El Gringo Perdido: Part 5
The Angry Caballero
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Trying to make friends, with limited success.
BLOG POST #022 - El Gringo Perdido (The Lost Gringo) Part 5
How I learned to ride a motorcycle, speak Spanish and not die. Riding solo in search of adventure from Detroit to Argentina.
“Fear of being shanked by a seventy year old man had never crossed my mind before. There is a first time for everything, I suppose.”
As I rode my motorcycle south through central Mexico, I stayed in places that friends had recommended.
Several people told me to stop in a town called Xilitla along the way. As with many Aztec names, my Anglo-wired brain could find no connection between the spelling and pronunciation of this word. I didn't even know what letter to start on. People in Monterrey called it "heel-EEET-lah," so I ran with that.
True to form, Xilitla was a lovely place. It had strong local culture mixed with in a thriving regional tourist trade. There were authentic townsfolk on the one hand, in addition to good restaurants on the other.
After my first night in a jungle resort with various cabanas spread around, the manager informed me that I would have to leave, rooms were all booked up with prior reservations. It was a family run place and they seemed to like me. When I asked if I could pay to camp on the grounds, they let me stay at no charge.
I packed up my room and moved my motorcycle fifty yards away under a tree where I set up my tent.
The cute, timid dog that patrolled the property had become my best buddy. He was a medium-sized mixed breed with brown shiny fur. Whenever I returned from an outing, he would quietly appear with head bowed in submission, asking for a scratch on the ears.
Sleeping under the stars with my new pal by my side suited me just fine.
The town was surrounded by a jungly-forest. My hotel was on the outskirts, so I ventured out into the dense foliage to look for wildlife one night. Not having done a lot of ferping* in the past few weeks, I'd love to catch a snake or two for some photos.
(*my way of shortening field-herpetology)
As far as I knew, this was a pretty safe place. However, hearing gunshots in the distance and being alone, I deduced it might be best to skip the hike here. Instead of a long outing, I got a good night's sleep.
Nursing a cold for a few days, I lingered a bit too long in this town. While I didn't want to put myself behind schedule, I also needed the rest. COVID was in full swing, so I thought I should get checked out. There was a medical clinic nearby to where I was staying, in a row of shops that included an art studio and a fruit stand. The doctor on duty was a very chill dude, well dressed, with a long beard, a little older than myself. There were no other patients or staff anywhere to be seen in his clinic. It seemed like he lived upstairs.
We hung out.
He gave me an examination, COVID test, and prescription drugs, all for the low-low price of USD$26. That would have been a USD$400 visit in the USA. The competence and immediate access to care was a delight. There was no waiting. I'm not sure he even wrote down my name.
No wonder there are over a million and a half Americans living in Mexico, and why US/MX medical tourism is booming. People stream over the border to get “major-work done" for pennies on the dollar. The down-side is that there is no way to sue the surgeon when one of your implants hardens in place four inches higher than the other one.
"Meh. Today the system worked for me," I thought.
After four or five nights, I rode out of Xilitla with the intention of staying by a river at a campground I saw on google maps. Due to a glitch in cell coverage and my compromised state of sharpness, I passed the place by. Apparently I was thirty miles east, on some other road altogether.
A surprise sunrise on the way out of Xilitla
So, I just rode south. Like I do.
The next few days of ride time were unknown country to me. With no recommendations from friends, my wits and situational awareness were all I could rely on to stay safe. It is hard traveling alone.
Much as I love Mexico's beauty and varied scenery, this region was pretty boring. The towns I passed were all a dusty mix of old-timey wild west storefronts (somehow with none of the charm), centered around an OXXO convenience store, or a twenty-bay diesel-stained gas station.
As it approached four o'clock in the afternoon, my "DO NOT TRAVEL IN THE DARK" big-toe warning system was twitching. Without exception, everybody I had ever spoken to about this solo journey, had told me not to travel after the sun goes down. It was time to work on an overnight plan.
My intention was to set off early the next morning with an ambitious goal. Veering well east of Mexico City, I wanted to make it all the way Puebla in one day.
Looking around in one town, there wasn't anywhere obvious to stay. I needed to hurry on my way, but I felt weak and hungry. An old woman was cooking soup over an open fire. The red, pungent concoction simmered and sputtered, in an old fifty-gallon drum that had been cut down to a more shallow size. There are many names for chicken in this country like Gallo, gallinas, aves de corral, and a few others I can never remember. From the hand-written sign on the wall, I wasn't sure what this soup was. Spoiler alert - it was chicken.
It's always chicken.
After eating, I found a hotel on my phone six or eight kilometers ahead.
Every town is just like the next.
Rolling into town, it all looked the same to me as the last five places I had passed. There really wasn't a lot of wanderlust or romantic-awe going on at this point. My mood was functional, cautious and somewhat weary.
The hotel I had seen on the map was nowhere to be found. Once I had cruised up and down main street several times, I decided to ask around.
A gas station attendant told me there was a place with rooms available on the corner right in front of me. I slow-rolled that way and past the building, but I couldn't find it. I kept going further down the road until I came to two guys drinking beer by the back of their truck. They pointed to the same combination strip-mall, gas station, and restaurant complex I had just come from.
They told me that it was right there in front of the "carro rojo," (red car).
"Ok," I declared.
Riding back, I circled around a few times. There was no sign of a hotel. Not only was there no literal written "Hotel" sign, but no sign of it otherwise, such as an entrance or reception area. I asked an old dude standing outside the shops right next to the red car and he said there was a hotel a few kilometers away.
There was no way, I was giving up at this point.
My new beer buddies two hundred meters down the road tried their best at Mexi-Semaphore signals to spell out where I needed to go. Riding back to talk to them, they said the same thing about the red car. Again, I headed to where they pointed, only to find the same utter LACK of hotels.
One of the guys put his beer down and drove the truck my way, to show me himself. A few minutes later, he couldn't find it either. Now we were both confused. No one seemed to know what he was talking about. This was getting funny.
It was nice that I now didn't feel so stupid on my own, which is a regular feature for me when traveling abroad.
At last, a woman in an apron stepped out of the street-food restaurant carry-out counter to take charge. She talked too quickly, but seemed to make noises to the affirmative that, yes this was a hotel.
In order to break any linguistic log-jams over the past few months, I had come to know several ways of asking for a place to stay. Phrases such as "cuarto," "habitacion," or "donde puedo dormir," are a bit crude, but usually did the trick. Sometimes it took every related word I could think of before we got on the same page.
Imagine a Mexican tourist in Detroit asking, "Empty? Place empty?," Nobody would know what the hell he meant, as he was looking for a hotel room. This is the kind of thing that translation apps get wrong all the time. If he were trying to say "vacancy" like it says on motel signs, but instead his phone put out the word "empty", then this is how a disconnect happens. Language is incredibly complex and nuanced.
The busy center of Xilitla
In that small town, trying to find a room I could have been using a similar but incorrect word as well. Maybe it was a family guesthouse or some other such lodging that is not typically a hotel for strangers. I have no idea what the hitch was.
However, the friendly pickup truck guy spoke fluent Spanish, so I do not understand why it was difficult.
Some mysteries will never be solved.
Once the restaurant lady and I established that we had business to negotiate, I began talking to her directly. Speaking with confidence, I thought my Spanish was very clear.
I said, "Necisito un cuarto solo para esta noche, por favor." (I need a room just for tonight, please.)
She replied with a heavy accent, "No EEEEnglesh!", and stormed off.
Damaattttt. I was speaking Spanish!
This cut me down a notch because I thought I was doing pretty well with my vocabulary and pronunciation.
She motioned for one of the kids to fetch someone who spoke English. A teenage girl was thrust forward to communicate with me. I assume she had some classes in school or some other qualification that "volunteered" her for the job.
As it just so happened, she also did not speak English. I said the exact same thing as before in Spanish about needing a room. This time it was no problem and we were in business.
"Why is everything so hard?" I muttered.
The girl and her sister jumped into action. They seemed excited to have a foreigner in town and an important job to do. They got the keys to show me the room. Not caring what the room was like, I brought up all of my luggage as I followed them up the stairs.
They quoted a price and I said it was fine. For some reason they then lowered the price two more times, even though I had agreed to it in the first place. I accompanied them back downstairs to pay MX$400 cash, which was around USD$18 for the night.
By then a small crowd had gathered. The indignant restaurant lady perched upright on a bench next to her six-year old son, with grandma sitting nearby. Kids bounced around in the background and a few other people stood in groups, chatting.
Knowing nothing about this town, I had every instinct to make human connections as much as I could. If people like me, then people will look out for me.
Chancho, a local street muscian teaching his historian guitar: La Jarana Huesteca
Since our hotel transaction was complete, it was time to have some fun and make friends. We all talk for a while and I tell them about my journey, hoping to ride all the way to Argentina. The teenage girls sign my motorbike. It was hard to find space to write their names, as the bike was filling up with autographs from all of the people I had met along the way.
There was a very shy child sitting next to the restaurant-lady. It would be nice to win him over, so I bring a gift for him.
I invite myself into the kitchen to prep a classic prank. I have a fake nickel that has a little bulb on back for squirting water. It is a cheap gag, but always a winner with the kiddos. After filling it up in the sink, I show it to the first girl. When she leans in to look closely, it sprays a drop of water in her face. She laughs. The other girl didn't catch it the first time, so I repeat the trick on her. They love it.
The girls are excited to show it to the boy. He is very timid, but feeling safe there next to mamma. At first when he gets sprayed, he is confused. Then he laughs when he sees the fake back of the coin. I give it to him as a souvenir, and he lights up with a big smile.
Things are going well and we're all having fun.
The noise draws more attention and an old man walks over. He carries himself as a fellow of some high status, with the classic caballero cowboy hat and pearl-button-shirt combo going on. Even though this guy is at least twenty years older than me, he looks wiry and strong. Like an authoritarian London Constable in an old Bobby's tit hat, he pushes his way in and gently demands to know, "What's going on here? Why is everybody laughing?"
I encourage the boy to do the trick, but alas he is too shy. I take the coin and I do the prank myself on the old man. The kids have a big laugh.
However, as quickly as it happened, I knew that this was not good. The caballero was not amused.
I have made a grave mistake. As his face reddens, I can see anger begin to boil over.
He grunts a stream of angry jabs.
"I don't like this."
"You don't know me."
"You don't know where you are or who I am."
"Things can happen to you if you don't act right."
"I don't like this."
"If we are friends and we make jokes, then maybe."
"But you don't do this in front of my family."
"I am not a child who plays games."
There is a knife on his belt and his fingers twitch involuntarily as if they're just waiting for permission to grab it. I get the feeling that if I were five feet closer or he were ten years younger, he would have already buried that blade in my gut without the first word. After a long and tense five minutes of scolding me, he was not claming down no matter what I said.
I tried to be as humble as possible.
"I'm so sorry."
"I meant no disrespect."
"I am a stupid foreigner."
"The USA is much more informal."
"The kids were laughing the first 3 times and then you just walked up asking about it."
"I meant no disrespect, sir."
"I thought it was ok."
"Please sir, forgive me of this one mistake and it will not happen again."
Fear of being shanked by a seventy year old man had never crossed my mind before. There is a first time for everything, I suppose.
I poured it on heavy with a little white lie, "I guess I miss my father more than I realize. He loved jokes like this so much. He died last year and I am still very sad."
When I am under stress the bullshit flows like water. The truth is that my dad is alive and well, thanks. However, I am trying to conjure a story that make sense to this old man. I'm appealing to any kind of father-figure thing this guy might have for me.
Pleading my case further, I told him, "I was going to stay here to rest up for my ride tomorrow, but I will leave now if I have offended you."
The temperature comes down a little as the old man tells me some of his life story. Speaking excellent English he recounts happy memories, but still with an oddly threatening tone.
It turns out that this old caballero lived in the USA for thirty years. One daughter works for the FBI and the other is an engineer at NASA. He brags proudly about how professional and successful his adult children are.
Over time I figure out the social structure of this town where, indeed this man is one of its patriarchs. He made his money in America as a construction site foreman or something of the kind. Leaving behind middle class anonymity north of the border, he retired in his homeland as a very big frog in a very small pond. Living down here, he enjoys a level of wealth, respect and social prominence that he could never have back in Texas or California.
The restaurant woman in her forties is this caballero's wife. The young girls are his daughters and the shy boy is his son. Starting a second family after retirement seems like a common thing in rural Mexico. I suppose after settling down with nothing much else to do, some men figure they might as well marry a younger, hotter wife and make more babies. He seems to have a peaceful and fulfilled life.
Then I show up and it's like I just spit in the mayor's face.
Having put myself in this shady position, I am so stressed. Here I am, “kissing the ring” as best I can of this two-bit Gran-Jefe in a crappy, broken-windows town, full of crumbling paint and unfinished cinder block walls.
So much for the human connection thing helping me. This was a big-fat backfire.
Ok, I f****d up.
I don't know how many ways I can say it, or grovel for a pardon. Pandering to some fragile macho ego of a guy who thinks he's king of crap-mountain, drives me insane. The silly nouveau-riche facade of a man with a six year old Cadillac among donkeys is hard for me to indulge without rolling my eyes. However, I did what I had to do and played the role with the mastery of Billy Shakespeare himself.
After what seemed like an eternity, the old caballero's mood finally shifted as he chilled out a little. He took on a more dismissive tone like he was above it all. As long as he moved away from the edge of hair-pin-trigger violence, then kissing his ass was fine by me.
Later, he got over it completely, acting like a more gracious and friendly host.
He caught my eye randomly among the crowd during conversation a few times to say, "Don't worry."
I replied, "I do worry, Señor. I came to your town and offended you. I am so sorry. You are very kind to a stranger. Thank you."
Although I was in the clear, I was not going to break character.
I have seen how Mexico has a more formal structure of social hierarchy. Unfortunately I completely underestimated that factor with this guy. I will be much more careful about playing jokes with people I do not know.
My mistake.
As the evening wound down, I considered changing rooms or bugging out of town at 1:10am. The balsa-wood panels with cardboard filler that made up my hotel room door did not feel super secure. If someone were standing too close outside, they might break the door off the frame with an inadvertent knee-jerk, trying to kill a mosquito. It really would not take a lot of force.
In the end I somehow slept quite well. Wanting to burn fuel for eight hours and hoping to avoid more small-town politics, I got on the road super early in the morning.
All geared up
What a joy it is that I get a fresh reset button every hour further down the road, every new town, and every day.
(rage)
NEXT POST COMING SOON: September 10th, 2025
