Kitabı oku: «From the city of angels to the land of fire. Danny Beer, gringo on tour», sayfa 2

To Catalacan.: In the red light district
Wednesday August 15, 2007, 118 km (73 miles) – Total so far: 1,552 km (964 miles)

You sure didn’t get a good night’s sleep. The air-conditioner only has one setting, cold and loud. You turn it off and the room quickly saunas up. You get a get up and get out bang on the door an hour before check out.

You skip breakfast, not liking anything in town and not able to find anything else until after lunch. The nice wide shoulder of yesterday disappears, first half and then in total, not reappearing until much later in the day.

Someone drives up along side. “Australia?” He asks. This is the same guy two weeks ago who, on his bike, helped you get past that asshole on the toll way up near Tecato. You stop and chat for a bit. He’s off to do some crazy ride up a 3000 metre mountain, over 300 km in about 30 hours.

The destination today is Catalacan. With just ten km to go your rear tire goes flat. So you inflate it. But as you start to ride again the other tire goes. You start walking but doing the math in your head you are better off spending the time to fix the tires. So when the opportunity arises you fix the flats and move on. And into Catalacan. This sure is a big town. With absolutely nothing of interest. After a while trying to find a hotel you decide to just find one on the way out of town.

A look in the mirror is shocking. Dirt covers your face. Your legs are blue from fuck-knows-what. But some hard scrubbing fixes that. Time for dinner. You try to enter one of those Ley stores you see everywhere but security won’t let you in with your bag. “You want me to leave my valuables outside to be stolen?” Apparently so. You leave feeling disheartened. Oh and guess what. You’re staying in the red light district.

Towards La Cruz.: Camping along the freeway
Thursday August 16, 2007, 122 km (76 miles) – Total so far: 1,674 km (1,040 miles)

You wake up late. On the way out of town you meet up with a character who claims he was kidnapped not long ago. He’s on his way south to find a hospital and fuck knows what. Strangely enough he doesn’t ask you for money.

You head out of town, realizing only then that you are on the wrong road. Oh this road still heads south, just on the more dangerous highway. This means big detour to get to the freeway. Oh well. A friendly cop, on his own bike, helps with directions in the small town of Costa Rica, which is not even on the coast.

And zoom, zoom, zoom, down the freeway you go. You pile on the miles. La Cruz is the destination but it never seems to arrive. It gets dark. Time to start looking for a place to camp. You get a flat tire. Time to start looking for a place to camp very soon. And you find a place. It looks good despite being about four metres from the freeway. But it is semi-secluded and on flat sandy ground. Bed time. And look at all that pretty lightning.

Mazatlan.: More problems with the bike
Friday August 17, 2007, 85 km (53 miles) – Total so far: 1,759 km (1,093 miles)

After a sleepless night from the noise and humidity you pack up early and hit the road. It takes a while to sort out the tire and when you do it only lasts ten km anyway. But it doesn’t deflate that quickly. If you persevere and inflate the tire every few km you might be able to make it somewhere up the road. At least somewhere to find water. So thirsty!!!

Eventually the turn off to town arrives and you find a shop. You waste another hour or so trying to sort out the tire. Why is this so difficult? You head back out onto the freeway. Everything goes fine enough for a while. Road works are not too friendly. Nor are the big semi-trucks who absolutely insist on driving you off the road. By now you’re quite used to it, a natural almost.

It sure is hot. With the first day of wearing a T-shirt, your arms are burnt red. With just thirty km to go until Mazatlan your rear tire goes flat. Well, it was bound to happen really. It seems such an easy task to fix. So why do you spend two hours at it and you still can’t fix it?

Time to start walking. It’s hitching time. All seems hopeless. But someone does stop to give you a lift. You jump in back with the bike and cruise into town, pass all the expensive resorts, and are dropped off on the main strip in town. You wheel the bike around until you find a hotel which is not astronomically expensive. “Can I have a look at the room?” You ask. “No.”

No wonder he wouldn’t let you check it out. Dump is the only word to describe this. But it will do for tonight. Tomorrow you can find something in the old town where prices are not so extravagant.

Mazatlan.: Prostitutes and madmen
Sunday August 19, 2007, 30 km (19 miles) – Total so far: 1,789 km (1,112 miles)

A couple days rest is what you need. And you kinda get it. You use the half useless tube on the tire, re-inflating it every couple km or so until you get to the old town. You find a hotel a little cheaper, but no better, and check in. With the bike as it is you really don’t want to be tramping around looking for a hotel.

After the hotel is sorted what you need is a swim. And the water is oh so nice. You ask at a café directions to a bike shop and after wandering about town in the heat you find some. But two tubes is all that you can acquire. With the luck you’ve been having they will barely last until you leave town.

And it’s true. During the night the front tire also goes flat. You need to use both tubes. But before all that.. You go looking for a third hotel to stay in for your third night in town. And find one which looks nice. Another hotel looks pretty bad, and expensive too. As you walk out one of the ‘ladies’ inside asks if you want something else. But you don’t understand the Spanish. That’s okay as the fucky fucky gestures are obvious enough. Also obvious are the blowjob signs she gives. “What?!? You want me to pay you? It aint gonna happen lady.”

You meet some guy and he invites you to go for a ride with him and his friends. You um and ah over the safety of it and go along anyway. So you jump in the back of the ute with a beer in hand and cruise around town. Later, just the three of you inside the cabin your new friends pull up and chat to a hooker. They are trying to get you laid. But she wants money first for drugs so you leave unloved but still disease free. You find out later that your friend was asking for all three of you to, um, do her.

Your friends take you to there soon to be gas station. They even invite you to work tomorrow. “No, thanks.” You say and hope things don’t get awkward. It rains. It rains a lot. The town floods. On the way back into town your friend screams around a corner sending a wave of water all over a pedestrian. He screams out and you just can’t help but laugh.

You kill eight roaches that night. Hopefully the next hotel will be better.

Late and hungover you fix the bike but a new tube still leaks. It gets you to the next hotel though. It must be the valve. You fix it and the tires don’t seem to go flat anymore. But for how long?

You don’t do much today. You look for a bike shop but they are all closed. Well, it is Sunday after all. You go for a swim and chill out at a café. You want to see a bullfight but it’s the wrong time of year for that. Too hot apparently. No shit.

To Escuinapa.: A real Mexican town
Monday August 20, 2007, 98 km (61 miles) – Total so far: 1,887 km (1,173 miles)

You wake up late feeling very lethargic. Indeed with the luck you’ve been having lately you really are reconsidering the whole trip. You pack the bags, get a bite to eat, some spare tubes and are on your way. You get six spare tubes. That should be enough for a day or two.

The tires are holding up well for now but you are very careful not to run over anything. You really are quite nervous about the whole thing now.

It is hot but soon clouds over to the point of rain. Perhaps thunder and the whole shebang. The road is great. It narrows down considerably at one point but the traffic is so slow you just nudge right in with it all. This is supposed to be the start of the most dangerous stretch of road in the world. But the new toll freeway may have negated this. It is near vacant of traffic too.

To escuinapa you go. This has a real Mexican feel. Some kid throws a ball at you. You pick it up and take off with it. But what do you want with a ball? So you drop it and keep going. You find a hotel but it is too expensive so you cross the road and find one for half the price.

Ruiz.: Another real Mexican town
Tuesday August 21, 2007, 147 km (91 miles) – Total so far: 2,034 km (1,264 miles)

You leave Escuinapa in hope of finding the freeway. But first there is a stretch of highway to cover with the all to frequent trucks running you off the road. The highway runs parallel to the freeway, which is closed for construction. This means you have the freeway all to yourself while you watch all the other traffic battle it out on the single lane highway.

The kilometers fly by but soon you need to top up the tanks again. You have shite all hope of finding anything to eat but road kill on the freeway so you head off and detour fourteen kilometers to a restaurant near Acaponeta. There is also a road toll here. The girl waves frantically as you ride out but catches you on the way back. What she wants is you to put the big onto the raised ‘sidewalk’ for all of four metres and take it off again. It seems uselessly official and it probably is. You have read about this before but never bothered, succeeding quite easily with riding through. But if it makes them happy then sure, I’ll play along. Oh and you do get a flat on this detour too.

More km go past. An exit to Santiago sounds nice until you see that there is still thirty km to go on a semi-truck packed death road called route 15. So back onto the freeway you go where, sooner, you are promised haven in a town called Ruiz. The name is a lot longer by the way.

You find the exit and ride the rickety road into town. Then walk through town on the cobbled roads, across the train line and to the hotel. You see some women wearing traditional garb but have no idea which people they belong to. Well the Mexican people of course. Yeah, but which tribe?

The plan is to follow the coast all the way to Guatemala but the freeway has been so nice compared with the highway and all the buses and trucks trying maim you that it really is quite a dilemma. The decision needs to be made now.

San Blas.: Trouble buying beer
Wednesday August 22, 2007, 85 km (53 miles) – Total so far: 2,119 km (1,317 miles)

You wake up early to the sound of something turned up really loud. The host is watching television. Oh well. You wanted to get up early anyway. Some sandwhiches and coffee from a restaurant nearby and you’re off. Directions to San Blas take you to the dreaded highway 15 which you follow for near forty km. Thinking you should have just back-tracked to the freeway 15D you realise with no uncertainty that you very well should have when the highway literally takes you onto the freeway for a couple km until the San Blas turnoff.

But traffic is quite accommodating for once. It doesn’t last long though as this traffic is soon replaced by less friendly drivers bent on squeezing you off the road. One truck comes up over a hill, overtaking another truck and heading straight for you. You stop and jump out of the way at the last moment as it sure aint. Quite a few snakes end up as road kill on the side of the road. Some are impressively scary. One or two might be something else entirely, a boa maybe.

There are many little hills on the way to San Blas. Up and down you go like a never ending roller coaster finally at last smoothing out the last few km into town. Off the highway traffic is much lighter but some drivers insist on being unfriendly, driving as dangerously close as possible. Of course others are friendly, not overtaking until absolutely safe to do so.

And into San Blas. There doesn’t seem to be much about this town. It has the facilities for tourists, ie hotels, but not really. And it doesn’t have the character Ruiz had. Maybe all the character is to be found on the hotel strip towards the beach.

So you head to the beach. Restaurants line the beachfront. A cerveza on the beach sounds nice. You make conversation with some foreigners. You say hi to some other foreigners but they are somewhat less responsive. It gets late. You head back into town. Some food, a banana milkshake, and it’s about time to call it a night.

You stop off at the off license for a couple of beers. “How much is one?” “Ten.” You take two and give the guy a fifty peso note. He gives back ten. You stand, waiting for the rest of the change. “Ten plus ten equals twenty. I gave you fifty. Thirty change.” You’re not getting the rest of your change. The guy looks a little mentally challenged so you try your best not to resolve to asshole mode. You ask a question and he gives you an almost nod. Is that yes or no? Ten and ten equal twenty. Not forty. You put the beers back in the fridge and leave with your fifty. Fuck that.

Los Ayalas.: Helmets are used for a reason
Thursday August 23, 2007, 101 km (63 miles) – Total so far: 2,220 km (1,379 miles)

After a restless night you head off down the coast to Los Ayalas. The first twenty km follow the coast along for an idyllic ride. After that you head inland up and down tall hills. But the road is nice and traffic minimal. You even feel safe riding helmetless. At one point the road is blocked by two cowboys, complete with lasso herding cattle.

It rains. Hard. You come to a town and pull up at one of those OXXO stores you like so much. They have stools set against the side. You lean the bike against the wall. You lock the bike. But by the time you step inside the stools are taken by two staff members. You stand dumbfounded just inside the door for a few moments. The staff look at you, wondering what this foreigner in the strange clothes is doing. Then you go. But fret not, a nice restaurant is close at hand for you to wait out the rain.

The rain doesn’t stop so you move on anyway. One, then another truck reinforce the notion that helmets are there for a reason. So you put yours back on. Most of the traffic is very cyclist friendly. It’s the loud minority you need to watch out for.

You make it into town and cruise down the hotel strip looking for a bargain. But none are to be found. You spend over an hour heading up and down the strip but eventually go back to one you found early on. This place looks touristy and fake. San Blas was the place to chill for another day or so. Okay, maybe not THIS day being wet and all but once you found the beach it was alright. There must be a defect in your guidebook. You are best off throwing it away and getting a different brand. It isn’t in sync with where people actually go. Oh well.

Puerto Vallarta.: Dangerous? No shit
Friday August 24, 2007, 76 km (47 miles) – Total so far: 2,296 km (1,427 miles)

The road is narrow and hilly. Traffic is for the most part unwelcoming. The usual array of buses and trucks pass with as little room as possible no matter what conditions you are present. A cop pulls you over. “It’s very dangerous.” He says. “No lights. No mirror. No registration.” After a while of this and your agreeing with him he lets you on with the assurance you’ll buy a mirror in Puerto Vallarta.

At the peak of the tallest and the last hill traffic builds up and remains constant for the remainder of the day. But it’s not that bad. At the foot of the hill, and on the coast, the road widens allowing an extra lane of traffic and nice wide shoulders just for you.

You ride past the expensive resorts and through all the built up area into town. There are three or four lanes each way. Bus drivers still manage to make assholes of themselves though.

And welcome to Puerto Vallarta. Yesterday saw some hurricane action so some streets are still a little wet to say the least. It looks like gringo land too. Lots of white faces about chilling in cafes and relaxing. A few places offer massages but they are all a bit expensive.

Puerto Vallarhta.: The Mexican from hell
Sunday August 26, 2007

It is Friday night. You go out. You get drunk. You dance. And you meet a man called Tony. Tony is a middle aged Mexican. On Saturday you meet Tony again. You sit in a café reading your book and Tony walks past. He invites you to go up town where the real Mexico is. To go where the girls are pure. He invites you to smoke dope. You say you aren’t interested in smoking.

You take a bus to a village on the edge of town. To where the jungle is. “I’m going to need ten dollars for the dope.” “No, I’m okay. I don’t really want any.” “Okay. Five dollars.” “No thanks.” “But that’s why we came here.” Tony is angry. He buys some dope. You sit near the river and drink water. Tony comes over. He’s not happy. “Why are you so bad to me?” He asks. Company doesn’t look so good. Tony wanders off. You see him board a bus back into town. He’s ditched you. Good. You get on a different bus for the ride back into town happy to be out of there.

You see Tony again that night at the bar. You wave when you make eye contact and he comes over. He says the police were there on horseback and he had to bolt. “If they caught me with the weed I go to jail. You go to jail.” Tony is full of shite. It is all you can drink again. You have a metal bucket full of ice. One corona in your hand. One in the ice. Tony wants some drink. He’s already half drunk. The bar manager isn’t happy with him. He swaps the full corona in the bucket for an empty one. The bar staff see him and the manager comes over. He tries to hide it under the table but they are on to him. The manager is not happy. “No more open bar for you.” He tells you. Tony says he’ll sort it out. Tony leaves. You speak to the manager and apologise. Eventually he says okay. You go back to the bar and drink your cerveza.

They don’t give you any more buckets full of ice. You order your beers one by one. You get drunk. You go back to the hotel. You stay one more day. Sunday is uneventful. You sit in cafes reading books and chat to an American guy looking at buying property here. He says you were lucky nothing bad happened. Perhaps you should be a little more careful next time.

Towards Tomatlan.: Bad doggy
Monday August 27, 2007, 92 km (57 miles) – Total so far: 2,388 km (1,484 miles)

You have nightmares about fixing flat tires. You wake early. The bed feels good. You get up late. It is after one by the time you get going. You head south out of town. Up and down the little hills. Then the hills get bigger. No matter. It rains. You get wet. It stops raining. You are still wet. Wet with rain. Wet with sweat.

Traffic is light. In fact it is idyllic. All day traffic is minimal and courteous. But of course that one asshole bus driver does have to appear and try to run you off the road despite the rest of the road being open. But after dealing with a hundred such assholes each day a single cunt is of no bother.

Some dogs run out to attack. Usually in Mexico dogs stop the chase after the second shout. They all seem to ignore the first. You stop for a break at a roadside stop. Three dogs come out to attack. You swing at them. You’re not welcome here. You go up the road and eat where you are welcome.

Tomatlan seems to be today’s destination. But will you make it before dark. You eat dinner at a restaurant. Thunder calls out. It will rain. Tonight. In one hour? Two? Is it enough to find a place to stay? Back on the bike a gang of dogs attack. You shout and swing you whip at them veering all over the road. They don’t give up easy and you are glad no other traffic is about.

You pass through a town about twenty km from Tomatlan. It is on dusk. You find a hotel. The price is about right so you call it a day.

To Melaque.: A nice fine day
Tuesday August 28, 2007, 124 km (77 miles) – Total so far: 2,512 km (1,561 miles)

You leave town without breakfast hoping to find something further up. There are restaurants but you pass on them and soon it is time for lunch and you are hungry and you need food. You stop and get a bite to eat. The front tire hits a pot hole and punctures.

The day is fine. There are hills but they aren’t too bad. There aren’t any dogs out attacking you today except for a small gang towards evening. It rains all day. Just a drizzle and it feels good. But around dinner time it gets heavy and you wear your coat. Kilometer markers count downwards. Closer and closer you go. You haven’t really eaten all day and with less than twenty km to go you feel fatigued. No more water. No food. You press on.

One last hill to climb and then down, down, down for the last few km to town. You head into Melaque and find a place to stay. It seems nice here. You are close to the beach and it isn’t so touristy, more like San Blas.