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Discussion in 'Ride Reports - Epic Rides' started by El Explorador, Aug 6, 2012.
awesome to hear.
You have a way with pictures, words... and evidently women!
Hoping for an update soon!
Remember me all? I'm back online, and writing like its my job! Great to see people keeping the thread alive whilst I keep making more adventures to write about. If I keep this pace up though, the end is going to have to be published posthumously!
(preferably later than sooner)
How to cross the border into Mexico:
Go towards Mexico. Pass the US Border. There, you’re done!
The Mexican frontier has no customs or immigration from the U.S. side, though they are hardly so lax with their neighbours to the South. Borders seem to be a one-way economic valve around here.
Crossing into Juarez is immediately interesting, not in the least because in my hungover fugue I both mislay my handwritten directions to the vehicle import office and forget to change money. I spin around in circles in Juarez till I’m pointed in the right direction and have seen enough to feel confident this place is not Mexico as most Mexicans know it. Trucks with gun turrets and armoured soldiers with heavy weaponry roam the streets, massive office buildings and hotels are betrayed as Mexican only by their low-slung and crammed together counterparts.
Customs takes a $400 deposit on the bike and an hour of my life, most of which is spent waiting for Jesus the copy guy to show up. A long desert road later I make it to Chihuahua for the night; Hostel San Juan turns out to not be the backpacker paradise the internet claims. I’m the only foreigner there, and the local ladies of the night add colour with their moaning through the paper thin walls. A drunk motions for help with his door in the dim and claustrophobic hall - he can’t get his room key to work – turning it works for me. Seedy, would be the word to describe the joint.
Looks great from the courtyard, though – I even ran into some architecture students the next day taking photos of the centuries old building.
I’m glad to connect with a couchsurfer the next day, and even moreso when Pepe turns out to be the most interesting Mexican I’ve met. A fellow shoestring traveller, we compare notes and talk about bar food vs. actually going out and purchasing nutrition. Lotta protein in peanuts. He is currently nursing several projects while interning as a doctor in a village South of Chihuahua. I’m fascinated by his RFID blood donor scheme, in which he proposes to insert RFID tags into the Mexican populace to track their participation in blood donations to know what is available and where for emergencies, as well as to encourage participation by prioritizing based on donations.
Apparently he nearly managed to secure an $800,000.00 grant for it and when it went through the ministry of Health the department head met with him to tell him she would only release half of the funds for the project, and tried to get him to sign off on the move. He refused to sign, good man, working with the next president to get the ball rolling, in the meantime occupied with his work and directing truckloads of medical supplies to remote villages.
We go on a tour of the city together where they point out the Angel of Liberty statue complete with laser-shooting sword in front of the palace or palacio as they call their city halls. There is an interesting series of murals supposedly depicting the history of Chihuahua inside, and on the other side of the walls a punk rock show protest is going on for unsolved murders of women in Chihuahua.
We go out to a rooftop cafe view of the city where I try cheese mixed with huitlacoche, a sort of fungus that grows on corn. Delicious, the first but certainly not last in a series of tasty latinamerican weirdnesses.
The next day we ride to the village where he practices – in Mexico all doctors must work a year in rural areas to graduate. I’m warned to stay inside the clinic but of course I go explore. On inquiring about the bullet holes riddling the town I learn there was a firefight. A long time ago, right? No, last weekend! The clinic is located by a roundabout that connects four towns, which apparently makes it the site of most conflicts. Chihuahua is a state in which mucho marijuana is grown, leading to much drug-related violence.
We check out a desert museum which is pretty cool for a museum, and on a whim head out an hour West for the world-renowned caves of Naica.
Turns out he has an uncle who heads security there, but at the moment it is closed to all, so we ride North an hour or so to a lake for fresh fish soup. Not having expected these impromptu detours, I’m in flip flops. Riding through the gravel roads we end up on is an interesting experience.
His friends put us up for the night, I play Kinect with their kid, and they feed us delicious homecooked dinner and breakfast. Three spinsters bring me savoury filled tortillas for lunch and interrogate me about my journey; two of them look at me as if I have a second head but the third is aglow with enthusiasm and excitement at the idea. This introduction to Mexico has been very interesting, I have been impressed by how open and friendly the people have been, I’m looking forward to whatever is to come.
For a long time now I’ve been contemplating via satellite image the Copper Canyon of Mexico. Perhaps this is the only way to do so, for in person its scale is completely overwhelming – six times larger than the so called Grand canyon of the U.S.A., twice as deep; I have set no time limit on this part of my journey. Who knows, I may never leave.
Next stop, Creel, gateway to the Canyon.
A desert rises ahead and falls behind on the journey to Creel. I can’t stop and see everything, to my chagrin. What I would give for another hundred years on this earth...
The route, though quickly deteriorating to remote gravel roads, is surprisingly well signed. Gotta get that infrastructure taken care of to shuttle beer in and precious metals out.
The cheap dorms I’d read about are full and I settle on another place with a Romanian couple I meet wandering the streets in motorcycle gear.
Alex (Alejandro, here) and Andreea are an absolute pleasure. We talk about the journey, walk around town, I learn that in the same time frame as myself they left from Montreal two hours away from my own departure point, and went to Alaska before heading this way on Gunnar, their trusty V-Strom. They also stopped at Julio’s place on the way down, but coincidences have stopped surprising me by now.
We head together to the famous divisadero through some delightful curves that temper our speeds with gravel-filled potholes. It feels good to take a ride without all the power ranger gear.
The vista is magnificent as we approach the canyon. Locals point out a rock jutting over the edge that teeters precariously, so naturally we head over to tempt fate.
I talk the manager of the canyon’s cable car into giving us a free ride by introducing my new friends as Famous Romanian Documentarians. Alejandro is really earnest about making the interview we film with the manager into a quality product to repay him. It’s a truly impressive experience, soaring over the vastness of what is only a tiny corner of the canyon. The cables fall away into the distance, so far you can’t even follow them to the end with your eyes, as if the trolley could at some point just reach the end and slip off into thin air.
After climbing around and playing on the edge of the void, we grab some of the delicious gorditas that everyone has been telling us to try. Alejandro, ever the optimist, uses the hand sanitizer as if that one tiny concession to hygiene could save him.
Andreea wants us to get a move on.
Creel is not quiet this night. The same notes are repeated over and over on a rustic sounding violin, punctuated occasionally by a group of voices yelling “woo!” well into the morning. Around 5AM I give in and go for a run up the Cristo Rey, as obligatory a town structure in Latin America as a greasy spoon in the USA. A middle aged paunchy fellow puts me to shame as he jogs up the steps past me, then points out the Tarajumara Indian party that had been causing the hubbub all night. They were right behind the hostel, no wonder it was so loud.
Further investigation quickly leads to me being accosted by a fellow who is well into his cups, and dragged into the brilliant Technicolor crowd where I am proffered tesguiño to my halfhearted dismay. On the one hand, drinking fermented maize being scooped out of a garbage pail in communal gourd-cups is something mom wouldn’t endorse. But my philosophy of never turning down an invitation forces my other hand. I try to ignore the echo of Pepe's advice in Chihuahua - "Don't try the tesguiño. They ferment it with spit".
I drink, and silently toast to shared immunities.
The sludge at the bottom of the plastic garbage pail is pretty bad even before taking into account the flavour though – what was a liquidy potent potable at the top of the barrel seems more like regurgitated corn at the bottom. Still, I can’t get away with half finishing my generous bowl, they insist I finish up and with a smile I choke it down.
The Tarajumara culture is very interesting in regard to these parties – wealth is displayed by holding them, and there is strong religious significance. The violins and group cries go on all night while dancers in religious garb circle a makeshift shrine to what I suspect is the Virgin of Guadalupe. According to their beliefs, alcoholic intoxication is a religious experience. As the night goes on, everyone keeps on chugging tesguiño and getting “closer to God”. Definitely beats “we broke up again” as far as reasons to hit the sauce go.
Fortunately I am rescued from my enthusiastic new companion by some other Tarajumaras who warn me to watch out for him.
Things seem to get a little tense and I make my way out of there to bid goodbye to Alejandro and Andreea. Their philosophy resonates with me in my untethered idealistic state – when they return, their priorities are to make a good life where they land, and to help build the community around themselves. Building a community, when I’d never considered another option apart from finding a community and adopting it. But then, I’m a nomad, a madman or nebunul as my new Romanian friends put it. My community is perforce scattered among the places I have known. But it lightens my heart to collect them as part of my disparate clan, members of which I have already encountered on the road, lost in a sea of complacent fellows or staking their claims for their own communities to flourish.
I enjoy the opportunity to allow these thoughts to percolate on the ride out; on my own again. In the unpredictable map of my plans, reaching the bottom of the Urique canyon is the only one that has constantly remained among the shifting futurescape of my possibilities. Arrival means traversing increasingly rural terrain until I’m on gravel and dirt with nothing but the occasional subsistence farmstead in sight, the landscape serenely shifting as I make it farther and farther from civilization as I knew it.
The canyon itself arrives gradually, and the impact grows and reverberates as I stop more and longer to drink in the unexpectedly gorgeous view. Not that I didn’t expect it to be, generically, beautiful... but this, no I didn’t expect this. Until you’ve seen some things with your own eyes, you can never quite imagine them no matter how much time you spend watching the world through a glowing screen.
I stop to check out the Mexican Pre-fab home.
At the bottom I stop, elated, and survey the impressive cliffs that surround me, hardly believing I actually came down such a slope on my motorcycle. My elation is interrupted by the improbably expensive looking white pickup that rolls up beside me, overflowing with shotguns and automatic rifles. The faces look friendly and they ask me where I am heading as if they don’t expect people to lie about where they’re sleeping to heavily armed strangers. Seemingly satisfied I have no business with them, they head off saying, “anything you need, come to us.”
Now I know who to talk to about filling something with bullets or guerrilla horticulture.
Should be an interesting time here in Urique
Thanks to Andreea for the shots of me!
It was crazy that you all found each other down there.
I'm so glad to see you posting again.
Hehe yeah, especially considering that in the same length of time they had travelled from the same starting point (more or less) to Alaska and _then_ down!
Took me a while to track this thread down again but glad I did! We must be about due for another update, eh?
Due and overdue! I keep meaning to post more but I'm making money for the next part of the journey, trust me it's been an epic ride and I am excited to share.
Wow Epic :huh Way to live...subscribed
El Ex, nice to hear from you. Totally get the need to generate $$ to continue. Your report, though, is fantastic, and I hope that you are able to continue it. I look forward to seeing what heights you reached!!
I’m staying at Entre Amigos, a beautiful name for a lonely place on the edge of town. Peanuts, squash, lemons and grapefruits all grow abundantly in the orchard where my hammock is strung up. My only company here is Tomas the groundskeeper with his sheepish smile and old work jeans labelled Dolce & Gabbana. It’s peaceful, and I’m told to help myself to anything that grows there.
At the Mezquital taco shack I meet the lovely Karen, Vanessa, and Maria when they steal my seat as I set up for a photo.
They take me for a tour, a bit self conscious, but they’re sweet girls and leave me completely at ease in this tiny town. Urique is impressive more than anything for its location. But it’s a damn impressive location. Even moreso considering that upon its construction no roads existed – materials for everything had to be carried and donkey’d from the nearest town 200 km away, then hauled down the treacherous slopes. Any building of significant size here is a monument to human tenacity.
All the inhabitants seem to be sitting on steps or plastic chairs, taking the air and commenting to any passersby (or hooting at the girls for catching the gringo).
They teach me a bit about local wordplay and we meander until dark. Despite my Spanish fluency I'm stumbling on double entendres and local slang. Goodnight to the ladies and off to my hammock, cosily hung amidst the grapefruit trees and cacti in the massive garden that is the Entre Amigos hostel. When Tomas asked me how long I'd be staying I told him I didn't know. I sink back with a smile into my nest, and think, a while.
I am surprised to learn there is a tourism office in this nugget of a town, so I stop by. In charge is the stunning Cecilia who takes me out for coffee in a house/restaurant wild with local greenery. She tells me about Urique and the natives, we exchange souls over conversation and a haze settles over me. Her story is about following your own path with confidence and determination no matter how unusual, leaving Oregon and love for Mexico and to have a child on her own. Inspiring.
I take Lost for a spin on the route she suggests to nearby Naranjo – definitely not a ride I should have undertaken on flip-flops. The dance ends in a nap for Lost when a truck comes around the corner and eliminates the road as an option. Fortunately some thoughtful civil engineer thought to squeeze a telephone pole into the narrow ditch, so that helps slow me down considerably.
I head back to the hostel to straighten the guards and bars, thankful for my intact toes. Strolling through town the I am greeted by the friendly and talkative DudeBro, whose memorable quote is “Dude – if you don’t get laid in every town you go to, I don’t know what you’re doing in Mexico”.
Great update! You, sir, like Wesley and a few others, have a knack for meeting and getting to know new people wherever you go and that adds a whole dimension to your report. Good to hear you weren't hurt in that off. I had visions of Rocky and Paula's mishap for a second (they were unhurt but the bike was wrecked). Thanks for the update! That quote at the end was f'ing hilarious! pun intended.
Ha, that little off? I got a permanent grease stain from the pole on the mudguard, and some more character marks on my baby. What's coming next, however...
“You’re an inspiringly tenacious little bastard, Mr. Fuzzynuts,” I grumble halfheartedly as my well endowed feline foe zips past me when I open the kitchen door, leaving behind him a mess of crumbs where I’d left my bread, again. Breakfast comes fresh from the trees. The membrane between sections is what makes grapefruit bitter, so I slow it down some and free the succulent flesh to mix with avocado and cilantro. Delicious, the taste of a day deliberately prepared.
I am supposed to get Tomas to build a fire to heat the water tank, but even before the sunlight sears the canyon floor the impending heat is enough for cold water to suffice. Getting dressed after showering is an adventure, shaking a scorpion out of my shirt and scaring a tarantula from under my pants. I spot two more small scorpions in the crevices between the mortared stones that make up the shower walls and decide to shake out my boxers again – just in case.
Ready to ride the canyon again. Sheer cliffs sheer joy, near drops, and a man chasing his runaway cow punctuate the ascent. Cecilia recommended a hike here called Curvas de Maria. Eventually the path leads to the edge of the cliffs and winds down a dramatic ridge. I can’t help but compare with the Grand Canyon, the panorama so vast perspective slips past easy grasp; I just breathe and take it in.
Verdant canyons fold away into the horizon; it could swallow its American counterpart but I can barely understand that from my smallness. Scattered everywhere, the crystalline rocks they call geodas weigh down my magpie pockets. I’m not sure if this is where I was supposed to end up but I’m glad to be here.
[caption id="" align="alignnone" width="1024"] Geodas, I choose you![/caption]
The trail meets the dirt road again well down the cliffside – and presents me with a challenge.
Yesterday Cecilia told me about the Raramuri people and their renowned ability to run up the canyons. Their traditional races became an international event with the help of a gringo they called Caballo Blanco, an 80 Km ultramarathon rising over 500 meters. Ultramarathoners from around the globe come to compete, but save for a few outliers, almost nobody beats the Raramuri at this race – and they’re running in sandals made from old tires and leather thongs. She got a smile recounting when Nike tried to sponsor them but they didn’t like their shoes and ended up tossing them to finish barefoot. Inspired and determined I put my pride as a runner on the line as I start an easy jog, wondering just how far down I’ve climbed. An embarrassingly short distance later I accept I am hopelessly outclassed by this challenge and choke down canyon dust as a couple of trucks pass me by on the way up, oblivious to the sweaty gringo with his thumb out.
I race down – the trek took longer than I’d hoped and I have plans for drinks with Cecilia. Adrenaline floods my system as I go for a record time, familiar enough with the curves now to not panic when I feel the rear sliding. I make it down ten minutes faster, time to spare! Of course my clock is an hour behind so I’m late anyway. She is unimpressed. What kind of Latina is she!?
Retiring for the evening, I’m kept good company by Thoreau – Walden is just the book for me at this new pace. Some thoughts to share:
“We slave the better part of our lives to rest the remainder that we’re ready to slave again. Pass on lessons rather than the useless frivolities of the “upper class”. Work to travel, and you will still see less and be behind the vagabond who just goes.”
There is a middle ground, here. Yes, there is an element of adventure to having to immediately confront lack of food or shelter. But at the same time, if all our energies are spent acquiring these necessities how will we find the time to stop and savour the experience of the places we go? His penchant for minimalism aside, I think what he refers to is the necessary interaction with communities that comes from entering them as a vagabond – immediately you integrate yourself because you need to learn about the people, safe shelter, easy fuel for warmth and belly. Enter with all these arrangements taken care of, and once you have eaten your fill you will have no necessity to talk to strangers, no unavoidable questions to ask locals, and having a bed at your disposal may simply let inertia take you to sleep when in reality you had energy for far more interactions and adventures than you will ever know if you never need to use it. Easily available comfort means fewer opportunities for the blissful rest of the truly exhausted, the overwhelming satisfaction of eating after going hungry rather than just because it’s that time again Pavlov.
On pop culture he nails it – entertainment (reading, in his time), has been reduced from a sharing of the mind to a kind of masturbation without the mess. It’s more profitable to satisfy than to teach. No novel or clever thought necessary so long as you hit all the right notes. This is why Hollywood always churns out the same crap - hero, love story, bad guys, easy on the eyes. Avatar is an excellent example of this. A huge hit - millions of people empathized with the poor “fictional” aliens being exploited by resource hungry advanced races, fantasized about a world they could save, and stroked their moral vanity in the mirror. Meanwhile, Barrick Gold buys legal immunity for causing rapes and murders in Papua New Guinea and TVI Pacific displaces indigenous people with private military forces. And the crowd demands catharsis, not change.
I read and reflect on contradictions and human nature as the sun sets beyond the canyon walls, not looking for answers, just trying to understand.
Food for the soul in this one! Most excellent. Thanks for the update.