El Gringo Perdido: Part 3
The Town of Abundance
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The local tunnel taxi
BLOG POST #020 - El Gringo Perdido (The Lost Gringo) Part 3
How I learned to ride a motorcycle, speak Spanish and not die. Riding solo in search of adventure from Detroit to Argentina.
My surroundings went from one extreme to the other. The underground tunnel was dim, dank and claustrophobic. A mile and a half later, I was abruptly thrust back into the world of oxygen and sunlight.
The little town of Real De Catorce was alive with market-stalls, horses, cars, and people crisscrossing in every direction. Everything was made of stone from the mining era when it was founded, with a strong Spanish colonial influence. Great effort was put into the archways, the narrow cobblestone streets, and ornate doors.
It had the “classic small town buzz,” like the movie set of a Mexican village. In fact, many Hollywood films were shot there and that is mostly what this spot is famous for. I headed for the “oh-TELL,” or hotel, where Julia Roberts and Brad Pitt purportedly stayed during the making of "The Mexican." I was still easing my way into the unknown so I'd rather triple-over-pay right now to make life as easy as possible. I'd have a guaranteed safe place where staff would be more likely to answer my questions in English.
My luck is uncanny and I often stumble into amazing situations. In this case, events of all kinds were in full swing for the Fiestas de San Francisco de Asís. I had no idea that this was a holiday before I arrived. The town was decked out in full glory with colorful bunting draped across the streets. Historical performers in period costumes mingled with the tourists. An Aztec shaman posed for pictures for a small fee. Vendors of all kinds lined the town streets. There were stalls for everything from hand-crafts, spices, produce, all the way down to cheap plastic souvenirs. An Old woman sat on the curb selling her home-made dolls in the shape of colorful animals.
Hand crafts for sale on every corner
Street performers posed for a few pesos
For all of its glam, Real De Catorce is still just a cowboy town
Being in an environment like this where the tourists are all "local" citizens is something that I love. Everyone came to visit from other places in Mexico. Even the merchants traveled here for the holiday to sell their wares. I relish the days of traveling when I am the only obvious foreigner as far as the eye can see. It makes me feel free.
Heading for my “oh-TELL” in the center of town while wobbling on La Barra was a fiasco. The slippery, uneven stone streets sloped upward at a high grade. Just like a manual transmission car, hills are a challenge for a motorbike. It is quite a trick to move forward on an incline, not drift backwards, not jump forward, and not stall. I could barely touch my toes to the ground because of the harsh angle of the street. When it was time to go I had to be extremely quick popping the clutch and tickling the gas with as much precision as I could summon.
Heading downhill was a game of gripping the brakes dilligently to hold back La Barra's 550 lbs. from being a runaway train.
People swirled all around La Barra like speedy-bait-fish avoiding a shark. I was in danger of crunching ankles or T-boning a whole family as they passed in front of me.
There was no choice but to go in bold as brass, hold my nerve, and don't kill a kid.
A young father was walking hand in hand with his young daughter as the crowd slowed down. She was about six years old with long hair, wearing a purple shirt with a pretty frill around the waist. Everyone packed in more tightly as we waited on the pedestrian traffic jam. She was lined up directly in front of me. The small of her back was the same height as my front motorbike tire, jutting out dangerously close from behind.
Pushing back on my tippy-toes with barely any grip, I desperately tried to stay upright. I feathered the clutch as gently as I could to help the bike hover in that one spot. If I slipped and surged forward, I would have smooshed that little girl to the road, head-to-toe like a New England squirrel in autumn.
Faking a comfortable smile, I put on a good show. However, I was terrified on the inside.
The buzzing small-town scene.
It was hard not to run over toes in this traffic.
There must have been no cops on duty that day because there I was; oblivious, riding a fat motorbike on streets shut down for pedestrians. One block over to the left had been cleared for vehicle traffic. This made no difference to my predicament because I didn't know that little detail.
In addition, the angle of that other street was much worse, in fact, it may have been un-passable. I pressed on with my chin up like I do this every day. The street got more and more narrow. My pannier side boxes were getting close to bumping the vendor tables. Right at the end, I was jammed in tight. One of the merchants had to lift his table so I could get through. Since I acted like this was normal, everyone else did too.
With great relief, I finally pulled up to my “oh-TELL. “
Named "Meson De La Abundancia," it was a gorgeous little structure right in the center of town. Everything was modern and well appointed, but in a way that did not disrespect its centuries-old heritage. Built of stone, with wooden trusses, each room was an individual work of art. Farming and mining tools from the town's past lined the walls, and mounted plaques chronicled the history of the building.
I felt right at home.
The oh-TELL name translated to "Inn of Abundance." This really struck a chord with me. A little while back I posted something on social media about gratitude and the abundance in my life.
"I have an abundance.
I have an abundance of money.
I'm not wealthy, I just have more than what I need.
I have an abundance of time.
I have an abundance of joy, humor, kindness.
I have an abundance of peace.
I have an abundance of love.
If you are in need of any these - hit me up.
La Meson De La Abundancia felt like the right place for the next few days.
The mix of modern amenities with traditional decor made it feel like a marvelous couples' getaway. It was all so cozy and intimate with creaky floors, low wood ceiling beams, and slightly concave hallways.
After settling in, I started to feel quite sad. Being alone in such a romantic “oh-TELL” made me miss my recent ex-girlfriend "Larry." A nickname bestowed upon her by my friends who trying to help me forgot about her.
Much as I was loving this place, I was sad I couldn't share it with my ex.
It wasn't healthy or helping me move on, but she and I still talked once in a while. Walking around that evening, I called on video to show her the town. Her mother is from Mexico so I wanted to share these unique people and places, all so closely related to her heritage. I gave her a tour of the beautiful view, local children dancing, and outdoor food stalls.
Even though her, and I still shared intimate space in each other's heads, she had already re-connected with her prior lover. He was the main reason I ended it with her. Our breakup was all very fresh and toxic. In such gorgeous surroundings, I just couldn't help myself but have a full romantic relapse.
Calling her momentarily satisfied my need for some warmth and love. At the same time, I hated myself for it. By the time I went to bed I was feeling even more lonely and lost in emotions than ever. Love sucks.
Bright and early the next morning there was a lot of activity for the Fiestas de San Francisco de Asís. Strangely, it didn't feel like the traditions of a tiny pueblo from generations past. My impression was that the festivities were all a bit staged for tourist money. Friends have told me that the St. Patrick's day parade in Dublin is the same way. Locals don't even participate. I feel that some holidays out-grow the original cultures they came from and become an artificial event all their own. Still, it made the town more lively and exciting, so I had no complaints.
Music filled the open spaces of church yards and public squares for the flow of people passing by. Every museum and place of worship had doors flung wide open. Each was on full display with all the grandeur it could muster and a donation box ready front-and-center.
Tourists hiked up the nearby hills to ponder the fate of an ancient settlement. There were 4x4 jeep tours through the mountains. Cowboys led horseback rides around the town, announcing their approach with a pleasing rhythm of clacky-horseshoes on hard stone. Bars blasted reggaeton at their sidewalk table patrons.
Riding on top of a Willy’s Jeep
A pair of guitar players sat on opposite sides of the road singing as people passed between. One was an older guy with long, straight, jet-black-hair that looked more Aztec than Spanish. He wore a cool leather vest and lots of earthen jewelry. We chatted for a while and I bought them both a beer.
They were nice guys, but possibly the worst musicians I have ever heard in my life. The brio of their performance and jolly disposition were in comic contrast to the awful noise that flowed out of them. The thing that made it so funny was that they were close to getting it right, but landed just short.
One time the singing was one-half key off of the guitar playing. I was embarrassed, and I wasn't even in the band. This carried on for the whole song! How does a man's brain not Auto-Tune after the first three notes? I'm not even sure a trained performer would have the discipline to do that if they tried.
As they sang together, one would change speeds for no reason. That would start an inadvertent duel in cadence between them, both trying to get back in sync. Sitting at the street side table of my “oh-TELL,” I watched them for an hour holding back the giggles like a little boy in church.
Sometimes people need more practice. Other times they just need a different job.
Over the next few days I became a little obsessed with the decorative ancient doors and locks on every building. It was a nuanced feature of local architecture that was easy to miss. Once I paid more attention, the detail and personalization of each piece really caught my eye. One door had a hasp style lock with an oversized pirate's-chest padlock attached. There was a huge skeleton key lock on a twenty foot high door with blunt castle defensive spikes. Much of the hardware was layered in eighty coats of paint. The last century of maintenance made it all look like battleship bollards that need protection from the salt and rust.
When I leaned my brownish-crusted motorcycle-wounds against these various ancient doors, it created a interesting visual combination. Wandering around taking photos of this, a new genre of abstract art was born that I would call, "Weathered Wood and Scab."
Cramped cargo space on my bike meant that my wardrobe was extremely sparse. Even after a bit of wear and tear, I had to keep using the limited clothes available. Looking back at it, I must have been wearing the same top every time I crashed. The rips in that favorite shirt of mine matched the cuts and scars on my body. This made the Avant-garde effect of my photos even better. As often happens when reminded of past trauma, I found this very amusing.
The age of this town shows on every door and lock.
My latest portfolio, "Weathered Wood and Scab"
Mistakes on a motorcycle are paid for in smashed plastic and torn skin - if you're lucky.
My “oh-TELL” room balcony was a great place to chill out in between excursions. Smoking one of my granddad's favorite brand of cherry cigarillos, I could survey the town and plot my next move. People watching from that high vantage point was all so fascinating. There were high-fashion tourists, middle-class visitors, and traveling vendors all mixed up, bumping into each other all day long.
The most interesting people to me were the locals. Often when I travel, I miss out on big events and tourist sights because I want to look in on day-to-day life of the people who live there. For example, following other tourists with a guide—on a historic walk, doesn't usually give me any more info than reading about it on my phone. I'd rather be at some random middle-school basketball game, taking in the whole scene as proud parents watched with laser-beam focus in a grubby-gymnasium on an asphalt-court.
It is no surprise that soccer is the first, second, third and seventh most popular sport here in Mexico. I did not expect to drop in on a basketball game, however.
I like to interact with the bored local kids who's moms are selling arts & crafts. Everyone else is in this town wants to be here. Being too young to stay at home alone, these children don't get to make that choice. Their only job is to not be too clingy or under-foot while mamma is trying to pile in the pesos. Invisible to the rest of the crowd, they would light up when I waved to them.
One of these boys had a big bright smile. Proud because of catching a meaty, long grasshopper, he was eager for me to take his picture. My mind wandered off, daydreaming about how similar people are, all over the world. This particular boy lived here in San Luis Potosi state of Mexico, but I have met the same kid in other countries many times before. In fact, not so long ago I was this boy, myself. I wondered what travelers passed through my hometown four decades ago. Did they stop and talk to me? Perhaps, I showed them a grasshopper of my own.
The region had a unique style of headwear that I really liked. It was similar to a pinch-front cowboy hat that I was used to seeing in the USA. The difference was a more modest design with its sunken brim only having a slight roll along the edge.
They came in four different colors, but the real magic happened when you picked a headband that snugged down along the base. This last piece of personalization was the thing that made it all your own.
Hats and I have a strange relationship. My signature look usually involves a Red Wings or Tottenham Soccer club baseball cap. In the winter, my go-to is a cozy lumberjack ear-flapper. Sometimes I experiment with other headwear, and I got the feeling that one of these vaquero-sombreros could be my next thing.
It was annoying that so many of the Mexican weekend tourists here walked around with them on. They reminded me of how middle-aged Americans go to Disney World for their 30th wedding anniversary in matching Mickey Mouse ears. Gross.
On the other hand, I would be leaving there soon and then it would just be a hat. The more I pictured it, this seemed on-brand with the motorbike and my COVID-neck-buff pulled up over my face. In any case, I really did need something for the bright sun, up there at altitude.
It took me a while to settle on which one to choose. Once I had my hat it grew on me quickly. It was all black with a white, purple, and blue woven headband.
Cutting a small hole in the back of the hat allowed me to anchor a spare shoelace to it. With a space big enough to go around my neck I tied a loop in the remaining loose end. This is useful if I occasionally ride in it on La Barra at slow speeds. When the wind blows the hat off my head, it won't go far and instead will hang against my chest like a big awkward necklace. At least it won't fall in the mud or blow off a cliff.
Trying on a new look.
The hat got bonus points for the way it hid my identity as a foreigner. My big-bald white-guy-head was pretty hard to miss in a crowd, but now I could blend in a little bit better.
Between this “cool-ass-town,” my face coverings, and the new hat—I'm looking like an outlaw. This makes sense because I am technically illegal after all. I don't have a visitor's visa to be in Mexico. When I first entered, the gauntlet of border guards couldn't be bothered to process me. Stopping to ask a few different agents, they all waved me on dismissively. After a minute of me not leaving, one guy got pissed off. Feeling his aggression rise, I had no choice but to move on.
There were great benefits to skipping past the bureaucracy anyway. It saved hours in line at the customs office. That was my first day south of the border and I was worried about getting caught after dark in sketchy areas. There was a four hundred dollar deposit required for a motorcycle TIP (Temporary Import Permit) that I didn't get. I would have paid the money up front. Once I left Mexico with the bike, it would supposedly be refunded but I'd heard that the red tape was horrendous.
Having made a weak attempt at doing the right thing, it was easier to short-circuit the whole system so I just rode on in.
By the time I made it to Real De Catorce, I had been in Mexico for a few weeks, when a sinking feeling came over me. Traveling without proper documentation by ignoring those steps was a terrible idea. If I got pulled over for a routine traffic stop, I could get thrown in jail and then tossed out of the country. Like always in Mexico, I would bet that a twenty dollar bill might fix that situation at the roadside.
However, they could also seize La Barra. The risk of that put me into a momentary panic.
"Would I have to buy her back at full price? Would she be gone forever? Well, that would suck. All the more reason to stay under the radar."
My inner dialog ran wild,
I'm a rules-follower guy by nature, but the rules are often the problem. Rural border crossing "migración y aduana" procedures are usually pointless, absurd, and un-evenly enforced. I never know which regulations are important, versus the ones that are completely ignored. Knowing that this fog of uncertainty is what I signed up for on my trip, all I can do is make an educated guess. From there I just hope for the best and try to buy my way out of it if things all go wrong. I don't love it, but that is the system down there.
In any case, I didn't have to worry about customs and immigration for this leg of the trip. There was no strong police presence in town and I left La Barra parked the whole time. Being in Real De Catorce provided some sanctuary where I could relax for a while.
Walking back to La Abundancia from lunch one day, I jumped out of my skin. I thought saw my ex-girlfriend standing by the entrance to a church. Upon closer inspection it was some random tourist-woman who looked exactly the same as my ex from behind. Since Larry was a curly-haired olive-skinned beauty of Latino descent, dozens of beautiful women here looked just like her from behind. My mind was playing tricks on me.
The doppelganger-lady wandered towards my hotel with her husband and two kids. I'm not super proud to say that I struck up a conversation with them that was not totally innocent. Being nearby to her, my heart beat out of my chest with misplaced and muffled ardor. I must have hid it well because we all chatted comfortably for a while. They signed my bike and I told them about my year long plan, hoping to ride all the way to Argentina.
It was a little pathetic. Much as I enjoyed the solace of this trip and freedom to do what I wanted, it was also an opportunity for my skull to spiral out of control sometimes.
I f****n missed my girlfriend.
Sensing it was time to leave, I made a plan for the next leg of my trip.
My journey so far was marked by steady exposure to risk and challenge, step by step.
I started off in the USA learning how to ride. Monterrey is where I took crash-course Spanish classes and learned about the rhythm of Mexican culture. Real De Catorce was a bit more adventurous, getting into the heart of country. However, once I left there I would be truly stepping outside the wire into the vast middle nowhere that is central Mexico.
It wasn't possible to call my shots and plan where I would stop next.
If I left right away, there was plenty of time before the Day of The Dead celebrations down in Oaxaca. My phone said it would take fourteen hours of ride time. Judging from experience, that translates to more like twenty hours. Adding in for breakdowns, wrong turns and curiosity, I'll plan for at least three hard days in the saddle.
Once I prepped my gear and got my head straight, I solidified the big, complex, well-thought out plan.
"I'll head south."
(rage)
NEXT POST COMING SOON: July 30, 2025
