Chapter 3: Settling In - Mexico

By Paul Fast

A month before we left on our trip, Mexican Federales arrested the leader of the Sinoloa Cartel, who also happened to be the son of the notorious El Chapo (currently serving out consecutive life sentences in a Colorado Supermax). In response, the Sinoloa Cartel brought down a campaign of violence and terror on the people of their province in an effort too spill enough blood that the government would return their leader. Sinoloa was instantly front-page news material across the globe. Nearby airports were shut down, governments issued “no travel warnings” and vehicles burned on the highways. The route we had planned for the first week of our trip ran right through the heart of Sinaloa.

In North America, this is the Mexico we have come to know from our TV screens, fed to us by our favourite news anchors. A land of all-inclusive vacations, horrific cartel violence and mordidas paid quietly into corrupt hands. This is not the Mexico we discovered. I was not prepared for the size of Mexico, nor had I understood it’s diversity. Our route took us down the popular coastal highway, where we hop-scotched from one small town to the next. We learned quickly that there are two tiers of transportation, the toll roads and the free roads. We had been advised to take the toll roads for security reasons, and we stuck to them for the majority of our drives. On the toll roads (on which we were charged truck pricing thanks to our dual rear axle) we were alone with the truckers and the well off who could afford the toll. The roads were good but wholly uninteresting, and the dusty landscapes of northern Mexico rolled by offering little but plastic loaded tumbleweed caught against concrete highway barriers.

We learned quickly that passing on a Mexican highway is a game of two-way Russian roulette, involving a high degree of trust in that both opposing drivers want to remain alive. Passing is done regardless of double lines or opposing traffic. You simply pull out and trust that both the semi truck in front of you, and the one that is barreling straight at you will both pull onto the shoulder and allow you the honour of passing between them. Daniella adjusted to the new system a little too quickly for my liking, while I white-knuckled the passenger door handle.

Life is much more interesting when you leave the highways, where the cacophony of everyday village life was on full display. Life in rural Mexico is lived on the street, the primary avenues of social and economic confluence. It is here that motorcycle tires are retreaded, moto-taxis caught, children tended and bargains struck. Speed bumps (called “topes” or my personal favourite – the “reductor”) are distributed liberally along the streets and become knots of commerce where vehicles must slow down enough to enable a transaction with street side vendors. Most of your average every day problems can be quickly handled by someone just down the street. In North America we hide the reality of our everyday life behind carefully tended front lawns and front porches set back from the street. Mexican streets are the inverse, and there is a welcome humanity in it.

After a couple of nights we landed in Chacala, a small town north of Puerto Vallarta. We camped directly on the beach and the boys were in the water before the Duramax went quiet. We watched the sun drop over a curved horizon that night, with the mariachi trolling the beach for willing tourists and the road worries sliding from our tired shoulders. Later the next day, we prowled the dirt streets for the best taco stand, and Nathaniel hunted up the requisite basketball court. Many of the visitors we talked too bemoaned the impending resort development that was intended to turn this part of the coast into the Nayarit Riviera. They had been coming here for years and liked it the way it was. I wondered if the locals felt the same way. This was a common theme in Mexico – small rural areas on beautiful coastlines on the cusp of development.

We turned back onto the road and pointed south to Guadalajara. Our camper was on the dregs of its freshwater tank, so we pit stopped in a small town that supposedly had someone selling purified water. After winding our way through increasingly smaller streets, we finally arrived at a small storefront. The camper took up the entirety of the street, and when Daniella turned it around, the roof top fridge vent took out one of the overhead electrical wires. Nobody seemed too flustered. There was no pumping mechanism at the agua purificada tiende, so the shop owner hoisted a garrafon onto his wide shoulders, proffered up a length of plastic tubing and stated to me “Suction!” The boys got an impromptu lesson in the fine art of siphoning. It is difficult to find a practical problem that cannot be solved by someone within a three block radius in Mexico. Necessity is the mother of all invention, and Mexicans are a resourceful bunch. Later the next week at a gas station, I discovered my gas cap missing (perhaps the victim of a someone else with equally good siphoning skills?). I asked the gas station attendant if she knew where I could buy one. She promptly ran over to her purse, extracted a used cap and proudly screwed it into place. 200 pesos por favor.

In Guadalajara, we spent a week at the Matthew Training Centre, at the invitation of a connection Daniella had made through her work. Here we finally fell into a daily rhythm with the students at the Centre, and threw ourselves whole heartedly into the volunteer work we were given. The highlight of each day was the pick-up soccer match that took place at sunset. I take advantage of a week of down time and have the truck brought to Lalo, a mechanic in the area to give the rig a well-deserved oil change and to replace a failing resistor on the A/C system. He shows up with the truck three days later. He got wind of the journey we are making and was eager to hear more. He then asked if he could slap his magnetic shop sticker on our truck. Why not. It wouldn’t hurt to have a little more street cred.

People here have been generally very curious about our journey. I know that for many a journey like this is completely out of reach, but I suspect their interest is also because it is a style of travel that is very unfamiliar here. There are not many RV’s or RV Parks here other than those catering to Canadian/US snowbirds. Regardless, we have also learned that in Latin culture hospitality is everything. Hosting a traveler is considered an honour, and the graciousness with which we are received by strangers is humbling. When we pull out of the MTC a week later, we are overwhelmed by the depth of the friendships we have made. Unexpected tears spring to our faces as we are escorted by waving arms out of the gates.

Over the course of the next week the road takes us inland as we explore the distinctly different cities of San Miguel de Allende, Mexico City and Oaxaca. These cities are old, tight, narrow and burnished by hundreds of years of high desert air. These are not the carefully polished museum pieces sitting on the shelves of Europe, but the hardwearing backdrop that supports everyday life in Mexico. The cobblestones here bear the patina of hooves and tires that continue to wear them, and when they are replaced it, it will be with cobbles not pavement. Not because of historic sentimentality, but because the man who cobbles streets will be there quicker than the asphalt company busy with state highways. Daniella and I realize that the boys aren’t familiar with cities older than 150 years, and we are excited to help them peel back the layers. They seem less interested in history or geography, however. The cities they uncover are the ones with steep twisting passageways perfect for parkour, or the barking dog on the roof three stories up. They see the forgotten spaces between house walls that you could probably squeeze through, but just barely. They see the gecko that disappears into a crack in the masonry. They see the cold, sweat beaded glass Fanta bottles in the glowing fridge in the dark corner of the small streetside tienda after a hot day of walking. And this is ok. They are discovering these places in their own way, and it is a reminder to this architect that the spaces we build must hold wonder and delight. They must be able to be discovered and explored.

In San Miguel we learn that the heart of each Mexican town is the main square, or Plaza Zocalo. We find ourselves here one evening, playing poker on the bandstand, facetiming with family (free wifi!) and dancing to mariachi (just to be clear, the boys and Daniella dance to mariachi, I had to take pictures). The next afternoon we are fed up with the boys and craving a proper coffee so we abandon them in the town centre with 200 pesos and strict instructions to find the best possible ice cream, and to behave in such a way as to not embarrass their country of origin. When we return an hour later, the three of them are giggling on a park bench. Nathaniel had placed a request for two of the same kind of ice cream cone (en Espanol) , which was translated as a double scoop for a single cone. To ensure complete fairness Nathaniel decides that all three of them must have double scoops. At least that’s the story we were told.

In Mexico City, we get hopelessly lost and overwhelmed by the size and scale of this metropolis. It takes us two hours via bus and metro to get out at the end of the day, but we are proud that we did it on our own. In the heart of this massive city is an equally massive plaza, a plaza so large that you can barely see the other side through the hazy downtown air. On one side of this square is the largest Catholic Church in Mexico, the Metropolitan Cathedral, built in a conglomeration of baroque, gothic and neo-classical styles. Immediately in front of it, a series of vendors have set up. These are modern day shamans, clad in Aztec attire performing cleansing ceremonies for pesos. The air is heavy with the smoke of their incence jars. I am told that the Church was deliberately built on this site to stamp out an ancient Aztec worship site. This is spiritually contested space and you can feel it. The air is charged. It’s an uncomfortable space to be in and we move on quickly.

In Oaxaca we decide that this is a city that must be tasted, and so we shamelessly eat our way from one place to the next. The next day we make our way to San Martin and the art studio of Jacobo and Maria Angeles, where we uncover a depth to Oaxacan pointillist art that is subtle, complex, precise and completely overwhelming. In these colours and patterns you can understand the Mexican people. We commit to a one hour workshop and the five of us try our own hand at painting little wooden figurines. The paint is not yet dry, but I can see where these mementos will sit on the shelf of our home, where they will catch our eye and remind us of this special place.

I am catching you up on all of the highlights, but I should remind the reader that the hard grit of overlanding happens in the margins between highlights. This is where the work is. There may be some of you who are under the impression that this is a full time vacation flitting from one dreamy locale to the next. True, neither of us are “working”, but this is a different kind of job. There are tanks to be checked (grey water, black water and fresh water), propane levels to keep an eye on, battery levels to monitor, routes to be planned, places to be researched, camping locations to be scouted, bills to be paid back home, vehicle maintenance to be done, groceries to be bought, school to be taught….not to mention pretending to look after the kids. But this is the business of adventure travel, and the fullness and immediacy of it has brought back a long lost ability to be fully present. I’m much less lost in my own thoughts than I used to be. Not all of it is easy, not all of it is good. The bickering in the back seat often reaches a boiling point, and we still haven’t quite gotten used to spending every waking minute together. But there is a semblance of a rhythm starting to emerge, and all of the crew members are starting to find their places.

Far too soon our time in Mexico sits on the horizon. We make a last minute decision to grab a beach day in Huatulco, where we do our first real snorkeling. This is a first for the boys, and it will be a long time before I forget the look on their faces after they see their first tropical fish playing hide and seek in the reef. The foggy masks and snorkels can’t hide the wide grins and big eyes. It is a particular gift to be able to watch your kids discover something for the first time and I bob in the waves, engraving this time in my mind.

I wasn’t expecting the Mexico that we got. We were warned of random violence, targeted theft, corrupt police and very bad roads. We encountered only the bad roads. That’s not to say bad things don’t happen here. And I suppose there is a reason why there are so many masked men in fatigues with well worn semi-automatic weapons riding around in new pickup trucks. National Guard, State Police, Federales, Municipal Police….it’s hard to keep tracking of what guns are looking after which bit of turf. The poverty here is also real. It’s a steep climb even to the bottom rung of middle class. Most of the locals raised their eyebrows when we told them of our plans. Please don’t drive at night was a common reply. We spent two nights in the parking lot of a church at the outskirts of Mexico City, in a small, desperately poor suburb. The property was halfway through construction and had a small family living on it to look after the place. We were told it was safe, but not to be scared if we heard gunshots at night, they would be very far away (also, don’t walk on the street after dark please). But, in the midst of the trucks bristling with guns, and the garbage strewn streets, we were met by a people who treated us with incredible generosity. We were always treated with extreme care, and passed along gently from one contact to the next, always with a smile and an offer of food or a safe place to sleep.

As we pointed the Duramax towards Guatemala, we rolled through a series of small villages. The majority of buildings in these smaller communities are single story, half finished, just enough wall and roof to call it a shelter. There are many things here that appear half finished, and the landscape is littered with concrete and block structures in various states of completion. It is common practice in Mexico to leave the reinforcing bar sticking out of the first floor to enable the second floor to be constructed at a later date. It strikes me that this is where the hope of the Mexican people can be found. Always building with what they have, but hoping for a future that will allow them to build out the fullness of their dreams. No matter how poor the village…there was always rebar sticking out of the roof, there was always a glimmer of hope for the future. This is the Mexico we discovered, one in which this hope was written deeply into the creases of hard worn, sun-burnished faces, always quick with a smile. It was a country that opened its door to this traveling family and left an impression that will bring us back.