shows us where the bathroom and restaurant are. It costs us N$25. I run around taking pictures as the sun sets while Sean gets to know Juan Carlos, the cyclist. He is an official tourist guide for Catamaco and wears a name tag to prove it. We later find out that he's married and has a nine month old kid. We buy a round of beer at the La Ceiba restaurant and jam out to some Cake. Life is good in Catamaco. I love these people.

Sean is really enjoying speaking Spanish. He spends a lot of time with Juan Carlos, telling him about us and learning about the town, all in gesture-laden Spanish. Juan Carlos is very proud of his town, and gives us a guided tour of the waterfront area after the sun goes down. "Catamaco es benito, si?" He points out his own home, an open concrete block hut which houses his entire extended family.

The lakeside streets of Catamaco are very quite at 8:30 p.m., but the trees are filled with squawking white birds (photo below), and the ground is alive with five-inch toads hopping happily about.

I sit down at a table in the open-air restaurant to pour over our maps and guide books. I determine that chances aren't great for making it to Belize tomorrow. I figure our best bet is to stay at the world famous Maya Bell trailer park near the ruins of Palenque.

In front of the restaurant, I can see Sean sitting under the street lights at the water's edge writing in his journal. He is forced to move from light to light as they flicker on and off. There are mosquitoes everywhere as I sit here and write. They climb all over me and skitter across my maps, but they don't bite. The restaurant closes and I move to the front seat of the truck.

I write this by the light of a flashlight sitting atop my shoulder. I turn it off when it begins to attract too many bugs.

White birds fill the trees over Catemaco in the late afternoon

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