Map: http://www.maps-of-mexico.com/jalisco-state-mexico/jalisco-state-mexico-map-a3.shtml (Melaque is not on this map…strange, because
it’s a lot bigger than its neighbor San Patricio which is on this map – bottom
right. Campo Acosta and
(the
photos corresponding to this update and others are up on our flickr account now
so you can put images with the stories!
http://www.flickr.com/photos/scrappymoduinne/sets/72157594313508543/ )
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We weren’t exactly sure where Roberto had left us, but it looked like
around 40k to the next semi-large rancho.
But that map has lied before. The
atlas of Mexico that I have (bought at that great map store on North Main in
Providence, yes, next to that other kick-ass shop!) doesn’t show a difference
between the dot that represents a pueblo with hundreds of people and a rancho with
1 broken down abandoned building. This
makes it a little difficult to plan where to stop for the night.
For the first time since we began, the riding was a dream. It was mostly flat, not many cars, and pretty
straight. The hot afternoon sun was brutal,
but our muscles felt good, the bikes felt good, and we
(if we could distract ourselves from Tuita) felt good. By the late afternoon (my favorite time of
day to be on the roads) the sun lit up the roadside marsh grasses like a
neon-green forest. For the first time I
thought to myself: “I could really get into this traveling by bicycle
thang!” We passed through one dirty,
industrial looking town that seemed to made up
entirely of school children. Some
taunted us, some yelled out in damn fine English:
“Hello! How are you? Goodbye!”. By dusk the hills had returned and our
progress considerably slowed. We finally
arrived at a rancho of semi-considerable size.
Campo A
Costa. It was stop here or camp by the side of the
road. I knew from reading other people’s
accounts that most towns would put you up somewhere. So we pulled off the
pavement of Mex 200 and made our way down towards the tall tower of the town
church (usually a good indication of where the centro is).
We hadn’t even gone 50 yards when we were surrounded by children throwing
a dozen questions at us. I looked
towards Christina for help and she translated: “Where are you from? Where are you going? Are your bikes heavy? Why so much cargo? Are you staying here? What are you names?” The leader of the pack, a complete wise-ass
whom I immediately took a disliking to offered to take us to the “President of
the Ranch” – the only one who could give us permission to stay there. He led us instead to the community center (a
large open hall and courtyard with offices on the second floor for a
cooperative bank). There in the hall was
a meeting of all the women of the rancho.
The overflow of women sat in the hallway near the sidewalk. I held Christina’s bike (not an easy
task…these bikes are too heavy to pick up, and have no kickstands – mostly
because I was cheap and refused to spend 50.00 per bike to put heavy duty
double kickstands on them that could withstand the weight. I regret it every day!) and
she went forward to face the row of woman.
Scary indeed.
They told us there were several places to put our casa de companion
(tent) but that we would have to talk to the President. 3 young children led us across the town to
meet the President. The rancho was very
pretty, with a large and bare plaza. The
plaza seemed set up with an arcade and a game tent. We asked the kids what was going on. Apparently, not only was the rancho preparing
for November 20th (Remembrance of the 1910 Revolution), but there
was some sort of holy day being prepared for – perhaps the town’s Saint day, we
never did figure it out.
I waited outside the shady, tree surrounded house of the President as
Christina negotiated our campsite.
Because of the upcoming preparations and events for the festivals we
couldn’t camp on the plaza or the nearby field.
However, we could put our tent in the community center. Thank yous and the kids led us back to the
community center. Thank god we had our
air-mattresses (Thermarest, self inflating, worth every damn penny) because it
seemed like 90% of our campsites were ending up on concrete.
We entered the community space quietly because of the ongoing
meeting. The large courtyard outside the
open hall was empty so we just picked a corner near the street. The meeting was all women except three men
who sat at a table in front. I’d like to
believe the men were being charged with sexism before the group, but it seemed
to me like they were leading the meeting.
Hard to say and Christina couldn’t make out what they were saying. Within moments of entering the courtyard we
were surrounded again by curious children.
They wanted to ask about what we were up to, who we were, how we did
things. The boys were super excited to
help set up our tent and watched with unblinking eyes as we cooked our
dinner. The Strike Anywhere matches
proved to be the biggest hit of the night and I gave out dozens to excited
boys. The girls seemed to be missing. We asked where they were and got vague
answers. At one point some boys brought
over a bike with a flat tire. Before we
left I had printed out a glossary of bike parts in Spanish – this was a great
help as we navigated the language barrier to figure out that it was simply what
it looked like – a flat tire. I got out
the pump (a Road Morph) and patch kit.
Except for the sandpaper part they knew exactly what to do and I just
watched. After that 2 other sets of boys
came by with bicycle issues and we took care of them. Lubed each chain afterwards
too. The boys kept rotating all
evening long. One group would come in,
ask the questions, hang out for a while and then leave. Then another group. At one point when reaching for my pump in the
pannier I discovered, in the dusk, what I thought was a large cricket perched
on my bag. All the boys began yelling
and I instinctually pulled back. It was
a scorpion. And the scary thing was that
all these brave young boys were taking it very seriously. One in the group stepped up and knocked it
off the pannier. Another then picked up
a large rock and dashed the monsters brains in.
They all cheered.
It wasn’t until later that evening that the girls came by. We asked why and were told that many of the
girls were in school in the evening. Two
girls in particular stayed with us for at least 2 hours. They must have been early teenagers. Christina, and me a little, talked with them
about every subject imaginable. They
were extremely bright and curious. We
talked about the differences in our cultures, life in the rancho, our wedding,
their boyfriends (one had a boyfriend of 2 years and her dad still didn’t
know! Try that in
Expecting some god-awful choir music at
We left by midmorning and continued on Mex 200. The hills were getting pretty tough
again. In the afternoon we took a side
detour to find some lunch. It was Punta Perula. Or Punta something nearby. We ended up in what seemed like a ghost
tourist town. Half
built buildings. Half decayed buildings.
Hard looks from hard men. The
hotel in town was 500 pesos a night! Our
lunch was damn pricy as well. But nobody
was there. Like the town had forgot it
wasn’t booming any more and it still kept its prices up – further preventing
anyone from coming. Well we got suckered
in. There was also this strange feeling
about the place, strange as in some odd x-files government project kinda shit
going on. Anyhow we got out of there and
back to 200 quick. That evening we found
ourselves in the pretty rancho of
The gazebo (cement again!) was gorgeous with a view out to the
ocean. We were surrounded by kids again
within minutes. It was just like the
last town – the adults were friendly but pretty much ignored us while the
children flocked around us. They asked
us a million questions about our gear, our plans, our
lives. They stayed with us late into the
night. The plaza itself filled up with
townspeople after dinner. Old men and
woman sat on the edges eating ices.
Teenage boys played a mean game of volleyball for hours. Lovers kissed under trees.
At a certain time in the night, we’re not sure exactly when because we
have no watches, the police chief and his three men come into the square. They walk around a bit and then just take up
positions around it. The volleyball game
comes to a halt. The lovers retire to
alleys. The old men and women amble
away. Even the dogs clear out. Two groups of rebellious teens, one girls, one boys, hover at opposite edges of the plaza. Before they bolt we ask a group of little
boys: “What’s the deal with the police? Why
is everyone leaving the plaza? Is there
a curfew?” We couldn’t get a straight
answer before they ran off. So with
nothing else to do we got into our tent.
It was very strange laying there.
Like we were on center stage. The
groups of teens watching us, pointing at us, making jokes about us. The silent cops (one with shotgun, one with
rifle) stood around the square. The
police in one town (El Tuito) hid us on the outskirts, while the police in this
town placed us directly in the center.
Both seemed very planned and both felt demeaning. We found out in the morning that the police
had asked people to leave the plaza on our account. That felt awful.
The next morning was hot, hot, hot, like every morning. People were saying it was more hot and humid
for this time of year then they could remember.
We left late, late, late, like every morning. We were so tired and fried from traveling on
the dangerous curves and hills of Mex 200.
So fried in fact that Christina offered up a canister of cinnamon flavoring
to see if it smelled good to me. We
continued on through those curves and hills.
We decided to try and make it to the town of
It was a long day and we were beginning to melt down by the time we made
it to the turn off for Tanacatita. It
was another 9k, downhill, to the ocean we were told. And this time, it actually was. But even then our legs would barely move us
any longer. We had gone over 50k that
day, which for us, on those hills, was a damn lot. The beach WAS dreamy - wide and sandy with
large craggy out-croppings out in the ocean.
The town itself wasn’t really a town though, just a strip of beach-side
restaurants (with nobody in them) and a store.
At the end of the strip we found an RV park and camp site. We were too tired to even look for a place to
camp for free. We paid up and
crashed. Minutes after we got there the
owner came out and warned us that the large black clouds on the horizon weren’t
there for the hell of it and it was about to rain like mad. It was spin-off from a Hurricane 400 miles
away he told us. We got the tarp up
seconds before the sky tore open. This
was an incredibly hard task because as soon as the sun had set we were besieged
by hordes upon hordes of mosquitoes. It
was one of the most violent storms I’ve ever been in. Huge thunder and lightening with us huddled
in our tent, praying that the fly would stay on and keep us dry. It did.
Three cheers for Big Agnes tents.
However, from the screaming of the 40 school children from
We swam in the ocean the next morning.
It was warm and clear with nice sized waves. Just before the waves would break, as the sun
illuminated them, we could see fish within them. What a way to start the day! We got a late start on the bikes – almost
And it wasn’t just the mountains that were wearing on us by now, it was
the traffic. I knew people biked this
route. It was a popular ride – from Pt.
Vallarta down the coast. There was even
a Mexican whom I emailed back and forth with who led tours down Mex 200. But Christina was terrified. And even I, with my life threatening rides
with
Almost towards the end of that day’s ride to Melaque, after climbing 6k
straight up, we were on our way down a beautiful decent when the final straws
broke. At one point going around a
curve, we heard the screeching of brakes and horn just behind us. Christina turned and expected to see me hit. I wasn’t, but it did shake me up. Minutes later, the town in sight, we again
heard the hard squealing of brakes and smelt the burning rubber. Christina turned around slowly with absolute
horror, expecting to find me dead. I
wasn’t, but this time I had almost pissed myself. It was the smell that really got to her. An instant transportation to every time she’s
smelled that smell before – all of them really bad. “I’m not doing this any more. I couldn’t say it enough times. I am not riding on this road anymore.” It wasn’t a statement to argue with. I’ve known her long enough to know that. We decided then and there that once our rest
in Melaque was over we would take a bus inland.
Find smaller roads that though they might have no shoulders, wouldn’t be
highways of possible death like Mex 200 in the state of Jalisco.
Map of Melaque area:
http://www.tomzap.com/map-melaquecoast.html
Melaque is a bit like
So here we are, still in Melaque, a week later. We are getting stuff done (all these past
updates, photos uploaded, resting which we still need from the insane stress of
leaving the US, and getting several left over projects done). The town has grown on me a bit, as all towns
I spend time in usually do. It’s mostly
Mexican tourists on the holidays and weekends.
During late November and December it’s full of West Coast Canadians as
well. Not many Americans. The plaza is pretty with a large fountain, a
double decker gazebo, and a really tacky church (complete with a massive framed
picture of Jesus above the alter, outlined in blue neon). The town is stretched out along the beach
which is nice, but a little dirty.
Before it was a tourist town it was a fishing port (there’s still a
large fish cooperative) and the water smells, tastes, and feels a little like gasoline. Reminds me a bit of
The street food is excellent.
Although to cater to the Mexican tourists there are way too many hotdogs
and hamburger carts! We befriended one
of the taco sellers and his son. Saulo
and Jonathan. Saulo is originally from
I’ve fallen in love with the live music of course. I’ve heard several roving bands on the
beach. They go from shore front
restaurant to restaurant up and down the strip, carrying their instruments over
sand and dodging occasional waves. The
ones I’ve really fallen for are the bands that play Norteno style. This is an accordion, bajo sexto, guitar, and
trap drum.
Last night Christina had her first bought of homesickness in the form or
really wanting to order a pizza and watch a movie. We actually found a pizza place (crust not
great, but damn all that hot cheese was good), and lo and behold one of the
kids there put in a movie. Granted it
was that terrible
So the days have pretty much been the same. Wake up early or late who knows. Eat some good food. Get a bunch of work done. Eat some good food. Rest. Walk.
Get some more work done. Rest.
Walk. Eat some good food. Also a bunch of using the internet, drinking
cerveza, one night of too much Tequila con Sangria, beach walking, sitting in
the plaza.
In the next day or two we will head out.
Our plan is to take a bus or hitch down the coast all the way to the
Oaxacan coast. From there we’ll take a
bus inland up into
After
Today is Thanksgiving. Tonight
there’s a bar in Barra de Navidad that is having a gringo Thanksgiving dinner
that we may try to go to. Christina
needs her