Lola has a great night camping
on the beach. I’m the only camper, and after about nine, no one’s around except
the beach dogs. She made fast friends with one of them, and they run around the
beach and in and out of the waves for a good part of the night. I come out at
about three in the morning to pee and find the two of them lying exhausted on
the beach about ten yards in front of my tent. Lola’s friend is a very nice
dog. Lola suggests that he can come into our tent, and we can adopt her, I go
to sleep and in my dream, Sarah tells me that’s what we should do. But in the
morning, I run though all the difficulties and although I’m tempted, I tell
Lola firmly that we can’t.
I pack, fold up the tent, and
we’re ready to move out by eight. After I fold the tent and put it in the car,
Lola’s friend lies in the sand where the entrance to the tent was. This is sad.
We say good-bye and are off.
I know I’m going to have a good
drive today. I have pesos for gas, I’m heading into the high mountains and will
cross Mexico from the Pacific to the Gulf Coast. Unless I have problems, I will
make it to a camping site called La Jungla—because it’s like a jungle with a
site where only tents are permitted—if you can make it down the two-mile dirt
road.
Within an hour, I have made
Arriga and turned right heading into the mountains. The climb is sudden and
beautiful, up and up and up, the road snaking. I am into the drive, thinking of
nothing other than the drive and the beautiful land through which I am driving.
This is close to Nirvanah—very little me and my focus on what’s outside me. I
do, however, make Lola, who is exhausted, move from the back to the front seat
so that I can pet her.
All I can say is that drive is beautiful.
I wonder why I like doing this so much—driving through beautiful land that I’ve
never seen. I know I didn’t take this road down, although it’s hard to tell
because coming down, I didn’t have maps. I’m very glad that I have maps going
back.
The roads are tight and I take
chances by stopping on the right side to get pictures. I know I’m not supposed
to do this, but I do a lot of things I’m not supposed to do. It’s a habit.
An incident: at about noon, I
make the turn from Tuxtla—actually, just a bit before Tuxtla. I stop at a has
station to fill up but mostly to check on my location. Good decision: the
attendant tells me the turn off is before Tuxtal, about one kilometer up the
road. I would have gone into Tuxtla.
So I take the turn and drive for
about fifteen minutes and then spot a OXXO, where I can get supplies, and a
restaurant.
I go into the restaurant, have a
good breakfast (with some things, like beets, that I didn’t expect) and coffee.
Before leaving, I do my usual and ask whether I’m on the right road (yes—symbol
here). The waitress has no idea. The manager comes over to help. I pull out my
map to show her where I’m headed. She gives me strange directions. She has her
finger on the map pointing to nowhere that is close to where I am or where I am
going.
After ten minutes of an
incomprehensible conversation, she has the waitress get the manager’s glasses.
She can’t see the map. Lovely, helpful woman who does not like her glasses.
The glasses don’t seem go help.
I ask, Donde estamos ahorita? Her
finger lands on somewhere two hundred miles away. But she is very clear about
something: I’m headed in the wrong direction. I need to turn around, go back,
make a couple of turns and basically go somewhere else. I’m thinking, so much
for my camping plans. And I’m also realizing, she doesn’t know how to read a
map. They don’t use maps in Central American and Mexico.
Gracias, I say, and leave and go
to the OXXO tienda in the same complex. I ask two people: yes, I’m headed in
the right direction. Vaya recto, straight ahead. I guess none of us like to
admit our ignorance. So we plunge ahead, giving information that we think fits
who we think we should be.
I drive up and up. The mountains
have sharp edges. The Tuxtlas seem to have lived here (and many still do). I
think that when I get back, I am going to want to read more about the
indigenous cultures in the areas through which I have driven.
I drive through the impossible mountains and start heading down
after about three hours. After an hour of heading down, I am in the flats. I
pass two military check zones—they just want to know what I’m doing here and
about my two bicycles. They don’t ask me for identification. They are simply
very friendly and wave me on.
At about four, I hit the complicated traffic zones. By stopping
and asking for directions to XXXXX, I manage to stay on the right roads. This
is so different from my trip down when one right road equalled two wrong ones.
Nevertheless, it’s getting into late afternoon, and I’m getting worried.
Usually, I try to land at five at the latest. It’s five, and I haven’t even
made the turn-off to the off road to the off road to the off road. If everything
goes right, I should be there by six, ample time to pitch my tent and close
down, in spite of the warnings about the two mile dirt road getting into the
camp ground. I reflect on trust and language, how much I am simple trusting
words in a book. But I always know that if things go wrong, I can sleep in a
car.
The road off the road off the road is beautiful. I almost mange
to submerge my fear of where I will be sleeping tonight. After an hour of going
up and down mountains, I see the lake XXXX. I can see that it will take some
time to go through XDDDD==== and find this campsite, but so far, I haven’t made
mistakes.
I get into this lovely town. It is beautiful. Lovely, when I
pull over to look at my map, people pull up to my window to ask how they can
help me.
I follow as best I can their directions. I am in a local part of
town. Suddenly, bang, things are happening overhead. I slam on the
brakes---yes, same deal as on my trip down. My overhead bikes hit a tent
stretched across the street.
My overhead racks, although I was traveling a reasonable 10mph
were destroyed. And the tent was downed---apparently damage to one of the
grommets. My bikes were a mess, ripped off the top of the car. Also, the tent
was helping some kind of gathering into Jesus movement. Lots of music and
shouting.
A crowd gathered and tried to help me with the mess of my bikes
on the street. Some others tried to negotiate with a beautiful señora, maybe in
her 80s regarding how much damage I had done to her tent. She was simply
beautiful.
If Jeff, Doria, and VJ are reading this--maybe God is giving me
a second chance at this scene. Not having to get out of the country that day,
this time I came though. I helped the people with their tent, paid la señora
200 peso, which is what she asked for, and they helped me figure out what to do
with my car, the racks ripped of the top, the bikes lying in the street. I am.
on my way, about 30 minutes late.
The road I am taking hit a dead end, so I go back to the scene
of my crime. Some of the original participants in the negotiation are still
there, and they give me specific directions to La Jungle, where I am hoping to
find a campsite.
It is getting late and dark. I think of trying some hotels que
permite perras, but I really want to camp, so I press on, my bikes jammed into
my car. I follow the directions (again, how much we rely on others’ words),
this road to that road to that road. It’s about a twenty minute drive from
town. I know I’m putting all my money on this campsite—and of course, I can sleep
in the car. But I do have a certain faith—in part in myself, in part in others,
and in part in the general good will of chaos. Mostly, I survive.
The final road supposedly leading to La Jungla is an extremely
narrow country road with few houses. I am holding my spiritual breath when
finally I see posted to a tree a small sign for La Jungla, with an arrow
pointing to a dirt road.
It is quickly getting dark. The road is a dirt road plus. Not
only that, each dirt road seems to lead into two or three dirt roads. I follow
my instincts, taking what I think is the main dirt road—with serious travel
difficulties.
We find it. La Jungla. Some buildings. An obvious camp ground .
Isolated. Birds calling. Howler monkeys. This is perfect. But I see no one
around in the first area of buildings. I yell Hola to no one, and no one
answers. I walk in back of the strange set of buildings with a large outside
dining area and a huge, mostly empty swimming pool to find a large grassy area
obviously used for tent comping. I see another building to the side of the
camping area, and Antonio, a tall, thin, mostly bald man in his 70s or 80s,
comes out to welcome me. He is broadly smiling and very welcoming.
I drive into the tenant area, unpack and put up my tent. I’m the
only person here, which is probably why Antonia was broadly smiling.. I start
writing. I could stay here forever.
Goto Day 19: Seeing How Others Move
Goto Day 19: Seeing How Others Move
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