Beetle Country

The Pacific Coast of Mexico. What a beautiful place. From the sweeping curvy roads to the long white sandy beaches. You sometimes forget you are not on a tropical island. The roads cut inland through the scrubby hills then sweep back out to the coast, all the time heading west and east. You pass through small villages then you’re into another world as a resort appears, the Coca Cola rubbish disappears off the side of the road and the dead animal smells vanish. The Northerners take up the best beaches, yet the locals love the steady work that it brings. It is such a contrast of worlds. Villages with water wells and laundry done in the river, yet resorts with watered green lawns and swimming pools. At times it is hard to make sense of.

Town after town, city after city we made our way up the coast all the time making for the ferry at Mazatlan to take us to the Baja and away from the shootouts going on in the north of the country. We are starting to meet more and more Canadians and Americans the further north we go. Most on holiday and wanting to be away from the snow, but some coming to live to escape from life’s problems in the north. Sometimes we know not to ask what, but nod our heads in agreement. I think we have seen too many old movies of the dash to cross the border and head south to Mexico.

In the city of Puerto Vallarta we were thrust into another of life’s quirks. It is the “gay capital” of Mexico and to walk down the street on your own invites some strange looks or wide smiles. It had some great beaches but it was what was on the beaches that was odd and I’m not ready to become a pink KTM rider just yet. Or ever. Annette had not long had a hair-cut, or two (long story), and it is quite short, so was in danger of looking a bit butch to some, so we walked for the evening hand in hand and felt quite out of the scene. Typical of these towns and cities is the very old, cobble-stoned centres and plazas with their old haciendas and the modern, fast growing exterior that builds up around them, again quite a contrast as the old town centres have such an old history that is sometimes hard to mesh with the new.

What is amazing, is the number of old VW Beetles getting around Mexico, in all states of repair. It wasn’t until someone told me that Mexico used to assemble them that it all made sense. The taxis of Acapulco are the best examples. All original on the outside but modded on the inside with full on racing kit. Its just getting paying passengers and their bags into a two-door car doesn’t seem to work all that well. But they look good anyway.

Every town has a pile of old VW parts and bodies laying around a yard somewhere. If you were to ever want parts for restoring Beetles, Mexico is where to look first.

To regress a bit.

The day we left San Cristobal de Las Casas was a short riding day, not that we intended it to be, but some things just happen that way. We rode down from the heights of the mountains on a long descent that saw us looking way out over the valley below. It was so vast and hazy that photos could not show how huge the views were.

Soon we were down from the cool mountain air and into the heat of the lower country and the city of Tuxtla.

While waiting at some road-works coming into town, a guy, Tony, on a GS 650 pulled up for a talk. In broken Spanish he asked where we were from and where we were going. Once we told him we were from NZ it was “Come with me for breakfast.” We had left early that morning and had not eaten at that stage. We accepted and followed him to what we thought would be his local café for a coffee. What we did not expect was to be taken to his local bike shop and there have a traditional Mexican breakfast with his entire bike club. Wonderful stuff. The group was made up of riders who were born in the 60’s, so we felt right at home and the hospitality was something else. We were treated as old friends, fed and watered in true Mexican style and hugged and clasped like you wouldn’t believe.

Six of their members had been on their way to Ushuaia. Three had returned back to Mexico as things became too difficult for them and one had a story of true survival. As a group they had been travelling somewhere in northern Chile when one had an argument with the group and rode off on his own. When he came to a fork in the road he went right and the group following far behind went left, the correct route.

Soon this guy is in the desert and struggling badly. He dropped his BM and couldn’t pick it up by himself as it was too heavy. Waiting for his friends that never showed he decided he had better walk for help. Long story short, he wandered around for four days with no food or water in the hot desert sun before somebody found him and took him to safety. It took his friends two days looking just to find the bike. He was welcomed home this day by his club and he was still looking a bit under done from the experience but it was something we could all learn from - turn left.

Soon we had an Argentine restaurant owner, Mario, asking if we had tried good Argentine steak when we were there. “Yes we had and it was the best so far.” “Well, you had better come to my authentic Argentinian restaurant for some more and you can stay the night as well.” Hell, what was one to do now? “That would be wonderful, but we will check into a hotel so as not to muck you around.” Looking at each other we were thinking, “Well, there goes the day.”

Well, what better way to fill the day in than to be offered a ride into the Sumidero Canyon by the owner of the boating company himself. Bloody hell, when will this kindness stop? So it was photos, hugs and backslapping all round before jumping on the bikes and following the Prof, as he was called, out to the river to his boating operation. He had to leave early so we said our goodbyes, more hugging and back slapping, and asked where we buy our tickets. What can you say when he gives you the tickets and tells us that the club members have payed for the ride? Then he tells one of the staff to look after the bike and another to get us whatever we need from the food shop. By now we were too embarrassed to need anything, but I did buy a t-shirt to remember it all by. The kindness was unbelievable.

We had a great day on the boat and returned to the hotel fully whacked.

We walked to the restaurant that evening but our host was out visiting for the night. No problem, so we sat and ordered an excellent steak and beer dinner and reflected on what had happened that day.

Soon Mario’s son appears and tells us that Dad has rung to see if we are there and will be home soon.

“That’s cool,” so we order a couple more beers and pay the bill. Next the phone goes again and the son hands it to me. On the other end is a friend of Marios, and this friend happened to work in the Mexican Embassy in Wellington NZ, and he tells me they are on their way back to the restaurant and we are not to move. The son soon returns with another round of beer and two more complete meals of pork belly chops, salad and fries as well as returning our money for the first round . “I think you have someone else’s order here.” “No, Dad said you are to pay for nothing and you are to have food as we do in Argentina, so here you are.” We could not believe it, here we go again. We had nothing to give but our time and we felt completely over whelmed.

Long story short again, we ended up spending the evening at the restaurant eating and drinking with our host and his friends, learning about Mexico and finding that the stereotype stories you hear are only the flashy headlines that put fear in everyone’s lives. The hospitality we were shown this day was unbelievable.

Dust Devils beware. There has been an open invitation given for the Sixtie’s Motorcycle Club of Tuxtla to visit New Zealand sometime in the future and I’m not sure how many will turn up, but Red Leader and Doctor Phil, we will probably need those two big BBQs you have and a side or two of prime NZ beef.