A stranger in Mexico
Crossing the Rio Grande at Laredo into Mexico happened in the blink of an eye and without the headaches and contrast I was anticipating. I read ‘The Old Patagonian Express’ recently and recall Paul Theroux describing this border crossing and how everything changed in the matter of moments, how the Mexican side was much more alive, edgy and filled with music. This was in the 70’s though, now the two towns are pretty much blended into one, the American side with brighter lights, smoother roads and the Mexican with more officials standing around doing very little. I rode around in circles for a while looking for the office to get my temporary vehicle importation permit. I was getting directed one way, then another and then back to where I started which seems to be a trend from my first days in Mexico. I've quickly learnt that latin custom is to avoid saying no even if unsure of what I'm asking for, a vague something is more polite than nothing. I ride through the town and any tension I had built up was released quickly. As I get on the open highway and through the first vehicle checkpoint the land became barren and dusty. The first couple of days on the road took me into the Sierra Madre Oriental mountain range which runs along the east of the country, through Monterrey then smaller towns and villages.
By now I’m a world away from the industrialized U.S. and transported to the Mediterranean villages of an earlier time. As expected, time moves slower here. There’s an abundance of children and they’re free to roam, giggle and shout. Teenagers kick soccer balls well into the evening under dim streetlights. Young couples sit alone in their corner of the squares. All ages gather at the fountains, eating gelati or whatever the street vendors offer. Upcoming local election propaganda is everywhere. Music fills the streets, groups of men with guitars and piano harmonicas offer entertainment. Church bells ring on the hour. Shepherds gather their flock by the highways. Donkeys appear. The smell of grilled meats on the roadside reminds me of riding through South East Asia. At dusk, pick-up trucks approach the villages filled with workers from the fields. Things seem chaotic but have their way of working out. I feel welcome here. People show their tender side. A greeting, a simple conversation and a smile goes a long way - the old man with the cane, the women who runs her food outlet, her young daughter the waitress, the excitable painter at the hostel. I've never enjoyed small talk so much. I’m enjoying throwing my Spanish around and delighted when I can get a conversation going. I began teaching myself from downloaded iPod lessons in the car on my way to and from work back in Melbourne for a few months which has paid off but can only get me so far at the moment.
Taco truck is king: A perfect stop in the mountains
I love riding through mountains like these, approaching scenes like this with the sun shining in from the side, a few light clouds hovering at the top of the peaks, no cars in sight and then flowing through the twists and turns in the road. I can only patiently wait to experience what the Andes has in stall.
I ride up to Real de Catorce, a secluded mountain village which boomed during the silver mining era but now a laid back pilgrimage town for indigenous, catholics and peyote seekers.
