STRIP CLUBS - MEDICAL PROCEDURES

MATAMOROS/BROWNSVILLE: MARCH 13
Lunch with the newspaper editor takes a while. I reach the frontier town of Matamoros in early evening - easier to cope with border formalities tomorrow morning. Matomoros is an interesting town. I had expected streets of strip clubs and massage parlors. Cheap sex has been supplanted by cheap medical treatment. Clubs and massage parlors have given way to hospitals and doctors' surgeries.

COYOTES AND ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS

TO BROWNSVILLE, USA: MARCH 13
Edward James was a wealthy and eccentric Englishman. He spent much of his life designing a series of interconnected follies and having them built in the lush forest near Xilitla. I am an Englishman and vaguely eccentric. I am not rich. I don't stop in Xilitla. I do reach Ciudad Victoria. I find a room on the cathedral square and relish a final prawn cocktail in Mexico. From Ciudad Victoria to the border at Brownsville is one vast flat field of sorghum. The field is 200 miles long, God knows how wide. Rains are late. I read, over breakfast, that farmers are in panic.
I take a break midway to the border. A middle-aged Mexican admires my bike. He is editor/owner of a local paper. He invites me for lunch. We discuss bikes, politics, the border. Smugglers of illegals into the US are called coyotes. US$1,500 is the fee for smuggling an illegal. The fee carries a guaranty. The US Border Patrol catches an illegal, the Immigration Department returns him or her to Mexico. The coyote takes him across again and again and again - until successful.

A LAST VISIT TO THE CARTER BAR

JALPAN, SIERRA GORDA: MARCH 12
I am heading for the US/Mexico border at Brownsville. I will cross tomorrow. Today the road north climbs up through the Sierra Gorda. I look down on clouds for the last time in Latin America. A dry
stone wall divides a small paddock of rough grass. The wall ends at a fast-flowing burn. Broad-leaf trees grow on the banks. Pines grow further up the slope. Wall, burn, trees, the quality of the hill grass, all are reminders of the Scottish Borders - even the wet mist. The US lies ahead. The US frightens me. It is foreign territory in all but language. I long to be home...

ONE MORE POSSIBLE HOME

JALPAN, SIERRA GORDA: MARCH 12
On this journey, I have walked the streets in so many towns, made friends, imagined how life would be, what street to live on, which house would be closest to perfection. Jalpan would be a fine place. It is the right size in which to become accepted, has a great climate, beautifuil architecture, wonderful country, good fishing. My bag is packed. The bike is loaded. Staff join me for a photograph. One more farewell.

JALPAN CHURCH DETAIL

JALPAN, SIERRA GORDA: MARCH 11
Share a table in the late evening at the hotel with the owner and his wife, her sister and brother-in-law.
I will miss Mexico. I will miss Latin America. Some weeks, most weeks, I have spoken only Spanish.
We change character when we change language. We have history in our native language; we have absorbed prejudices from the cradle on. Those of our own nationality recognise from whence we come and judge us by the opinions they presume we hold. Shifting into a different language frees us. I am a nicer person in Spanish than I am in English. I am less self-conscious, less defensive, less aggressive in my arguments, curious of others rather than judgmental.
This evening we talk of the US Presidential race. We hope for an Obama victory.
The sister says, “They will never elect him...”

OLD MAN FOR THE TRASH HEAP

hotel owner

JALPAN, SIERRA GORDA: MARCH 11
I have spent much of the day writing in the hotel. Why am I so tired? Tired is a misnomer. Exhausted is an understatement.
Being away ten months and on the road, vulnerable on a small bike; seemingly endless series of packing and unpacking; at night, trying to recall in each new hotel room which direction the bathroom is and where the light switches are – all of that is counterbalanced by warm, interesting, kindly people, by superb country and wonderful buildings.
So why so exhausted?
By nature, I am an optimist (aged 75, only an optimist would attempt this ride). Holding on to one's optimism is hard. Country to country, the endless tales of coruption are depressing, the belief so many have that the system is too entrenched, that there is nothing anyone can do, that even trying is to waste one's life. Yes, exhausting.
There is a further factor: my editor/publisher is in adminsitration (bankrupt used to be the word). I had a three book contract. The first of the trilogy was due for publication in May. I had a young enthusiastic intelligent editor. Yes, I am suicidal...

TOURISTS ARE RARE

JALPAN, SIERRA GORDA: MARCH 10
Tourists are rare this month in the Sierra Gorda. Mexicans arrive for Easter week. The road over the mountains may scare people from the US – and lack of beach. This evening a married couple sit at the next table in a taco place round the corner from my hotel. They are in their late fifties to early sixties. He is a University Professor. His field is Urban Studies. They visit Europe regularly. This is their first visit to Mexico. The wealth of historic architecture surprises them. I am surprised by their surprise.
The Professor and his wife have flown direct from a New York winter. They are very white. He immediately questions me on racial attitudes in Mexico. The US obsession...

SO MANY JOYFUL DAYS

MISSION CONCA, SIERRA GORDA: MARCH 10
The bridge a few kilometres short of Conca crosses a gorge below the junction of two rivers. One river is fed by thermal springs. Thick trunked trees shade the beaches on the far bank. A shed shared by half a dozen entrepreneurs serves barbecue meats and chicken. I park the bike the near end of a line of pick-ups and order chicken and a cold beer.
Three black on white geese waddle by - followed by two laggards. Canned Mexican weep-music wails from speakers. Two families unload from Texas-registered used cars. Men roll their pants up. Women hike their skirts. Small kids are stripped to swim suits. The current draws patterns as they wade in the river.
A man in his mid-thirties fetches my beer and sits at the table. He wears an embroidered denim shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots.
He says, Yes, the money for the new construction I've noticed comes from the North. Many men from the Sierra Gorda work in the North.
One of the geese takes flight and lands midstream.
I remark the two Texas-registered cars. Every man working in the North returns with a used car or a used truck. Halt illegal immigration and the US market in used cars would collapse.
The riverbank cowboy brings my barbecue chicken and seats himself again. I remark that prior to the road, burros were the sole transport. They still are off the road, he tells me. Some burros travel by pickup to where they are required – four-legged burros and two-legged burros.
Two more geese take to the water and a white butterfly zigzags on the breeze. Chicken is tasty, beer is cold, enjoyable conversation. Another good day...

SARAH J DUNCAN

MISSION CONCA, SIERRA GORDA: MARCH 10
Mission Conca is another delight. The simplicity of the interior is in contrast to the exuberance of the facade. The interior of the dome is a delight. The scaffolding is disappointing. I wish that my daughter-in-law, Sarah, were here. Sarah is an architectural photographer(www.sarahjduncan.com). She is a great person with whom to share buildings and landscapes. She has an eye both for the detail and the broad picture. I would learn from her.
Instead, I chat with a Mexican family on holiday. They have seen me on television. We pose for a photograph.

GREAT HOSTS, GREAT BED

JALPAN, SIERRA GORDA: MARCH 9
Jalpan has charm. The pace is leisurely. The Mission square is beautiful. The few streets are narrow and lined with painted houses in the Colonial style. I have moved hotels. I am one street back from the Mission square at the Posasda Los Angeles on Calle Mariano Matamoros. I have been writing all day at a table in the hotel restaurant. The table faces open double doors to the street. It is a quiet cobbled street with few passers-by. The occasional salesman of vegetables or fruit is the main distraction and coffee is unlimited.
The hotel is new. The owners are new to the hotel business. The result is quirky. The wife and late-teenage daughter designed the decor. It is fun and pretty, lots of painted tiles. Hand basins are decorative – open the faucet and water pours from a matching pitcher. Hot water jets from a power shower and towels are big and thick. Yes, great...And best of all is the friendliness of atmosphere. These are very kind and pleasant people.

SUNDAY IN THE VALLEYS

jalpan street


MISSIONS, SIERRA GORDA: MARCH 8
I visit a non-mission village. Trees shade concrete benches in the church square. Families wait on the benches for Sunday mass. Children in clean Sunday clothes chase each other round the shade trees. Mothers call to them to stay clean. Men inhale a last cigarette before bells summon us to mass. The church is late 19th century and bigger than the mission churches. The exterior is plain. Inside, a multitude of statues hide behind purple drapes. Floor tiles are laid in patterns. Gold paint is garish. The priest is young. His server is old. A girl in her early teens reads the epistle. I creep out midway through the sermon.
Everyone is in church.
The village seems deserted.
I walk a while.
Many new houses are being built.
This is true of all the villages I have visited in the mission valleys.

A DIFFICULT LIFE

JALPAN, SIERRA GORDA: MARCH 8
I had supper last night at a taco restaurant. A salesman from Queretaro shared my table. He has four grown children. One is a law student in Queretaro. The other three are engineering graduates and have emigrated to the US.
He is a salesman of gifts and is away from home much of the month. His work paid for his children's education. Now he has lost them.
It must be hard.
Yes, it is hard. They change. Even when they visit, it is not the same.
“Perhaps it is the traveling,” he says. “I was away so much.”

PLAIN AND PRETTY

MISSIONS, SIERRA GORDA: MARCH 7
The village by the lake is too tempting. I leave Tilaco and ride up the pass. A side road snakes down through the hills. The village is small, houses scattered. I ride slowly and am greeted by each person as I pass. The chapel is at the far end of the village. It was built by villagers and completed in 1904. It is plain as a Methodist chapel. Trees shade the facade. A pickup is parked outside. The driver sports a diamond ear-stud. I ask if he has worked in the the North. Yes, for five years. Will he return to the North? There is no reason to return. He saved well. He bought the pickup and is building a house.
Inside the church four villagers are wood-paneling the wall behind the altar. A woman brings glasses of fresh lemonade. I ride back through the village and round the lake. Everyone bids me good-evening and goodbye. I am having a very good day.

DISCOMMUNICATION

MISSION TALACO, SIERRA GORDA: MARCH 7
Two painters are at work at the mission. I ask one why redecoration is undertaken every seven years. He doesn't understand. I am a foreigner. I must be speaking an unknown language. I repeat my question slowly. Two young women are taking photographs. The painter asks them to translate. We conduct an odd conversation. I speak in Spanish to the young women. They speak to the painter in Spanish. He answers them in Spanish. They relay his answer in Spanish.
The crux of the conversation? They paint the church every seven years because they paint the church every seven years.
The interior is tranquil. I sit a while, pray a little.

FRANCISCAN MISSIONS

MISSION TALACO, SIERRA GORDA: MARCH 7
Mission Tilaco is 14 Ks down a side road that twists up over a pass. A lake gleams down in the valley, freshly ploughed fields, a sprinkle of white houses and an ocher church tower. The tower is too plain to be a mission. Turn the next corner and Tilaco is below on the side of the next valley. The valley channels the wind, cooling in summer, now chill. A line of pencil thin Cypress trees twitch beneath the wind and the wind whips the heads of palm trees. Dragged all in the same direction, the gleaming fronds recall poster art from 30s Germany and the Soviet Union: blond Valkyries victorious and standing erect in the turrets of their tanks to accept the applause of the conquered. Yeah, yeah...
Warm this morning and Jalpan is in a lower valley: idiot that I am, I left my leather jacket at the hotel.

PEDAL BIKES AND SAINT

MISSIONS OF SIERRA GORDA, MEXICO: MARCH 7
The BMW BOYS have electric start. They are gone before I kick the Honda alive and lift the side stand. In most Latin American countries, I have passed bicycle races accompanied by police out-riders. Mexico has religious processions. I am close to Landa de Matamoros and pass a procession heading towards Japlan. They have around sixteen kilometers to walk.
Landa Matamoros is on what passes for a main road here in the sierra. The church is beautiful. I sit under the dome and make my death prayer. Students of photography from Mexico University throng the exterior. One aims her camera at me. I do likewise.

HELLS ANGELS FOR OBAMA

MISSIONS OF THE SIERRA GORDA, MEXICO: MARCH 7
My friend, Don, and his Dallas Biker palls are Republicans. I have been corresponding with another friend in Texas, a Black academic. She is an Obama supporter (as am I). She was surprised by my assertion that Latin Americans support Obama. The BMW BOYS confirm my belief and confirm my argument that race is a US obsession.

HELLS ANGELS FROM QUERETARO

SIERRA GORDA MISSIONS, MEXICO: MARCH 7
Jalpan is more a village than a town., The population slightly exceed five thousand. Of the Sierra Gorda missions, It was founded first and completed in 1774. I have a large room with an emperor size bed in the Maria del Carmen Hotel on the church square. Water is hot in a power shower. I should be happy. I am miserable. The hotel is vast. Its chill atmosphere is a reminder of pre-Glasnost Russia.
I leave to visit the missions at a reasonable hour. Landa de Matamoros is my first target, 18 Ks. I spot a line of BMW bikes outside a restaurant on the outskirts of town. The BMW Bike Club of Queretaro is breakfasting. I halt and present myself. The bikers seat me at the head of the table. They are of much the same background as my friend Don and his biker friends in Dallas, successful businessmen in their middle years. They are indulging an unfulfilled desire of their youth. They were too busy then, or short of funds. They are good companions, cheerful, funny, generous and intelligent.

SEVEN YEAR FIX

MISSIONS OF SIERRA GORDA, MEXICO: FEBRUARY 8
Five Franciscan missions shelter in the high valleys of the Sierra Gorda. The churches are cruciform. Two small side chapels form the arms while a dome rises above the alter. To the left of the facade stands a tower. To the right, a simple cloister surrounds a small garden.
Fray Junipero de la Serra designed the churches and presented the facades as canvasses for indigenous sculptors. The sculptors had a ball. The baroque facades they created are unique and give the missions their artistic importance.
The facades are renovated and the churches painted every seven years. Why seven? No one knows.
No matter.
I have hit on the seventh year and Easter week. Scaffolding destroys the view of church fronts. Purple drapes hide statues and paintings within the interior.
I write here of all five Franciscan missions. I am disappointed by the scaffolding – not by the purple drapes. The interiors of the churches gain in simplicity and the simplicity is a wonderful contrast to the exterior exuberance.

MOTHER AND CHILD SURVIVE ON GRASS

SIERRA GORDA, MEXICO: MARCH 7
Trees shade the road as it turns and twists down through the forest. Two dark coated folk, mother and daughter, graze a small patch of almost invisible grass. Pines give way to broad leaf. I halt for a comfort break and listen to a stream splashing over rocks. I have ridden from near desert the west side of the sierra up into the chill of a pine cloud forest and am now, midway through the sierra, descending into watered valleys. These continual changes are the fascination of Mexico.