Mexico III: Puerto
Vallarta to Tuito
11/09/06 – 11/12/06
The road
leaving Puerto Vallarta seems straight up.
Our plan is to follow this road (MEX 200) down the Pacific Coast for a
week or so. This will give us a taste
of this part of Mexico before heading inland towards Oaxaca. We really could spend a whole year just
biking around Mexico! The coastline
here is one of the most rugged sections in all of Mexico. A great place for beginners with no biking
muscles. Since we left town so late we
only have a few hours of sunlight before el sol drops into the sea. The busses are terrifying as they pass
because they don’t move out of our way.
We find ourselves stopping every 50 yards or so to drink water and
rest. By sunset we’d only passed
through one rancho, Boca (and hadn’t yet learned the trick of approaching
them). Finally, our bodies refusing to
move any more, we found ourselves in front of a long dirt driveway down and the
continuing paved road up. I asked
Christina: “should we just go up to the top of the next hill? Maybe they’ll be somewhere to camp?” One look at her face and we decided to
investigate the driveway. Good thing
too as we would later find out. That
next hill had no top – at least not one for a day longer.
The sign at
the top of the dirt driveway said something about a camp. Maybe it meant camping? I waited at the top with our bikes as
Christina made her way down the dark road.
That’s the price of her knowing Spanish – she gets sent on these
missions. My one moment of company during
those long 20 minutes was the sudden shout of “Hola Amigo”. As I turned to see the pickup whizzing by I
saw our friendly nighttime desk guy from La Mission. Christina finally returned up the steep path and told me that
there was a really old woman, and a really, really, really old man down
there. They first thought Christina
wanted to buy some of their land and got a little worried. But it was finally made clear we wanted to
camp and they said okay. We brought the
bikes down the dirt road, crossed a creek (gotta love those waterproof
panniers!), and came upon the home of the Ancients. The old man was asleep already, but the woman showed us where we
could put our bikes and tent. We sat
with her for a while and talked. She
showed us her jug of water for drinking and a stone sink for bathing.
As soon as
she retired for the night, it was like the breaking of a spell. Bugs came out of every corner of the porch
we had been sitting on. All different
kinds of bugs. All different
sizes. There was a war going on between
the ants and a struggling colony of wasps.
Every minute of so a sluggish wasp would fall to the ground (the ones
that didn’t fall on our hair or legs) and the ants would surround it, subdue it,
and eat it. The ants also had thin highways
up the walls to where they would surround sections of wasp hive and invade
it. The mosquitoes and crickets spent
time investigating us as well. All this
was non existent when the old woman was around. And now, by our flashlight, the places was swarming. We skipped dinner, skipped bathing, and went
to put up the tent. The problem here
was we had never used this tent before.
Ah yes, the wise say practice setting up your tent before you actually
need it! And do it before dusk. Ah we’re not in the camp with the wise as
you’re getting to know. Finally,
sweaty, frustrated with poles and fabric, and freaking from bugs, we figured it
out and got into the tent. After our
heartbeats slowed, and the sound of the nearby river soothed us, we finally
fell into some sort of semblance of sleep.
Just before dawn the sky turned black and it looked like rain. I jumped up and tried to figure out the rain
tarp. Yup, should have practiced that
one too. It didn’t end up raining.
The next
morning all signs of bug warfare were erased.
The old man was up early and out raking the yard. We offered to help but the old woman said
that there was nothing really to do around the place. The old man just raked to keep from sitting and brooding and
smoking all day – basically just to stay sane.
The old woman brought us cookies and hot chocolate. Your bikes need rest she told us. The river (Rio Baco) was right below where
we camped. We bathed in it and washed
our clothes. The grounds of their place
were beautiful in the morning. Hibiscus
hanging everywhere. Some odd yellow
fruit. A thousand shades of green. The old woman was surprised we were leaving
right away and invited us to stay for a long time if we wished. But we were on a mission to get over the
mountain. We took some photos, thanks
them, and pushed our bikes back up to the main road. We never learned their names.
I don’t think they had them. How
dull is a name when you’ve lived forever.
Mex 200
from Boca just climbs up and up and up and up, following the river. We made very slow time all day climbing the
mountain. We stopped at a beautiful
roadside waterfall to filter more drinking water. Are we insane we kept asking ourselves – why would we choose this
route to start!? But the views and
scenery were gorgeous. Thousands of
flowers, wildlife of all kinds, the beautiful Rio Boca. At around 3pm, we found what must have been
a mirage. Atop this mad mountain was
beautiful building surrounded by all kinds of plants and flowers. A sign read: “Puerto Vallarta Botanical
Gardens” and also “restaurant and bar”.
Although the place looked and sounded pricy, its physical beauty and our
physical conditions led us in a trance down the dirt path to what looked like
paradise.
After
splitting a cheeseburger (we had to) and some nachos, and paying way to much
for the very good food, we went to find the bathrooms. Even the bathrooms were remarkably
nice. Just outside of them a tall gringo
with a wide farm hat and muted southern accent asked if we were the bicycle people. Well indeed we were. We asked him how far it was to the next
town, or the next place to camp. He
looked at us, looked up at the sky, and then down at his watch. “You can camp here” he told us and spread
his arms. “Anywhere here.” So we met Robert, or Bob, the owner of the
Botanical Gardens. He showed us where
we could put the tent by the bathrooms, warned us of the perils of the biting
bugs that had already pockmarked Christina’s legs, and told us we HAD to swim
in the river. Can’t refuse that. The river (still the Rio Boca), was wondrous
here, pooling between large boulders.
Cold, but not too cold. Perfect.
After
swimming we came up and Bob invited us to sit down with his sister (Susan) and
mother (Betty) while they ate dinner.
They shared their food and beer with us. Homegrown greens. Pork
and rice. Pizza with homemade
pesto! We traded stories. They were from Georgia originally. Had been here for a few years turning a cow
pasture into this incredible place.
They had two parrots, one magical dog named Estrella (star), and another
little lap dog whose name I forgot.
When they first moved there they had two canaries (brought from the
US). One night two Boa Constrictors
found their way up to the 3rd floor where the cages were and ate
them. The family found the snakes there
in the morning, inside the cages because they were too fat post meal to get
out! Halfway through the meal Betty,
sipping vodka like the grand matriarch, discovered she’d been using Athlete’s
Foot spray instead of bug repellent all week.
“Oh you’ll write about that for sure now.” Yes, Betty, how can we not!
Sometime
during the meandering conversation it came up that I had wanted to cut my hair
before we left and hadn’t. And so far
on the trip I had meant to but couldn’t find the right time or place. Well Betty wasn’t going to let this piece of
drama escape. Just before we turned in
for the night she appeared with a pair of scissors. “You said you wanted to cut that braid off, right?” There was no denying it, no matter how
scared I was. Ready or not, we all know
when our time comes. And my time was a
vodka filled transplanted southern madre with a gleam in her eye. So we sat right in their kitchen and
Christina felt the braid for the last time.
We both almost cried. After all
this time it was like a part of my being.
But the heat, the bugs in it, the trying to deal with it with no soap or
hot water. It was just the way, it had
to go. Well I can’t talk about it
anymore because it’s making me sad, but there are pictures to document. And yeah, it feels damn good now to have it
gone.
The next
morning we were given coffee and the bad news.
“It’s a long way uphill from here to Tuito, the next town. Maybe even 15k uphill.” But what else was
there to do. We said goodbye to
everyone including Estrella who had slept next to our tent all night. She was looking a little sad because Bob had
just scolded her for hiding his shoes again.
Apparently every night she buried his shoes somewhere in the Agave
fields and every morning he would have to go looking and dig them up. We
thanked the family at the Botanical Gardens for everything and set off. Here’s their website: http://www.vallartabotanicalgardensac.org/
It was all
uphill. And brutal. But actually not as bad as the climb the day
before from Boca to the Gardens. At
some point we leave the jungle behind and Pine trees appear on the side of the
road. The views are spectacular. The trucks and busses, though less now, are
still terrifying. No shoulder.
We make it
to El Tuito by 2pm. The old section of
town is off Mex 200 a bit down a bumpy cobblestone road. It’s an old dusty, over 600 year old
town. People are warm but not overly
friendly to us. It has an odd charm
despite its blandness. Kinda town that
if we stuck around in we’d probably grow to love. We sit in the Plaza for a while and rest and drink water. Then eat Caldo de Pollo at a small
restaurant. Not so great. Maybe the first food we’ve had that’s not
been amazing (minus the Mayan Resort).
We decide to ask the Police who are lounging about the square in their
black uniforms where we can camp. We
had heard from some of the workers at the Botanical Gardens that we could camp
in the plaza itself. The man who must
have been the Chief spoke to Christina.
Then said something like: “That sounds okay to me, yes?” to a man in
plainclothes. Ah the Mayor. The Mayor didn’t like the idea. Nope, no gringos in camping in the
centro. He would have the police take
us to a good place. So we followed on
our bikes two young men in their white pickup truck (unmarked by any
officialdom, just like their black uniforms).
They led us back to Mex 200 and behind a gas station to an abandoned basketball
court. Here we could put our tent. The heat was so intense coming off that
cracked concrete that we just stood and stared. We pretended to play a little basketball with no ball. They laughed at us and drove off. So there we were. We set up our chairs (cool device that turns our sleeping pads
into chairs!), ate some dinner, and watched the sunset over our court. It rained that night for the first
time. Large black thunder clouds over
the mountains.
The next
morning it took us a long time to break camp – an ongoing problem we’re
having. Cook, clean, repack everything,
all in slow motion is seems. By the
time we get on our bikes it’s 10am or later sometimes. We eat some amazing tacos in the old section
of Tuito. The woman made the tortillas
right in front of us on an old hand press.
Christina
left one of her daughters a Historical Romance paperback in English. We decided to take a detour off Rt.
200. There was a dirt road that led due
West of Tuito over some mountains and to the coast. The word from people was that the whole coastal area West of
Tuito would soon be developed. Soon be
the next Pt. Vallarta. We thought it
was time to test out our Schwalbe bombproof tires on the dirt roads and see
some coastal ranchos off the “gringo trail”.
What a sidetracking this would turn out to be. Full of impossible roads, mucho cerveza, beauty, heartbreak, and
conning coke fiends. In fact it turned
out just like one of the Mexican folk songs we were beginning to love.