CRESTED BUTTE TO ACAPULCO
By Steve Church
'The Truth In Travel'
Illegal aliens have always been a problem in the United States. Ask any Indian. Robert Orben
Traffic signals in Mexico are just rough guidelines.
David Letterman
This off season myself & Vicki B drove to Acapulco. A road trip not unlike spending 6 weeks driving across a burning garbage dump, we drove 6000 miles in a un-air conditioned black truck during the hottest, driest time of year.
We are still speaking however..... through our attorneys.
The Mexican influence can be felt immediately upon heading south from Crested Butte when names such as Dos Rios, & Taco Bell start appearing. By the time one reaches Alamosa & Antonito, you can practically smell Mexico.
But its when you pull into Santa Fe that the true Spanish flavor hits you like a piñata stick.
There, between bumper to grill BMW's & Rolls Royce's, lies an authentic Spanish square, populated by authentic Spanish dressed individuals struggling under weighty Turquoise, & clomping about in 500.oo environmentally correct Iguana hide cowboy boots.
But for a few dead dogs one could almost imagine himself fully ensconced in our Gucci southern neighbor.
We checked into the La Fonda, a snooty restored monastery or something, located just off the square.
At 6:00 the next morning workmen continued restoring the tile tub in the room adjacent ours....with a jackhammer.
There was no way I was going to suffer this brain rattling intrusion without a fight. Besides, you could feed a small country on what the La Fonda charged for a room, & here was my bargaining tool.
I would fight snooty with snooty.
Behind the front desk stood a ram-rod straight impeccable woman of obvious aristocratic lineage. Her long neck protruded from a massive cluster of Silver & Turquoise. She stared down a finely chiseled nose at me as if gazing upon a 200 LB cockroach. It looked expensive....the necklace that is.
"DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?" I screeched. I'll have her shaking in her Tony Lamas, I thought to myself....go easy on her...
"I'm so sorry sir," Icy, like a fur storage vault. "You don't know who you are?" "Perhaps its the Margaritas, sir." She sniffed.
"I'M THE TRAVEL WRITER FOR THE CRESTED BUTTE CHRONICLE, THAT'S WHO!"
"WELL!!" Her eyes stretched open, pulling taut her noble chin, "EXCUUUUSSE ME!!! She spun on a polished heel & disappeared into an office. "Boy, the things you see when you haven't got a gun." I thought she mumbled.
Mabey I was a little harsh with her, I was thinking when she returned & bared her perfect teeth into what may have been an attempt at a smile.
At this time to be completely fair & to avoid a costly lawsuit, I will say the La Fonda discounted the room 50% & probably would have given it to me free had I not opened my mouth in the first place. But its important these people know who their dealing with....right?
I realized at this point we were in the neighborhood of the 2nd wonder of the world, the Grand Canyon. The sign said 'You've come to far not to see it!'
I guess that all depended where you were coming from, but never-the-less we turned right at Albuquerque & sure enough, two days & two states later we stood on the breathtaking north rim as the sinking sun bathed the abyss in purples & reds. Its the silence that moves you, how can anything so big, be so quiet? There seemed to be some lesson here about my own mouth...but it eluded me.
We decided to check into the Grand Canyon Lodge. Built of stone & log it perches almost tastefully on an cliff that drops 5000 feet to the Colorado river. Great spot to take the kids.
"Off season rates!" smiled the desk clerk, "That'll be 176.oo plus tax."
We decided to check into the Grand Canyon campsite.
As awe inspiring as the Canyon is, its spirituality loses something amid the hordes of camera clicking tourists & squealing un-attended yard apes. If one doesn't care to hike the 8 mile trail down & back in 100 degree heat, then there are two other options for viewing this natural wonder. Helicopter, or on the back of a underdeveloped, pencil-legged burro.
The sun had just risen when a young woman behind the counter was explaining basic helicopter survival to us.
"Do not walk anywhere near the tail rotor....instant sushi!!" She giggled at her good humor, we stared at her... early morning, when nothing is funny.
"And don't throw anything from the window, the rotor may suck it up!"
I hadn't even realized you could open a window in a helicopter... where's a cat when you need one...
As we lifted into the crisp morning air the teen-age pilot yelled over the roar
"HAD YOUR TEQUILA THIS MORNING?" I HAD MINE! TEQUILA SUNRISE! HA!"
Was I losing my sense of humor or what....
The chopper thumped along a few hundred feet above the desert when suddenly the bottom fell out. I instinctively lifted my feet from the floor & puckered my lips, trying to achieve weightlessness. What earlier had felt like riding the power of Desert Storm, suddenly assumed the feeling of being tossed off a cliff in a paper airplane. We hung like a confused gnat in that gorges of all gorges, more than a mile of air below our tingling feet.
Sure enough, there was a tiny slide window along side my seat. I threw it open in a blast of cold air. The pilot looked warily over his shoulder at me.
What did he think I was gonna do, jump?
I pulled the lens cap off my camera, let it dangle from the elastic lens cap cord & stuck the camera to the open window.
WHAM!WHAM!WHAM!!!!BANG! The lens cap crashed around the metal window frame, ripped off the elastic cord & shot out the window banging along side the thin metal fuselage on its way to the tail rotor...
The pilot jerked like a biology frog, his eyeballs leaving their sockets to come around his head & assess the damage.
"LENS CAP!!" I croaked, waiting for the tail rotor to chop through the cabin as we spun in flames to the canyon floor.
For a young kid that pilot certainly had a chilling look.
Minutes later, when we both realized we weren't going to die, the flight became nothing short of a religious experience. The rising sun casting bizarre shadows from naturally sculpted rock. More exposed history of the world than anywhere on earth. The river cuts less than an inch every couple thousand years, & its a mile deep. It is an open book of the earth's formation, the entire event of mankind just taking up the first couple of inches.
Layers of rock that are remnants of ancient mountains, sea beds, grasslands, deserts, jungles. Rock that holds fossils of primitive one celled plants to bones of giant lizards. Over 800 million years exposed before your eyes.
The Canyon is 217 miles long & 18 miles wide below our quivering craft.
Like one ant to another while stargazing: "Makes ya feel kinda small, don't it."
We landed back on the rim. It had been a soul-slapping way to start the day.
Heading south from the Grand Canyon, the mystic beauty of Oak Creek Canyon should not be missed. This cool, shadowy valley of curious sandstone formations & towering cottonwoods is a place where trolls & witches lurk. You'll arrive at the town of Sedona, the center of the universe, & a great place to pick up a over-priced crystal, to aid in communication with alien beings. And of course being the center of the universe, Sedona also offers numerous fudge shops & some excellent prices on rubber tomahawks.
Oak Creek Canyon spews out onto a flat barren wasteland of state prisons, & 'Don't Pick Up Hitchhikers!' signs.
It was getting hot... wind blasting in the truck windows like someone had left open the gates of Hell itself. We sped through a baking, sprawling Phoenix, the 'cool' climate of Crested Butte starting to look pretty good.
Then a couple days in the relaxed & classy Tucson outfitting for Mexico.
Two oil changes, octane additive, gallon of sunscreen, two gallons bug spray,
three gallons Pepto Bismo, one lipstick sized container of mace.
We were ready.
to be continued
CRESTED BUTTE TO ACAPULCO PT 2
By Steve Church
'The Truth In Travel'
There is nothing more exhilarating than to be shot at without result.
Winston Churchhill
There is something going on in Mexico that I happen to think is cruelty to animals. What I'm talking about, of course, is cat juggling.
Steve Martin
Looking for a good cement Jesus? How about Elvis on black felt? Or maybe a 3 foot plaster Mickey Mouse?
Then Nogales is the shoppers paradise you've been searching for.
Nogales, pronounced No-gal-es, means walnut in Spanish. There is not, by the way, a walnut in a 1000 miles of Nogales.
There is, however, no shortage of other nuts in this nasty border town, & they were all standing about flipping switchblades when I pulled in to obtain a Mexican car permit.
"Now you stay with the truck." I was telling Vicki, "while I get the paper work straightened out."
"Don't leave me here." threatened Vicki as three serial killer types volunteered to wash the windshield. "Why didn't we go to Miami?"
"Hey, Miami is dangerous....now if you have any trouble with these fellows here's the mace. Just point & shoot, simple."
Actually, I had traveled with that lipstick sized mace for 5 years & had yet had the opportunity to use it on anyone. The stuff was probably no stronger than a good dose of Jade East by now.
I stepped out into the crowd of grinning future aliens.
"Hi fellas, hey your getting grease on my truck...be good now, watch the Rotweiller in the back!"
Entering the stark immigration building, I took a place in line.....wrong line.
Another 10 minutes, another wrong line.
Finally a custom official raised himself from his comic book with tremendous
effort & tried unsuccessfully to hide his aggravation at allowing me into his country.
"Passports? Mexican car insurance?" The insurance had cost 10.oo per day & if there is the slightest possibility of having an accident & you don't have insurance, you will be receiving your mail at the Tijuana jail.
"Credit card?" The Mexican government now takes a credit card imprint if you bring a car into their country. If you don't leave with the car, they charge the price of said car to your card. It is a shaky proposition at best, as all record of your entry & exits are stored in empty tortilla boxes.
If you don't have a credit card, then a 500.oo cash deposit is required.
"What if I leave Mexico from another border station?" I asked.
"Be sure to check out."
"I mean, how will you know?"
"We'll know!" He snapped.
Apparently the tortilla box system is more advanced than one might suspect.
I shuffled from immigration a bit concerned that I had just left an open charge slip with a gangster in uniform.
There was a small greasy riot going on outside. A mob of young thugs swarmed over the truck. It looked as if someone had left a Chateaubriand
out for the hyenas. Inside the pile, inside the locked cab sat Vicki...frozen, staring out at the 3 dozen leering faces staring in. A rabbit in the headlights.
"Hey thanks fellas for watching the car!" I pushed my way to the door, unlocked it, & slid in next to my comatose traveling partner."Making some new friends?"
She sat frozen, as if something had shorted.
We backed out of that crush of criminals, wound our way through taco venders, & lottery salesmen onto Nogales' main street, 'highway' 15.
Being 100 degrees & having no air-conditioner, we were driving with the windows down, thus getting the true flavor of a Mexican city. Smoke belching trucks & busses, frying rodents, black fruit, faulty sewer, dead dogs.
"AH MEXICO!" I gulped down a chunk of throat scorching air.
"I wanna go to Miami!" squeaked Vicki.
"JUST A LITTLE CULTURE SHOCK!!" I screamed over the traffic. "IT'LL CLEAN UP OUT OF THE CITY!"
But it didn't clean up. A hazy smoke clouded the horizon. Fires lit by farmers & pot growers to clear land for their crops. The guide book suggests not leaving the main road in this state, 'to avoid seeing something you shouldn't.'
Pollution hangs heavy across the desert, the air an unhealthy gray, held a strange taste. Highway to horizon was covered in trash. Disposable diapers, glad bags, plastic containers roll & blow about the desert. Dead animals lined the burning pavement. At one point we pass a bloated horse, tongue out, four legs in the air like flag poles.
"PROBABLE JUST RESTING!" I yell at Vic....she apparently misses the joke.
All traffic is funneled into a police search. we are scrutinized & waved through.....must be getting old.
Another 30 miles, another police check.
"Where are you going?" He demands.
"Acapulco."
"Long ways, why didn't you fly?"....It was a good question.
There seemed to be an uneasiness about the place. In two hours we had already passed thousands & thousands of COLISIO signs. The assassinated presidential hopeful's name was everywhere, spray painted on walls, homes
billboards & an entire mountain.
He was the overwhelming peoples choice, a common man, an honest man. The JFK of Mexico, he had vowed to 'clean up' government.
He was apparently killed by just about everyone around him. The chief of police in Tijuana was put in charge of the investigation. He too was almost immediately killed by everyone around him.
They are having a little trouble finding anyone who wants to investigate that murder.
There is frustration in the air. Bumper stickers read 'Alto Mordida', or Stop Bribery. A documentary video called WHY CHIAPAS? is sold everywhere. The natives are restless, there is tension in banana land.
As progressive as Mexico's present government tries to be, there is blatant class discrimination. If your rich in Mexico, you are filthy rich. If you are poor, you are dirt poor. For instance, the toll highway.
In a country where 35% of the population lives in heartbreaking poverty, the government has invested billions in 4 lane paved highways, with solar powered emergency phones every 2 miles. These wonders of engineering are deserted, the reason being they are extremely expensive. Once you get on these roads there is no way off. You are sucked in, only to find it will cost 50.oo U.S. to the next off-ramp. From Nogales to Mazatlan, 150.oo U.S. We found one going from Acapulco to Mexico City, a 3 hour trip, to cost 170.oo.
So, no one can afford to use them, they lie deserted, while all traffic fights bumper to bumper on the 'free' roads wandering about the countryside.
A massive expenditure that helps no one but a very few rich.
If you do have the pesos & a lead foot however, these highways are a dream.
The average speed seemingly around 100 mph.
Blowing into Hermosillo on a scorching, trash laden, 80 mile per hour tail-wind, I stepped from the truck & was immediately whacked in the face by an airborne dirty diaper, my eyes sandblasted with grit.We bought ice & left.
If you were thinking of maybe taking the kids to Hermosillo, Mexico for this summer vacation let me read from Lonely Planet Mexico Guide Book page 374, & I quote: 'If you must stay in Hermosillo 'demand' a room with air-conditioning. Even then it probably won't work. Rooms tend to be scarce, most are rented out short term to hookers. At night the hookers tend to be noisy. Make your selection carefully.' Sound nice?
And this is a town of a half million people.
A couple more hours found us in the seaside American settlement of San Carlos, & from atop a cactus studded cliff we watched whales cavort as a blood red Mexican sun silently slipped under the glassy Sea Of Cortez. The worm had turned, suddenly this place did'nt seem half bad....
CRESTED BUTTE TO ACAPULCO PT 3
By Steve Church
'The Truth in Travel'
One could not even dignify him with the name of stuffed shirt. He was simply a hole in the air.
George Orwell
She's descended from a long line her mother listened to.
Gypsy Rose Lee
"SHUT UP YOU STUPID REFRIED BEAN BRAINED MEXICAN!!
I was making a new foreign friend. It was 2:oo in the morning in Los Mochis Mexico. I was screaming with my new friend through the tortilla thin walls of a roach motel.
" ESTUPIDO GRINGO PENDEJO!!" My new friend yelled back. He sounded eager to meet me, in fact he was now saying something about my mother...& my sister, perhaps he wanted to meet the entire family?
I dialed the front desk on a sticky phone that adhered to my lower lip.
"THIS IS SENOR CHURCH IN ROOM 21...THERE'S A ##@!! PARTY IN ROOM 20.
Silence on the other end, then...'So?"
"THEY ARE VERY LOUD !!"
"Yes I can hear them." Said the voice.
"WELL DO SOMETHING!!"
"Shall I call the police?" asked the voice.
"NO!!" I screamed.."NO POLICE!!" Never call the police in Mexico. If you think you had problems before, just wait till the police show up.
"Never mind." I hung up, my lip stretched with the phone & slapped back.
"HEY YANKEE CA CA HEAD!!" Screamed my neighbor over his blasting 'ranchero' radio. "QUE PASO GRINGO???"
"SHUT UP BURRITO BREATH!!" It was just a matter of time before the shooting started....
Finally by 4:30 the three amigos in room 20 passed out. I settled down on the scrape metal filled mattress & fluffed up the lead pillow.
Suddenly the metallic crash of a Mexican marching band blasted into life outside the window. I looked at my watch. 5:OO. I re-dialed the desk clerk.
"WHAT IN THE WORLD IS GOING ON?" Again yelling over the horrific din.
"Labor Day celebration senior!"
Well, no wonder. Any day off work in Mexico is certainly worth celebrating.
Why Los Mochis Mexico?...its the kick off point to the Copper Canyon.
The Copper Canyon is the Grand Canyon of Mexico, without the tourists. There are only two ways into this remote 900 mile long, mile deep labyrinth, a jeep road that is washed out 3 months of the year & crawling with bandits the rest of the time, or the Chihuahua al Pacifico railroad.
It seems that back in 1872 Albert C, Owen an American Socialist had started a utopian colony on the west coast of Mexico. 1500 other Americans joined him & with them & thousands of labors they commenced to build this marvel of engineering, this railroad through the Copper canyon. The project ended up taking 100 years & 100 million dollars to complete. Dozens of different contractors worked on the project over the years, including even Pancho Villa who tore up his own work during the Mexican revolution.
Finally completed this 410 miles of track creeps through 86 tunnels, crosses 35 bridges while dangling on impossible rock walls & spanning deep gorges.
The train passes small settlements of stoic Tarahumara Indians. These are the guys that run down deer for dinner.These are the people that eat peyote,
drink copious amounts of corn beer & run for hundreds of miles at a stretch. These folks for fun get hammered & race other tribes for up to 3 days kicking a small solid wooden ball ahead of them.
Perhaps if more families here in America got together ate some peyote buttons, swilled some corn beer & raced each other about the country side kicking a small ball, we'd have a lot less stress.....& perhaps not.
Anyway, these Tarahumara, of which about 50,000 live in mud huts & caves about the canyon were the only tribe in Mexico to resist Catholicism & to this day chose to believe in Raienari, the sun god & Mecha the moon god & protector of women. The Sorcerers are far more important than the few frustrated priests here. To cure the sick the Tarahumara dance. One needs good legs to hang with this crowd.
Continuing south again through the industrial city of Culiacan the sky a jaundice yellow with smoke & pollution, the highway lined with crosses of motorists that had under estimated their driving abilities. These roadside graves are often accompanied by a piece of the twisted wreckage that carried them to their deaths. At times two large crosses & 2 or 3 small ones testify to the grisly demise of an entire family. The taste of heavy pesticides coat our tongues as we pass thousands of hollow-eyed farm workers trudging of to the fields. The scene is post nuclear holocaust, the survivors of some toxic Armageddon walking slump shouldered in blowing dust & trash. We finally arrive in Mazatlan where the sea breezes have temporarily cleared the air. There are camp grounds right on the beach in Mazatlan, right in town. There are very few other gringos driving about Mexico now, plenty of spaces. I tie up my hammock in the cement floored cabana provided with the site.
"That string looks kinda flimsy, you sure you know what your doing?" offers Vicki.
"I know exactly what I'm doing, thank you, I have hung more hammocks than Tarzan." I sat gingerly & stretched out, "Besides this is parachute shroud line guaranteed to hold 1500 lbs....
WHAM!! The lights went out...
I came to a few minutes later lying like a flattened road kill on the cement, Vicki leaning over me.
"Can you hear me Tarzan? Maybe you'll want to collect on that 'guarantee'."
It took 10 minutes to scrape myself off that concrete, the fall had aged me 10 years.
Mazatlan is a fun town but it is also easy to get to. Go see it yourself.
We were awakened by a string of explosions, then Church bells, then another raucous brass band. It was 5:00 in the morning.
"QUE PASO? " I asked the campground urchin.
"The 3 rd of May getting ready for the 5th of May celebration." He cracked a grubby grin. We departed Mazatlan.
Driving south you'll come to the pleasant laid back village of San Blas. For surfers this is a tropical paradise with a three mile break. For the rest of us it is a humid bug ridden hellhole. The voracious no-see-ums have literally kept San Blas from becoming a major resort.
I recalled from a former visit a restaurant that kept live crocodiles in a stinking pit in the center of the establishment. When a patron finished dinner he simply threw the scraps over flimsy chicken wire to the evil fat beasts. The restaurant is gone now due to a few to many patron, crocodile 'mishaps'.
There is a Church on the square they have been working on for 40 years. The roof has just been started.
Things are going very slowly here in San Blas Mexico.
Things are not slow at all however in the booming port of Puerto Vallarta, a tourist town that has gone from sleepy fishing village to time-share heaven in 20 years. Fortunately the condo craze is well separated from the quaint old village center. It is a lively, beautiful place packed with great restaurants & cantinas. A great 'starter' town for the wannabe Mexican tourist.
More explosions...more bells...more drunken bands. It was Cinco de Mayo & there was no sleep to be had at the inn. Again we head south.
It was getting wild now, land of few gringos, land of deserted roads, land of bandits. We were careening through mountains of dead trees & circling vultures, the road a lonely garbage lined serpentine strip of blazing asphalt.
There was oddly no traffic...perhaps this road was as dangerous as they said?
We came flying over a scrub-brush rise & suddenly found ourselves entering a collection of mud huts. A group of about 30 ragged people stood on each side of the road. Between them, across the road stretched a cable.
The two crowds jerked the cable taut in front of us. I locked up the brakes...
BANDITS!!! to be continued
CRESTED BUTTE TO ACAPULCO PT 4
'The Truth in Travel'
By Steve Church
Both the chicken & the cockroach would get along without us, although the cockroach would miss us most.
Strange Mexican Saying
The higher the monkey climbs, the more you can see of his butt.
Stranger Mexican Saying
"WE'RE SURROUNDED BY INDIANS! I squealed to Vicki..."BANDITS!!! WHERE'S
YOUR PURSE??" A crowd of 30 ragged Indians lined both sides of the road, a cable stretched across the road between them.
"MY PURSE!! I'M THE ONE THAT WANTED TO GO TO MIAMI!!"
We screeched to a halt as the grimy group closed around...."TO DANGEROUS YOU SAID!! Vicki was ranting now..."MIAMI IS TO DANGEROUS YOU SAID!! HA!!"
A toothless, wrinkled old woman approached the window & thrust a chipped tin plate under my nose.
"We are collecting money for the Cinco De Mayo Fiesta!" She cackled.
"But its the 6th," I whispered to Vicki as a greasy group of campasino's fingered rusty machetes & leered at her.
"I don't care if its Christmas!" growled my traveling partner, "You pay these nice people." A fake grin was plastered on her lips...
I dropped 10 pesos in the plate, the woman's face cracked into a gummy smile, the crowd parted, the cable dropped & we were on our way.
Always ready to contribute to a party....
It was late afternoon when we saw the sign. El Tecaun it said, A Hotel.
We hadn't passed a piffle of civilization for 2 hours on this wild, wave swept coastline 100 miles south of Puerto Vallarta. Even as the dry season had turned most of Mexico into blowing dust, this stretch of lonely road dipped into lush valleys & palm lined lagoons. It was the cleanest most spectacular scenery we had seen yet...no doubt due to the lack of people.
I turned into the aged drive that led to El Tecaun. For 6 miles that single lane track coiled & wound toward the ocean through dense jungle & over-hanging moss. The road, covered with fallen vegetation & scuttling reptiles, looked as if no one had traveled down it since Alfred Hitchcock. Suddenly the jungle gave way to a fetid, malarial swamp where spoonbills & egrets stabbed at slithering prey. Jutting from this eerie mire thrust a jagged black cliff & perched atop it, like an obese, ancient bird of prey, clung El Tecaun.
Icy fingers ran down my spine as Vicki hummed 'The Twilight Zone.' We crept up the crumbling, cliff-clinging drive & arrived at what appeared to be a deserted ruin. The structure was an ancient soaring monastery of massive log & thick adobe. A round turret rose from the center....was that a face in the turret window? I looked again...it was gone.
"Creepy!" We both mumbled, then strangely were drawn from the truck toward the Hotel.
We approached the front desk, imposing in dark hardwoods, & hit a dusty bell. A door creaked open & an involuntary gasp escaped us a figure suddenly appeared. She floated toward us, tall, & slender as a willow, her perfectly chiseled face framed in cascades of raven hair. She stared at us from pure white eyes.
Without a sound, she seemed to drift to the timeworn guest book. Had she found the book by practice? For surely she was blind as a bat behind those milky sockets.
"May I help you?" Her voice rolling from some dark place...
"Are you open?" I was transfixed by the eyes...could she see me?
"Of course sir!" Again, the bottomless echo of her voice.
"OK, we'll take a room, but tell me please, just what does El Tecaun mean?"
"It means, 'the claw of the leopard', her hand made the shape of a birds talons as she raked the air in front of our startled faces.
Lifting a huge skeleton key from a board of 50, she motioned us to follow down an open corridor, while wind & swallows whipped around our heads. Without faltering the blind girl led us to a room, opening antique double doors onto a terrace over-looking the sea far below.
The setting sun back-lit mountainous emerald green waves, their tops crowned in shimmering locks of spray as they rolled toward the golden beach. You could see five miles both directions from our airy perch, & not a living thing in the entire mystic spectrum...not a thing that is but a beautiful black stallion. His tail & head held high, his mane flying, the horse was thundering down the beach. He seemed to be running for the sheer joy, kicking high at the explosions of crashing waves, nostrils flaring in the salt spray. Where had he come from? Where was he going? There was certainly not a soul for 50 miles either direction.
The pounding steed, like a phantom, disappeared into the golden mists.
"Beautiful horse." We both breathed...
"Horse?" The girl with the shattered eyes asked.
Perhaps she was blind then, just knowing the hotel by heart....or perhaps there had been no horse at all....
We were the only guests, she the only staff. The phones were for between rooms only. It was impossible to call out. As the sun hissed beneath the sea, & the wind moaned through the ghostly mansion, the girl with the glowing eyes brought us dinner on the verandah. Floating like smoke across the terra cotta floors, her silence unearthly.
The El Tecaun had its own airstrip, but like so many others had been bulldozed by the government in an effort to reduce drug smuggling. Like cutting its main artery, the 100 year old Hotel had slowly died. The strange & beautiful senorita, & the lonesome wind now its sole inhabitants.
After a restless night of shrieking gusts & slamming doors we departed the mystic El Tecaun. At the base of the cliff I looked back & there again, the face...the face in the turret....& then it was gone. Perhaps the sightless senorita was not alone...but what could be so horrible as to be locked away from mans sight...to be viewed only by the ruined eyes of the mysterious maiden?
We reached the main road, headed south & like a dream the spooky Hotel's memory faded like a fog.
Manzanillo's strong point seems to be Las Hadas Resort. Built by Bolivian tin magnate Antenor Patino, its beautiful Arabian style architecture makes it one of the top ten resorts in the world. Bo Dericks chest, in the movie '10', however, had put the place on the map.
There was heavy security to get into Las Hadas, & exotic it is, but after a U.S.
60.oo breakfast, I at least, was more than happy to depart.
Manzanillo bills itself as sailfish capital of the world, but is also a major port & if there is a sailfish within 50 miles of its greasy toxic waters I would be surprised.
Heading south again on a cliff hanging, deserted road we pass small settlements whose main occupation seems to be bees. Wooden hives line the road, & at one point we pass a truck with 10 alien looking beekeepers clinging to its bed. Their heads in square boxes of netting, their hands gigantic with cloth gloves, their forms seem more insect than human.
Suddenly the windshield is pelted with a colliding swarm & into the open windows fall & fly hundreds of the irate honeybees. They drop between our bare legs & tumble down our shirts.
"HEY!!! WHOA!! I'm fighting to stop the truck, as we leap barefooted onto molten asphalt jumping & twisting out of our clothes.
Two grubby urchins watch curiously as these gringos go into a frantic strip in the middle of the road. Odd people these gringos.
Miraculously un-stung we continue on, our hearts pounding with heat & the excitement of escaped pain...
"That's why I like travel!" I was telling Vicki, "Around every corner, a new adventure..."
We crested a hill at 60 mph & suddenly in the center of the road stood a half dozen grim faced & grubby men. In their hands were stubby automatic weapons, all leavened at us...I lock up the brakes...
"BANDITS!!"
to be continued
CRESTED BUTTE TO ACAPULCO PT 5
"The Truth in Travel"
By Steve Church
Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you mad.
Aldous Huxley
Anybody can win, unless there happens to be a second entry.
George Ade
I fingered the lipstick sized mace, & slowed to a stop in front of 6 tightly gripped machine guns. We were vastly out-gunned, one would have to think...I hate that.
An acne faced middle aged bandit wearing a 'Dare To Keep Me Off Drugs' T shirt approached the window. He grinned a sinister gold capped leer.
"Do you speak Spanish?" He asked.
"No!" said Vicki, "Yes!" I chimed.
"Do you like my country?"
"No!" said Vicki, "Yes!" I chorused.
"Do you have any beer?"
"Yes! said Vicki, "No!" said I, after all, maybe these guys were cops.....
"Give us your beer, you are free to go." Sure enough...cops...
"All right!" we both squeaked, & handed over 6 hot Modelos.
The metal mouthed leader then waved aside his band of cheerful cut-throats & away we drove.
Why had they let us go? Who were those guys?
"Lucky for them I didn't have to use this!" I threw the mace in the glove box.
By late afternoon we had reached the comparative safety of Zihuatanejo & recounted our story to a desk clerk.
"Ahhh yes, the bandidos." He nodded gravely. " Why just last week a friend of mine was stopped by them. He was stripped naked, tied up & tossed into the jungle. The bandits then stole his car & everything in it. My friend was nearly eaten alive by mosquitoes by the time he got himself untied...then had quite a hard time hitching a ride, naked & all."
"I imagine!" said Vicki. "Why can't the police catch them?"
"Who knows? They fade into the jungle...maybe they are the police!"
"Why hadn't they stolen from us?" I asked him.
"You are American tourists...to much publicity, no way to get rid of the car, to much trouble."
The sister cities of Zihuatanejo & Ixtapa are as different from each other as Mexico & United States. Ixtapa, barely 17 years old was planned by Fonatur, the same people that brought you Cancun. Built almost exclusively for the American tourist, it has the ambiance of a sandy shopping mall. The most trouble you could get into here is perhaps under-tipping at the disco.
Zihuatanejo on the other hand is a truly lively, laid-back, warm & friendly Mexican beach town. On velvet warm nights, tucked along a perfect cove, the town lights reflect like a sting of jewels as one strolls along its boardwalk, smiling at young lovers & dark-eyed children while soft ocean breezes ruffle the table cloths of a dozen waterfront cafes. The smell of garlic fried Snapper & baking tortillas permeates the air. Zihuatanejo, although not as spectacular, offers the same comforts of a tourist resort, with Mexican character as Puerto Vallarta. A friendly, safe place....
On our 3rd day here someone stole our map.
The map had 2 months of planning scribbled across it, & its loss aggravated me no end. Again we headed south.
It was moist now, & hot. You couldn't tell where your skin ended & the air began. We were entering the shanty towns of Acapulco, when a mountainous
speed bump slowed traffic to a crawl. These bumps, called 'sleeping policemen,' cross the roads at virtually every fly-spot of civilization in Mexico. Some are of such massive proportion as to necessitate crossing at an angle, as the front bumper would auger in at a forward approach. Life as you know it would end, if perchance you hit one of these cement humps at say, 60 mph. It is at these traffic stopping hurdles an desperate assortment of fruit-to-iguana salesmen, crippled beggars, and aggressive nuns panhandle.
A shirtless teenage boy begs with a cup in his mouth, as both his arms end at the elbows. He coils & weaves like some mutant reptile on the burning asphalt.
The traffic & consequently the air thicken as we are swept into the choking, heart of Acapulco. Our truck is caught in a fist-shaking flood of VW taxis, as their drivers scream insults at my sporadic lurching. It is getting very intense, sweat pouring into burning eyes, hands gripped like paint on the wheel, horns blaring....I snap.
"WHERE THE HELL ARE WE!!" I scream at Vicki. "YOU'VE BEEN HERE BEFORE!!"
"I've been at the airport..." she speaks quietly, as one might speak to a man standing on a ledge, wrapped in dynamite.
As a buck-toothed child, the Elvis movie 'Fun in Acapulco,' had left an lasting impression on me. I had always pictured myself, sleek & Speedo clad, diving from the 100 foot cliffs of La Quebrada.
Now in mid life, when wearing a Speedo would warrant an obscenity charge, & with fear itself a constant companion, diving from the cliffs was far from a reality. In fact finding the cliffs at this point was far from reality.
"I DON'T CARE IF THOSE GUYS SET THEMSELVES ON FIRE & DIVE 100 FEET INTO A SOAP DISH!!! WE"RE GETTIN OUT OF THIS TOWN!!"
I screamed & ranted our way down the 6 lane beach front drive, La Costera. Lined in sterile cement high-rise hotels, little changed from the fifties, Acapulco is a beach front vacation for the tourist that loves cities. I myself had become totally un-nerved, babbling & drooling in the frantic traffic, closterfobic in thick air & smothering heat. We clawed our way south.
On the southern point of Acapulco Bay lies the small waterfront strip of a town called Puerto Marques.
"Now this is more like it!" I was still shaking from the 'Acapulco Experience,'
as we turned onto main street.
Suddenly from every restaurant, from every shop, a stampede of waiters & salesmen charged the truck. Sample fish dinners, T shirts, stuffed iguanas were being thrust through the open windows. People we're screaming desperate pleas for a slice of business. Good old capitalism had turned this Mexican town into a slobbering, clawing crowd of business prostitutes.
As we wove down the street hundreds of people hollered, waving fish & lobster, scrambling to intercept our truck. It was un-nerving, the town without pity, the town without pride. We hurriedly departed.
Finally 20 miles south, a lone hotel clung to a windswept beach. We checked in & walked the beach as a blood red sun sank into Acapulco's pollution. The sea was an un-healthy green here, discharging a sickly yellow foam ashore. Trash blew about crumpled buildings. A hurricane three years prior had left this stretch of coast a post war jumble of bent rebar & shattered concrete. In the hazy red- green atmosphere it was like walking on a dead planet.
In a partially collapsed structure two elderly women stared out to sea, rocking & cradling to their breasts two.....plastic dolls? Nursing two life-size, plastic baby dolls, they stared vacantly from hollow eyes.
It was not till later when things started to brighten up.
I raced into the room ecstatic with the good news just pried from the bartender.
"WE'RE GOING TO THE CHICKEN FIGHTS!!"
Vicki stared at me with one of those looks usually reserved for road kills.
"We drove to Acapulco to go to the Chicken fights?"
Somewhere in the darkness, somewhere south of Acapulco a small town was celebrating something called 'The Day Of The Cross.'
We strolled through a rickety carnival, pausing in a brightly decorated Church. Couples walked hand in hand & greeted us with shy smiles. In fact everyone greeted everyone as music blasted & food booths sizzled At the end of the street, set up in a small park, a crowd of a few hundred people surrounded a wire enclosure...The Cockfights.
We paid a 20.oo entrance fee & were led by a huge woman to a table fronting the ring. A swift kick sent the two men occupying it scrambling.
The crowd stared, obviously not used to gringo Chicken Fight lovers.
Now it is a true & wonderful thing that what makes this world so interesting is its diversity of people & lifestyles. But here was a totally new group, an entirely different way of life.
Professional Chicken Fighters.
The Professional Chicken Fighter will be clad in a open necked, powder blue leisure suit. He will be draped in gold chains, from which solid gold Chickens
dangle. He will have rings on every finger, & a pencil thin mustache. His hair will be plastered back. He looks as if he would fight his grandmother if there was a peso of profit in it.
The sport itself dates back to ancient China, the roosters bred for thousands of years to fight. They are naturally pugnacious.
The handler, or pitter, walks about the ring, waving his cock at the crowd, taking bets on the struggling bird.
The roosters are weighed by judges, & their legs carefully fitted with metal spurs called heels, which are small stainless knives up to 3 inches long. These knives, of which their are dozens of varieties, are kept in jewelry boxes of gemstones & velvet & carefully tucked under the Professional Chicken Fighters arm.
The handlers thrust the cocks at each other until neck feathers bristle & tempers flair. They are then released & tear into each other with a feathered frenzy, resulting moments later with one the crowing victor, strutting about like a 16 inch Mike Tyson, the other mortally wounded & flopping pitifully. Thousands of pesos change hands, before the next bout.
There are strange things going on in the darkness somewhere south of Acapulco.
to be continued
CRESTED BUTTE TO ACAPULCO PT 6
'The Truth in Travel'
By Steve Church
Every decision you make is a mistake.
Edward Dahlberg
The Eagle may soar, but the weasel never gets sucked into a jet engine.
Lee Ervin
The quest was over, after 4000 miles, & 6 weeks stuck to the seat of an un-air conditioned truck, we had reached our goal. The eighth wonder of the world....the birthplace of the Margarita, Bertas Bar, Taxco Mexico.
I stood in revered silence, humbled by the awesome meaning of the moment.
"It's smaller than I thought it would be." whispered Vicki, clearly awe-struck.
"I think I'm going to cry....." my heart was soaring like the Hindenburg, ...."It's...beautiful."
To the untrained eye Bertas bar was a white-washed, mud, hole-in-the wall jammed on Taxco's colonial square. To us, it paled the Holy Grail.
We entered the dark interior, a great feeling of reverence swept through me as there above the chewed-up bar, hanging crooked & fly spotted an ancient black & white photo of Berta herself. Hair pulled into a severe bun, with the concentration of a teenager undoing his first bra, Berta was slicing a lime.
Actually, the Margarita was invented by William Spratling, a bored American writer, but Berta had owned the place he was bored in.
The bar was now manned by a rotund 9 year old who bade us sit & commenced to do that voodoo, that he do, the best. I watched over his shoulder, which wasn't hard, as it barely reached the counter top.
One part fresh lime juice, one part orange contreau, one part tequila. Shake over ice, pour in salted glass.....& that dear friends, has just saved you a 4000 mile drive.
However, there are other things in Taxco that bear mentioning as long as we're here. Taxco is one of the most astounding, interesting cities in Mexico, if you didn't know. Clinging to a mountain side its red tiled architecture seems to all be supported by each other. If one was to jerk the lowest house in town out the entire place would assuredly come tumbling down. Narrow cobblestone streets, each done in a different mosaic of black & white marble, wind about adobe & stone canyons of churches & homes. Overhanging these cool alley-ways cling ornate iron balconies, adorned with brilliant flowers, & flamboyant bird cages whose occupants sing in happy chaos to their neighbors. Outdoor cafes, line the squares, where old men play dominos, & shy olive-eyed children cling to their mothers shawls. Teenagers walk arm in arm with Grandparents & everyone stops to tickle round fat babies.
It seems a pity that we in America have lost this social pandering. Television replaces communication, paranoia inhibits contact, video war games capture the young while we tuck the old away in storage. And the town dies, its streets empty & sterile of laughter & life. Instead of enjoying each others company, we fear even a glance from fellow strollers.
So lighten up folks, take your grandmother for a walk, smile at a pretty girl, pinch somebodys baby...then call your lawyer, claim temporary insanity.
As legend has it, young Jose de la Borda, stumbling home one evening in 1716, tripped over a stone & there beneath it, shinning in the moonlight, lay one of the richest veins of silver known to man. Borda being a man of good conscience poured most of his new found wealth straight back into Taxco. Consequently the city boasts some of the finest buildings in Mexico including the Borda built Church of Santa Prisca. The soaring Church is a riot of baroque architecture, with intertwined sculpted figures reaching 6 stories toward the heavens. Inside gold & silver leaf coat alters as paintings such as the 'Pregnant Mary,' & 'Saint Prisca Full of Arrows.', adorn the ceilings. The great organ alone is said to have taken two years to hall up from the coast. It is truly a house of God, meant to inspire humility in the most self assured.
The same bored writer, William Spratling, also started Taxcos first silver workshop back in the 1930s. There are now over 300 silver shops, displaying some of the finest silver work in Mexico. Silver dealers in Taxco are also known for their honesty. It helps no doubt that if one is caught faking the purity of silver, the penalty is prison. The buyer always wants to look for the .925 stamp on any silverware bought in Mexico. .925 meaning sterling, otherwise you may have bought 'nickel silver' which of course turns you green soon after the purchase.
Taxco, like many Mexican towns, is big on festivals, but the strangest surely must be El Dia Del Jumil, or The Day Of The Beetle. It seems that once a year, the first Monday after The Day Of The Dead is celebrated, all the townsfolk pack picnics & head to the hills...to catch a small migrating beetle. They then roll the beetles in tortillas with tomatoes, chilies, garlic & onion & chow down. The odd thing here is, the beetles are eaten alive!
If you care to partake in The Dia Del Jumil its around November 8th.
Taxco Mexico, surely one of the most romantic, charismatic towns in this hemisphere, hangs from its mountainside 100 miles west of Mexico City.
20 miles north of this friendly hamlet there lies the famous Las Grutas de Cacahuamilpa, or Damn Big Cave. This place makes Carlsbad Cavern look like a prairie dog hole.
We arrived for the first tour of the day, & were joined by a group of about 50 high school kids from Mexico city. Because the tour is conducted in Spanish Vicki & I are assigned an interpreter, or grumpy old man.
We enter the yawning mouth of a damp smelling chamber. A cement sidewalk leads us deeper into natures own cathedral of towering spires & heavenly sculptures. The Spanish speaking guide rattles on, our guide says nothing. At one point the crowd of school kids burst out laughing at the guides monologue.
"What did he say?" I inquire to our guide.
'He make joke." said the guide.
"Oh." well of coarse that explained it.
We continued on now a mile into the grotto of stalactites & stalagmites. The Spanish guide goes on for 10 minutes about a particular formation, I nudge our guide....
"Biggest stalactite in the world." offers our guide, the only information so far.
It is getting warm now, & moist. It is very dark. The combination has set loose a flood of rampaging hormones amongst the school kids. The outing has turned into a 'feel trip' as youngsters grope & grab each other, sucking faces slurp in the thick blackness. A young girl grabs my hand, starts sucking a finger, looks up & screams. Vicki's posterior becomes a target of prepubescent pinches, a number of which I receive the blame for.
2 miles underground we come to a grave. Now here is a story I think to myself as the Spanish speaking guide holds his entwined audience spell-
bound. I turn to our guide..."Well?"
"Dead guy." he offers.
The cave is over 2 miles deep, 100 feet high with tunnels yet explored due to 'lack of funds.' Bandits had long used its labyrinth of passage ways to hide from government troops, a fact the Spanish guide was now elaborating on.
Our guide on the other hand is wisely able to sum up the entire lecture in one word...'bandits.' he says.
As we again approach the brilliant sunshine of the upper world, our illustrious guide turns & jabs an open palm towards us. With his vast command of the English language he utters a short sentence. "Tip." He says.
"Tip?" says I "I'll give you a tip! Never pet a burning dog!" we marched past him into the sunlight.
Away from the coast, where the tourist dollar has been turned into disposable diapers & thrown about the country side, Mexico has taken on a new face....or old face as it were. Here spotless villages with names like Resurrection Of God & Jesus Maria siesta in the clear sunlight. Smiling old women sell sweet strawberries along side the road as donkeys in sombreros plow the rich red earth. A young goat herder keeps his flock in line with a rusty nine iron. Stone fences enclose carefully tilled fields of corn & yucca.
We pull into the small village of Kaluha, behind the only other traffic on this road, a grinning young man in a wheel chair. There is a small cluster of folks gathered about the local hot dog cart, to which we approach.
"Dos perro calientes." I demonstrate my command of the language. The crowd goes dead silent then erupts in laughter. Seems I have just ordered two dogs in heat. The Mexican word for hot dog is strangely...hot dog.
Weird people these Mexicans. to be continued
CRESTED BUTTE TO ACAPULCO PT 7
'The Truth In Travel'
By Steve Church
What doesn't kill you makes you strong.
Friedrich Nietzsche
They were singing without accompaniment. You know--acapulco.
Brooke Shields
In this vast & varied world we're part of, there are some mighty strange customs amongst our fellow men. In fact the earth is practically amok in what I call S.M.S. or Stupid Manly Sports. Think about it.
In Ireland, as you well know, there is the popular pastime of Ferreting. This activity consists of taking one sharp clawed, pointy toothed, malcontent, overgrown weasel & jamming him up your pant leg, tying the pantleg tightly behind him. The object of this festive sport is timing the wriggling, clawing, chewing, rodent on his way up one leg through the bare crotch, [no underwear allowed in Ferreting] & down the other leg to freedom. The Ferretor or Ferretee, must not, being a Stupid Manly Sport, show the slightest amount of emotion as his private parts are being torn to ribbons.
And least we forget, somewhere in the South Seas, the guys that dive from a 60 foot platform with a vine tied about their ankles. The guy who's nose comes closest to the ground, [without actually popping it inside out], wins this Stupid Manly Sport.
But mabey you were not aware of the one of the most popular Stupid Manly
Sports in all the world happening right here in Mexico, our own southern neighbor.
Los Forcados....or, stopping a charging bull...with your stomach.
But let me start, as most stories should, at the beginning.
The town of San Miguel De Allende was discovered by two hot dogs. Around 1542 two hounds owned by the monk Fray Juan de San Miguel, went searching for a spot to cool off & discovered the spring called El Chorro. The rest is history. The towns mile high elevation makes for a sunlight so clear & precise as to attract artists from around the world. Its colonial buildings & cobblestone streets inspire painters, the Indian faces attract sculptors, & writers are drawn to its 125 bars. In fact this is the town that Neal Cassady, hero of Jack Kerouac's 'On The Road' died while 'walking the railroad tracks.' The town now boasts 100,000 people, with theater, language schools, art schools, dance schools, riding schools, ornate Churches, shady town squares, & a bullring. It was to this bullring, the posters announced, that the great Salvador Rojas, King of the Rejoneadors, & his troop of Forcados were now due to perform.
"Just what does a Rejoneador & his Forcados do?" asked Vicki.
"I have no idea, but if their going to due it in public, we should be there!"
It was hot, standing in line for entrance into San Miguels colonial bullring. We purchased tickets for the shade & were immediately sold two black Zorro hats, a slab of fried pork skin, an a couple of iced Tecates. We were ready.
Local dignitaries were introduced, a couple of bottle rockets went off.
Suddenly a 20 member brass band launched into that spine tingling, rousing, release the bull music & a huge brindle colored beast stampeded into the ring. A mighty roar went up from the crowd as the bellowing, 2000 lb bull, pawed the earth & charged about the ring.
The crowd fell silent, the band ceased & into the ring pranced a magnificent black Arab stallion. Astride the horse rode a ramrod straight, tuxedo clad, Salvador Rojas. His wavy black hair shone in the sun as Salvador removed his hat & bowed low to the crowd. His horse at the same time crossed his aristocratic front legs & also bowed, his flaring nostrils inches from ground blowing puffs of dust into the golden air. The crowd went nuts.
Suddenly the stallion reared, rakeing the air with polished hoofs he seemed to deify gravity. Salvador held his hat high & roared to the band.
"MUSICA!!"
A great rush went up my spine as a dozen trumpets blasted in unison. The Arab spun on a hind leg & pranced sideways to the center of the ring where he stood, his front legs dancing from side to side. Salvador, tall & still as a statue, glared at the pawing bull.
"TORO!!" He bellowed "TORO TORO!!"
The bull looked at the dancing horse with its cocky rider, & with a horrifying blast of pure rage, charged.
The Arab pranced & Salvador sat straight & still as the bull tore down on them. Finally when the speeding bulls horns were but feet from slamming into the Arabs chest, the slightest of knee pressure from its rider sent the Arab leaping to the side & safety as the irate bull steamrolled past. The crowd roared "OLE!", as the Arab spun & stood for a second pass. For the next 15 minutes Salvador sat that horse like he had grown there, holding the high-strung beast to within inches of sure death before giving the command to spring to safety.
Never had I seen a trust of such consequences between man & beast. The horse reacted from almost imperceptible commands as not once did Salvador Rojas move the reins or his silver spurs.
The bull suddenly seemed to have the advantage, as the horse & rider were pressed to closely to the bullrings wall. The bull charged, & Salvador reacted to slowly. A horrified squeal erupted from the crowd as the charging bovine
slammed into the Arabs side. Horse & rider went down as if hit by a train, the raging bull atop them. It was then the Forcados leapt into the ring, 8 agile young men in tights came storming over the walls screaming at the bloodthirsty bull. For a second the bulls attention was drawn to the Forcados
& Salvador Rojas, the king of composure went scrambling over that wall like a scalded ape. The Arab staggered to its feet, lucky to have not been disemboweled by the flashing horns, & trotted shakily to where its rider had disappeared over the wall.
The bull had been drawn to the far edge of the ring when again Salvador ventured onto his horse. To the roaring of the crowd they pranced to the center of the ring & bowed low.
Again Salvador yelled for music, but the crowd heard his voice crack. Again he made the bull charge, but this time he & his Arab leapt for safety just a millisecond to soon. Salvador's spirit had been broken, his nerve was already at the Cantina slamming Tequila, Salvador Roja was finished, at least for the day, it was time for the Forcadors.
Into the ring leapt the 8 men in tights. The started hugging each other, kissing each other, slapping each others butts & shouting "VIVO!" VIVO"
It was apparent these characters were up to no good & the bull eyed them suspiciously from his corner.
The men then formed a line stretching from the wall to the center of the ring. Spaced about 10 feet apart they stood one behind the other facing the bull. The lead man, alone in the center of the ring, was about 50 feet from the pawing bull. He removed his hat, heaved it toward a squealing senorita & turned toward the bull.
"TORO !! TORO!!" He started screaming.
I couldn't believe it...my heart was going like a jackhammer...surely this guy wasn't going to....
The bull roared in demented rage & charged.
I estimate the bull was doing 60 miles per hour when he hit the first Forcado. The man had somehow missed both points of the horns & now lay bent double over the bulls head, between the horns, being carried along like a bug on a bumper.
I estimate the bull was doing 59 miles per hour when he hit the 2nd Forcado
Or really the first Forcado hit the second doing 59, stacking him on like a tortilla.
The bull was slowing imperceptibly as the 6 other Focadors stacked between its horns. It was beginning to look like a Dagwood sandwich of flailing tight clad men atop that bulls head.
At this point the bull stopped...from sheer disbelief no doubt, & Forcadors swarmed over him & held that roaring bovine fast. Then suddenly with a mighty chant, the men broke & ran. All but one that is, who now clung to the gigantic bulls tail, as a Chihuahua clings to your leg. The bull spun in circles frantically trying to stomp the life from this pesky tailgater. The Forcado was virtually water skiing in the dust behind the irate beast.
Kicking hoofs flashed past the Forcados face as he was drug about like a rag doll. The bull was finally released, the Forcados again lined up, slapped each other on the butt & bowed to the roaring crowd.
I sat stunned. It had been an awesome display of S.M.S.
Later that night in a cafe along the bustling town square, a table of seven young men sat worshipping a large bottle of Tequila.
"That's them!" I whispered to Vicki. "The Forcados!"
I approached a waiter & requested a fresh bottle of Tequila be sent to their table.
The waiter did so with flair & named me the responsible party. One by one the Forcados rose from their table, hugged me, hugged Vicki, & requested that we join them.
I made a toast "To the most....[stupid, might not be the word at this time,] courageous, dangerous sport in the world!"
We sat & one of them turned to me," It is not really that dangerous!"
"Don't be modest, my friend," I suggested, "I can recognize dangerous when I see it, By the way, who was the first in line?"
"Well he is in the hospital...but he will be fine," They assured me.
"Who decides who will be first?" I asked
"It is an honor." The team leader picks him."
"Do you guys do this for a living? After all, dying is no way to live."
They laughed at my ignorance, "WE DO THIS FOR FUN!!"
Well, that certainly explained it. I've known people to jump out of planes for 'fun.'
We spoke of the bulls.
"The best bulls come from the biggest ranches," I was told. "They are fed on one side of the ranch & watered on the other, that way the bulls are constantly exercising. That was not a large bull today, by the way."
That stupid macho modesty again, the bull had been the size of a minivan.
We spoke of their leader Salvador Rojas. His noble, courageous, eloquent Forcados had this to say:
"Pendejo."
"Whys that? The guy looked impeccable to me!"
"He deserted his horse, he ran..."
"There was a 2000 lb bull trying to pulverize him!" I squealed.
"In Mexico city we once saw an Rejoneador & his horse knocked to the ground buy a huge bull. The rider was knocked unconscious & lay in the attacking bulls path. His horse immediately lay across his master, taking the horns time & again, protecting his rider with his life...& it cost him his life." The handsome young Forcado stared at us with a smoldering intensity. "You do not run from a trust such as this, you do not scale the wall & leave your friend to die."
There is a thing called passion...Latin passion here. The Forcados of Mexico understand & sum it up in one shouted word...."VIVO!!", Live!
If you personally have that burning desire to be trampled by a bull you wont want to miss September 29. Saints Day in San Miguel and the running of the bulls.
Anyone, especially gringos, are encouraged to run ahead of them.
CRESTED BUTTE TO ACAPULCO PT 8
The Truth In Travel
Jesus loves you, but everybody else thinks your a jerk.
Billy Graham
Money is not the most important thing in the world. Love is. Fortunately, I love money. Jackie Mason
A tremendous explosion knocked me from bed onto the cold tile of the Posada de las Monjas, the restored monastery we had been sequestered in for over a week now, in the beautiful town of San Miguel, Mexico.
Covering my modesty with the stuffed armadillo I raced to the front desk.
A fly spotted clock reading 5:00 am hung over the snoring 'watchman.'
"QUE PASO!!" I yelled over a new series of blasts. "REVOLUCION??" Oh boy...for the Crested Butte Chronicle...your man on the front lines...
" IS FIESTA DE LA SANTA CRUZ!! The startled watchman yelled over a now blaring brass band.
He un-locked the massive, carved front doors & we stumbled onto darkened streets, myself still garbed in strategic armadillo. A parade was going past the monastery, a parade of weirdness.
There were oxen wearing necklaces of limes, & skirts of painted tortillas, donkeys wearing sombreros & draped in loaves of bread, an eight foot skeleton, apparent ghosts in sheets with huge spikes driven through their chests...fake blood everywhere. A mock battle between 'Indians', & 'Federales' was going on. The entire scene was leaping up & down to the nerve-shattering 'music'. Fireworks skittered under foot.....Fiesta de la Santa Cruz. Not to be confused with Cristo de la Conquista, first Friday in March when the townsfolk blow up a statue of Judas.
I know what your thinking.....but where did the Armadillo come from?
Well, It had been the previous day, the day prior to this day, yesterday in other words when we had sat through half a mass in the magnificent 'Parroquia'. A huge Cathedral built entirely of pink sandstone, its pointed towers looking like Gothic Disneyland. It seems the builder, an unschooled Indian by the name of Zeferino Gutierrez, designed the building from a postcard. The front anyway. As the postcard didn't show the rest of the building Zeferino scratched his own plans in the dirt. So what we have here now is a soaring Gothic Cathedral in the front & Mexican Mission in the back. It still, however, is an immense tribute to his faith.
So what has that to do with the Armadillo??
Well you see, we had then wandered down to the Church Priest Miguel Hidalgo had screamed for Independence from Spain in. He soon had all the Spanish locked in the Church & the Indians whipped into a frenzy. Hidalgo was arrested & his head placed in a cage in the city of Guanajuato...for ten years!
His head kept the memory alive however & independence was won a few years later. Just trying to get 'ahead'....
The Armadillo?
Right, so we pass on by the Inquisition jail which was a torture center in the Spanish Inquisition & now is a children center.....no comment, past the market where 50 years ago a peasant woman saw the face of Jesus on a tortilla a caused a riot, & finally we end up at the Mercado de Artisans checking out the wealth of local crafts...as you know San Miguel is thick with artists...thick as fleas on a dog....
THE ARMADILLO??
...and there in front of a blind old witch selling peyote buttons stood frozen for time, a stuffed & dusty Armadillo...
"THANK YOU!!"
Anyway, to make a long story longer I bought the disgusting thing. Kind of a cross between a lizard & a large rodent this beast is built for survival. I remember hitting one in Texas one time, looked in the rearview mirror & that creature was rolled tight as a bowling ball doing 70 mph right on my bumper. Ten minutes later that beast was still rolling & bouncing across the desert at a tremendous rate of speed. For all I know that Armadillo is still orbiting the earth.
Where was I???
So we're strolling about town with the Armadillo, looking for a shady drink when a waist high mob of laughing children, race from an alley & collide with the rodent & I. Thrilled with my choice of pets they leapt about me touching & yelping with glee. Just as suddenly, they were gone.
We were soon sipping lemonade in a cool courtyard.
"I thought you hated kids." Vicki was saying..
"Hey, I love kids...properly prepared!" I was just kidding of course, "Its just that these Latin kids are so cute...& polite...well mannered you know."
"Sure." said Vicki engrossed in the local paper, "Hey lookie here, says two gringos were robbed on the Mexico City bus!"
"You know Vic, that's ridiculous, why in all my travels down here I've never lost a thing..."
"Except the map in Zihuatanejo." Vicki reminded me...
"Yeah, except for the map."
"And your tent in Tulum."
Well...yeah....the tent..
"And your boots & jacket in Playa Del Carmen."
"Yeah, yeah..."
"And your..."
"ALL RIGHT ALREADY!!"
Suddenly my stomach dropped out the leg of my shorts. I grabbed at my pocket...MY WALLET WAS GONE!!! THE KIDS!!
"THOSE SAWED-OFF CRETANS!!" I screamed, the rest of the patrons starting at the outburst. "THOSE THIEVING YARD APES!!" THOSE ANKLE-BITING, CRUMB-SNATCHING, CURTAIN-PULLING...."
"Cute, well-mannered..." Vicki offered.
The party was over. Suddenly I had no drivers license, I had no credit card, a lot less money & worst of all no Crested Butte Chronicle Press Pass...& we were 3000 miles from the border. I, Marco Polo, had been fleeced like a lamb by the under the hill gang....my wallet had been in my front pocket, with my hand on it to boot.
I did have one stuffed Armadillo which stood on the table smirking at me.
There was something strangely familiar about the beast.
You don't suppose this could be the same Armadillo I had hit in Texas years ago?
You don't suppose that Armadillo could have rolled all the way to San Miguel Mexico???
Naaaaa...
to be drug on
CRESTED BUTTE TO ACAPULCO PT 9
The Truth in travel
'Your The Reason Our Kids Are Ugly.'
Mexican folk song
One Day When You Swing that Skillet, My Face Ain't Gonna Be There.
Another Mexican Folk Song
"Collect call from Senor Cheve Choach." a Latin operator transformed English to suit her.
"Cheve Choach?" I heard the Chief, editor Lee Ervin, rasp into his phone.... "ANYBODY HEARD OF CHEVE CHOACH," He yelled to the scurvy crew of the Chronicle. A chorused "NO!" Reached my ear in San Miguel Mexico.
"ERVIN IT'S ME CHURCH!!! SEND MONEY!!! IVE BEEN ROBBED BY DWARFS!!!"
I screamed into the monasteries sticky phone.
'Sorry operator, never heard of Mr. Choach."
"Sank you." the line went dead.
I'd have to make a run for the border...with no money, no license, & no Visa Card, having been relieved of them by a vicious gang of ruthless 6 year olds.
Amid drunken brass bands & tremendous explosions that highlighted Fiesta De La Santa Cruz' we slowly departed beautiful San Miguel. There was a tear in Vicki's eye. " I'm going to miss this place, it really is special..."
'I'm gonna miss my wallet." I sulked behind the wheel, wishing someone would try to cross the road in front of me...
Two hours later I had completely forgotten my wallet, having become hopelessly lost in the subterranean rat-maze of passages that the city of Guanajuato calls streets. Guanajuato, pronounced 'Guanajuato' is surely the oddest town in Mexico. This magnificent colonial city, founded in 1559 around wealthy silver mines, clung to the steep banks of the Rio Guanajuato, same pronunciation. In 1905 the river flooded, upsetting the townsfolk for the last time. They diverted the river, & built a system of streets in the riverbed. The streets, actually tunnels, ran for miles every direction, UNDERNEATH THE CITY!! Its like driving through catacombs as the tunnels are all made of ancient hand hewn brick that arch away into the dripping darkness above the traffic. The town itself then spreads across the top of this brick rat-maze & becomes a tranquil unique colonial city without congestion. The entire city of Guanajuato is an architectural wonder & unique in the world. The citizens of this elevated society are also a bit different. The city, in 1810, was the first to rebel against Spanish Rule & attacked Spain's local fortress, Alhondiga.
The Spanish retaliated with a vengeance. They retook Guanajuato, & established the 'Lottery of Death." Every Friday night names of the local populace we're drawn from a jar. These unfortunate 'winners' were then tortured & hung in front of the remaining citizens.
The lottery really drew the townsfolk togeather. The feeling still exists.
In a town called Aguas Caliente, after a 'Hopper' at the local Burger Queen. We were suddenly ensconsed in a police road block. For the next 20 minutes they methodically checked all our papers...all but a drivers license. We were finally released, to our emmence relief. The oddity of a 'pet' Armadillo had saved us.
The European looking city of Zacatecas seemed to be a good place to stop & rest up for a few days....we were wrong.
KABOOM!! A massive explosion bounced us upright. It was 5:00 am. I ran downstairs to the front desk & yelled over a passing drum & bugle band.
"QUE PASO???"
"Es Mothers Day, senor."
It turns out Mothers Day in Mexico is on the par of 4 of July here. The city sounded like the last hours of Saigon. I'm not sure if the mothers of Mexico actually enjoy this display of heavy explosives & firearms, [mabey their responsible?], but it is nerve shattering to the edgy traveler.
Zacatecas, another of Mexico's 'Silver Cities', perches at 8000 feet in central Mexico, making it one of the coolest towns south of the border. Not only is the weather cool, so are the people. Not unfriendly mind you, just not used to tourists. The sales people don't sell, hotel clerks could care less if you check in, beggars don't beg. After 2 months, we were finally being treated like humans, not ATM machines.
Its bustling wide boulevards & grand buildings could be a Mexican built Rome or Paris. Its Churches rival any in the country. Like one carved pink sandstone Cathedral which took 140 years to complete....probably a 'time & material' job....its interior all gold & silver plate. Or the Church of San Agustin, which has changed from Church to casino on numerous occasions. From one elaborate mission poured a parade of smiling children bearing pictures of Pope Paul on tiny sticks.
"Pope-Cycles." Vicki was quick to point out.
Zacatecas apparently needed all these places of worship, for at the end of one wide tree-lined avenue, bored straight into the mountainside, lies El Eden Mine, one of the most notorious hellholes in Mexico.
For 400 years the El Eden operated with crews of captured Indians & children. 6000 people to a shift, often only 8 to 10 years old, toiled for 12 hours a day 7 days a week, just to be able to by a dinner of rice from the company. Dozens of children a day died in the tunnels, & a long life meant dying of black lung at 20.
It seems appropriate then that the few silver barons that did get rich off these thousands of broken souls would indeed build Churches. And nice ones at that. As if these grand Cathedrals would insure entrance through the pearly gates.
After a dark & depressing 'tour' of this grave where thousands of lives were traded for the wealth of a few, we needed a lift. The 1000 foot high tram to 'La Bufa' would do just that, it seemed.
A cable, over a mile long, swung in the wind far above town. It was stretched from the mountain in whose bowels lay the El Eden Mine, to another peak topped by a massive round hunk of granite...La Bufa.
Vicki & I, the color of Malox, clung to the walls of the wildly swinging cable car as the only other occupant, a surly operator, stared at his shoes.
The city of Zacatecas looked like a toy model 1000 feet below this bucking tuna can of a cable car.
"SO WHAT DOES LA BUFA MEAN??" I had no idea why I was yelling, my voice cracking like the Vienna Boys Choir.
The operator stared at me as if Elmer Fudd stood in my shoes.
"It is the pancreas of the pig." He said in all seriousness.
"A PIGS PANCREAS!! A HA!! " I screeched, '"I KNEW IT!! "WHY I WAS JUST TELLING THE LITTLE WOMAN HERE HOW THAT ROCK LOOKS JUST LIKE A PIGS PANCREAS, HEY VIC??" The tin & plastic car blew 50 feet sideways & dropped in a stomach twisting arch. Sweat poured from my forehead as I watched the ant farm of a town far below.
Zacateceas is not only known for its monumental pig innards, it is also the home to some of the finest leather work in Mexico. A pair of hand tooled cowboy boots may run 50.oo....if you had 50.oo....which we didn't.
I suppose it was 1:00 in the morning when the band struck up....right under our window. Again I ventured down to the desk clerk.
"What is it now??" Christmas?? I asked wearily.
"Semana Santa." Smiled the clerk.
"I thought that was celebrated around Easter."
"Not in Zacatecas, we will celebrate all week long."
I stared hard at him..." We will be leaving in the morning...."
to be continued...& continued....&
[hey! I get paid for this!]
CRESTED BUTTE TO ACAPULCO PT 63
'The 'Truth' In Travel
I would wish you the best of luck, but for all I know your planning to kill me. Pancho Villa
If you wont leave me alone, I'll find someone that will.
Anita Hill
She stood leaning against the doorway of an crumbling mission. Only her flashing dark eyes could be seen above the black veil. In fact, the mysterious senorita was entirely swathed in a black, creating a sharp contrast to the missions stark white walls. She stared at our passing with chilling feline detachment.....& I was starring back.
What in the world was this Spanish vision, this lonely Latin lovely, this mystery of..
"LOOK OUT!!" Screamed Vicki.
I turned my attention back to the road just in time to see a 2 foot high speed bump disappear under the hood.
KABOOM!!
The Chevy launched into the air with the grace of a diving mule, hung for a silent moment & returned to earth in a deafening crash. 2 months worth of Mexican dust & empty Tecate cans rose to the ceiling & settled over us.
We had landed in the tiny hamlet of La Cuesta, nestled in the ancient thorny mountains of central Mexico.....
"IF YOU HADN'T BEEN RUBBERNECKING..... "
There only seemed to be a few sagging adobe huts to the town...
"ALWAYS STARING AT THE WOMEN!!!...."
And a dusty cantina, with two old men, sombreros over their eyes, passed out in its shade....
"YOU COULD HAVE KILLED US!!!..."
And what was this? Along the road walked a young priest, his flowing white robes another shocking paradox in this dusty land. He clasped a bible to his breast, his handsome face seemed lost in thought.
As we passed him Vicki forgot about me & leaned from the open window.
"Hellloooo Father!!!" She cooed shamelessly.
"GOOD GOD WOMAN!! I grabbed her shorts & jerked her back inside the cab. "HAVE YOU NO RESPECT!!"
Ottmar Lieburts Spanish Flamingo guitar strummed from the tape deck as we wound our way along Mexico's route 45. Not only is the road practically deserted, it stretches & swoops its way through some of the most romantic country in the country. Stone fences serpentine across pastel deserts, as eagles soar from shimmering cliffs. It is pure Mexico.
But the finest thing about driving Mexico Rt. 45 are the signs.....or sign, as there is only one. It says: THERE IS NO TOP SPEED ON THIS ROAD.
And you gotta love that.
It was still early morning, filled with that crisp air that is a pleasure to breath, when we rounded a blind corner & burst out upon a magnificent view of 50 miles of watercolor desert. I pulled onto the graveled overlook & jumped from the truck. It was indeed a spectacular vista & consequently, to the Mexican mind, made a splendid dump. In fact tons of rubbish rotted placidly in the morning sun, covering the overlook, cascading into the valley far below.
I was trying to focus the old Nikon over this heap when suddenly a hand, then a arm thrust from the stinking pile. The hand worked methodically, carefully removing bits of trash from...A HEAD!! Suddenly an old woman sat up, rising like a Phoenix from the garbage. She looked at me, her face cracked into a toothless grin.
"Buenos Dias Senor!" She chirped pleasantly as if we were meeting on the terrace of the Waldorf.
I could only Buenos Dias her back, temporarily at a loss for words. Here was a woman sleeping in a garbage heap to stay warm, & still as happy as a pig in a pile of poop on this fine Mexican morning. Yep....it was good to be alive...at any level.
I suppose I was particularly happy this fine day as I was soon to realize a dream. We were headed to the town of Hidalgo Del Parral, the final resting place of my hero....the notorious Pancho Villa.
I wanted to see where Jesus Salas Barraza & nine conspirators lay in wait for Mr. Villa for 103 days!! They had been tipped that Pancho would soon pass by in his 1919 dodge, & at this point I would have to wonder that if they had waited for 103 days anywhere in Mexico he would have eventually passed by, however Hidalgo Del Parral was the place.
I wanted to see Gabino Street where Pancho lay with 17 bullet holes in him, taking aim & killing two men with his last shot.
I wanted to see the sidewalk where he gasped out his final words...
"Don't let it end like this, tell them I said something!"
And I wanted to see the Church where 30,000 mourners attended his funeral. This was a kind of pilgrimage for me, even though the guide books said 'Few travelers stay in Hidalgo....' I was determined to pause at every piece of Panchos past.
The town of Hidalgo itself looked pleasant enough, the usual squares, the ornate cathedral, it was the townsfolk that sent shivers down your spine.
It was a town of 20,000 Pancho Villa impersonators, & they were all staring hard & cold at our arrival.
Crowds of cowboy hatted hoodlums yelled threats from street corners. Fellow motorists shook their fists & waved fingers.
"Nice place!" murmured Vicki sliding lower in the seat. "Regular Mayberry."
We checked into the very average Hotel Acosta & were led up insane asylum green stairways to a sagging bed, in a stark room.
"I love what they've done with this room!!" exclaimed my traveling partner....
"You mean the crucifix over the bed?"
"Exactly!"
Stepping out for an ice cream we strolled past a group of a half dozen young greased backed gangsters. As we passed by one of them spit on the side-walk behind my. I stopped....had he spat at me? I spun around, they jerked straight. This could be tricky, there were 6 of them, one of Vicki.
Perhaps he had just spit....not actually at me....I did what any red-blooded, out-numbered American male would have done, gave them my best Clint Eastwood glare & walked away.....their probably still shaking.
We entered an ice cream shop & were promptly ignored by three 12 year old Madonna's.
Finally served by one, I pushed a tip across the counter. She pushed it back.
"I don't want your tip." She said.
"Fine." I said.
We sat in the square eating ice cream as gangs of young men in pick-ups circled, screaming obscenities at us.
Old men stopped their hobbling by long enough to spit in front of us.
"Ya know something Vic?" I said as a passing pidgin relieved itself on my shoulder...
"What's that?"
"I'm over this....lets go home....back to the Butte."
This is the down side of travel...the minor fact that most people just don't like tourists. Perhaps even here at home we are not always as gracious as we could be to the passing stranger, but down in Hidalgo Del Parral they were making no bones about it.
It seems an odd thing to hate a person you don't even know, & it seemed even odder to be hated by an entire town you'd never even been to. Suddenly I had a tiny glimmer of what it would have been like being Black in the early south, or a Jew in Germany, or White in Rhodesia.
And I hated them back. Hated them for not liking me...go figure.
I'd had enough travel for a while, I was sick of being tortured by reprobates.
I wanted to get back to caring people that trusted one another, back to well-mannered, articulate, intelligent people, back to the well-dressed well- spoken, highly educated late night crowd down at Kochevars Bar & Grill....
THE END I swear....
No comments:
Post a Comment