Not The Ideal Guests

A prevalent theme of the last blog (if one were to try and arrange our fortnightly ramblings into some sort of discernible structure) was the humbling kindness and hospitality we have received on the trip thus far. Thankfully, and despite the language barrier, this generosity has followed us into Mexico. However, as you will read, we have been far from the ideal guests. Upon entering the bustling chaos that is Tijuana, our questions of whether the cultural transition would be gradual or instantaneous were immediately answered. Barraged by alien sounds, all muddled at different frequencies like a badly tuned radio, we were temporarily stunned by sensory overload, taking time to compose ourselves with the first (of many) tacos, a food that almost wholly dominates the country's culinary portfolio. We found it incredible that this famous border, in essence merely an imaginary line, a human creation, can dictate such a sudden transformation in language, food, apparel and ambience. We had arrived. This was very much Part 2 of our journey.

After hearing horror stories of Route 1 of Baja California, the only highway that exists on the peninsula, we were more than a little apprehensive. One guy we met in America told us he had been forced off the road 63 times in one day while riding the Baja. We soon discovered this to be a huge exaggeration (or a demonstration of the guy's terrible balance), but that's not to say riding conditions were perfect. With only one lane and no shoulder, cars - and more worryingly buses and lorries - would find it preferable to banish a little cyclist from the tarmac than career headlong into an oncoming vehicle. Or, God forbid, slow down. At one point Mark became way too familiar with an overtaking school bus, that decided to give him a wee nudge into the cactus strewn gravel below.

Searching for potential camp spots in Mexico lacks the reassuring certainty of its American neighbour, and road signs that suggest such a place often turn out to be fictitious. But we were pleasantly surprised to find a 'Playa Publica' sign (a public beach suitable for camping) in Rosarito. Then night came. The happy families dispersed and were replaced by several more unscrupulous members of society, who began taking an unhealthy interest in our nice shiny bikes. In an effort to make ourselves scarce, we began pushing our bikes up the beach, but when we realised we were being followed we called it a night and got the hell out of there. Fortunately we found a hostel (less a hostel, more like a patch of land containing a few caravans) where the proprietor allowed us to pitch our tent for the night. This awoke us to the reality that this was going to be no stroll in the park, and sure enough over the next few days, we jostled with mental and physical challenges of the like we had never experienced. The midday heat was such that roadside fires would sporadically ignite throughout the day, and like a holey bucket, our pores leaked with perspiration, quicker than we could rehydrate with the questionable Mexican water. The sparse, arid desert allowed no room for error when it came to water rationing, and tested our resolve with long winding mountains that seemed to bring us even closer to the sun. We decided to treat ourselves one particularly hot lunchtime to a refreshing bowl of Bran Flakes purchased from a dusty roadside store, and as we greedily devoured our dairy filled feasts, all the while admiring the impressive collection of skulls and lassoos hanging from the walls, we thought of home.

As our desert days eeked by, the enormity of the Baja dawned on us and we reluctantly realised that at the pace we were going, we would have no chance of reaching San Jose by Mark's flight date of the 21st. We had grossly underestimated the sheer land mass of Mexico and if we were not careful, the situation would manifest itself into a mad dash through Central America - most notably the Guatemalan school - to get there on time. On top of this, we had both begun to fall ill, a situation that worsened and eventually came to a head over the coming week. Moving past the hopelessly barren landscape by bus at speeds we were no longer accustomed to, a feeling of nagging regret came over us like a virus as our senses seemed to dull to a world we had become so in touch with.

We arrived in La Paz, the air-conditioned bus ride seeming almost too simple. La Paz is clearly developed for the tourist crowd, but is a beautiful city nonetheless. We enjoyed an invigorating dip in the transparent, glassy waters of the bay, wondering why we were the only swimmers in such a perfect location. Apparently La Paz is also famed for its seafood, but we enjoyed a customary dinner of noodles and refried beans on a beachfront bench as the sun set.

The plan to get the ferry to Mazatlan was thwarted when we were informed that this particular ferry was 'being fixed'. When we enquired how long this might take we were given the vaguest of answers - 'maybe a month, maybe more.' In England this would exasperate one to the point of throwing your hat to the floor and stamping like a toddler throwing a tantrum in a supermarket. But this is Mexico...

We caught the ferry to Topolobampo, which the lady kindly informed us was only 5 or 6 hours drive north of Mazatlan - 4 or 5 days ride then! We rode to the port, again stumbling across a beautiful bay for a swim. A local was much amused by Greg's victory in the 'underwater handstand' competition. He lived in a tiny shack on the beach, and he pointed out his friend who was busy snorkelling to collect shellfish for lunch.

We docked on the mainland at 10pm, and persuaded a security guard to let us camp on the lorry depot/building site/rubbish dump by the port. Although we were eaten alive by insects, once inside the bubble of our tent we slept like logs, and awoke to ride south.

The Mexican mainland is more green and verdant than the Baja, and the towns more frequent, with an energy lacking in the more isolated desert settlements. We enjoyed the ride through gently rolling hills, and had the good fortune to meet Hugo, a Mexican who invited us to his home in Guamuchil. Hugo and his family treated us to a feast - squid and giant prawns fresh from the ocean, eaten with fingers and dipped in chilli, salt and lime, washed down with the refreshing and ubiquitous Tecate beer. Tortillas followed, hot from the pan and heartily filled with potatoes, beans and cheese. We conversed in a strange but effective combination of Hugo's broken English and our broken Spanish. Any silences were filled by Greg pulling a gruesome face at the children, which never failed to send them into hysterics.

Unfortunately, over the next couple of days our health deteriorated. On a demoralisingly long, straight road, seemingly devoid of settlements (the last sign indicated 180km until the next gas station) Mark's speed was reduced almost to walking pace as the afternoon sun beat down. We were overjoyed to see a sign for a hotel in a small village 3km from the main road. Yet again the sign proved fictitious, and it was clear that no hotel had, did, or ever would exist here. Mark was reduced to lying prone on the pavement while Greg combined Spanglish and mime to try and find a place to camp. Our saviour was Antonio, one of several men seated at a roadside drinks stall, who invited us to his home for the night. As mentioned at the start of this blog we were not the ideal guests. Our digestive issues meant we were both compelled to ask to use the facilities sooner rather than later, and in a very small house it proved difficult to disguise any rogue smells. Nonetheless, we were invited to sit down for dinner. The menu, predictably, was spicy meat and refried beans - guaranteed to get the stomachs churning. We ate, remembering to rub our stomachs and make appropriate 'mmm' noises. At this point Mark was feverish and close to using his tortillas as a pillow and passing out at the dinner table. After a detailed showing of every photograph Antonio owned, we collapsed in a bed, which our host had insisted we sleep in rather than set up the tent in the garden. He may now regret this decision. We lay in the bed, sweating yet shaking, finally realizing that yes, we were officially ill. Greg confirmed this beyond doubt by vomiting gloriously on the bedsheets and surrounding floor. Despite his valiant midnight cleaning efforts the smell was unmistakable. The morning was awkward to say the least. My Spanish phrase book strangely omits the phrase, 'I'm very sorry, I have vomited all over your bed.' Antonio treated the incident with admirable good humour, even driving us to the pharmacy. Our health and spirits were at an all-time low and the only option was to get to a town with a hotel to rest and recover. Back on the bikes then...we wobbled along for almost an hour on the monotonous highway, covering a pitiful 6 miles. The next town was still 90 km away. Greg collapsed in the shade of a bush, while Mark stood doubled over, hands on knees, raising the energy to thumb for a lift whenever a truck came past. The alternative was to fry by the roadside. After 2 hours, a pick up stopped. We were ecstatic to find out that Alberto, the driver, spoke excellent English, had an air-conditioned truck, and could drop us in the next town (Mazatlan). Antonio was exceptionally helpful and kind and we hope to meet again on the road south.

This brings us to Mazatlan, where we now write. We have rested and laid off the spicy tacos, and have in fact done very little except lounge in a cool hotel room, enjoying Los Simpsons in Spanish. We hope the fevers and vomits are behind us for good, it's time to get back on the road.