The ferry crossing from La Paz to Mazatlan was more expensive that what I thought. Finding out the exact price and timetables turned out to be a tough task and now it was time to see if I could avoid paying the 80 dollars for the ticket… and that without considering the bike! Following peoples advice I tried to get a “raite” (lift) with a trucker, but at that time all of them were inside the boarding platform and the customs agents almost arrested me when I tried to get closer to the place. After coming and going for a while I was able to get Maira in an empty truck, avoiding paying the extra 15 dollars and that way it was also in a safe and closed area. The ticket I had to confront it with anguish and pain, but I had no other options… ouch!!

The ferry showed some sings of long service and even though in general terms it was OK, one could see the little details that marked its decadence. It wasn’t in vain that people slept directly on the floor and not on the uncomfortable chairs.

During the night I had the chance to chat with my companions, the truckers, who told me stories of their lives behind the wheel and how tough their job was. They spent long periods of time away from their families and differently from what I’ve seen in Canada, where the rules stipulated that the job had to be alternated between two drivers, in these latitudes there was only one driver and in occasions he could made trips of up to 26 h without sleeping, keeping themselves up with coffee and amphetamines. It’s completely crazy, but it was their only option to make an extra peso considering that they were paid by commission when the cargo was delivered. Thinking about their tired state during such odysseys my only chance was to pray so I would not cross any of their paths while they were yawning, making my presence in the highway irrelevant!!!

In Mazatlan, I was hosted by the family of Mario Garcia, on of the truckers in question and later, I got settled in the home of Maria Murillo, the contact that I had made to stay in that city. I received 2008 with her family and I took advantage of the closeness to the historic neighborhood to wander for long hours through the beautiful and colonial plaza Machado. The great number of relatives that arrived at Maria’s those days gave me the opportunity to accept the invitation of Virgina Nethe to spend a few days at the home of her Argentinean son, who was visiting the homeland those days. The funny part was that his wife turned out to be the sister  of the girl that gave me Maria’s contact and was the same people that I was told about when I was in Ensenada. It was definitively written that I had to stay there!

I was starting my seventh month on the road and it was time to climb back on the bike. With pedal straps on, because the cycling shoes that were stolen in La Paz were impossible to get in my clownish size in these parts of Mexico and I had to wait until Guadalajara to receive the ones that I had ordered on the Internet. I had a pending debt which was to cross the Tropic of Cancer on my bike. Without knowing, I had crossed the mythical line on the ferry and now I had to go back to do it on land. But the million dollar question was how far it was from the city. My questions got the most diverse answers and at the moment of starting riding, it was between 15 and 50 Km away. Considering that I had to retrace the same road to go to Guadalajara, I didn’t want this to cost me half a day riding or even a 100 km!!

Nevertheless I gathered my courage and on January 4th I went looking for the precious monument. I felt as if every meter that I advanced was a waste of time and effort, but I wanted to get there. I kept asking people along the way and they either looked at me as if I was asking about an out of space town or they gave me directions such as: “no, it’s very close, just 15 min”… of course 15 min on what! I had to keep looking as if I was blindfolded…

I finally arrived to the long-awaited place… and immediately I realized why nobody really cared about it: the landmark that indicated the Tropic was on a high elevation, surrounded by shrubs and trash, on the side of the highway, in a way that a speeding car would never see it. I even almost passed without noticing it. Nevertheless I did the honors and under the incredulous sight of the passing cars I took the picture of rigor before returning on the same road that I arrived on. In total, there were 24 km that I had to retrace so I can finally start my real pedaling day towards Guadalajara.

At a police checkpoint they were intrigued when they saw me going by twice and in opposite directions and as if they thought that I was lost or that I was a victim of a heat stroke, they stopped me for a while to make sure that everything was fine. They didn’t get the idea of going and coming back just for a picture in the middle of the shrubs, but they got along with my story and they even good advice about the roads ahead. “You can take the Libre (toll-free road) until Escuinapa de Hidalgo and then I recommend the Cuota (toll road), it’s safer. If someone says something, you just tell them that the police sent you through there. The Libre it’s a suicide because of the little room and the large amount of trucks” They were right!! However, every option had its cons and pros. Even though it was very risky to ride on the Libre, staying all the time on the white line on the side of the road and with very close calls with cars that tensed every nerve in my body, it was more scenic and above everything, it went through every little town in the area. That assured water and food at every moment. The Cuota was a pleasure to ride because the traffic was less congested and the wide space on the shoulder allowed one to stay relaxed and thinking on anything else other than the road, but one was the enclosed by endless chicken wire walls that impeded the contact with the exterior world and it was a daring task to know until where to go and where to spend the night.

The first night I was at 60 km from Mazatlan, in the middle of the countryside. I took a side road and after a couple of Km, I arrived to the ranch “Los Pequeños Gigantes” (the Little Giants), where I was allowed to camp under the cover of a tree. Everything was perfect: the sun was hiding behind the hills; the orange color of its rays bathed the atmosphere with its faint light; I had a spectacular place to set up the tent. What else could I ask for? The romance lasted until the last light of the day was gone and the darkness of the night arrived. As if activated by an automatic sensor, hundreds, thousands of caterpillars started to come out of the wide tree that protected me and they started to climb looking for leaves to eat. I could feel the sound of their advance on the branches. I could almost hear them chewing on the leaves! And I could also hear them when the fell from time to time on top of the tent and then tried to get inside.Agh! Help! Knowing how irritant could be the touch of their hairy skin with mine, I was looking everywhere to avoid their contact, even if by accident. When their number surpassed all my expectations and they weren’t shy by getting into everything, I decided to lock myself up in the tent. Sooner or later they would calm down, right? Well, not that fast. The show continued endlessly and my stomach was asking for food. I carefully peeked out to see if I could cook something to eat and the first thing I saw in front of me was a little scorpion, which I was previously told about but I considered part of the local folklore. It wasn’t like that and this one had its tail up like if it was waiting for my foot. That was it! I returned to my little shelter and ended satiating my hunger with the cereal bars that I could recover from my panniers. Damn it!

Riding on the Libre, I passed through several towns where something became a typical and common scene. Surrounding the main road abounded food stands where people were buzzing around constantly. To find the downtown, someone had to simply look for the local church, always visible from every part of town. There was situated the “Zocalo” or main square, where there was also located the “Kiosko” a circular roofed construction that was used for ceremonies and celebrations (a gazebo like construction) as well as shelter for kids and lovers…  As an infallible corollary, in almost every square there was a neveria and paleteria “La Michoacana” (Ice cream and Popsicle parlor), where I could recharge energy with “agua fresca de horchata”, a rice-based drink, very sweet and refreshing, or many other available varieties. I become a connoisseur in aguas frescas, because it became a frequent activity to search for these places in every town I went and decided to take a break. 

Following the official advice, I decided to go into the toll-road. I had to climb a bit to get to Tepic, and I was better of on the recently opened road. Its definition as highway was a bit funny because it was basically the same as the Libre, with two lanes but with a shoulder at either side. The following nights when I was on that road it was a challenge to find a place to sleep. I was crossing rural areas where it was possible to see the locals walking by at the side of the road with their ever-present machetes, but the towns were always too far away. That’s how I ended up in “La Higuerita Vieja” (The Little Old Fig Tree), a little settlement at the side of the road where there wasn’t yet an elevated crossway. So they had to have manned stations to control the vehicular crossings without accidents. Chavelo, Jesus and Antonio let me stay at a little house in construction and we spent a few hours chatting under the fire’s light. They told me that many farm workers went to the “north” as illegal immigrants to make some money, but that the “migra” (immigration services) almost always ended up sending them back. As it happened to me in many occasions, people could not understand how being able to be on “the other side” I had crossed into Mexico. “What are you doing over here? Did the “migra” catch you too?” While we were chatting, the local kids were riding their bikes in the middle of the darkness, communicating with each other by shouting and whistling of every kind. “That’s because we don’t have cell phones” said don Chavelo while smiling.

Mi segunda noche "atrapado" en la carretera me dejó en manos de don Amado Ocampo, un hombre que andaría en los 70 años y que trabajaba de sereno en un corralón perteneciente a la empresa que manejaba la autopista. Le pedí permiso para acampar por ahí y me dijo que esperara a que oscureciera, así no me veían los ingenieros que podían pasar por allí y armarle lío si me descubrían. "No sea cosa que crean que usted está robándose algo". Miré las bolsas de cemento de 50 kilos que se apilaban a lo lejos y le dije: "no se preocupe, ya voy muy cargado!". Amador pasaba la noche debajo de una lona sostenida por unos palos enclenques y dormía sobre unos cartones, tapado con una frazadita y bolsas de arpillera. Todos los días trabajaba de 18 a 6 de la mañana cuidando el lugar y atendiendo la tranquera de entrada. "Así gano unos pesitos para ir tirando". Me conmovió cuando me preguntó si quería algún cartón para poner en mi tienda. Seguramente él creía que era una construcción similar a la suya...

Mi second night “trapped” in the highway left me in the hands of Don Amador Ocampo, a man of around 70 years that was working as a night watchman at a tool deposit belonging to the company that was managing the highway. I asked for permission to camp out there and he told me to wait until it was dark, so the engineers that could go by wouldn’t see me and that could me trouble for him. “That’s so they don’t think that you are stealing something”, he told me. I saw the 25 Lb (50 kg) bags of cement piled up in the distance and I told him: “don’t worry, I’m already overloaded”. Amador spent the night under a piece of canvas hold up by some shabby pieces of wood and he slept over some cardboard, covered by a blanket and some burlap. Everyday he would work from 6 pm to 6 am looking after the place and manning the entry gate. “That way I can make a few pesos to get by” He moved me when he asked me if I needed a few pieces of cardboard to set my tent. He probably though that it was a construction like his…

The climb to Tepic, the capital of Nayarit State, wasn’t the hardest but it was the hottest. The sun was hitting hard and the sweat was pouring fast from every pore. I felt like an overheated radiator and I was sure that I could cook a fried egg on my skin. I stopped in the “zocalo” (see above) and I enjoyed some exquisite frozen strawberries with cream next to the fountain in front of the church. After that refreshing treat I continued my course through the heavy local traffic. The Cuota Highway from Tepic to Guadalajara was a bit different than the previous one: it had two lanes on each side, shoulder and a divider. Now it did look like a highway and the enclosure sensation was even greater. The option that I found to spend the night was simply to ask for permission at the tool booth to set the tent at the side of the road. Even tough I didn’t have trouble to get permission, the endless noise with the traffic and stopping and going of the big trucks made the night not so very pleasurable.

After such a night and almost 50 Km without eating, I needed a technical pit stop to recharge energies. I arrived to an exit and I didn’t hesitate to ride the 5 km that separated me from the town of Jala. Until then it wasn’t much more than a spot in my map without too much relevance, but on the other hand, it revealed itself as a beautiful place, with a relaxed and quiet atmosphere, colorful and impeccably maintained houses that welcomed every sense. It was a pleasure for the eyes with the artisan palette of their constructions, a rest for the ears with the birds singing, a permanent temptation with the food aroma emanating from some of the houses. At the Fonda Doña Melva I found the food that I needed and Fernando, its owner, didn’t want to charge me when I finished my lunch. Looking for a cyber-café to check my email, I met Francisco and the crowd from the Pepines Club, a diehard fan club of the local football (soccer) team, the Halcones (Falcons). Soon we became friends and when we arrived we were exchanging photos and talking about the trip and all the beautiful things that Jala had to offer. They gave me the club logo to carry on my bike and that how the face of the famous Don Ramon started sharing the road with me from the side of my back pannier. A very special place with very special people. The landscape has been changing slowly since I had left the coast and some bluish green cacti started to dominate the panoramic scene everywhere. They were blue Agaves, the raw material of the arch-renowned Mexican drink, the Tequila. I had just crossed into Jalisco State and I was entering the core of world of Tequila. So that’s’ when I arrived to the town of Tequila, birthplace of the famous drink and it deserved a stop to see closely what was all about.

Even though Tequila was not very architecturally picturesque, the fact that everything moved around the drink made it more attractive. One could buy tequila in every street corner, there were factory tours to visit and learn the making process, there were two museums about the subject, there was Tequila ice cream and, of course, the coffee was made with tequila! I didn’t wan to be the exception to the rule, so I follow the tradition of trying all the different varieties: white, rested and aged. I even tried the double tequila, which was the first distilled fraction, was almost 50 º proof and it almost kills me. After testing that absolute alcohol all the others tasted the same!! As it was well said by a popular saying: “If the came to Tequila and didn’t left drunk, what did they came for?” Wise words!!!

Rosa Maria was in charge of restituting my energies in the stand at the local market, where every night she set up a table where people would push to taste her exquisite “Pozolo”, a very nutritious stew, as well as “tostadas”, “tacos” and “sopes”. By far, the best place to eat in the whole town.

While I was writing a bit at the zocalo, having a coffee and looking people passing by, I was witness of something very curious. At 9 pm sharp, the church bells started ringing and all the people automatically stopped everything that they were doing, they stood up and looking at the church they made the sign of the cross, lowering their heads as if they were praying. Seconds later they returned to their activities as if nothing had just happened. I was obviously out of place and I didn’t understand what was going on. When I asked, I was told that every night after the 8 pm mass, the priest would come out to bless the town, a religious custom the went back to remote times and even in these modern times and a just a few miles from the second sized city in Mexico, was still intact.

The last part before reaching Guadalajara was full of tension and adrenaline. I was back in the Libre highway and I grew unaccustomed to the truck passing me so close after a few days in the Cuota highway. I had to re-learn fast or I would never arrive in one piece!

Passing through El Arenal, I decided to give my nerves a break and I looked for shelter at the local Michoacana. It was a torrid afternoon and it seemed like time had stopped in that little time at siesta time. The laziness was contagious. There, Bertha and Artemis taught me some local history and told me their origins were in a town in Michoacan called Tocumbo.. Would it be on my path? 

Looking for something to eat, I ended up being invited to eat a great torta ahogada (drowned cake, a beef sandwich dipped in salsa) by the friendly and beautiful Sofia and Nayeli, mother and daughter respectively, who were hard to tell apart. Nayeli was part of an all female mariachi band… Orale! I was getting close to the birthplace of the mariachi music, I was arriving to Guadalajara!

I entered Mexico’s second city on a Friday afternoon. I would say that it’s not recommendable to do with a fully loaded bike and thousands of people trying to get back to their homes or getting out to have a drink. In a few kilometers my access road using Vallarta Ave turned into a viaduct full of traffic where at every meter I had to avoid being struck by cars. On top of that I had to cross from one side to the other to stay in the path of circulation and I even had to go under a couple of underpasses and bridges where the space was nearly void!

Mi initial contact in the city was Karla, a cousin of Esther, from Ensenada. They were going to wait for me at a street corner that I was never able to find. Crazy with the traffic I was more concentrated in staying alive that on where I was. The night had fallen and I was lost. I asked for directions and when I told the occasional lady where I was going, she told me emphatically: “noooo, you just past it” “Too far?” I asked. “Well, yes, very far”. Kindly she offered to guide me so I retraced my path trying to keep up with the 40 km/h of her car. Seeing that we were getting back into the viaduct and that if I kept going that way I was going to get run over, panting and with my tongue out, I thanked her and I decided to call Karla so she could come to my rescue. I sat down at the curbside of a Pemex, the state run gas stations that abound in the country, and I spent the time looking at people passing by while I took some tea that I had in my thermos. When they saw Maira they would cordially say hi and I was surprised by the number of cars that, when they recognized the Argentinean flag on the bike, would smile and cheer me with their horns.

After arriving to Karla’s place and I met Yariel, a friend of hers that was part of a cyclists association,"GDL en bici", ), who offered to receive me and host me during my stay in Guadalajara. After having a snack to recharge batteries, we took off to downtown. Without knowing it and only a few hours after arriving, I was in the middle of a birthday party, surrounded by people that I didn’t know but that knew about me… mostly because when they entered the place, they found Maira fully loaded on the corridor! It was Brenda’s party, sister of Paola, my new host and homeowner.

The guys also were part of a civic group called "City for everyone", and that same Sunday was the 3rd Festival for Mobility, an event that tried to generate awareness about the benefits of reclaiming public spaced and having sustained and inclusive urban mobility. They were also promoting the benefits of a quality mass transportation and the promotion of no-motorized means of transportation, in favor of the integration of the different means of transportation and the pedestrians.   

They invited me to participate and I didn’t hesitate. It was very interesting to be part of the bicycle workshop and tell people about my trip. I set up the tent, unrolled my sleeping bag, set up the pots and stove and I welcomed people saying “this is my house, my bed, my kitchen, my bathroom” while gesturing all around me… I was asked thousands of questions and among the most common ones was how many kilometers I did a day and the big general obsession: how many tires had I used until then. The most original question came from a girl that casually asked: “So, who taught you to ride a bike?” I had to recognize that I was surprised by her question…

There was plenty of press during my days in the city and combined with the Festival, the subject of my trip appeared in several news outlets such as TV, newspapers and radio. My passing thought the Tapati world brought more media than what I expected!!

I kept meeting more people and little by little I discovered the city charm. It’s been a long time since I stopped in such an urban place for some days and it was curious to see the shopping malls and name brand stores that were inexistent until now in the rural Mexico that I was passing through.

Guided by the expert Yeriel, we were sightseeing the city through areas more bike friendly. The main accesses were definitively hostile to cyclists. He took me to "Orate", a mechanic expert in competition bikes that he met at the festival and had offered to check Maira with no cost. There, he told me of a nefarious practice that spoke of the little consideration that people had towards cyclists. It was call “tapetazo” and it consisted of leaning out of the car through the window and hitting the biker on the back with the “tapete” (car carpet). It was generally done at traffic lights, but he got his when going down a hill and very fast. From the hit he flew away until hitting the ground, with exposed fractured bones, but fortunately alive. Just now, and after 6 months of recovery and therapy, he was getting back on the bike. “Be careful and attentive… some around here are beasts” What else to say?

Many of the characters I crossed path with had traveled to Argentina, they greeted me with the classic “Che boludo” (Note: che [interj] [vocative] ‘hey!’, ‘hey, you!’ boludo/a [adj] [rude] (of a person) stupid, annoyingly silly; clumsy; also used as an addressing term among friends) and they stated to talk about football (soccer). On several occasions they send me regards to Maradona, as if it was that simple to go back to Argentina and drop by Diego’s house! It was also common to be related to the movie about the Che Guevara “Motorcycles Diaries”. “I wish” I said, “I can’t even come close to the Che”. There was a special reception in this place that made me feel very comfortable and at home.

Together with Karla and her cousin and my new cyclist friends, we went around the typical places and enjoying the infinite varieties of food, one much better than the previous one. The only thing that I couldn’t pass were the candies with chili… how can they use hot peppers on a candy? That was just too much!!

I could go to a Mariachi’s show, a typical “tapati” symbol and I also experienced myself that what they told me was true: “in Guadalajara, underneath every floor tile there’s a mariachi” I was surprised to see a great number of these musicians offering their services on the streets. For the right amount one could have a complete show at home or just enjoy their songs from the comfort of the car. Crazy!!

The historical downtown was an array of squares, parks and monuments that requires many hours of attention. The market was the biggest in Mexico and with its four floors; it was overwhelming with the abundance of things that one could buy there. From food, to clothes and recently premiered movies freshly copied (illegally), to leather sandals and furniture for the home. It was a world on its own, full of aromas, sounds and colors.

The days were passing by, my cycling shoes were nowhere to find and poor Paola kept me in her house. It was incredible to believe her patience considering that I was always complaining that I slept on the floor and there wasn’t any hot water. I was able to get them to install a water heater, but I kept sleeping on the same spot…

During that intense urban week I went to one of the meeting of “City for Everyone” and I was impressed by how well organized they were and the way they conducted their meetings, in complete order and tranquility. They were a group of spontaneous volunteers with common interests and the spirit of self-giving was apparent. Those days they were preparing a protest against one of the pedestrian bridges built on the controversial new viaduct Lopez Mateos and I included myself for the cause helping out making the signs for the protest. It was uplifting to see them work and to be part of the fight for a noble and justified fight in spite of the government indifference. But it was necessary to start somewhere and may be this was one of the first steps…

Finally my shoes arrived and it was time to go back to the bike. That last night we got together at “La Squina”, a restaurant that belong to Valentina’s parents, a singer that I had met the day before during a radio interview and that invited me to dinner as a contribution to the trip. What I didn’t think was that we were going to end up being a crowd invading the whole place!! Between the people of GDL on a Bike and City for Everyone, we crowded out the place on an unforgettable dinner that could’ve easily been confused with the one at the beginning of the trip!

It was hard to go back to the road. I liked the place and its people. Yeriel, Paola, Brenda, Juan, Toño, Karenina, Margarita, Etienne… with all of them and some more I had shared good times and it was hard to leave this new home behind after all that I had lived. That was the hardest thing about traveling like this. Goodbyes were always hard and a piece of me was always left behind. They had made a mark on me with their friendship, they endless warmth and their spirit…

With a torn heart, the emotions coming out of my skin and the happiness of knowing that some day I would see them on the road, I started my slow ride the morning of Saturday, January 9th. While I was leaving the city I was a witness to the protest that was happening under the bridges of the Lopez Mateos viaduct. I was proud of them and I hoped that this and future activities would have the echo and response that they deserved.

In the afternoon I arrived to San Pedro de Tresistan, on the shores of Lake Chapala. There, I met Nacho, a contact of Virgina from Mazatlan, and who would have a place to spend the night. With 70 years “young”, he professed an extreme socialism and a hippie culture that made me feel like like I was back in the California’s 60s. He was a dentist and took care of the local people and surroundingareas for no cost, earning his money with what he charged the “gringos” that crowded up the opposite shore of the lake. Along with his son Ariel we could follow a tennis match where the Argentinean player Nalbandian was eliminated from the competition, without much pull from the singular fun club that he had on this side of the screen. The next day he made me a favor by taking care of a cavity that was bothering me for some time and I hadn’t decided to take care of. I knew that sooner or later I would find a specialist that would do the honors… Once again, the prophetic phrase became true: “the road will provide”!

I could’ve taken the Cuota highway and in just three days arrive in Morelia, but it wasn’t that much fun, considering that the beautiful landscapes of the Michoacan State were just over there, inland! So I decided to take the secondary roads with the goal of seeing in person the mythical birthplace of the “Michoacanas” ice-cream parlors, the town of Tocumbo.

Riding through those roads meant passing by many little towns that didn’t show up on my maps.
I read the names on the signs and I asked myself if I was still on the right road! Just in case, it was better to always corroborate with someone, to avoid ending up who knows where… But there was always someone to ask and that’s how I ended up climbing 5 hard km when I started to suspect that it wasn’t “all way downhill”  as I was told in the previous town. A woman confirmed that I was totally wrong and after corroborating her story with two other people (just in case she was the lost one), I turned around and enjoyed a beautiful descent where in 10 minutes I retraced what took me 1 hour and several liters of sweat on the other direction.

That choice of roads also meant that the quality of the roads in some parts was a bit better than a mine field, where the ditches and potholes didn’t reveal the original trace of the road. The descents on these conditions required the skill and dexterity of an expert player of the classic game “pole position”! More than once I wasn’t able to avoid the hole in the ground and from the shake, one of the rear panniers flew through the air claiming its freedom from the oppressive rack… At least the traffic was less intense and one could pick the best part of the road to advance.

Riding through these little towns spread out in the valleys added a new enemy for the cyclist:  the “topes” (speed bumps). When getting closer to an urban area and going through its downtown area, these bumps, designed to reduce the speed of passing cars, could become mortal traps. Especially when they were placed at the bottom of a hill and without any signs! Coming down as I was, it was impossible to avoid the sharp hit on the wheels when going over one of those devilish creations…making the rear pannier flying freely again. From the amount that I counted I even thought that they reproduced freely everywhere!! The most dangerous ones were made of metallic spheres embedded in the pavement that left just enough space to go by with the bike wheels. A deviation of an inch to either side and bye, bye!

The climbs where more steep and longer, and the topography of the central valleys turned out to be more intricate and demanding to my legs. After the first climb I arrives to Manzanilla, a place where in a few minutes I met Jose Luis Toro, a man who from his car window asked me if I had a place to stay and when I said no, immediately took me to his brother’s house, who was working in the “north”, letting me stay there. On top of that he also offered me some of the chicken that he just purchased for dinner. My face expression showed surprise and happiness for the unexpected welcome. That night I went to the local tavern and following Nacho’s advice I tried “la paloma” (the dove), a drink with tequila, punch and soda, that was effervescent and I was supposed to drink it fast with a straw. Its effect was immediate and was like a hammer hitting me on the head. A bit happy and singing low I went back to the house, where I collapsed on the bed… at least I drank it before going to bed and not during a riding day!!!

My climbing ended the next day at Mazamitla, the highest point in Jalisco, and a picturesque town with great tourist affluence and where Alvaro, an occasional lunch partner invited me with some quesadillas with ham. In a juice and smoothies stand they prepared me an energetic drink with quail eggs, just so I wouldn’t lack the strength for what was coming ahead. That afternoon I entered the State of Michoacan and the welcoming reception came from Fernando, from Las Tablas, who on top of following me with his truck to ask about the trip, he gave me a few bottles of fresh water and a sweatshirt of Chivas, one of the most popular football (soccer) teams in Mexico, “So you won’t get cold at night”

With a smile on my face I continued my way and as soon as I crossed the 12000 km (7500 miles) on the road, I arrived to Tocumbo with the nightfall. I had imagined the zocalo (gazebo, see above) as an endless succession of “Michoacanas” (ice-cream parlors) one next to the other, selling the exquisite popsicles and ice-creams, together with tasty slushies. But no, there were only three ice-cream stored and paradoxically, none of them was called “La Michoacana”. What a disappointment!!

I definitively must have been the only “güero” (blond) that looked like a gringo around there and my presence got peoples attention. I sat at the stand of doña Chela to eat some “tostadas” with the local people, but initially the atmosphere was tense. I was out of place there. When I ordered and said “without chili please, in Argentina we are not used to eat hot food” the situation turned 180 degrees. Soon the atmosphere relaxed and we started taking lively. The degree of confidence kept growing and even doña Chela insinuated to me a bit, some ladies invited me to try the ice-cream of their nearby stand and a man that turned out to be the manager of the municipal park, allowed me to spend the night in such place. The magic of Tocumbo seemed to be true and not because of its popsicles, but because of its people.

While I was leaving the park the next morning I run into a guy that was coming into the place. We saw me while I was walking next to Maira and he asked me: “Where are you coming from like this?” “From Alaska” I answered “And I’M going home, in Argentina”. Without more comments he looked at me for a while, his eyes scanning me with total disbelief while he was shaking his head from side to side, as if he was saying “no, no”. “Are you ok?” he finally asked me. “Do you want me to call a taxi?” While laughing and leaving him lost with his own thoughts about this crazy guy that he just met, I crossed the entryway and I started to pedal.

After passing through Reyes a very steep climb started and that was supposed to go through the town of Zacan. Just before that, a little truck stopped by my side and some guys offered me with a “chela” (beer) to calm down the morning heat that was already noticeable. “No, Thanks” I said. “If I drink at this time, I can drive later”. They smiled back at me, wished me good luck and continued their way. I did the same but a much slower pace. With my turtle-like pace the landscape seemed to pass me in slow motion. I got closer to the towns slowly and it even let me keep conversations with the occasional pedestrian, if it wasn’t for the fact that I was out of breath. I had the feeling that I was frozen in space and that everything had an inclination of 45 degreed with respect to me. It was probably due to the effect of the heat stroke that I was about to have, so I decided to make a stop and rest under some pine trees, that now were lushly decorating the side of the road. 

I was constantly surpassed by trucks full of men that went and came back from the nearby fields to harvest avocados. The abundance of these green and delicious fruits gave me the idea that I was in the heart of the avocado country. The endless trucks that offered such fruits at the side of the road at the entrance of the towns was another proof of that.

I finally arrived to Zacan with an unstoppable urge to find a Michoacana to get a slushy. In its place I found an old religious temple built out of wood of an absolute beauty that captivated me for a while and allowed me to talk to the caretaker, an old lady that kindly told me about the restoration work that was being done, while her smile was brighten up with the sun shining on the numerous silver fillings on her teeth.

I decided to try my luck in the next town so I entered Angahuan. Without knowing I was entering in a town with a population of native origins: the Purepecha’s culture was felt at every corner. The look on people’s faces was of mistrust. The women were covered with their traditional cloaks, the “rebozos”. The town was a bit run down and as if it was abandoned. I advanced barely on the rough road until I arrived to the local “zocalo” and I drunk a refreshing juice while I looked people pass by and I was observed by the pedestrians. Even though the atmosphere was weird, it still had its charm. It was the entryway to the Paricutin Volcano that erupted more than half a century ago and entombed a nearby town leaving exposed only the church dome and the altar. It was one of the emblems of Michoacan but the weather was not auspicious, it was late and I didn’t have the time to take a side excursion. May be on another opportunity…

I was in the final approach to the city of Morelia. I went through the city of Uruapan, recognized because the Eduardo Ruiz National Park, where the water source of the river Cupatitzio are located. I stopped at Lake Zirahuen, of an exceptional beauty and tranquility and I finally stopped for a few hours in Patzcuaro, old colonial capital city that was a worthy show because of its impeccably conserved downtown.  I was told that the “nieves de garrafas metalicas” was the specialty of the place and it didn’t take time to corroborate it. They were delicious!! These ice-creams are made my manually mixing the milk and the rest of the ingredients inside metal cylinder that were kept on ice and they were served right there with a creamy texture and “frappe”.   

After visiting an old temple converted into a library, I returned to the pedals to find myself in the middle of a sudden storm that appeared from nowhere. The big drops started to fall sparingly until turning into a Dantesque downpour. At the beginning I looked for some shelter and when it slowed down I kept going. It wasn’t much time until another downpour started and as I was already wet I decided to keep going and see how it evolved from there. Soon I started to hear thunder and later lightning. The potent and sharp noise was near. The rain drops were splashing from the force they were falling down. The cars passing by were drenching me without leniency or consideration. I was concentrated on the road and searching for some shelter when a flash of blinding whiteness fell just a few meters from me on a tree. The noise was deafening and immediately I felt a sensation on my thumbs that I had on the metallic part of the handlebar. I was almost struck by lightning!!! It scared the hell out of me and I stopped at the first place that I found, still skeptical about what just had happened and thinking about how ridiculous would have been to finish the trip that way!  The sun came out just a few minutes later as if nothing had happened. But now I knew that those kids of storms were not to be underestimated, no matter how good the rain gear was.

That afternoon I arrived to Morelia, capital city of Michoacan State, which impressed me with its colonial architecture in its perfectly conserved historical downtown. I had nothing to be envious about with many European cities. There was a perfectly restored viaduct that reminded me the magnificent Roman work in Segovia, Spain, illuminated artistically at night; it was a gift for the eyes that delighted with its beauty.

My contact there was Jorge Rezza, brother of the director of the Tijuana SOS Children’s Village, who offered to host me while I was visiting the local Village. I arrived to his home; I settled down and started to talk about the trip. To me he was simple Luis Miguel’s brother, until I asked him about his job. His answer simply was: “I’m the Secretary of Security of the State of Michoacan”… Ok!! He was the Police Chief! The person responsible for the fight against the drug lords in one of the areas with most of the problems in that respect. Capi di tutti capi!!! And I was talking to him like he was the next door neighbor.

Those were rather atypical and bizarre days. They invited me to eat in restaurants where the value of the bill could easily cover one week of my trip, we traveled in an armored SUV, with chauffer and always followed by the custody of four armed bodyguards. He had a personal assistant who could help him with anything that he might need and I was bothering him with trivial things like making photocopies of some maps, getting some duct tape or fixing the cover of my cooking pot. And to think that there were many people that were waiting for months to have a meeting with him. Nevertheless, he was a simple man, humble and generous that he didn’t look like he was in charge of such position of hierarchy and responsibility. His compromise with the SOS Villages cause was total and thanks to him they had many achievements for the creation and maintenance of the local Village.

My stay prolonged far beyond what was intended because I got a stomach intoxication that put me down for 3 days. Initially I thought that may be it was an act against Jorge and that I got it by chance. But then, the drug dealers were less subtle and when they attacked someone, they did it with bullets. Thinking about it, may be it was Jorge himself to get rid of me!! In any case, the Monteczuma curse got to me and it was the first time that I had to rest. And it wasn’t even from one of those little stands on the street where the cleanliness was just unheard of…It was better here than on the road, wasn’t it?

After a second visit to the kids at SOS Children’s Village Morelia, where the affection and love coming from the kids…and from the aunts, were present again, I prepared everything to get back on the road. Oaxaca was waiting for me and I had a set timetable. But that is part of another chapter!

Until next time!

Good Trails!

Damián

Argentine-Mexican Dictionary Vol. II

As I was getting into Mexican territory I continued to learn more about the little linguistic differences between our languages. Here is some proof of that:

A “refresco” is a soda and “agua mineral” is sparkling water. With “tapa” is when it comes in a non-returnable bottle and “vidrio” (glass) well, precisely that! The “toronja” is the grapefruit and the “Fresca” is the equivalent to Quatro in Argentina (grapefruit soda). If one wants it at room temperature, then you ask for “al tiempo”. A “caguama” is a 1 liter beer bottle and a “ballena” is the one corresponding to the brand name Pacífico.

A “chilango” is an individual from the capital district like our “porteños”, and “Chivas” and the “América” are the football (soccer) teams analogous to Boca and River, that curiously had the colors exchanged. “Chivas”, which is the most popular, carries the color white and red, while the “America” wears blue and gold. 

To eat “botanas” is to have a snack. The Dulce de Leche (Argentinean milk caramel) is called “cajeta”, but here is made of goat milk. If it’s hot it’s “picoso” and warm is “calientito”. From too much eating one gets “lonjas” instead of “love handles”.

A “tope” is a speed bump; the “chinos” are the hair curls. Instead of careful, they say “aguas, aguas” (water, water). “Simon” means yes and “adiós, que le vaya bien” is like saying bye, see you later. The wind is called “aire” (air), the lawyers are “licenciados” instead of “”doctors” (common in Argentina) and the “jefa” is the mother. And “pinche” is a common expression that in a movie caption will probably say “damn”!

An extra gift

Before leaving Guadalajara, Toño and the rest of the friends from GDL on bike, gave me this video hoping that like Freddy, I could also reach some day my spiritual balance. Would I finish like the author of this clip???

 

Dedication

To Pablo Giménez Simison, who with his young 21 years old, left prematurely form this world, leaving an emotional void impossible to fill up again. Pablito, these kilometers are dedicated to you…

Good Trail!

Acknowledgements

To Oscar Pérez López, Mario Camacho and Nicolás Quirós: the truck drivers that lent me hand on the ferry to Mazatlan and for your interest in my trip. And especially to Miguel Garcia: passionate with the life of Che, who also took me into his home and gave me all his family hospitality..

To Maria Murillo and her family: thanks for your welcome and let me receive 2008 within a family.

To Virginia Nethe Johnston: for offering me a place to spend the night in Mazatlan which apparently was predestinated.

To Jesús Zamudio, Jesús Edgardo González and Eric Alonso Heredia, Transit and Federal Policemen: for the advice about riding on Mexico’s highways and the SCT hat.

To Noe Morales and Valente, from the settlement Los Pequeños Gigantes: for allowing me to sleep at your place.

To Jesús Dolores Altamirano yand family: for the interest demonstrated on my trip and the economical support that was rapidly invested in a good lunch.

To Jesús Gomez Quintero, Antonio Hernández, Isabel López López and Chavelo Viena: for the hours of conversation by the fireplace next to the road to Tepic and for letting me spend the night in your house at La Higuerita Vieja.

To Laurentino González López and Jorge Alfredo Parra Bernal: for inviting me with lunch in Rosamorada.

To Don Amado Ocampo: for the interesting conversation and for allowing me to stay at the Autopistas Pacifico camp.

To Alba Ortiz Montes and Javier Antonio Palomares, from the Red Cross of Ixtlan del Rio: for allowing me to camp next to the toll booth of the Tepic-Guadalajara highway.

To Fernando Carrillo Sánchez: for inviting me to lunch at la Fonda Doña Melva, in Jala, Nayarit.

To Francisco Javier Cambero and the rest of the gang from Los Pepines Club: for the good vibes, the gifts and the spontaneous friendship on my way through Jala, Nayarit.

To Sirahuen Palomera Sandoval, from Tequila: for making me an artisan sticker on Mexico for Maira and for the interesting conversation we had that January afternoon.

To Rosa Maria Cardona Hernández and Guillermina Vázquez Elarde, from the restaurant La Chatita, Tequila: for the exquisite food that you let me try and the familiar atmosphere that you allowed me to enjoy.

To Nayeli de la Cruz and Sofía, from El Arenal: for the invitation with “tortas ahogadas” and those smiles and seductive looks that I won’t forget so easily.

To Artemio Andrade Cárdenas and Bertha Elena Cárdenas, from “La Michoacana” at El Arenal: for revealing the secrets of Tocumbo and giving me some ice-cream.

To Jorge Gutiérrez Velásquez, Gerardo Guerrero, Waldo Pérez Chávez, Efraín Vázquez Fuentes and  Omar Hernández de la Garza: for that spontaneous stop in the middle of the road to take a picture with me.

To Karla Amezcua: for all the dedication and friendship that you gave me while staying in Guadalajara. Without your help it wouldn’t have been the same. And to your cousin: for the logistical support and companionship.

To Ana Paola Solís Gutiérrez: without your hospitality and patience, my days in Guadalajara wouldn’t be so memorable.  Thanks for your unselfish friendship and care.

To Yeriel Salcedo: a great friend, passionate about the bike and future traveler who was my guide through the intricate streets of Guadalajara. Let the life ride…!!

To Brenda Solís and Juan, Patricia Karenina, Toño Vaca y Margarita Marín, the other members of the “GDL on bike”: you welcomed me as a brother in your city and you moved me with your cordiality and human warmth.

To Etienne von Bertrab, César, Cecy Mendoza and all the other members of “Ciudad para Todos”: I shared unforgettable moments of camaraderie and fraternity.

To Patricia Martinez: for the excellent note you did about my trip in the newspaper Diario Publico .

To Eduardo Escalante, a.k.a. Tobías the Maravillas clown: for your altruist work with the SOS Children’s Villages.

To Cristian Briseño, from the music group Esperantho and the Zaicocirco: for your interest in my trip and the good vibes.

To Horacio Valdez, the “Orate”: for your uninterested collaboration doing a full service to Maira with your expert hands.

To Mario Covarrubias, “Mowgli” your family and your friends: for the confidence deposited on me to give you advice for your future biking trip from Alaska to Guadalajara. Good trails guys!!

To Nora Patricia, announcers at the radio show “El Detonador” and “Micro”: for the interest in my trip and the interview you did while I was passing through Guadalajara.

To Valentina González: for the music, the invitation to dinner and the good vibes towards me and my new friends. Good luck with your new album!

To Víctor Valdos: for inviting me with some exquisite “tortas ahogadas” on my way out of Guadalajara.

To Alberto Cárdenas González and Jaime,: for opening me the doors ot your home in Guadalajara.

To Ignacio Hernández González: for your life philosophy, for welcoming me in your home with your son Ariel and for getting rid of my cavities!!

To José Luis del Toro: for the spontaneous offer of lodging and dinner in La Manzanilla, Jalisco.

To Julio Martínez Torres, from the video store in La Manzanilla: for allowing me to use your computer to check my emails.

To Alvaro: thanks for breakfast in Mazamitla!

To Fernando Galván Medina, from Las Tablas: for the fresh water and the Chivas sweatshirt!

To Doña Chela: thanks for the great tostadas in Tocumbo and for taking the 12000 km picture with me!

To Raúl Arteaga: for the permission to sleep at the Ojo de Agua Park, in Tocumbo.

To Mariano and Alma: for that unforgettable dinner at Jorge’s, in Morelia, where you tried to get me drunk with Mezcal in vain.

To Yuri Pérez Barrientos, Salvador Luna and Aline Avakian, Carlos Valdés Glover and Juan Ramón Pérez Barrientos: for the good vibes and the moments shared on my second pass through Uruapan.

To José Antonio Macouzet Guerrero: for that luxury lunch you gave me in Morelia.

To Delfino Martinez Soliz: thanks for the hat and your words of support and encouragement.

To Sealtiel Rivera Najera: for doing so many things for my trip and chare your adventures on a bike with me… and for the shopping spree too.

To Adrián Romero Ramos and Maricruz, the aunts and all the children of SOS Children’s Village in Morelia: you got a piece of my heart in your hands…

To Jorge Reza Maqueo: thanks for offering me your home, your friendship and your experience during the days that I’ve spent in Morelia. Your contacts, contributions and sincere interest on my trip will always be a great impulse for my pedals.

To the news people that came to me in Guadalajara and Morelia to cover my trip: your coverage helps this social project with SOS Children’s Village to reach more people. Thanks!

And to all the people that anonymously gave me a hand with something to drink or eat during these days on the road…

Some Statistics

Days on the road: 234

Days on the bike: 144

Kilometers done: 12,247 km (1300 on gravel)

Average kilometers done per day: 85.0 km

Hours on the bikei: 718h28m (29d22h28m)

Average speed: 17.05 km/h

Maximum speed: 81.5 km/h, descending the Sunwapta Pass, Canadá (15-08-2007)

Meters climbed: 106,641 m

Maximum height: 3023 msnm, Tioga Pass, USA (03-11-2007)

Amount of popsicles and litters of fresh water consumed at “la Michoacana” stores: hundreds!

Scaring moment when I was almost struck by lighting: Mayor!!!