Days 3 & 4: Arc of Misery

As I sat in the passenger seat, for the first time this trip, of the careening Trooper (more on Mexican roads, plenty more, in a minute), I was going to open this overdue dispatch with the words "Thank God for George." George it was who recommended I plop down forty smackers for a power inverter, so as to have power in the car. That's why I was sitting in the passenger seat, draped with serial and power cables, laptop in lap–I was making good on the promise of the truly mobile computing platform, and moreover catching up on some much overdue writing. What would I have done, on this crazy unpredictable trip, thought I, without the ability to work in the car?

Well, for starters, I wouldn't have blown up my laptop, writing a fistful of random binary librettos to numerous boot sectors on the hard drive. Tip #342 from the Wired Literary Traveler: Remember how awful Mexican roads are supposed to be? Well, you ain't seen awful until you've tried said roads as a booting laptop, in a Sport Utility Vehicle at high speed. No mobile computing has ever been done on these highways–and none ever will. And this particular catastrophe was neither the first, nor the last, nor the worst of our first two days in Mexico. There will be no need to play up "downs" for the sake of narrative arc tonight.

Happily, and as I might have mentioned, I thought of everything before leaving, and that includes a set of Norton emergency recovery floppies. My PowerBook (she goes by Dunazade, after Sheherezade's dusky younger sister in the Thousand Nights and a Night) lives, entices, and dances with me again, after a wee bit of spot disk maintenance. The other catastrophes, as well, were dealt with in their turn, and I sit before you now having been variously ripped off, shaken down, detained by policia, turned away from a dozen hotels, and damn near sweated to death.

But, you know, it sounds worse that it actually was. In honor of our descent into madness, and subsequent rise from those turbulent depths, the official emblem of today's dispatch will be the arc. Simply follow our spot on the Arc of Misery^TM for an intuitive visual cue as to the state of the Fuchs South of the Border Expedition. (Oh, and yeah, I know the "misery" axis is inverted. Sue me; you know what I meant.)

We awoke yesterday morning (Sabado), in Brownsville, well rested and happy. A noon-time phone call to Neto's transmission yielded the remarkable news that the work was done! I carefully scripted much of the phone call, but came off like a champ none-the-less (if I may say so). In a bit of high irony, I spoke at Neto en todo espanol, while he worked out his ingles on me. It was odd. Fuchs: "Hola! Hable hombre tengo Trooper novento." Neto: "Oh. It's done." Fuchs: "Es acabado? Ahora?" Neto: "Si. Well, ten minutes." Fuchs: "Que bueno!"

They picked us up in our own vehicle, and gamely inquired as to where we had acquired our slick power inverter. I tried to tell them about Fry's, the Bay Area computer and electronics superstore. "Este tienne todo!" They had obviously never before seen a device that turned a cigarette lighter into house current. (Then again, neither had I.) While we waited por la cuenta, Sara and I chatted with Neto's loyal lieutenant, Robert Garcia. Robert seemed happy to chat with outsiders, and told us about his life. He is 28 and has four young children, each about a year apart. He said it was important for him to procreate young (uh, my words), so that he would not be "seventy or eighty" by the time they were getting boyfriends and girlfriends. He married when he was twenty–and his bride was fifteen. We took a farewell photo of Robert, Neto, and me.

Neto's charged us about a third more than I recall paying for my last clutch, but, heck, that was almost five years ago. Even if we did pay a bit of a tourist price (and I'm not saying that we did), it would be well worth it. We brought these guys a lame car at 6pm on a Friday, and they had it galloping 16 hours later. We ran into some real automotive sweethearts. (Like rolling up to a transmission place on our last gear teeth wasn't lucky enough....) We were across the border by 1pm.

And across, and across, and across. Well, not quite. On Saturday afternoon, there was no endless line of cars as there had been Friday (though there were a number of goats), and we breezed through. A border official waved us aside to the official building–but after a cursory examination of the vehicle waved us through. We thought it was odd getting into Mexico this easily–and it was.

We navigated Matamora, the Mexican border town. (No distance to get to it, Matamora and Brownsville are another one of those "same city, different country" situations. Though, Matamora is a lot more annoying. For instance, we had to conclude that honking one's horn is just part of the process of going through intersections when lights change. You don't have to hesitate one quarter of a second when the lights turn green; the folks behind you are already helpfully prompting you with conspicuous auditory signals.)

It took me .00005 seconds to make a gringo ass of myself, accusing the poor PeMex (the main big gas chain) attendent of not giving me back enough change. So how was I supposed to know that Mexico as well has coins in 1, 2, 5, and 10 peso denominations? Oh, yeah, I could have looked it up beforehand. But I was busy happily refusing to be ripped off. Another .00010 seconds into Mexico, and we were already grateful for the Trooper. The road was being resurfaced, and the detour to the side was a nightmare of ruts. We got into passing in the ruts, because other people in lesser vehicles were doing so, and we didn't want to be faced. Some cute kids in a pickup smiled at our maneuver. When we got back onto pavement, we got to enjoy some hugely wide lanes, presumably for your passing comfort. It's really quite a nice system, and inflicts much less stress than the U.S. system. If it looks like you have a shot at passing, you do so; and if you don't make it, you sort of just all three squnch in. "Do you think it's safe to pass?" "Pretty much."

At the border station inside of the tourist zone (about 25 miles), we encounter the first of the dozens of men with guns who will make us uncomfortable in Mexico. Our interrogator has a Beretta sidearm, the guy next to her a Colt. But it is the 19-year old kid with the slung rifle that gives me the willies. A rifle! As Sara and I discuss, owning guns is one thing. But brandishing them is just off-putting. However, what was really off-putting was when the woman with the Beretta indicates that we don't have a notarized car permit, which we can only obtain (and should have obtained) at the station at the border. So it's back to Matamora, and over an hour blown away. Oops.

As we get into the swing of filling the tank every time it's as low as the 3/4 mark (and we see a PeMex, of course), I consider that living in the U.S. does get one in the habit of taking for granted a certain amount of comfort and convenience. Certain thing are taken care of, and are expected to be, and if they are not you have recourse–and can get upset about it: "How the hell am I supposed to get where I'm going? What the hell am I supposed to do now?" In Mexico (and, no doubt, most other places), the answer is "You're not supposed to be doing anything. Don't nobody here care what you do."

As the road deteriorates, and Sara and I debate which Six Flags Roller Coaster the effect most resembles (Mine Train, no brainer), the terrain turns from flat, dusty, and ugly, to green and very hilly, with sheer granite-like mountains in the distance. As the sun sets, the puffy clouds partake of some of the sun's last highlights. For the very first time, Mexico is pretty to us. Of course, we'd like to have a picture of us zipping through the terrain toward the sunset, but it is notoriously difficult to get a picture of yourself in your moving car. Luckily, we pulled up on the bumper of another Red Trooper, and so we are able to provide an artist's depiction of what we looked like, just a few feet ahead.

Regarding Mexican road rules, I have to say that it is really very liberating to not ever have to signal for lane changes (an act that only accomplishes marking you as a tourist). This is somewhat hypocritical, as I am quite puritanical about it back States-side. I guess it's not much of a principle which one abandons at the border.

The moon is full and oversized, orange and low on the horizon. Oh shit! Did I say moon? Rule number one is to never drive at night in Mexico. Well, I suppose we just weren't doing a great job of estimating times and distances, and here we are, still outside of Tampico when the sun goes down. There really aren't any cities before that stop, so there's nothing for it but to press on.

But, uh, not to put to fine a point on it, Tampico is sold out. Every fucking room in the city. (This we discover after 2+ hours of walking and driving in circles and making hopeless inquiries; Sara, having no Spanish, starts to suspect that I am taking her for a ride, and instituting a plot to keep us pushing onward. At each hotel, I inquire, "Buenos noches, senor. Would you like to buy some girl scout cookies? No? Puede recommendar otra hotel which would like to buy some girl scout cookies? No? Gracias; adios. Sorry, sis; maybe the next place.") Tampico is also hotter and humider than hell, and kind of dirty. And very loud. Tampico is, uh, a hole. The Let's Go Guide sort of said as much, in nicer terms, but we figured it was the best place we could get to. We were happy to get the hell out of it. I was not thrilled with my introduction to urban Mexico.

It only got worse, as we couldn't even figure out how to get out of town. Finally, a wonderfully nice couple at a gas station actually led us out of town themselves, they going out of their way, and us following behind. After a half dozen turns, we realized that this was the only way it was going to happen; we could ask how to get to our highway–but there was no way we were going to understand any useful answer. Honking our thanks, wepressed on through the late night, waiting for the banditos who would run us off the road. A road sign warned of "dangerous curves." (The female of the pair who led us out town, now she (wearing a lowcut dress), she had "curvas peligrosas.") Bawdy humour aside, it was after midnight now–and even the hotels south of town were booked. We were tired, sticky, and angry. Not a little scared.

Then the rains came. A heavy downpour, obscuring the road, thunder and lighting close and loud and terrifying. Our only solace was the lumbering truck in front of us, whose tail lights led us through that awful night like the red eye photo of Moses.

Finally, after 12:30, we stumbled upon Desposito Palmeras, where they had one last dingy room available, which they let us for a hundred pesos. We secured it as best we could, turned on the fan, laid out clothes, weapons, and flashlights, and fell down exhausted.

We awoke at seven. Wow, I haven't had a cold shower in, oh... well, it's just been too darned long. These are particularly fun, gasping for air and warmth, when you're not supposed to even open your mouth in the shower. Loading the Trooper, we were forced to note that Desposito Palmeras did not look any better in the light. From any angle.

On the road again, the butterflies appear. Yellow and coltish (even for butterflies), they dance across the road willy nilly. They are getting thicker. Through their fluttering, we achieve Papantla, which is the beautiful little hilltop town we had (unrealistically) hoped to get to the first day. We get in without trouble, find el centro without trouble, and are immediately knocked out by the charm of the town, the square, and the surrounding hills. Overlooking the whole scene is a very tall statue on the tallest nearby hill, a figure with head thrown back. It actually looks like a thin Buddha.

Immediately, we stumble upon the most highly recommended restaurant in the Let's Go book, Plaza Pardo. We take a table on the second floor patio, directly overlooking el centro. The spot is great, and I order my first Mexican meal, with a bit of friendly fuss. After a few rounds of "Soy vegetariano, no como carne," I am brought a setting of arroz, frijoles, tortillas, y queso. It is awesome.

After food and bottled Cokes, Sara and I hit the plaza, and walk up to main church. Mass is in session and the chapel is funkily beautiful. We continue on up to the monument, stopping for direcciones first. Despite these, we realize we've made a wrong turn (we thought if we just kept going up...) when a smiling family, leaning out of their windows, hails us. Totally not understanding, we smile, disclaim a minimal grasp of Spanish, and try to keep walking. Finally, one of us follows one of their outstretched fingers, and we realize the monument is behind us; we've wandered onto the wrong hill. Laughing, amazed, thanking them, we reverse course.

We discuss the relative merits of blending. Sara said she blended great in Prague, and her friend Trey did the same in England. However, here, in Papantla, we are pretty unmistakeable (we are also the only tourists). We decide that blending is great when locals are mean and tourists unappreciated; but the opposite in the opposite sort of place. If we had blended, that family would have assumed we knew what damned hill we were climbing, and would not have leapt to help us. The statue is cool, and the view is gorgeous. [Most of you know what SNAFU stands for; it is also indicative of "Sara NAtalie FUchs," and she relishes the coincidence. She also only wears this shirt at, um, appropriate times, which the day before was.]

Exiting Papantla, the lush greenery continues, but the Gulf also appears to our left, as the mountains, steep and green like monstrous moss-covered boulders, spring up to our right.

In 96, Sara had the misfortune to hit a deer in the Trooper. Subsequently, she bought a pair of Deer-Be-Gone high frequency emitters for the grill. At the moment, I am wishing that we had some Butterfly Beware devices. These yellow beauties flit about every mile of this road, like a pale golden tickertape parade. So far I've seen at least a dozen sucked into our grill and undercarriage, a veritable butterfly holocaust. And I can't help but feel destructive and self-centered that my answer to this is "Well, there's just not much we can do about it."

Outside of Vera Cruz, trying to make for San Andres Tuxtla (a smaller and much nicer berg) before dark, we are pulled over by Vera Cruz cops. Zee nightmare begins. We pull over, and begin our fumbling spanglish dialog with the young officer of the state. Turns out, he claims we ran a red light. If so, I shot right through it without ever seeing a thing; I try to convey as much to the young official. He indicates that we will have to come to the courthouse on the next day. Impossible! I tell him we plan to be in San Andres that day. He asks about our specific destinations, both of us pointing to our map. Sara suggests that I ask him if we can pay the fine here instead, and I fumblingly inquire if we can pay now. He indicates that the fine is 900 pesos. Jesus Christ! I don't think we have that much in Mexican currency, and I tell him so. He mentions dolares, and I ask cuanta cuesta en dolares. Cien; a hundred smackers. This sucks, but I've got it; if it will get us out of here, I'll cough it up. And I do so. And he takes the cash back to his older partner, who approaches our truck. He tells us that we must follow him. What? They've got a hundred U.S. of ours, which one can only assume they are going to pocket–and we're not free to go? My usual favorite word "misery" here is not doing it for me. And then we are following this police car through several miles and a dozen turns, on the streets of Vera Cruz.

Our Arc of Misery has taken on a new shape. We decided that "Sine Wave of Misery" just sounded prosaic; but rubrics aside, there was no denying the shape of our situation. And no understating it: The first thing I remembered was something about never trying to bribe Mexican police officers, as this can land you in jail for, like, five years. It wasn't a bribe! I just wanted to pay the ticket and leave town! But of such things are misunderstandings abroad made. Do we have the number for the U.S. Embassy? Can they help us? My next thought was, How do we know these are police officers? That car and those uniforms are pretty shoddy. This could be a base scam. Having gotten a hundred bucks out of us with no resistance, these rogues are now having us dociley follow them off to a remote locale, where to dispatch us and drive off in our truck. Holy shit.

Mmm... death, or Mexican jail? I really couldn't say. All I know is, at that moment, literally the worst thing that could befall me had: Strange men with guns had told me, "No, you are not free to go. You must come with us." I was in hell. I thought about falling back a bit, and pulling a bootlegger turn; racing out of town, and for the border. I thought about pulling over and calling the embassy now. I felt like screaming for help. It was the worst 20 minutes in memory. At the end of that time, we reached the onramp for 180 south toward San Andres, and the officers waved us on our way. They were telling us to proceed. They had led us to our highway. We had gotten a $100 escort through the city. But I still felt like slugging someone in the jaw, and I knew that nothing could erase that 20 minute ride. I couldn't imagine how much fun I could have in the next two weeks that would make up for it. I decided, briefly, that I fucking hated Mexico, and was not stopping there again; next stop was Belize, or Texas, either one, and Sara could choose.

I've calmed down a great deal now. But I tell you that I do not plan to come to Mexico again; and my zeal for travel in general has dimmed at least a bit. Being at the mercy of armed officials of a state that doesn't even nominally protect me or my freedom, is an unattractive prospect at best. Freedom is all for me, and if I substantially risk it by going abroad, then that changes things a bit. Hate to say it, and sad but true.

The speedbumps from Hell, which are found in every town on the highway, are replaced unexpectedly by "vibradores." Spanish has some really cool words. At our next gas stop, two kids give us a quality and much-needed windshield wash, earning a "Que bueno!" and five pesos, from a me in a much better mood. Then, I catch site of the grim government soldier with the black combat Remington 12-guage, glaring at us. I can't believe they give people like this huge guns and set them loose; this guy looks like... well, he looks like nothing so much as a shotgun murderer. I do not like the state; this one in particular.

We stopped just short of San Andres, pulling in instead in Santiago Tuxtla, drawn by the scenery and the promise of a hotel room with a private phone line. The Let's Go Guide says this place has little for tourists to do, but I'm coming to feel that book has little to say to me. The town is pretty, the scenery is fantastic, and as for stuff to do, there's a damned carnival going on right in front of our hotel, in the zocalo. The hotel is fantastic, with a beautiful cylindrical atrium, and a fabulous view of the hills. We explored the zocalo and its celebration, including food vendors, stalls, games, and happy people.

Perdon, amigos, but I have to submit that keeping up with this journal in real time (particularly since I can't work in the car), as well as the connectivity situation, are both really taking it out of me. (I don't even know if I'm going to be able to log in, but of course if you're reading this (in 8/98), I did.) So, I would like to petition you gentle readers to forgive me if updates become irregular or peter out. I want to keep it up, and hope I will, but if I don't, I will publish them on the site at a later date. If this happens, mainly, please don't think we are dead. Because we might not be.

And, then again, I may continue writing undaunted; the first few days have been really rough. One hopes, inordinately so.

Good night,