Gracious Hosts, Actopan, Mexico City

Post date: May 31, 2010 4:07:40 PM

In honor of my host in Actopan, Alvino, here is a bit about dune buggy racing, a popular sport here in Mexico. From scratch he cut and welded the frame of his racecar, based on pictures from an American magazine, and the engine he found in a junkyard. Being a United States trained mechanic, this is little trouble for him. His neighbor mechanic is also constructing a vehicle, which he says goes over 100mph- far too fast for the desert, I’d say! There are many things to consider, including the placement of the air filter so that it doesn’t choke on too much dust, the tread and inflation of the wheels so that they grip the dirt just right, and the combination of durability, protection, and visibility of the frame. A typical race is about twenty minutes long. Alvino is a champion racer who is presently devoting his resources toward an English-teaching certification instead of fixing and upgrading his engine. Should I find a scanner, I will include a photo of him racing. Apparently the impacts are so hard on these tracks that one must repair/replace the shocks after every race. He invited me to join him sometime, ripping up the track in a dune buggy. I suppose I could handle pooping dirt; you eat a lot of it when cruising around. Such a sport is perfect for the Mexican terrain because there is plenty of open ground and the climate is not too rainy.

Alvino introduced me to Mexican tacos, which are usually too stuffed with spiced meat and cheese to wrap into a traditional-looking taco. No beans or rice or lettuce, usually- just meat, cheese and a tortilla. You squeeze some lime juice, sprinkle some salt, add some salsa (the mildest of which is probably too hot for the average American), and you’re ready to chow. Oftentimes you can get a side of grilled green onions, the bulb of which you eat and the green stalk of which you leave behind. He laughed when I said I’d never eaten the bulb, but diced up the green stalk to add to soups, stir frys, and other dishes. You can guarantee I will be grilling some green onions the day I settle down. He also taught me about how to eat some cactus by peeling and de-needling it, slicing it, then boiling or grilling the meat. It’s a traditional food here, as is the seedy fruit which flowers atop the cactus. You find them growing wild everywhere. I may try some the next time I camp around here.

Another tidbit about Mexican terminology: “manana,” which translates to “tomorrow,” never actually means “tomorrow.” “Manana” means “sometime in the future.” I hope that their business, manufacturing, and emergency medical procedures have more specific deadlines. “Oh, so you need a blood transfusion? Manana, Senor!” It was always “manana” while waiting for my motorcycle’s repair. There is a clear lack of urgency here in Mexico, except when it comes to driving. Alvino advised me to “drive aggressively” to survive these streets.

Speaking of aggressive driving, I am now in Mexico City, hosted by the Englishman Garry Diamond, whose home he opens freely to motorcycle travelers like myself. After moving here 30 years ago with his delightful, Mexico-City wife, Ivanne, he has finally decided to apply for citizenship. He loves this city, and I can see that there is a certain appeal to this place. There is so much to do and see here: museums, parks, restaurants, shops, shows, clubs, and probably much more. This place is gigantic; it is rivaled in size only by Tokyo. In 2005 it held more than 19,000,000 inhabitants. Although there are numerous beauties here, my host informed me that the true beauties of Mexico live in Guadalajara. Garry says that town is known for both its beautiful women and gay men. This is a pattern I am recognizing; the beautiful girls in Rio de Janeiro flock to Ipanema beach, which is also known as the “gay beach.” All are welcome to theorize as to why gays and pretty girls unite. Gays are also known for their expertise in hair dressing and fashion. I welcome explanations.

Mexico City, “Ciudad de Mexico,” is known locally as just “Mexico.” Who knows why? The streets here are better labeled than in most Mexican areas I’ve seen, but to the American, it still feels like a forest lined with animal trails; one must navigate by use of memory, the location of the sun, and the slant of the terrain. That is an exaggeration, of course, but the point is the same. Lining the streets are billboards for “Sex in the City,” “Sears,” and the latest John Travolta movie. These help to bring some home to the area, as do the pervasive McDonalds, Wendys, and Hooters. That said, Mexico City is an American-friendly city. It is a city of the world, globalized like so many major cities on earth in this day and age.

On my way to meet Garry, I got lost so many times, asked for directions to so many times, the responses to which are never understood beyond the pointing and waving of an arm, that I resorted to my GPS, which lacks Central American and South American maps (thanks, Magellan). I used the latitude/longitude coordinates Garry had provided me, and after many hours of cursing, I had wove my way to Garry’s workplace, a school where he teaches English. Where would I be now if it weren’t for English speakers? I can speak and read some Spanish, but I am no more than a two year old when attempting to comprehend what Spanish I hear. All the words slur together with lots of S’s and R’s. Will this ever improve? My driving has, of necessity. Following Garry, an expert rider, we wove in and out of cars, splitting lanes, and passing traffic-light-stopped cars to reach the front of the lines. It is a little nerve-wracking passing within inches of parked cars. The locals seem to accommodate such motorcycle travel; they will move a little out of the way to let you slide by.

Luckily, Garry and Ivanne led me to a motorcycle gathering on Sunday in a nearby town called Tres Marias. A lovely ride through the mountains and farms outside the city. There I bought a new helmet, since helmets are good for only one accident, and I was pleased to find a warranty that will replace the helmet for free if ever it is involved in another accident. Afterwards we explored the evidence gathered at the Museum of Anthropology. I loved the model displays of ancient Australopithecines and Homo Erectus in life-like settings, battling mammoths, giving birth, making tools, and building huts. The museum is fantastic and huge, and it renewed my interest in Academia; I felt at home, and I felt small, humbled by what my ancestors overcame. This trip of mine is miniscule in comparison. Our anguishes and triumphs are meager compared to the tigers, storms, and diseases they had to overcome. In a way, it was a place of worship for me, a place for me honor my ancestry and fill me with pride and motivation. Surely, if they can do it, I can do it! I was also intrigued by the Mayan concept that in addition to the four directions (N,S,E,W), there is the CENTER. This deserves some contemplation. After the museum we ate “tortas,” which are really sandwiches, but the different kind of bread makes them “tortas.” I am fond of “chorizo,” a type of Hispanic sausage. Then we visited an old town within Mexico City where there were gobs of people, junk food vendors, and crafts people. Apparently every Sunday, this festival-like event takes place. Ivanne told me that in more traditional, smaller towns in Mexico, the boys and girls come to town-centers/plazas like this. The boys on one side, the girls on the other, they form lines going in opposite directions, and the boys and girls look at each other. They go up and down these lines repeatedly, scoping the opposite sex. How many marriages, I wonder, result from such activity? I love it. So blatant, so accepted. At the market we got some ice cream. My strawberry ice cream, I am convinced, was made with some cream cheese, an interesting and yummy ingredient.

Today, Monday, I plan to verify the shipment of my camera to the Merida, Mexico hostel I intend to visit to meet Tim, the Australian adventure biker I spoke to in San Diego, and with whom I’ve been exchanging emails ever since. I also intend to shop for tickets to Macchu Picchu and an Incan celebration in Peru. I need to plot my route to and through Guatemala to bypass the destruction from Guatemala’s recent volcanic eruption. I also must plan my next oil change location, tighten the bolts on my motorcycle, which will never be the same as when I bought it, lube my chain, and see about a cheaper way to withdraw cash, since the ATMs here cost me $1-3 per transaction. I’m also going to brave the public transit system of buses and subways to visit downtown. According to Garry, this is an experience one has no excuse not to have. Also, it’s laundry day.

That said, my mission continues, delayed, but continuing nonetheless. My jaw still hurts when I chew, my right leg’s massive bruises are healing, my sinuses are clearing somewhat (although my nose still clicks a little for some reason!), my neck is stiff, my upper lip is still scabbed and swollen and is probably internally scarrerd, my left’s blackness is almost gone… my health is great, the damage is minor, and I still have resources to continue. The bike is road-worthy, and there are many more ruins and jungles to see. Plus, I know that wherever I go, I will be provided for somehow.

I just noticed that my fishing pole is missing. Damaged in the accident and lost, or stolen by the police? Also, my hapkido kubotan mini-weapon is missing. Oh well.

A somber note: due to shame, I’ve neglected to report that my friend Kalpesh reinspired my interest in chewing tobacco. He offered me some “Mirage,” an Indian chewing tobacco that is quite excellent, and he gave me two packs to ruin myself with. I accepted the offering and chewed away. That was almost three weeks ago. There is a severe shortage of dip in Mexico, which is a good thing, but yesterday I found some “Kayak” at a strange chain store that sells everything from cameras to books to perfumes to toys to candy… all sorts of odds and ends without any apparent theme. I strongly suspect that this mini-affair with an old lover will phase out, but I am worried that my other weaknesses of chocolate and coffee will return. I believe the reason for my relapse is due in part to what I said before about losing part of one’s self by immersing one’s self in a new environment. I feel no worries about alcohol, but the chocolate and coffee are awfully tempting! I believe I can stand my ground. The road is just a little disorienting, that’s all. I am curious to see how I respond to living on a cocoa farm, however! Ah, Brazil. I am ready for that land.