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Today finds me on a bus, headed for Denver, due to arrive home late this evening, almost 2 weeks ahead of schedule. A variety of personal and business issues came together at once, which necessitated me heading home. I was wondering where to head next anyway, so it was a good time anyway.

Coming home was a bit of an ordeal. I spent three days in a row on buses, from Parral to Albuquerque, NM. It was like being in one of those adventure races. I can’t count the number of times I loaded and unloaded my bicycle, shoving it and my luggage under buses, or taking it all apart to fit in the trunks of taxis in the large city of Chihuahua. I slept a night in a 100 peso/night ($9 US) shithole, sleeping on a lumpy spring mattress with a torn, threadbare sheet. I arrived at the border bedraggled (it always helps to look your best), having forgotten to convert my pesos back to dollars or to clean and check my bags for wayward fruits and vegetables and other food items. I spent two nights in Albequerque, and then took another 12 hour bus trip to Denver.

Leaving in such a hurry, I didn’t have much time to mentally prepare for the end of my time in mexico or my return to the US. Within hours of having crossed the border, it was as if Mexico was a faint memory. I felt the same way coming back from Asia on my last trip. It’s a vague sense of loss, of emptiness, as though the wonderful experiences I had just had had been ripped away, and replaced with a handful of photographs and snatches of narrative.

In the few spare moments I’ve had in the past several days, I’ve tried to reflect on the trip, and figure out what I’ve taken away from it. My spanish has certainly gotten better, to the point that I don’t feel completely helpless when it comes to basic travelling tasks. I still have no clue about verb conjugation, or how to form past or future tenses, but I can ask directions, and barter, and order food, and plod my way through the basic chitchat about where I’m from and where I’m going.

One of the questions I like to ask about a trip, is “What have I learned, or how am I different after this trip?” For this trip, I think the answer is about biases and prejudices towards Mexicans. Not only did I come to realize how much subconcious prejudice I had towards Mexicans, but also how unfounded it was. And it wasn’t only in myself I relaized prejudice towards Mexicans - it was American society in general.

There seems to be an unspoken, and sometimes spoken, attitude that Mexicans are lazy, dangerous, uneducated, or somehow unfriendly. I also realized how much I associate hearing spanish with minimum wage type service jobs, such as janitors and gardeners. Sitting in a hotel room in Gomez Farias, I heard some rapid spanish drifting in through the open window, and subconsciously assumed it must be one of the housekeepers, not even really thinking about it. When I looked up, I saw it was another of the guests at the hotel, and instantly realized how unfair my assumption was.

My first few days in Mexico were spent on high alert, my nerves on a hair trigger. I’d heard too many stories of highway robbery and corrupt federales to think anything else. Yet, every time a scary looking Mexican, dressed in the standard white cowboy hat, plaid shirt, jeans and boots stepped towards me in what my adrenline-ridden state thought was a menacing manner, they in fact turned out to be very friendly and welcoming, in that quiet, unassuming, reserved manner that seems unique to Mexicans.

Throughout the trip, I had nothing but warm welcomes and friendly, curious people, wanting to know where I was from, and where I was headed. It wasn’t abnormal to pedal into a one street town, headed down the main strip, and have a low riding pickup with heavy bass throbbing from the open windows pul up along side me.

“Hey man, where you from?”, a smiling man would yell over the chest rumbling music. “Denver? I worked in Silverton for three years.” More often than not, if I wasn’t pressed for time, they’d pull over, and we’d talk for a while, about my trip, about what working in the US was like for them, about immigration and papers. I’d hit them up for advice on where to stay, and what road conditions were like further down the road.

Children in Mexico were very well behaved, often a bit shy, and very polite. They were often curious about me and my bike, but just as often, were more interested in hunting for treasures along the side of the road, or heading to the local arcade on their bicycles. A few spoke decent english, and others were too shy to even speak Spanish with me. Every so often, I ran into a kid that was interested in helping me out, for a bit of pocket change, whether by showing me where the hotel was, or watching my bicycle for me, or, in the case of Habierto, playing tour guide and bicycle watchman.

My bicycle odometer shows 913 km, which is more or less accurate. Not anywhere near the 2000-2500 kim it would have taken to make it all the way to Mexico City, but still nothing to be scoffed at.

Some small things I learned along the way:

• At 35 mph in driving rain, gortex has more in common with a wetsuit than a rain jacket.
• The magic of internet and internet cafes has not reached everywhere (it was much scarcer in Mexico than I had thought)
• Never trust road conditions or mileage from anyone who isn’t a cyclist, unless you have several independent corroborations.

I’ll be following this up in a little while with a mileage log. Probably not of much interest to anyone else besides cyclists, but gives total daily mileage, and often mileage of important things, like food, water, hotels, internet access, and bicycle shops. All things I like to know about when I’m on the road.

A few stories I wrote in my little notebook I carried in my pocket that I wrote while I was in the hospital, which never made it to the blog:

Everyone here seems to know everything about you - “Were you in Ascencion two days ago? I saw you there.” or “My cousin talk to you in Zaragosa yesterday, and he said you were riding all the way to Mexico City.” Sometimes it’s a bit creepy, but it’s also reassuring, as it would be hard to disappear without everyone knowing where you went and what happened to you.

—

It’s a real mix of eras here. It’s not uncommon to see a horse and rider riding down the main street, in front of pharmacies and stores sporting countless Coca-Cola signs, being passed by brand new pickup trucks and minivans.

Dogs are everywhere, and at least half are really into chasing bicycles. There’s nothing like trying to outrun a 100 pound pitbull on a bike with panniers that way 60+ pounds, all while looking back over your should and yelling in your best alpha dog voice. I haven’t had any really close calls yet (I managed to stop the most menacing looking pitbull dead in his tracks with a particularlly fierce yell), but I’m definitely beginning to understand why so many cyclists carry pepper spray and/or rocks. I’m also rethinking my decision to turn down the costly ($500 for 2 years) rabies vaccinations.

—

Sitting in a pan of vinegar and water propped on a toilet, naked, gown and IV bottle in one hand, head propped in the other - the model of dignity.

—

Thanks for reading, I hope it was as enjoyable to read as it was to write.

Until next time, safe travels.

The top local finisher in the 10km race

I ended up spending an extra day in Guachochic, as this weekend turns out to be the annual ultramarathon and surrounding festival here. The original plan was to stay and watch the start at noon yesterday, and then ride for the afternoon, but my faulty spanish must have misinterpreted the sign I saw, as the ultramarathon started early this morning (at about 5:30 am or so).

Instead, yesterday was comprised of local native dances and songs, a 10km race, a bunch of short races for the kids (starting at age 2 on up), and lots and lots of eating and people watching.

Juarachis

This is the first time I’ve felt really comfortable taking lots of people photos, as there was enough of a crowd, and enough other cameras that I didn’t draw too much undo attention. There were lots of Taurumara watching and participatingi n the festivities, many in their traditional dress (including men, which I hadn’t seen before). Many were even wearing their juarachis, which are sandals made from tire rubber and leather strapping. They’re apparently very comfortable (provided you have a big enough callus on your big toe), and the Taurumara, who are known for their long distance running, have set records in them for such races as the Leadville 100.

Mark

I met Mark, a 54 year-old Denverite who came down for the 63km race (the longest is a 100km race). I hope I’m as fit as he is when I’m 54. He said he has friends down here, who suggested he come down for this race. He said they gave him a pair of juarachis, which he’s been training in, but he says he hasn’t built up enough calluses yet to race in them. He told me more about the race itself. Apparently, it goes for 17km or so out to Sinforosa, which is relatively flat, before dropping down into the canyon, which is incredibly steep, and you need to be with other people to get up and down the Taurumari ladders. He said that the real race portion is just out to Sinforosa and back, as they form groups of 5 which you must stick with when you’re in the canyon. He said that they were warned to make sure not to step on the local’s marijuana plants, and not to break the goat gates when they jump over.

We talked to several other racers in mixed spanish and english, and everyone seems most stressed about having adequate water. It seems most people are planning on carrying several liters, and Mark’s friend apparently spent all of yesterday packing a burro loaded with water down into the canyon for all the racers.

The dances and songs yesterday were pretty interesting. Apparently there is a festival in November which is much more focused on dancing, and draws major tourist crowds. The dance troup consisted of mostly children, some of whoms participation Mark incitfully guessed took a fair amount of bribing. One boy in particular looked like he’d rather be just about anywhere else than there.

The dances, songs, and costumes all showed some degree of spanish influence, presumably from the Conquistadors. Particularly striking was the violin player. Mark said that there’s a local indian that lives int he canyon that is respected world wide as a violin maker, and has been invited to play with the vienna orchestra. Apparently the town is in the process of trying to raise enough money for his plane ticket.

A mix of old and new?

The races yesterday were all pretty entertaining. The 10km was very serious, with a wide range of contestants, from relatively young kids up to old men. A handful of local girls ran, complete in full traditional dresses and flimsy looking plastic sandals. There was one particularly striking old man dressed in lycra tights and a shawl. Still not quite clear what his deal was, as he was far and away the only person dressed like that. There was also a handful of serious, hardcore runners, including two Africans, one of whom won by a fair amount, the other who placed quite high.

All geared up and ready to go

The kids races were a lot more laid back. They were organized into different lengths for different age groups, starting at 10 meters for what looked like 2 or 3 year olds. It went on up to what looked like 12 or so, and was a fairly long sprint down the street. The parents were quite into it, vaguely reminicent of dog races, standing at the end, waving bribes of balloons and bags of M&Ms for the younger kids.

The lead dancer getting a little help from the town drunk (who very clearly knew how to dance quite well)

All in all, it was a wonderful small town festival, full of good humor on everyone’s part, even when the town drunk decided to join the dancers for the finale.

Just a quick note before I break camp. Yesterday started out with more tough climbing, but after 20 or 30 kms, turned into relatively a relatively flat road that followed the ridgetops, which was a much needed bonus. I managed to crank out about 75 kms, which is more than I was hoping for (I would have been happy with 60).

I’m pretty sore this morning, though, and may have a bit of saddle soreness copming back, so I’m planning on taking it easy today, and maybe only going as far as Guachochic. I’m dying for a shower and clean laundry anyway, so it’s all for the best.

It seems that everywhere there’s a decent sized river or stream, there’s also lots of houses and fences, which doesn’t lend itself much to bathing and laundry. I was very tempted to camp in the pastures around Rocheachic - the reminded me a lot of Toulame meadows outside of Yosemite - but the politics involved with making sure I didn’t offend anybody were simply too much to deal with at that point in the day.

I ended up in what I think is a logging area. There was a barbed wire fence, but I can’t find any houses around, so I think it’s ok.

Roadside monument

Yesterday was my second day out of Creel, towards Hidalgo del Parral. It was a hard fought 60km of serious ups and downs, but also some of the most beautiful scenery I’ve seen anywhere. Like a cross between Yosemite and the highlands of the area around the grand canyon. I’ve had rain on and off for two days, which was getting to be pretty lousy, as nothing dried out much, but finally it was sunny this morning, so the campsite looks like a yardsale. I think I can say with confidence that I’ve used pretty much everything I’m carrying, and been glad I had it - always the true litmus test for your gear.

I’ve camped two nights in a row, both at wonderful campsites with serious views out over deep valleys. And I’ve had the place to myself both nights. It doesn’t seem very heavily inhabited here, and even the road traffic is minimal. I only see a vehicle every 15 minutes at most.

Cuscarare

Yesterday, I stopped in at Cuscarare to top up supplies. To get there, I had ot leave the main road, and follow a dirt road a few kms. Needless to say, it’s a small village. But beautiful and idyllic as well. Horses and burros gazing next to the road, small houses sprinkled amoung the fields, all walled in by huge walls of stone and pine trees.

I found the one shop in town, and picked up my standard staples - crackers, pasta, and sardines. Mmmm. They didn’t have tortillas, but offered me “pan Bimbo” instead, which is quite literally “Bimbo bread”, a cheaper version of Wonder Bread, with perhaps the best brand name ever. Every time I see it, it makes me giggle to myself. There’s even Bimbo trucks.

After I left Cuscare, I saw a sign for casacare waterfall. I needed to take a food break anyway, so I thought what the heck. As I pulled onto the dirt road, two young boys popped up from under a tree, and, after the required greetings, began rattling off rapid spanish. After three or four times, I gradually understood it to be the spanish equivalent to “doyouwantmetotakeyoutothewaterfall?”, as only an excited 10 year old boy can muster.

Habierto

Faced with a myriad of dirt roads through the small village, I thought, “Sure, what the heck.” It turned out to be a blast. Habierto ran and got his bike (after makijng really, really sure I was going to wait for him), and off we went, taking all the shortcuts, and with Habierto riding through all the puddles he could find. By the end, he had mud splatters all up his back and on his face.

The whole way there and back he balanced the time between peppering me with questions, and asking “racio?” before charging off on his bike over stones and water crossing and puddles. The scenery on the way there was spectacular - limestone cliffs and green grassy banks along a meadering river.

Taurumara woman weaving

The waterfall itself was nice, but very touristy. The main tourist mode of transport around here is these big suburban 4×4s driven by hired guides, and there was a veritable herd when I got to the end of the road. The local Taurumara indian women were out in force, selling their weavings and baskets and other crafts. Some were quite nice, though undoubtedly wouldn’t survive the rest of the bicycle trip. The women are very shy, and it’s hard to even get a “hello” out of them. Needless to say, they’re not big on pictures, so I didn’t manage to get any closeups of them weaving (sorry Mom). I did get one telephoto shot of a woman weaving, as I felt like I was far enough away that i wasn’t intruding too much.

A view from the road

The rest of the day was filled with lots of cycling, trying to putt as many kms behind me as possible. All through magnificent valleys.

Today looks to be more of the same, with the final bit of a climb over a pass, and then who knows from there.

Train Guards - The one in black has a machine gun slung behind him - apparently the train used to get robbed a lot before they started having armed guards

The train ride back to Creel was much more enjoyable, seeming to go relatively without a hitch, this time lasting only 14 hours or so, and getting to Creel in time for a late dinner.

I enjoyed the trip much more this time, finally feeling better, and having much nicer weather. I took lots and lots of pictures, which, after culling through them, were mostly rubbish, but a few good ones mixed in, which I’ve posted (see the photos link on the sidebar).

I have to say though, I’m very tired of sitting on trains, and very much ready to be back on the bike (yeah, that’s sitting too, but it’s different - at least it’s active). As you can see from the pics, the train ride is spectacular, though I’m not totally convinced it was worth the three days I spent going. But hey, you never know until you try.

Tomorrow I’m planning on giving the bicycle another shot, being day 7 of the doctor’s roders of not riding for a week. Close enough, right? We’ll see how I go. Plans haven’t solidified yet, but I’ll either do a day ride around here, ride out to Divisidero for the night, or head on towards Hidalgo del Parral. The latter would be the prudent option, if I were still under the impression I was going to make it to Mexico City under my own power, which is pretty laughable at this point, given how much time I’ve lost. I think it might have been stretching it to begin with, anyway.

I’m currently in Los Mochis, after having taken the train yesterday from Creel. What was supposed to be 9 or 12 hours turned into closer to 20 hours. Sometime around 9pm, we stopped, and men with large rock bars (6 foot long prybars made of thick rebar), walked down alongside the train. It had been raining heavily from the looks of the runoff off the sides of the canyon, and I suspect there was a landslide.

It took several hours at least to clear the landslide, and get underway again, only to stop again some hours later for a while, on what looked like a bridge.

Sometime in the middle of a night, a frightening looking barrel chested Mexican sat down next to me, scaring the crap out of me. But, given my experiences so far, I’m sure he was a charming individual.

Woman cooking at one of the train stops

Los Mochis was different than I expected - A bustling town with plenty of street stalls and activity. I spent the afternoon wandering around. I would have explored the street stalls more heavily, but my stomach has been bugging me the past several days, and I didn’t think I could handle the various smells. Even just walking by a butcher shop was enough to turn me pale.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in an internet cafe, working on some various client issues. What a luxury, having one’s own computer, instead of having to use crappy internet cafe computers. I still haven’t mastered the mexican keyboard layout, and can’t for the life of me figure out how to make an @ sign, without resorting to typing alt-64 on the number pad.

The countryside just out of Creel

I’m in Creel, which is fantastically beautiful. I don’t have much time to write now, but there’s a few new pictures I uploaded of the area.

Yesterday I went with an older American I met on the bus to look for the man who he gave his burro to. It’s a long story, and we never ended up finding the Felicano the burro. I was going to take the train today to Los Mochis, and then back tomorrow, but I’ve heard the train is broken down, so I’ll stick around here and head out tomorrow.

More stories and substance later.

A quick update, before I catch a bus. I finally broke out of Gomez Farias, after spending two nights in the local hospital with a bit of an abscess. It seems to be healing quite nicely, but I’m under doctor’s orders not to ride again for another week. Bugger.

One of two severely bent structs in my rear rack - the longer bar should be straight and vertical

So, after spending the day in Cuauhtemoc repairing my bike and catching up on email and such, I’m headed to Creel on the evening bus. Creel is the “gateway” town to Barranca del Cobre - Copper Canyon, which is supposed to be magnificent. I’m looking forward to it, but have a feeling there’s going to be much temptation to be back in the saddle.

I did purchase one of those fancy split seats in town, so maybe that will help.

Hat shop in Cuauhtemoc

Cuauchtemoc is a pretty large city - and one of the places all the cowboys from the surrounding area come to to get their gear. So there’s countless tackle shops, and hat shops, and boot shops. There will be entire shops filled with identical white cowboy hats, floor to ceiling. As far as I can tell, the only difference is in the color of the thin hat bands.

This, all right next to electronics shops, and Pizza Hut, and new land rovers. I have to say, if cowboy boots and bicycles didn’t clash so much, I might be tempted…

Along the road towards Gomez Farias

So, I only made it as far as Gomez Farias today, a short 30km ride from Zaragosa. This is largely because I’m incredibly sore. Not sore in the legs, as one might expect. Let’s just say, I understand the desire for one of those funky looking split seats you see all the racers with.

I had expected some saddle soreness, and had some the first few days, but had figured it was done with. Little did I know.

Local boys that stopped to check me out while I tried to fix my speedometer. They were embarrased, and so there are two hiding behind the one in the Ninja Turtles t-shirt.

On the bright side, it’s absolutely gorgeous here - a mix of rolling fields, farmland, and scattered pines. The people are friendly, and the traffic is light. Last night, I stayed in a tiny hotel, well, hardly a hotel. More like one of several rooms behind a restaurant. There were chickens scratching in the courtyard, and a woodburning stove in the room.

Border Control Blimp

I preparing for this trip, one of my interests was in finding more about illegal immigrants to the US from Mexico, particularly in talking to people that have crossed, or tried to cross.

I didn’t have to look far. It seems every other male over the age of twenty has crossed, or tried to cross, at some point in their life. People often greet me and ask “Donde Vienes?” - “Where are you from?” When they hear that I’m from Colorado, a not uncommon response is, “Oh, really? I worked in Aurora.” Or Golden. Or Denver. Or Phoneix. Or Kansas City. Most, if not all, were relatively open about the fact that they did so without papers.

It’s also interesting to hear where people worked. Burger King, Old Chicago Pizza, and at one of the large casinos in Colorado. I somehow had this image that most would be working in typical under the table manual labor sorts of positions to avoid the necessity of papers, such as landscaping, construction, and such. Nope. It seems that a lack of papers isn’t a big deal as far as big corporations are concerned.

I’ve been meaning to ask how much people are being paid. I’m curious to see if it’s comparable to those with papers, or even if it’s above minimum wage.

Trough

Last night, walking around Zargoza, two men in a pickup truck who spoke a little bit of english stopped and talked to me. They were enjoying th eevening in what appears to be true Mexican style - cruising up and down the main streets, along with the rest of the town, at slightly over walking pace, an open beer in their laps. They said that last weekend, they’d tried to cross the border near Deming together.

They said that they were carrying some food and a gallon of water apiece, for what amounted to a 36 mile, 2 day walk across the desert. They said they slept during the day, and walked at night, presumably both to beat the heat, and the border patrol.

Most of the way there, a border patrol caught them. People say, when you get caught, they throw you in a jail cell for a day or two, until they can get a big enough group together, and then they put them all on a bus, and ship them back to their home town. One person I talked to said that if you wanted to try again and were smart, you just said you were from Chihuahua, which is one of the border states. This way, it was a shorter trip back to the border. Other than the cost of another bus ride, and the time, food, and water involved, there seems to be little penalty in trying as many times as is necessary to cross.

I spoke with a hotel owner who said that it’s not common for people from all over the world, but particularly Central and South America, to come to Chihuahua to try and cross the border. It’s possible to arrange a “package deal” for entry to the US from as far down as the Guatamala border. Your transport, food, accomodations, guides, and the necessary bribes will all be arranged for you. The cost is steep, however - somewhere in the range of $3000-5000 per person if you want passage from the Guatamala border.

It is not uncommon for people to sell their homes, their farms, and their vehicles, all for money to pay the fee. If they are caught at the border and sent back, they come back home with absolutely nothing - nowhere to live, no way to get food or earn money.

It seems the guides that arrange these “packages” are the ones who make out the best in the whole operation. The hotel owner said it wasn’t uncommon for two men to show up and rent rooms for one hundred people at a time, and going out and buying food for the same number. He said more than once, the mexican immigration police have showed up at the hotel, and demanded to see everyone’s papers. They would gather them all out in the courtyard behind the hotel. Once they’d established the size of the group, they’d demand a bribe - usually on the order of $100 per immigrant. He said the money, despite being an enormous sum, especially by Mexican standards, would quickly appear from nowhere, and the immigration police would be sent on their way.

In all the conversation I’ve had, the biggest thing that stuck out to me, is that many of the people that have gone to the US to work illegally, are not outcasts from their community. Rather, they are upstanding, well respected citizens, often land owners. And they come to the US to work washing dishes at Old Chicago Pizza, or flip burgers at Burger King. What a crazy world we live in.