CHURCHES BEAT PYRAMIDS

saint paul's, cadereyta

TO THE SIERRA GORDA, MEXICO: MARCH 7
Pyramids don't do it for me. Churches do. Five Franciscan missions in the Sierra Gorda date from the 1730s. The mission at Jalpan, north east of Queretaro, is a good base for exploring. Riding to Jalpan is an experience. A gale swirls dust across the Queretaro plains. Tequisquiapan is hot-spring spa hotels and restaurants with pools. I halt at a hardware store and buy plastic safety glasses. The store owner warns me to be careful riding over the Sierra, that the wind is dangerous for bikers. I take nourishment for the climb in the next town, Cardereyta, at a butchery serving great Tacos.

GENTLE AND JOYOUS CITY

QUERETARO: MARCH 1
Morelia is a harsh city built to impress and subjugate. Queretaro is joyous. Only the paving is gray. Walls are deep rose, ocher and faded buttercup.
Lovely parks on the periphery are safe. Pedestrian streets connect four squares in the center. Cloisters of clipped trees surround the squares. Miracle of miracles, water jets from every fountain.
Late in the evening I share a wrought-iron bench in the Plaza de Independencia with two elderly men and listen to a guitarist and vocalist perform at a sidewalk restaurant. The vocalist is brilliant. I listen to two sets before guilt forces me to sit at a table and sip a cold Corrona. Guilt? Why is guilt so predominant an emotion? Catholic heritage is too easy an answer.

DELIGHT

ROAD TO QUERETARO: FEBRUARY 29
Lakes fill much of a valley. White houses spot a conical hill. The hill is an island. A dike carries the expressway. The Honda cruises at 90 kph on a perfect surface. Two grey heron play at sentry amongst patches of tall reed. Two lines of white pelican intersect to form a rightangle. Are they squatting on a fish trap - or on a breeding pen for talapia?

ROAD TO QUERETARO: FEBRUARY 29
I have been lost, since leaving Colombia, in a limbo peopled mostly by foreigners. I am miserable amongst foreigners: they are reminders of Bernadette and my sons. The sense of loss becomes almost unbearable. Today is joyous. I have rediscovered within myself that land through which I intended to travel and wished to travel: Hispanic America.
I stop beside a red 4x4 at a traffic light and ask directions for the road to Queretaro. I am lead through town to the expressway. I exchange cards with my guide: Eduardo Arredondo Gonzalez, Asesor Juridico. My thanks, Eduardo, for your kindness.
The sun is fierce on hills of harsh rock and dry dirt. In valleys gleam emerald oasis of rice paddy patterned with narrow canals. Those first Spaniards came from a similar land...Extremadura. As did the Moors...
Water is the treasure that toil with hoe and mattock husbanded.
Men are redundant now. Machines accomplish a centuries work in a few days.
In doing so, they bury memories of how it was.
How it was is the fascination – who those first Spaniards were and what they found.

EXECUTIVE PARKING

MORELIA: FEBRUARY 29
I wrote in the previous BLOG that Morelia is grand. The baby Honda slept in 17th century splendour. Early this morning I walked a while in search of breakfast and discovered a late 16th century car park.

TWO MORELIAS

MORELIA: FEBRUARY 29
Forgive me, Morelia. I walk your streets and sidewalks of gray pave. I try to admire your great buildings, gray granite, perfect in proportion. I am reminded of Scotland's oil capital, Aberdeen, cold in its Victorian grandeur, built to impress and dominate. I feel no love. This is Spain of the Inquisition.
I park the Honda in the patio of the Hotel Colonial. I find a restaurant on the main street. Downstairs is dimly lit (romantic?). I need light to write. A waiter leads me to an upstairs dinning room where I sit in solitary command of windows that open to the twin towers of the cathedral. Yes, they are marvelous, impressive, beautifully lit.
I take joy in another Morelia high in Spain's sierra Maeztrazgo. I visited on my return from Tierra del Fuego in 2006 as the guest of the city. We were celebrating the bicentenary of my Spanish great-grandfather, Marshal Ramon Cabrera, Marques del Ter and further enobled as Conde de Morelia for blasting a massive hole in walls that are now a national monument. Twenty or more of my Spanish cousins attended the celebration. I was required to make a speech. The Spanish are polite. People clapped.

SCREW THE AMERICAN DREAM

waves break from the point


TAOS ON SEA: FEBRUARY 21
The villagers are nervous of Central Government. They accepted a paved road to the entrance of the village but not into the village. The surfing contest paid for a Health Center. Now a production company wishes to shoot a reality film on the beach (what ever that is).
How much should the village demand? The mayor has no idea.
I suggest US$20,000 and work down...Though the Korean is in California. His counsel is better than mine. The Korean began as a banker. Harvard Business School defeated him. His fellow students were confused by morality. They hedged their bets. “Well,” they said, “Well, yeah, you know, I mean, well, yeah, it would depend on the circumstances.” Circumstances is Student-body code for profits. The Korean did a runner on the American dream.
Now my friend, Ming, has done a runner. He fled Hewlett-Packard in Oregon the second week of January. He bought a 200 cc trail bike in the Philippines and is riding island to island back to visit his mother in Indonesia. Island to island is slow.

TAOS ON SEA

TAOS ON SEA: FEBRUARY 21
The sideroad is midway up a steep hill. In 2006 only the first fifty or so meters were concrete. Now the road is paved down to the village. I stop at a house opposite the school – where I stopped on my first visit. The same man greets me. No, he has not returned to the North. Have I come to meet with the Korean? The Korean is in California. The Korean is getting a visa for his wife. His wife is here in the village.
The design of the village is open-unplanned - imagine a scattering of dwellings. Trees shade the few dusty streets. Two internet outlets are a surprise. A few buildings are new. A few have gained an upper floor. Construction is concrete block.
I turn in at the rental cabins. They are small thatched cabins with a shower block at the rear. The owner is now the mayor. A slow and thoughtful speaker, he is slender and bearded. He was first to head North from the village. He was a legal and had his own business in Taos. Many followed.
Since my first visit, he has built an open-sided thatch palapa. Though food is served, it is more a lounging area. A color TV has satellite connection - mostly for sport. Four young blond tourists are watching football.
The owner is painting a sign. We sit in the new palapa. I drink a beer. Our talk is leisurely. He tells me of the 2006 surfing competition. The competition was successful. Many surfers came. There was no competition in 2007. The sponsors paid US$20,000 to bring champion surfers to the beach, not to compete, but to spread the word as to the dependability and quality of the waves.
Why, I wonder. Do they wish to build a hotel?
A hotel would be impossible. The community would never agreee.
Last year people tried to invade the south end of the beach. The beach is ours. We chased them with machetes.
Spectacular.
The mayor smiles. Will you be staying long?
I had hoped to meet with the Korean.
He is California.
He has married?
He has a girlfriend.
Here?
Yes, a girl of the village.
Perhaps she has his email address.
I will ask.
Thank you.

HERONS OR CAVALRY OFFICERS

UP THE PACICIC COAST: FEBRUARY 21
Salinas de Cruz is twenty Ks up the coast from Tehuantepec. An oil refinery brought investment. New construction lines broad streets of what was recently a village. Tehuantepec has charm because it is forgotten. A little of the old ways remain. People are open. They forge friendships. I am privileged – as I have been throughout this journey. I want to stay a further week, watch Adela unearth her roots as she interacts with Fernando and his wife. And I would enjoy talking with Boris in the evenings. I could test my thoughts regarding the Conquest. Instead I ride towards a small community that was at risk when I traveled south in May of 2006 (see archives 05/21).
The road climbs and plummets through hills of scrub woodland with glimpses of sea and beach. In May of 2006, I left Tehuantepec at sunrise. The rains had come. The air was fresh and clean. Hills glowed emerald green. White and yellow blossoms splashed the canopy as did cascades of blue and crimson climbers. Vultures and hawks sailed the sky on dawn patrol. Today I leave nearer midday. Heat is oppressive. Trees are stripped of leaves and brittle. Hills are pale smoky gray.
Rivers have shrunk to a few muddy puddles. A lone white heron stands frozen in green shade. I spot a second in the next river, then a third. White herons or greater egrets? Narrow heads and long spindly legs make for cartoon cavalry officers. Do herons philosophize?
I pull in at a small restaurant. Venison stew is dish of the day. Is this the last deer? Should I refuse? What difference would refusal make?
I am a lone old man on a bike. At most, an ecentric. Influence? None.

COLOMBIAN GREASEBALLS

TEHUANTEPEC, MEXICO: FEBRUARY 17
Boris Corredor prefers working as an editor to teaching. He is a short, square, vital man, hair thinning, eyes very much alive. We drink beer together, discuss the race for the Democratic Presidential nomination, Cuba, Hollywood images of Hispanic America, US publishers' choice of Hispanic American literature, the Magic Realism of such writers as Marques and Allende, politically anodine – safe.
I prefer Salman Rushdie. Rushdie has courage. He pierces his victims with an epe, slices them with a saber and finishes them off with a lead weighted cudgel – all in magnificent prose. For superb political invective and imagery, read his denunciation of Iran's Khomeini in the Satanic Verses.
Boris agrees. Or is polite...
Colombians are polite - though this isn't the Hollywood projection.
Hollywood Colombians are swarthy Greaseballs. They deal drugs and destroy America's youth.

VERITABLE BODECIAS....

TO TEHUANTEPEC: FEBRUARY 17
Teenagers suffer from facial spots. Mexican roads have speed bumps. Sleeping Policeman is the traditional English term. The Mexican term is Topes. Some are painted yellow, others in yellow stripes. A majority have no paint at all. Drivers may be warned by a series of lines across the road or by road signs. Inevitably the traveler misses a warning. Braking hard as he hits forces a biker's pants into his crotch.
A long day in the saddle is a pain in the butt.
Today is a short stage. I am heading up the PanAmerican highway to Tehuantepec.
Tehuantepec is famous for fierce and strong-willed women (infamous to the macho). The women wear long skirts and stand upright as they ride the streets of Tehuantepec in motor-trikes. Veritable Bodiceas...

A CELEBRATORY BEER - OR THREE

TAPACHULA, MEXICO: FEBRUARY 16
Saturday evening and I drink Corona beer at a sidewalk cafe in Tapachula. Tapachula is celbrating the half-century stage and screen career of the city's best known actress. The juvenile male-lead in a popular soap opera drones praise for thirty minutes. He is followed by a procession of male songsters. All wear Hollywood Mexican dress: big hats, embroidered jackets, gun belts, boots and breaches.
Readers inquire why I never mention music. Because Latin American pop is a crime against humanity.
Sure, salsa or meringue is fun background for a short holiday romance. Be bombarded for four years with its repetitive rhythms and you pray for silence.
As for Brazil, I suffered four days of musical hell whilst traveling by boat down the Madera River to Manaus and Rigaton is Central American rap.
I loathe rap. The beat is offensively aggressive, My son, Joshua, argues that I should listen to the words. He should write them down. I will read them.
As for the poetry of Mexican folk pop and Argentine tango, I prefer a bad book.

A SORT OF VICTORY OVER OLD AGE

RETURN TO MEXICO: FEBRUARY 16
Saturday afternoon and I am alone at Guatemalan Immigration and Customs offices. I cross the border, dismount and kiss the road: Mexico to Mexico via Tierra del Fuego. A Honduran tourist at Mexican Immigration overhears the brief account I give of my travels. He asks permission to photograph me beside my bike. Mexican Customs officers invite me to rest a while in their office. They ask the usual questions:
Surely I didn't ride all the way on the small Honda?
Which country did I prefer?
What country had the most beautiful women?
Which food was best?
Where was I most in danger?

RESURECTION

casa tijax
TO RIO DULCE, GUATEMALA: FEBRUARY 5
Into Guatemala I ride through hills on a fine twisting highway. Trees are in pink beside the road and on the lower slopes. Bouganvilla tumble over a cottage. Pale blue flowers trail amongst the tree tops, scarlet berries, splashes of fierce yellow. I catch the sour sweet scent of mollasses, pungent odour of a pig sty, coffee beans raked to dry on concrete, pine tar. A rock peak pierces the pine forest. The river below flashes shards of sun reflection. Green is brilliant in the irrigated fields along the river banks. Beyond the valley rise dry, pleated hills, summits pillowed in white cumulus.
The past month travel has been distance to cross. No fun in it. A chore to be undertaken, drudgery. Today I rediscover the joy of earlier months. Why? Because I will reach Hacienda Tijax this afternoon, sit with Monica and Eugenio on the terrace in the evening, absorb the view? Or because Tijax is one of the final waystations on this journey? The end is in sight. Or was the friendliness of the frontier officials a catalyst?
Or did yesterday in Copan Ruinas reawaken my enthusiasms? That sign at the base of the pyramid? Professor Cruz? Nikki? The owner of the hotel? The gardener raking leaves? Somewhere in there I recaptured a sense of being more than a passer-by, of being in contact, of caring.

FRIENDLY FRONTIER

HONDURAS INTO GUATEMALA: FRBRUARY 5
This is the friendliest of all borders. Honduran and Guatemalan immigration share the same low building. Officials ask about my journey. Which country was most beautiful? The kindest people? What difficulties did I overcome? Is it true that food is scarce in Venezuela? What do I think of Chavez? And the almost obligatory condemnation of US President Bush. Bush is ignorant, ill educated, arogant.
Headng south, I drank beer and watched Mexico play France on TV in the office of the head of Honduran customs. The Guatemalan Customs officer is in his late twenties. He rides a 200 cc Honda. He leaves tomorrow to holiday in Nicaragua. He will sleep a night at San Pedro Sula. Can he reach Granada the following day?

TRINITY, DUBLIN

COPAN RUINUS, HONDURAS: FEBRUARY 4
English sports coaches urge players to Put your heart into it.

Maya sportsman did put their heart in.

The photograph shows the ball court at Copan.

I spend the afternoon and evening with a young Irish woman, Nikki. She is the product of Trinity, Dublin, Trinity should be proud. They have aided the development of an enquiring mind.

HITLER, McARTHY, HILARY CLINTON

COPAN RUINUS, HONDURAS: FEBRUARY 3
Sculpture in the museum raises a fresh chain of thought. PreColombian artists worked within a box. Break out of the box and you risked being next up the pyramid for a little knife work. Yet scuplters did break out. The humanity of the artist escapes in the minor works and in tiny details: the hint of a smile on a stone face, the line of arm and belly, humour in the portrayal of a plump frog.
If sculpture is universal and timeless, why not the simplest strictures of good and evil?
In Christendom, the doctrine of Universal Human Rights was expounded first by a Franciscan mendicant in Hispanic America. Others must have had the same belief. To express such beliefs was dangerous. To express anything outside the box is dangerous – or, at least, uncomfortable. Heretics are burnt or marched up the pyramid for heart surgery.
Silence is safe - thus acceptance of Hitler or McArthyism, parts of the Patriot Act. People recognise the evil. They are frightened to speak. Fear is the constant. People are always frightened.
Hilary Clinton voted for the Iraq War. Why? She was frightened of endangering her political career.
Her surrender to fear condemns her. She is unfit to be President

MAYA MAGIC

COPAN RUINAS, HONDURAS: FEBRUARY 2
Copan is a tourist town. Every other building is a hostal, hotel, restaurant or shop selling tourist tat. Architecture is Humble Hispanic Colonial. Mini boulders pave the streets, though my guidebook refers to cobblestones – the writer should ride a small Honda. Hotel Patti is on the first block. Rooms surround a courtyard on three sides. My bike is safely parked. Water is hot day and night, cable TV. I shower, change into clean clothes and sit with the owner by the gates, chat and people watch. What more could a traveller desire?