Spotlight

The Generation of the Rainbow Flag

Print available at RedBubble

Print available at RedBubble

I’m writing my post to offer my congratulations, not only to my gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender and queer readers, but to everyone who has worked so hard to fight for GLBTQ rights. That means family members who showed their love and support, friends who stood by their friends, President Barack Obama, and all the politicians and political organizers who took up the cause.

I was 17 years old when I first met someone openly non-straight. He was bisexual, had a hilarious sense of humor, and drove his beat up Ford Aerostar as if it was on a race track. I quickly learned not only that he was a good friend, but that the homophobic ideas I grew up with were completely wrong.

What astonishes me is not that one straight Wisconsin boy could make this realization. It’s that the entire nation seems to have made it at the same time. The people of my generation, who grew up in an era when gay men were punchlines on TV and “fag” was an insult, have somehow become the generation of the rainbow flag. (To put this swing in perspective, even the conservative Supreme Court justices who voted against the decision could not say they were anti-gay. They had to offer procedural quibbles and far-fetched discrimination fears instead.) Seeing change on this scale gives me a great sense of hope for what else my generation can accomplish.

Extending marriage rights to same-sex couples does not fix all the injustice in the United States, of course. It doesn’t even end the ongoing prejudice and bigotry against gays and lesbians or, especially, transgender individuals. But I know that this decision directly affects friends and people I love, and millions of other Americans. It helps bring my struggling home nation one step closer to being a world leader.

So congratulations to everybody involved: the GLBTQ community and all of their supporters and allies. And thank you. Thank you for fighting for nearly 50 years to make this possible.

And to all my regular readers: I realize there has been a long absence in posts here. I am back at the writing desk and will resume regular updates next week.

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Adventure, Bicycling, Mexico, Road Logs, The Great Adventure, Travel

Palapas and Concrete Beds

Last time around I explored the stunning colonial streets of Campeche. Now I leave behind both the city and the shining Gulf of Mexico, cutting inland toward Mérida. It’s not easy, but I can feel how close I am to the end of the Mexico ride…

Pirates beware! Photo by Andre.

Pirates beware! Photo by Andre.

Wednesday, January 28 (Day 936 of the Great Adventure)—To Hezelchakán

I said goodbye to my now-familiar hotel staff, loaded up the Giant and rolled out of the medieval walls for the last time. I was in no hurry, having a short day ahead and wanting to enjoy the ride. The very first leg ran along the malecón (water walk) and blue waves loaded with seaweed lapped up against the stone wall. Looking north over the sea I could almost picture New Orleans 1,000 miles away, or Veracruz far to the west.

The malecón ended in a string of palapas (thatch roofed buildings) selling seafood. Several waiters waved menus at me, but I was still full from breakfast and pushed on. I made a short palapa video for supporters, music from the restaurants thumping in the background.

Once off the malecón the Gulf disappeared off to the left. It was nothing but highway through jungle and savanna up ahead. I said a final farewell to the water and pushed on.

I continue to learn a lot about how to make a bike ride more fun. For one thing, the shorter mileage days mean less schedule stress and more time to stop and explore. For another, when I see a roadside place that looks attractive, I’ve finally developed the habit of pulling over and checking it out. The spots I find my accident are often much more attractive than the ones I “planned” to stop at, so there’s no reason not to. That’s exactly what I did today, going right past a tiny cafe with a covered front porch, but turning around  quarter mile later and stopping in for a sandwich and a juice.

Lunch stop. Photo by Andre.

Lunch stop. Photo by Andre.

The scenery was pretty, but mostly wide open with a headwind. I spent most of the ride lost in podcasts and pedaling almost robotically forward.

My destination for the day was Hezelchakán, a Mayan town dating back at least to the earliest days of the Colonial period. It was essentially the only town I came through: the villages are located slightly off the highway, so that unless you turn off you never see them.

I didn’t have much of a plan for lodging and was essentially relying on luck and exploration. I had heard rumor of a place called the Hotel Margarita located near the center, but when I rolled in I saw no signs for it and not even anything matching the description (a “yellow building.” As the afternoon slipped toward evening I explored out in a wider radius, looking for any hotel at all. Eventually I spoke to some policía near the main road who had some advice for me. Knowing that there are major resorts in the area (with prices upward of US $1,000 per night) I made clear I wanted something “not too expensive.”

“Ah, a cheap place,” the policeman said. “I know where you need to go.”

He was terrible at giving directions, so I got out a piece of paper and made him write down the names and draw a little map. He pointed me to two places, but emphasized one in particular as “exactly what you want.”

Score.

I rolled into the exactly-right place, a posada consisting of a long row of rooms in a cinder block strip behind someone’s house. A young man opened the door and let me tour one: ripped up mattress on a concrete slab, no pillows, one bare light bulb, and a perfectly functional 40 year old TV set.

“Thank you,” I said. “I have one other place to look at, so I might return in 20 minutes.”

Or, as I thought in my head, please no please no please no.

With fingers crossed I rolled expectantly toward the policeman’s runner-up. Lo and behold, it was a yellow building with Hotel Margarita painted on the front.

The Margarita was no lap of luxury, but compared to the posada it was P.O.S.H. Cracked walls, busted screens and iffy running water were offset by an intact mattress, an actual pillow and enough light to see by. I paid the equivalent of US $11 and checked in.

Fun fact: hotel rooms in Yucatán include rings in the wall where you can sling up your hammock. Many Mayans use hammocks instead of beds.

Also, just because the hotels are a little basic doesn't mean they can't have stylin' bikes.

Also, just because the hotels are a little basic doesn’t mean they can’t have stylin’ bikes.

Not much happens in Hezelchakán. I wandered the centro twice: once in the daylight and once again after sunset, hoping some night life would spring up. (By “night life” here I’d be willing to include even a taquería with a particularly punchy owner.)

Instead I had a hard time even finding food, but eventually settled on a small restaurante in the husk of a colonial house. I peered in the hot window and chose carefully what to order, remembering past problems with meat that’d sat out too long. After dinner there was little else to do but turn in. 36.9 miles.

Map. (Note: The beginning is not exactly accurate—the map follows the closest road to the malecón. Also, I exclude my circular wanderings in Hezelchakán.)

Great scenery. Photo by Andre.

Great scenery. Photo by Andre.

January 29 (Day 937 of the Great Adventure)—To Maxcanú

I slept well in my concrete bed but my romance with Hezelchakán had come to its end. Breakfast was at the same restaurante. Dinner had been lackluster, but today the food was terrific—a testament to the value of arriving early in the day.

Tonight’s destination was another Mayan town, Maxcanú. Instead of getting back on the highway I took a rural road straight to the next village. I noticed that bicycle taxis, which were all over Hezelchakán, were not shy about heading out on the open road and creaking slowly toward the next town, doñas seated tacitly in the back. These Latin pedicabs would be ubiquitous from here onward.

Yucatecan bicycle taxi. Photo via University of Arizona.

I did end up on the highway for a bit, but actually took a longcut to stick to rural roads and good scenery. Along the way I passed some kind of eco resort. Small cabins for rent, nestled in the jungle, a restaurant and a big sign listing their amenities… the temptation was strong to just turn in there and call it a day. But that would leave me a lot of miles the next day, and I was enjoying the ride too much to stop. Onward I went, past limestone caves covered in the roots of giant trees, possibly the entrances to hidden cenotes.

If Hezelchakán had nothing going on, Maxcanú made it look like a cosmopolis. The place was simply dead. I spotted one hotel/restaurant in what looked like a beautiful colonial building, and approached the owner about renting a room. He looked up from watering his roses, pointed at the dark windows of long-shuttered hotel rooms, and went back to his chores. So much for the welcome mat.

The place that turned me away. Photo by Andre.

The place that turned me away. Photo by Andre.

A little asking around—and a lot of bicycling in circles—gave me three lodging options to choose from. One was almost a carbon copy of the concrete longhouse from yesterday. The second, a little posada that doesn’t appear on any version of the internet, offered conditions that were little better but were at least part of an actual home, with grandma herself in charge. At the third one I struck Mayan gold: a legit little hotel with simple but clean rooms, also attached to a home. I grabbed a second floor room, unloaded, and took a shower with sun-warmed water. (The place was called Posada Doña Bety, after the lady in charge.)

The entirety of Maxcanú seemed to be under a technological pall that blocked 3G/4G signal for my phone. The Doña Bety, of course, had no wifi, but I found a small cyber cafe off the main square, reachable only by climbing a metal fire escape staircase that sways in the wind. There, a 14 year old named Sergio allowed me to set up shop and catch up on my work while he played dubstep songs. We were the only ones there except when his brother Pedro popped in, and Sergio took an interest in my adventure. He seemed ready to pull out a bike of his own and join me, but Pedro managed to hold him back.

One thing that stood out was that instead of bicycle cabs Maxcanú seemed to favor moto taxis, which were basically the exact same vehicle but with a motorcycle smashed into the back instead of a bike. This was a step up from the moto taxis in Dominican Republic, which were literally just motorbikes with way too many people piled on them, but I couldn’t help but notice that the people sitting in the front scoop would basically be lauched into the air in the event of a collision.

Motorcycle taxi. Photo by Sun-Ling.

The one highlight of Maxcanú was a terrific taquería at a small public market just a block from the Doña Bety. They took good care of me, never bringing me exactly what I ordered but always making sure I had plenty of it. After dinner there and one more stop at the cyber cafe I headed back to my room and turned in. 36.6 miles.

Map.

Friday, January 30 (Day 938 of the Great Adventure)—To Mérida

In morning, phone still little more than a paperweight, I saw no reason to prolong my stay. Today the road would take me to Mérida, capital of Yucatán and another glimmering colonial city. I ate a quick breakfast with a couple mugs of Nescafé, said goodbye to Doña Bety, and rolled out.

The miles rolled by. For lunch I stopped at a kitchen in one of the villages (Chocholá). The woman here had no change for a $500 peso note and sent me to a grocery that promised to break the bill, but only after a very confusing Spanish conversation that basically translated as, “Bro, you need to buy something.”

Change (and extra water bottle) in hand, I returned to the kitchen where they served me a delicious hot pressed sandwich.

As I got closer to the city, I found myself on a big highway with a strong wind and no shade—but also no traffic, as a long segment of it was closed off to vehicles. This eerie, abandoned stretch came to a head as I passed under an overpass. The cement pillars holding it up were stained black from a fire, a small cross painted nearby. The under-bridge itself reeked of human poop. I struggled to put a reason to this creepy scene: a septic cleaning trunk exploded into a fireball? A hobo camp had a party that got out of hand? I decided to get off the Mad Max set while I could, and turned onto a side road with trees, shade and fresh air.

This course correction added a few more kilometers to my route but also took me through the town of Umán, which I really enjoyed. Traffic was lively but not dangerous, and instead of braving a freeway I rolled past business, parks and plazas. Thanks to traffic lights I moved almost as fast as the cars did, and a guy in the back of a pickup truck kept waving every time leapfrogged past each other. His smile put me in a good mood. The edge of Umán merged seamlessly with the sprawl of Mérida and soon I was in the city proper. I swooped into a city park for a break in the shade.

The last order of business was finding a hotel—this time with plenty of options. I checked out a promising option called the Hotel Reforma, but the rooms were meh and the prices steep even offering me a “discounted” rate. So I coasted onward to the Hotel Caribe, where the faux discount was a bit deeper and the rooms truly sparkled. Soon I was checked into a sunny little number on the top mezzanine overlooking a well-groomed courtyard. It was a gorgeous place to rest.

View from the mezzanine. Photo by Andre.

View from the mezzanine. Photo by Andre.

After a shower I explored the city and investigated dinner options but, as usual on my first day in a big city, I passed up local delicacies and headed straight to the local pizza parlor. 39.7 miles.

Map.

Total traveled this leg:  113.2 miles.

Total traveled since Day 1: 4641.5 miles.

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Adventure, Ask Me Anything, Personal Development, The Great Adventure

Why Didn’t You Lose Your Mind and Go Nuts Being Alone?

Photo by Evan Mitchell

I just received another great question from Pixi. She asks:

“You have mentioned in blog posts about how being a fellowship of one wasn’t super awful, you met a ton of cool people along the way, and how you found friends and supporters all along the route. But I am interested to hear more of your internal process on that front. If you want to share… What was it like doing it on your own when you had planned to have people?”

I think loneliness is normal when wandering. For those of us who have never fit in it’s even more pronounced—even among our friends or loved ones we feel alone. So the journey can be intensely lonely at times, but it will eventually show you your role in life. Your purpose.

That sense of purpose is a big part of why I didn’t feel so alone on this trip. I will admit that when I first found out it was just me, in Saltillo, I was worried. I had been pretty miserable bicycling Texas on my own. I expected it to be a repeat of that, hard days and lonely nights. But a lot had changed since Texas.

For one thing, by the time I started the Mexico leg I had a very clear idea of my job in life: I’m a writer. When you know your purpose it’s easy to feel like you have a place in the world, even if you’re alone or don’t fit in. And writing gave me a lot to keep me busy. Nights that might have been “lonely” for others often involved drafting road logs or outlining short stories. If anything, I felt like I didn’t have enough writing time.

The surroundings were also different. Texas is boring. It’s essentially one endless plain of cookie cutter towns. But Mexico is beautiful. Every town in Mexico has its own unique character that’s different from the next place down the road. I had a sense of discovery every day. It’s not that there were no repetitive or difficult parts, but I could always look forward to something new up ahead.

(It helped that I was a successful freelancer now, and stayed in cheap hotels every night. Basic comfort makes other hardships easier to endure.)

Last, I just had more confidence. Early in my trip I struggled to know that what I was doing was important. I looked outward for affirmation from other people, as if people joining me would mean the trip was worthwhile. But that’s not really where meaning comes from. Before the Mexico trip, I proved that I could attract lots of interest and excitement—14 fascinating people wanted to come along, and countless others helped support it. But by then I didn’t really even need anyone else’s affirmation. It’s my journey and I’m doing it for my own reasons. Whether others join doesn’t change that.

Within about a week after Saltillo I was having fun and knew this was going to be a good trip. I never seriously questioned it after that. I knew my purpose, and with a purpose nothing feels overly hard.

At least, that’s my experience.

Have a question? Ask me anything. 

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Bicycling, Mexico, Road Logs, The Great Adventure, Travel

The Sun-Drenched Streets of Campeche

Previously on Rogue Priest, I hopped islands on a beach road to reach the city of Campeche. Now it’s time to go behind the giant medieval walls and explore this colonial port of call.

Campeche. Photo by  Andre.

Campeche. Photo by Andre.

January 24-27 (Days 932-935 of the Great Adventure)—Campeche Days

The hotel room was the best I’d had. Twelve foot ceilings, colonial tiles, a wrought iron grille on the windows, and a view of the sunny courtyard. It didn’t last long though: each day I had to check with the front desk and see if they needed to bump me, making way for a guest paying full price. I never did get kicked out, but after two nights they moved me to a smaller room.

View from my hotel room (Thanks, Hotel Castelmar!). Photo by Andre.

View from my hotel room (Thanks, Hotel Castelmar!). Photo by Andre.

In four days in Campeche I almost never left the old city. Wrapped up in its ancient walls, the old city is maybe five blocks by eight and simply simmers with history. All the streets are cobbled, all the houses are pastel, and every structure is from the colonial days. There is a beautiful central plaza and at least one pedestrian walking mall.

Three of the four sides of the old city still have the original walls, or at least some semblance of them. In places they have been restored and even enhanced with mosaics of tiny pebbles or shells. Elsewhere it’s exactly as time has left it: battered by cannon and rain. The back end of the old city has one of the original parapets complete with cannon embrasures and a mini pirate ship where tourists and local teenagers snap pictures of themselves. Instead of a hungry army of pirates, a public market lurks just outside.

Parapet and gatehouse. Photo by Andre.

This is seriously how you get to the market. Photo by Andre.

Yucatán’s Lost Port

The pirate theme is not just a marketing tactic. Campeche was the first major port of the Yucatán, back when it was part of Yucatán and not the capital of its own separate state. The massive walls were built to repel raiders, and did their job well.

Yucatán’s main export was originally sugar. By the 1800s however rope, made from a plant called hennequin, was the bigger cash crop. That was a problem for Campeche: the hennequin plantations were far to the north, and soon opened their own port town, Sisal. (And yes, that’s why sisal twine is called that even today.)

The lost commerce was not Campeche’s only problem, however. Mérida, the capital of Yucatán, was determined to win a war against rebel Mayans, and they expected Campeche to help. The war lasted for fifty years. The rebels, sick of being serfs on plantations, successfully established their own independent Mayan nation deep in the jungle. They fought off Yucatecan/Mexican armies and marched on Mérida itself. The Mayans were just days from reconquering their entire ancestral homeland, when the first summer rains arrived and they went home to go plant corn.

(If you’re wondering how I know all this, you might enjoy this book. Thanks Alberto!)

The point is, the war was long, costly and divisive. Eventually Campeche split off from Yucatán which is why it has its own state even today. (The Mayan nation, on the other hand, was eventually destroyed.)

View of Campeche from atop the wall. Photo by Andre.

View of Campeche from atop the wall. Photo by Andre.

Climbing the Walls with Dr. Fun

It took me a little while to realize that you can actually go on top of the walls. I haven’t had great experiences with this—when I scaled a rampart in Thailand I found out it was a breeding ground for rats—but I rarely learn my lesson and quickly sniffed out the entrance. I’m glad I did. Campeche’s walls are reached by stairs at what was probably once a gatehouse and is now a museum. I entered its courtyard watched closely by a security guard and two women at a table. I expected an entrance fee but, unique in Mexico, they only wanted me to sign a guest book saying what country I’m from. Admission is free.

Campeche. Photo by Andre.

Campeche. Photo by Andre.

I went up on the walls several times during my stay. Only one section is accessible, but it’s great: a view of the Gulf, real battlements, even little cupulas for shade (it closes at sunset, which seems like a shame given what a great makeout place it would be).

The walls were never crowded, but I did meet one American couple there. When I mentioned my website, the man said, “Well Rogue Priest, I’m Dr. Fun.” Literally—he has a Ph.D. in Recreation Studies. They invited me to dinner at a seafood restaurant but I had a feeling it would be far too expensive and we’d get far too drunk. Our paths never crossed again.

Me with statues in Campeche.

Me with statues in Campeche.

Around Every Corner

You can tell a lot about a city by its approach to public art. The worst have none; the merely bad cities commission a few public pieces and vet the designs. The result is bland and often confounding. The best cities provide a theme or event and allow artists to interpret as they see fit. That’s how you get a city-wide sculpture garden, with something to discover around every corner.

Thus Campeche. Statues of human figures by a variety of artists were scattered through the streets and plazas and walking malls, always grabbing the eye and pulling you just a little farther along. Here’s an example:

Photo by Andre.

Photo by Andre.

The cuisine was also amazing. I didn’t have to go on my usual pizza hunt to find an alternative to tacos, because seafood was cheap and abundant. I had fish pretty much every night, and great salads or smoothies from a veg place by day. There was even a cozy, artsy little coffee shop just two streets from the hotel.

Walking mall in Campeche. Photo by Andre.

Walking mall in Campeche. Photo by Andre.

Needs More Americans

Campeche is among the most beautiful cities in the Americas, but the tourists there are almost all Europeans. That surprises me. I know not all Americans spend their whole holiday on the beach; we’re a people who love to explore. But most of us never seem to get over to this side of the peninsula, which is a shame. Dr. Fun and his wife rented a car and made Campeche their first big stop on a tour of the little beach towns. I think that’s a great plan and would recommend it for anyone planning a flight into Cancún.

I found myself a little in love with Campeche, so much so that I started looking at apartment listings and house prices. It was hard to believe I was living so large, in such a breathtaking place, when just a week earlier I was trapped in a hotel with ripped knees and a fever.

Clearly I could have stayed in this city much longer, but the road was calling. My end point was just a few dasy’ ride away. So next time I’ll take to the road toward Mérida—and discover a very different kind of Mayan pueblo.

Until then, check out all my road logs or become a supporter.

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Adventure, Bicycling, Mexico, Road Logs, The Great Adventure, Travel

To the Pirate Walls of Campeche

Last time I rejoined the Gulf coast, crashed a political rally, and got kicked out of a hotel. Now I continue my flight along beach roads and islands, headed toward Campeche.

Sunset in Sabancuy. Photo by Andre.

Sunset in Sabancuy. Photo by Andre.

Tuesday, January 20 (Day 928 of the Great Adventure)—To Isla Aguada

Breakfast was a quick affair at a diner on the main square. Soon I was loaded up and weaved my way out of town. Ciudad del Carmen is a city on an island, but I wasn’t crossing back to the mainland the way I came; instead I’d chase up along the barrier islands using bridges and coastal roads.

I made some poor navigational choices trying to get out of the city, and was impressed by the amount of traffic. After some factories however—including one with a Coca-Cola logo—it was pretty much just me and the iguanas. On my left side was the beach, endless miles of it, big turquoise waves rolling in from the sunny sea. Walls lined all of the beaches, made out of loose rocks stacked in rectangular mesh cages, probably to hold off high water. Lizards loved the mesh and scattered over the wall as I biked past. I didn’t see many swimmers, but I did notice one semi truck parked in the middle of nowhere, driver missing, just a few feet from a break in the wall. I like the way that guy takes his breaks.

Today’s destination would be Isla Aguada, which I translate as “Flooded Island,” not exactly a confidence inspirer. It was early afternoon when I reached the bridge from Carmen’s Island to Isla Aguada. It was a long, curving affair over turbulent seas, currents with different colored water coming from three directions and mixing into a froth. I paused to admire the sea halfway across.

After the magic of the bridge, the grit of the island was hard to believe. Isla Aguada is a hardscrabble place with few jobs and little money. The coastal road is the main drag, passing through a checkpoint just after the bridge where commercial trucks pay a toll. Other than that there isn’t much to see, though I did spot a seafood stand under a giant red tent, and stopped for some fresh caught lunch.

The seafood tent in Isla Aguada. Photo by Andre.

The seafood tent in Isla Aguada. Photo by Andre.

Then I checked out hotels. Given how badly my last beach day went, I wanted to stay somewhere nice and I was willing to spend a little more than usual to do so. I found the perfect place, a gorgeous suite with my own hammock and a private porch with a thatched roof, all for just $700 pesos. Just one snag: no wifi (which I found so hard to believe at this fancy hotel that I made the owner repeat herself). But I had no client work due right away, so I decided to accept the ultimate privation and go for a day without internet. (Well, mostly; my phone still worked.)

It started with a trip to the beach. This is a lot less exciting than it sounds. First you walk three blocks through a really poor town, the only tourist in the place. Then you reach the giant abandoned beach that has the ruins of old concession stands and wonder if it was converted to a naval artillery range. Reassured by spotting one solitary Mexican family on 11 straight miles of beach, you wade across pebbles and floating litter into turbulent, silty water. It reminded me of a beach in the Dominican Republic where some fish kept taking bites out of me, protected from retribution by the cloudy water. This time I suffered no such attacks, only the hands of a particularly wicked tide that wanted to drag me slantwise along the shore, toward the bridge and the foamy mixer of the open bay.

It was pretty fun.

I let the current carry me for a few minutes, covering a half mile of shoreline, then waded ashore and walked back, repeating the process several times. I also made offerings to the sea.

I spent late afternoon in my hammock and reading. I texted a lot with my friend Urban. Urban had become increasingly important to me on this trip. I’d made a deal to check in with him via text message every night, so that someone somewhere in the world knew I was safe. He had become something like my guardian angel, my Siri, and my mission control all rolled into one. And frequently he was my only sympathetic ear in a bad situation. Urban, if you’re reading this, thank you.

I asked the hotel owner if she could recommend somewhere for dinner. She mentioned a place with “really good pizza” just two streets away, and I set out to find it. After a recent string of impressive non-Mexican meals, I though I would try it. This is what I found:

Hot doog and soda. Photo by Andre.

Hot doog and soda, y’all. Photo by Andre.

The string was broken. 27.5 miles.

Map.

January 21 (Day 929 of the Great Adventure)—To Sabancuy

Morning confirmed a new trend: if you ask a restaurant whether they serve breakfast, they say yes even if they don’t. Even if they have no eggs and no breakfast dishes. Basically they’re just willing to serve you lunch any hour you want. This seems to be a quirk of Campeche and the Yucatán; I don’t think it would fly in central Mexico.

So it took some doing, but I eventually found a semi-outdoors meal counter that had eggs in the house. Some rancheros and a little Nescafé got me in good shape for the road. Not that I got moving early—I shot a video tour of the Giant for supporters and enjoyed the hammock a little longer. I didn’t get on the road till 2 p.m.

It was a short ride, though. More great scenery: strange currents criss-crossing offshore, copses of palm trees guarding the beach, a few closed beachside eateries, iguanas invisible until they moved, and so few cars that I biked on the wrong side of the road. To my left was open water, to my right was jungle.

Within about two hours that jungle had given way to a direct view of the lagoon protected by the island. It was the opposite of the open Gulf: sheltered, still, more green than blue, covered in marsh grass and bird life and small fishing boats. My destination for the night, Sabancuy, was somewhere out there.

By 4:30 I reached the turnoff. Leaving the Gulf behind I crossed the lagoon on a series of causeways—at least five—and approached the town. Its ancient church and small central square are the first things that greet you as you roll in. Rumors of hotels were scarce, but I navigated to a place mentioned in a couple online reviews. It looked nice out the outside shabby on the inside, and had wi-fi in the lobby only.

After a shower I got a delicious dinner of alambre at a local taco restaurant. This time I did have client work, so I sat in the hotel lobby tapping on my laptop till it was time for the hotel staff to close up.

Although not well known, Sabancuy has a claim to fame: sea turtles. The surrounding lagoon is their nesting ground, and a local university has a program to protect the eggs and bolster the species’ dwindling numbers. Anyone who visits there can volunteer to help, collecting eggs by hand and moving them to protected places. But this wasn’t turtle season, so I had to content myself with a beautiful sunset and the sounds of the lagoon at night:

(Supporters get access to all my videos!)

26.2 miles.

Map.

Shop in Sabancuy. Photo by Andre.

Shop in Sabancuy. Photo by Andre.

January 22 (Day 930 of the Great Adventure)—To Champotón

Shabby or not, the hotel had a cute enough little dining room, and for the sake of convenience I decided to eat there. I’m glad—the fruit plate that came out was amazing, the kind of mouth-watering fresh fruits that make me wonder why anybody buys sweets in the tropics.

I had still been icing my knees at night, and had no soreness to speak of. Today’s ride took about five hours and aimed at Champotón, a larger town right where the flat coastal plains give way to a more hilly region. It was my last day of constant, unadulterated beach views and I soaked it up with joy.

Beautiful church possibly in Champotón. Photo by Andre.

Beautiful church possibly in Champotón. Photo by Andre.

Champotón itself was a bit disconcerting. Maybe every town has its own attitude, or maybe it’s just luck of the draw on who you meet, but people here seemed surprised to see a foreigner and more than a little uninterested. That surprised me—it was (slightly) larger and more cosmopolitan than my last two stopping points. The heat had also gotten to me, and I was not eager to spend the entire afternoon following vague directions to questionable hotels.

So I took the first decent place I found. It was an old colonial building with a view of the sea and gorgeous grounds. Yet some strange contrasts: for example, the king size bed had a plush velvet bedspread but no under-sheet. Apparently you were supposed to lay directly on the bare mattress. (I chose instead to sleep on top of the bedspread, a spare blanket over me.)

I walked down to a string of seafood stands along the malecón, the owners vying for my attention and shouting their menus at me. The seafood was good and fresh and I washed it down with some house made agua fresca (fruit drink). 42.3 miles.

This hotel believes in tiles and mahogany but not bed sheets. Photo by Andre.

This hotel believes in tiles and mahogany but not bed sheets. Photo by Andre.

Map.

Friday, January 23 (Day 931 of the Great Adventure)—To Campeche

Owing to the heat and a headwind, yesterday’s 40 miles had been a bit of a slog. The wind shifted in the night, and the earlier I left the longer I’d get a tailwind before it died. But early is relative; after finding a breakfast place, eating way too much in their courtyard, and loading up the bike it was just after 11:00 a.m.

Today was one of those days where I took a longer route because it would be prettier. A main highway cut inland straight toward Campeche, but the winding coastal road looked a lot more interesting.

The first stretch looked almost like Ireland: sea cliffs on one side, the tropical equivalent of heath on the other, occasional thatch-roofed huts clinging to the hills in the wind. The road was narrow with no shoulder and plenty of traffic, also not unlike Ireland.

This is a real ad in Champotón. Photo by Andre.

This is a real ad in Champotón. Photo by Andre.

After a while the terrain got woodsy and hilly. I soared past wattle cottages and spooked chickens in the road. I stopped to buy oranges from a fruit stand in the village of Villa Madero. The vendor charged me double for what few bruised oranges he had left. Only after I parted with my pesos did I see shining ripe mandarinas at the fruit stand next door.

Winding roads eventually brought me to the fishing town of Seybaplaya, one of the most picturesque in Mexico. I rolled through the streets, weaving uphill on narrow lanes, and made a second stop for a snack and Powerade. Eventually I reached the top of the town and joined a lesser highway, still no shoulder, but much less traffic now.

It was the final run to Campeche. The approach is quite beautiful. The road is beachside, and you go through the outlying town of Lerma with its cute restaurants and nice houses. I stopped at one such restaurant hoping for a seafood cocktail… but they didn’t have them! I should’ve known it would be no good from the sign that read, “Mexican Grill” in English. I left without ordering.

Campeche itself is a sight. It’s a true city, but there’s no sprawl along the beach road, just a malecón and high end restaurants. I found my way to the old city—the historic downtown surrounded by giant stone walls.

For centuries, Campeche was the major port of Yucatán. It was also a frequent target of pirates. The city’s massive walls and big guns made it virtually unassailable, and despite several attempts the pirates never did manage to raid the city.

Those walls are still there today, carefully restored with a million slivers of stone forming mosaics on every surface. I passed through the wall and gawked. Historic Campeche is like being on a movie set, except everything is real.

Everything, that is, except the hotel prices. I wandered into a well-reviewed 400-year old building and hesitantly approached the desk. Just then I noticed a sign with the prices:

Single room…. $1150/night

“Oh,” I said to the concierge, laughing. “Nevermind. Thank you.”

“Wait,” he said. “How many nights do you need?”

“Two or three.”

He shrugged. “How about $550 a night?”

Ka-ching. This is the advantage of not booking in advance: if they have rooms they need to fill, they might give you a deal. I agreed and soon had been shown into the all-around most beautiful hotel room of the entire trip.

I showered, found food, and realized I might be here a lot more than two nights. 41.2 miles.

Map. (Note: The loop in the route is accurate. Is that cheating to include that? I don’t think so, that’s how I biked it.)

Total traveled this leg: 137.2 miles.

Total traveled since Day 1: 4528.3 miles.

Next time I’ll explore the wall, the Mayan cultural museum, and the creepy but beautiful statues that haunt the alleys of downtown. Until then, become a supporter to get the video logs or check out past stories from the road.

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Ask Me Anything, Mexico, Travel

Is There Anything Besides Nescafe in Mexico?

Pixi asked:

“Out of curiosity, how often did you find places that had coffee that was not Nescafé on your trip? I was under the impression that was pretty rare.”

This question made me smile. I have consumed a lot of Nescafé.

I poked fun at this a few times in the road logs, and Pixi was with me for the first three Nes-tastic days. If you’ve never had the pleasure, Nescafé is an instant coffee product (made by Nestle) which dominates the Latin American cheap-coffee market. It’s pretty bad, and it was the only coffee Pixi and I experienced for that first week, even at restaurants.

Café de olla (definitely NOT Nescafé). Photo via Fumi Chronicles.

Answer: It depends. In Mexico, anytime you’re in a city it is easy to find “real” coffee (which is to say coffee not made from powder, but often still as bad as a bad diner). On the other hand, in villages or on the road it’s almost always Nescafé. The exception is when a place has café de olla, common in the central highlands, which is brewed in a pot with spices and way too much sugar.

However, even in the cities if you go to a cheap open-air place it could be Nescafé and there are actual coffee houses with super good coffee… so you have options.

To be clear, Nescafé is probably no worse than any other instant coffee powder. But in the US, even the cheapest truckstop wouldn’t hand you a spoonful of instant coffee, whereas in Mexico most cheaper places are basically someone’s front living room and they’re giving you whatever their family uses.

I got used to it pretty quick. I’ve had some friends say that they would just skip coffee altogether if they couldn’t get “real” coffee, but those friends are clearly not coffee addicts. Plus, I like doing things the way the locals around me do them, and being a coffee snob in a small desert village is probably not a great way to make friends.

Do you have  question? Ask me anything.

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Adventure, Bicycling, Mexico, Photographs, Road Logs, The Great Adventure, Travel

Too Dirty for Her Bed By Far

The last few weeks had been the low point of the trip, with a serious knee injury, food poisoning, and some not-so-welcoming towns. I was done exploring Villahermosa and wondered if the road ahead would be different. It should be all beaches and islands as I followed the coast to Campeche. Even the rain had stopped. I felt a new sense of hope and turned north.

One of a kind roadside shrine. Photo by André.

One of a kind roadside shrine. Photo by André.

Sunday, January 18 (Day 926 of the Great Adventure)—To the Coast

Early morning found me in the parking lot of Choco’s Hotel, still covered in puddles. I frowned. Despite my thorough cleaning of the Giant’s gears and chains, he wouldn’t shift right. I had 50 miles ahead, and was eager to get moving, but it was six days to Campeche. If the derailleur (gear shifter) needed replacing, this was the time to do it.

But first things first. I ate breakfast at the hotel, emptied my room and loaded everything on the bike. Google showed only two bike shops in town, one of them a mere four blocks away. Off I went.

The mechanic at the shop immediately put my fears to rest. Neither of us understood any of the words the other one used, but we communicated perfectly. He said the problem would be solved if we just shortened the chain, and I strongly disagreed. (As always happens when I disagree with a Mexican bike mechanic, he quickly proved me wrong.)

Four minutes and a few pesos later I had a shorter chain and gears that shifted perfectly. As he worked he made small talk about famous racing cyclists, none of whom I recognized. (I even missed Lance Armstrong, though that was due to his accent.) My lack of racing trivia made him skeptical that I would reach South America.

Back on the streets I wove through heavy traffic, counting off the blocks so I’d know when to turn. A white-skinned guy with filthy blond hair spotted me and gave out a massive victory roar. I held my fist up and soared on. It’s weird, but he really picked me up. I guess it was just nice to know that someone else in this corner of Mexico understood the drive for adventure. White people are messed up.

The ride itself was a dream. 50 miles and no knee pain to speak of, plus the surroundings were sublime. Lush savanna gave way to coastal marshes, dotted with pockets of tropical forest. It was so green and the air smelled so fresh that I pulled over just to bask in it. The day was sunny and very warm, but I carried plenty of water.

Today’s destination was Frontera, a coastal town near the Tabasco/Campeche state line (frontera means “border” in Spanish). It’s situated at the mouth of a river, and I crossed the water on a high bridge just before sunset, again awed by the beauty of nature.

It was still light when I rolled into town and I picked out the least shabby of three hotels. There was no way to bring the Giant up the steep, narrow staircase to the hotel, but the owner promised me they had parking “just around the corner.” She grabbed the key and offered to show me the way.

Around the corner meant go two blocks, hang a left, and go another block. She unlocked a door big enough to admit a Caterpillar; beyond was a walled yard that could have easily housed an outdoor Wal-Mart. A few parking spots to one side had a roof, so I chained the Giant up there and made sure I had everything I needed. Clearly I wasn’t coming back till morning.

I followed the sound of music to a small pizza/burger place on the square (also on the second story—is this a thing?). I enjoyed a “Texas Burger,” which has all the fixings that we’d call a “South of the Border” burger in the States, and some deep-fried mozzarella sticks, a sight that brought tears to my eyes.

I got back to the hotel room early and put myself to bed. 51.1 miles.

Map.

Breakfast in Frontera. I'm hooked on motuleños.

Breakfast in Frontera. I’m hooked on motuleños.

January 19 (Day 927 of the Great Adventure)—The Island City

It turns out Frontera is an oil town, and morning brought a surge of oil workers in bright orange uniforms, probably finishing up some shore leave and getting ready to go back to a platform. Travel hint: if all the oil workers in town go to the same cafe for breakfast, try that cafe.

The road out of was beautiful again, though hotter and more miles than yesterday. I crossed the state border in late morning and discovered a one of a kind roadside shrine on a strip of highway flanked by marsh. Sometimes I would hear a horrendous sloshing in the marsh, and discovered that cattle ranching is just as big on the coast as it is in the desert—you just let the cattle waddle through the swamp to graze. Once, even a horse came splashing through the foliage.

Later I turned into the small town of Nuevo Progreso looking for lunch. This was not a town that usually gets visitors, and I couldn’t go 50 meters without someone yelling “GUERRO! GUERRO!”

The main street had no eateries but I discovered Gisela’s, an open air kiosk in a park. It’s the kind of place with no menu, just one plate of the day. Gisela apologized because today’s was chicken with a spicy sauce, and she was surprised when I excitedly ordered it. The real treat was fresh “agua de piña” (ice cold pineapple juice). I drank a liter.

After lunch I asked Gisela if she had a bathroom.

“Ah,” she said. “Here’s what you do. See that fruit stand over there? You go ask that lady for the key. Then you go into that collapsed warehouse and just walk on through. Don’t worry, just go all the way through. On the other side you look for the public market, and inside the market there’s a locked bathroom.”

I started in disbelief and she repeated the directions. I’m pretty sure the fruit stand lady had to repeat them as well. From the smell inside the collapsed warehouse, that’s as far as most hombres get, but I followed the treasure map and eventually did my business in a real porcelain toilet (sans flush).

Gisela at her kiosk in Nuevo Progreso, Campeche. Photo by Andre.

Gisela at her kiosk in Nuevo Progreso, Campeche. Photo by Andre.

Late afternoon brought cooler temperatures and I whisked on at high speed—much faster than the cars and buses, which were backed up in a traffic jam stretching for miles. This seemed odd out in the country, but eventually I found the cause. A rally was happening at the small town of Atasta, and had fully blocked the road.

I try to steer clear of political events in foreign countries. Rather than crossing the picket line I dismounted and walked around the edge of the crowd. When I was nearly to the other side, I finally caught someone’s attention.

“GUERRO! GUERRO!” he yelled.

The cry spread. Several hundred protesting Mexicans turned their eyes on me. I did what any savvy traveler would do: I put on a giant friendly grin.

Someone in the crowd let out a resounding, “VIVA MEXICO!”

I struck a pose, raising a fist in victory salute to the patriotic cry. Everyone in the crowd laughed and I got out of there.

After that the roads were clear. It was forest on both sides with a sparkling lake just past the forest. The pine trees and lake reminded me of Michigan.

It was basically dusk when I reached the shore of the Gulf, the first time I’d seen it in weeks. Out in the water were the twinkling lights of Ciudad del Carmen, a city on an island. A long bridge stretches from mainland to city, and I crossed that bridge in the dark, pausing to hear the gentle lapping waters and thinking of my night landing by kayak.

In town I had set my rights on a hotel that looked good online. I rolled the bicycle into the lobby and approached a painted young lady behind the counter (protected by elegant iron bars). I asked to see a room.

“I can’t show you one,” she said.

“Are you out of rooms?”

“No, we have plenty.”

“Then…?”

At first I thought the issue was that she was alone, and didn’t go alone to rooms with strange men. That’s a fair consideration. But after some back and forth, I think what she was telling me was this:

“To me, you look dirty, and if I let you go into a room you might dirty it up.”

Son of a.

I very carefully chose some Spanish words about how she looked, but bit them back. Instead I politely told her that I would look for another hotel. I then stretched out on one of the upholstered lobby chairs and pulled out my iphone, going through Google reviews and checking the location of each one on my map. She was visibly uncomfortable that I was there. I took my time.

Eventually I did find a better place, with much friendlier lobby staff. Ciudad del Carmen is a real city, if a small one, and has a beautiful centro. The thing about island cities is that they’re never spawled out, and are almost always better for it. I spent the evening exploring and had a burger at a local pub. 62.5 miles.

Map.

Total traveled this leg: 113.6 miles.

Total traveled since Day 1: 4391.1 miles.

Next time it’s iguanas, beaches, and the sweetest little stretch of road of the whole trip. Until then check out my past road logs or become a supporter.

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