At the Mine

Posted on October 23, 2008 by Benjamin Simpson

October 14, 2008

At the Mine

In the morning I hear the marching band again.  The horribly discordant marching band.  I wonder what they are doing.  They were out playing last night, as the rain poured down.  They must be dedicated, but for being so dedicated they are horrible.  Horrible like when I played trumpet in the elementary school band.
I put thoughts of marching bands out of my head, and went for a walk around the city.  It is, I must say, not a very exciting city, despite being set in a valley and surrounded by small hills; I am not all that impressed.  There does not seem to be anything to distinguish the city except that Pancho Villa was murdered here.
Later, while touring the mine, I am told that the rumor about his death is that he was murdered so that there could be a deal between the United States government and the Mexican government, something to do with mining rights, and how the U.S. wanted the mining rights and the Mexican government wanted to sell them the mining rights and Pancho Villa wanted to stop it, or something like that.  I have no idea how true it is, but a U.S. company owned the mine, and all the silver and copper and other precious metals were shipped to El Paso, Texas for final working there.

There is a river running though the center of town.  It is set in a hundred foot wide concrete gully, with dirt and trash on the bottom and a small river slowly meandering down the middle, taking up a quarter of the space.  And there is a road down there, following along the edge of the river.  It is at the level of the river, forty feet below the rest of the town.  When I saw the road, there were bits in perfect condition, and there were portions that were completely destroyed and washed away.  I didn’t think about it much, because there is so much unfinished building here, there are concrete footprints of buildings, with rebar sticking out, scattered everywhere, so this destroyed road was not a big deal.


But what was neat, was I found the marching band.  They were underneath one of the bridges, standing on the part of the good river road, and they were still playing horribly, but now I saw why.  The girls were wearing the catholic schoolgirl pleated skirts, and the boys wore the white button up shirt and dark trousers.  It was the school band.  Ok, so they will get better, hopefully.

I continue to wander, with a vague mission in mind.  Last night my motorcycling English friends said they tried to ride their motorcycles to the top of the hill, the one with the huge statue overlooking the city, and could not make it.  I had spare time, so I decided to walk it, and see what happened.
Through the center of town, with my camera on my hand, taking pictures of the town.

Random photographs of Hidalgo de Parrel:

And I slowly walked toward the hill, up and around, finding dead ends and finally found the entrance to the top of the hill, which was covered with a mine.


I guess I should have mentioned, that next to the statue over looking the city, was a tall wooden structure, looking like a giant right angle triangle, with a wheel on top.  It is the head of a mine, where the men and minerals were lowered and raised.
Through the gate of the mine, and there were two men working, they stop what they were doing and watch me go by.  They didn’t stop me, so I kept walking.  Up and around the corner, and three men were working in a little field next to a concrete watchman’s hut.  One of the men called to me and I stopped and looked at him.  He laughed and smiled and posed and said something about a photograph, so I took his photograph, and then his two helpers.


Rising above me on my left was the apparatus of the mine, the tin roofed covered conveyor belts and the little mine cars.

Up through what might have been a parking lot, with some sort of unoccupied visitor hut, and around the corner.  There were three people standing on the edge looking like they were doing nothing while doing something.  I smiled and they said hola.  A young lady smiled and rattled off something in Spanish.  I answered with ‘Mi Espanol es malo.’  She smiled and in faltering English asked where I was from.  “Los Angeles’ and that is where the conversation broke down.  Then another person came up, he was in a suit, and looked like he wanted to look important.  He said that I should wait here.  So I waited there.  It was only about five minutes while the four of us stood around, the lady who spoke a little English tried to talk to me some more, but neither of us knew enough to say anything important.
The two ladies went back to talking between themselves, and laughing.  I could pick up only a word or two of what they were saying, not enough to understand.  Another lady showed up and smiled and said in slow English that she was the mine guide.
I guess I was going on a tour of the mine.
The first thing she said was that she was sorry because the mine was flooded and they could not take me into the mine.  “How long has it been flooded?” I ask, “One, two years” she answers.
Right in front is a beautiful old fire engine, I would guess 1950’s and she says that it was the first fire engine in Parral and was used up to three years ago, so I take a picture of it sitting on its blocks.  Next to us is the tall wooden structure that can be seen from town, the structure for the mine elevators.  Off to the side, built into the mountain is the control room for the cables for the elevators.  Giant wheels, with just as big brakes, sit silent but clean, the mine has been closed now for thirty years.


There are circular disks in from of the operator, with a pointer and numbers, just like the classic elevator pointers in 1930’s hotels.  The circular disks tell the elevator operator which level the elevator is on.


Behind us is a dark tunnel, the only tunnel I will visit on the tour.  Less than a 100 meters long, and used as training for the miners, but before we enter one of my guides says something and the other laughs.
But I should say something about my guides, Elizabeth and Lourdes.  Elizabeth is probably mid 20’s and speaks English well enough so that we can understand each other and she tells me the history of the mine, there are only a few words she stumbles over.  Lourdes is probably late 30’s and speaks no English and is following us in the tour because she looks bored and wants some sort of excitement.
Lourdes is the one who said something before stepping into the tunnel.  And Elizabeth translates, “She says that it is the tunnel of love.”  They both laugh, and I look at Lourdes and say “Para Usted y Yo?  (for you and I?) She laughs and follows me through the tunnel.

My tour guides:


Out of the other side of the mountain, and Elizabeth is trying to tell me the history of the mine, and Lourdes is trying to get Elizabeth to translate what she is saying.  Lourdes is saying that this is a place for a big party, with much dancing.  Lourdes puts her left arm straight out and her right against her stomach and does a quick twirl.
On top of the hill, and the statue is looming above us, It is a man holding a baby.  I ask who it is, and she answers “Jesus’ father.” “Joseph” I answer, and she smiles “with baby Jesus.”


We look over the city and Lourdes talks about a great flood, where 1000 homes were washed away.  Where?  I ask and she points over a small hill.  When?  Last month, and suddenly I realize that the washed away street is a recent thing, and the trash in the branches of the trees in the river is not normal, it is the after affects of the flood.
We walk through the abandoned buildings, and I take pictures and Elizabeth describes the machines.  They want to take me to the village of the American workers, next to the lake that they built, but that is enough of these two charming and tiring ladies for one day, and the living quarters do not look very exciting.
We are back where we started, and I ask how much money Elizabeth needs for the tour, and she says nothing, no money.  I consider the idea of tipping her, but am not sure.  So we all say goodbye, and I head back down the hill, with the men I took pictures of earlier smiling and waving, and the men at the front gate quietly watching me go by.

Random photographs of the mine.

And finally, the Pancho Villa Cantabar, where parties are held in the abandoned mine.  Where locals, like Lourdes, dance the night away.

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Creel to Hidalgo de Parral

Posted on October 23, 2008 by Benjamin Simpson

October 13, 2008

Creel to Hidalgo de Parral

Do you remember two days ago, when I was complaining that Copper Canyon was not as beautiful as I thought it was going to be?
Well, the motorcycle ride today made of for all of that.
I think I need to go out on a limb and state that the road from Creel to Hidalgo de Parral is one of the most beautiful rides in the world.  Ok, Ok, yes I know, there are lots of beautiful rides out there, but what made this one so wonderful is the change in climates as it winds from mountain to high plains desert.
As I left Creel, I followed the road south, along the soft flowing valleys, with the pine trees and the giant collections of stones.
But this ended, and the canyons began.  I kept stopping to take pictures, but the view in the little square lens of the camera could not explain what I was seeing.  A winding two-lane road.  At some moments with cliff faces on the left and deep chasms on the right leading to grey boulders strewn riverbeds.
But is also wound around monolith plateaus standing erect like that mountain in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, but with green shrouding the bottom and capping the top.  I did stop along a sheer cliff wall and too a picture of one of the many shrines.  This one set in the cliff face itself.  While I was pondering the view, a gaggle of motorcyclists passed on the road below.  I waited and they arrived at my little turn off.
They were all on BMW’s and they were all somewhat local.  We chatted for a while, about bikes and riding and they asking me, over and over again, Isn’t Mexico the most beautiful country?  And I kept agreeing with them, hiding my disappointment with Copper Canyon.  For the next few miles, I followed them through the winding road, marveling at the beauty, until they finally got sick of me traveling so slowly, (Hey I got a 30 year old bike, compared to their new BMW’s) and they headed south to the BMW convention in Guadalajara on Oct 15.


I passed the entrance to a place called Batapilas, where Plaid told me to stop and wonder at the out of time church.  But at the exit the river was flowing with force, and there was no bridge, just the road which the river flowed over, not under.  Description or not trusting my bike in the water, told me to continue on.
Ok, now back to trying to describe the ride.  After the canyons the land flattened out into farm country.  The edges of the road were lined with barbed wire fence, with grazing land and farmland.  I tried to figure out what they were growing, but I was lost other than corn.
The horses and cows and donkeys were out and about on this chilly sunny day.  Farm machinery slowing crawled up the road.  The speed limit was 80kph and I kept up a pleasant 60mph.  Some of the road signs were obvious, ‘Curva Peligrosa’ with an arrow and a slower speed rating.  But my favorite, and I don’t know why I think this is so cool, but it directly translates to ‘This is not the road of maximum velocity’.  I don’t know, maybe it has some sort of science fiction feel to it.  But it made me smile every time I saw it.
Finally, after 100 miles from Creel, there was a gas station.  I was getting nervous.  Crossing the California desert my bike stalled at 118 miles, forcing me to turn on the reserve tank.   I did not want to run out of gas in the middle of nowhere Mexico.
The long farming valleys ended in a small section of broken up rocky terrain to come out on a wide valley again.  And again, I don’t know how to describe the beauty and majesty.  My first thought was that it used to be a great plain, and I was standing on the edge of it.  But over the past million years the river had carved its way through it.  And so standing in the middle of the river valley, were these monoliths.  They look like the monoliths in the Arizona desert, hundreds of feet tall, rocky sides and perfectly flat tops.
But unlike the Arizona desert, these were green.  The trees and shrubs crawled up the sides until they could not find footholds in the sheer rock.  But the top was glowing with life.
And me, on my tiny motorcycle, riding on this thin pencil line of road, follow the edge of the monoliths into the valley.   There is no one else on this road, just the occasional truck belching black smoke.  The grass stands high by the side of the road, and increasing wind blows it in waves like the sea.  In the distance are dark rain clouds, but here it is sunny and the monoliths throw shadows on the trees and fields below.
The road continues to pitch and wind through smaller and smaller mountains.  But the rain is here, and on slips the wet weather trousers and it rains intermittently the last 30 miles to Parral.

Finally I arrived in Hidalgo de Parral.  It is not very inspiring arriving in a new town on a motorcycle.  Because the outskirts are always filled with the dirty industrial parts of the town, the automobile and truck repair shops, the concrete makers, the waste land filled with trash, this is where the trucks belch most of their smoke and the cars speed in every direction.
There was a problem upon arriving in a new town with my backpacking guide.  And it was just this, it was a backpacker’s guide.  It told how to get to the hotels from the bus station or the train station usually without a map.  And there was no mention if the hotel had parking.
The first thing to do is ride the bike around lost, trying to find the town center or a bus or train station.  In small towns this is fine, but not for larger cities.  My eyes were constantly scanning for center of town things, like big churches, large town squares, and the always popular sign pointing toward the town center.
Stuck in the afternoon rush hour traffic I noticed two non-Mexican dual sport motorcycles trying to pull out.  I let them pull in front of me.  As they did I let out a soft exclamation upon seeing their license plates.
I pulled up next to them when the traffic stopped, flipped up my face place and asked, “You ride those things all the way here from England?”  They turned to me and smiled and said, “Yes.”
So I followed them.
We stopped and chatted, and they lead me to their hotel.
They’re from England, one from near Cambridge, and one living in Sweden (?).  Their names are Matt and Steward, (I can remember that I said to them, my best friend and my cousin).  We went out for dinner, and chatted about life.  One was riding all the way from Alaska to the tip of South America, the other, recently married, met the other in Los Angeles and they were traveling south together.  We drank Modelo beers and ate tortas and tacos and quesadillas.  We discussed motorcycles and agreed that the ride from Creel was one of the most beautiful in the world.  We finished the night on the roof of the hotel drinking beer, and I realize now that I owe them a beer.
In the morning they headed off on their 650 Yamahas (I don’t remember the model type, but they were not more than a year or two old) and I stayed an extra day in Parral.

Useless fact #394:  the name Parral is pronounced Parra, without the L and if your tongue can do it, roll the rr’s.

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Rainy Sunday

Posted on October 23, 2008 by Benjamin Simpson

October 12, 2008

Rainy Sunday

The ride down from Creel to Hidalgo de Parral was planned for today, but the remnants of the hurricane sauntered through late last night and this morning.  But I am in no hurry, so I wasted the time away.  In the afternoon the sky cleared up somewhat, so I walked through the town and out the other side, there is a small river, and it was turbulent and muddy after the rain.  There were moments where it splattered over million year old rocks, swirling and splashing in beauty.  But there were also moments where concrete scraps were abandoned in its flow and ugly plastic bags collected on their sharp edges.
There was another cemetery like the one in San Ignacio de Arareko.  There were hundreds of small wooden crosses, some still standing, but most lying on the ground, piled upon one another.

A stray dog enjoys the clean air after the morning shower.

The turbulant clouds slowly heading east, away from town.

Back through town and the taco shop was open.  Wooden shacks, sitting by the side of the road, selling tacos and burritos have been my main food source for the past few days. The wooden board covering the front opens up to reveal the counter and one or two ladies manning their stations.  There is a choice of either a burrito, or a taco.  Sometimes both, but not necessarily.

A taco is on a five-inch soft tortilla, sitting on the flat tortilla is a line of meat of your choosing (pollo, carne, mole and at least five others which I have no idea what they are).
A burrito is on a 10-inch tortilla, again with the meat of your choosing, but this time rolled up to about the size of a think cigar.
Lining the edge of the counter are the condiments.  Salsa (green and red), onion, cilantro, jalapeños, guacamole.   The guacamole is nothing like it is in the states, it’s a light green color and a smooth puree, the consistency of thick milk.
Tacos are seven pesos and burritos 13 pesos.
I find myself ordering random things on the menu, sometimes it is wonderful, like the soup in Durango, which was filled with unknown meat and potatoes.
And sometimes not, like when I ordered something, and out came French Fries.


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A Day in Creel

Posted on October 23, 2008 by Benjamin Simpson

October 11, 2008

A Day in Creel

There was a warm shower when I awoke, which was nice because the night before it only a thought of it being warm.  Last night while walking to the bar, Alex the hotel manager said he would give me a map of the area and tell me the good places to visit.  After last night, he was still asleep, so I walked up to the high street and a tour operator who was happy to give out free information for me and my motorcycle.
I bought some water and fruit juice and some honey nut bars and had two tacos at the taco stand for breakfast.
I decided to find the waterfall first, and set out on the motorcycle, but after five miles of riding, and not even half way there, I decided to turn around and stop at the lake on the way.  It is a beautiful lake, but I later found out that it is artificial; they build a damn on one end.  As I got off the bike a van pulled up and some tourists got out.  They looked American and in their 60’s and instantly I hated them, I did not to have anything to do with them.  I wanted to get away from them as quickly as possible.  I guess I should not be so judgmental, and that they are probably good people, and then I realized that I was not in a very good mood, too much drinking the night before, and not enough sleep.  I climbed down the boulders that lined the edge of the lake and walked along its shore.
The lake was a deep blue, which reflected the scattered clouds and the reddish brown boulders on the other side.  The rocks are like giant marbles placed along the edge of the lake, with pine trees setting on top.
There was a strange concrete structure, it looked like an outhouse, but why would they build an outhouse on the edge of the lake?  I looked inside the concrete box, and there was nothing inside, except a hole, in the back wall, at the bottom, in the middle.  Exactly where a toilet would let out its contents into the lake.  But I have no idea what it was used for.

Just a few feet away, the dried out remnants of a dog lay on the ground.


I continued to walk around the edge of the lake, but blocking my path was a house, and when I got near a dog began barking.
I retraced my steps back to the bike.

On the road on the way back to Creel was a small village called San Ignacio de Arareko.  The entrance is a dirt road off the highway, with a small white shack and an uplifted border-crossing bar.  I slowly motored past and a man came out of the shack.  He was thing and dark and weathered.  The deep lines in his face described yeas of outdoor work.  He said something I did not understand.  But I understood the meaning.  “Cuantos?”  I asked. (How much?)  ‘Quince’ he answered (Fifteen).   I gave him my only bill, a 200-peso note.  He disappeared into the hut.  He was gone a long time, long enough for me to wonder what had happened to him.
When he finally returned he gave me five 20 peso notes and a 50 peso note, and he looked confused.  And I smiled at him and realized that he really did not know how to deal with money.  I assumed he had lived in a little village all his life, and never really needed money.
He had given me 150 pesos back and was 35 short.   I held the money in my hand and said ‘Un cien ochenta y cinco peos’ (185 pesos) and he looked even more confused.  Again he disappeared into the little white hut.  He reappeared after some time with a 20-peso note.  I opened my mouth to tell him he still owed me 15 pesos, but decided that it was not worth it.  He smiled at me, and I smiled at him and I said gracias and adios and he said something I did not understand and I was on my way.
So I paid 30 pesos to get in, and just to be sure I had not made a mistake, the little ticket he gave me said:  ‘Adultos $15.00 Vale por 1 dia’
(The dollar sign confused me on the first day as well, for some reason Mexico uses the dollar sign as a symbol for pesos.)

Photographs from the village San Ignacio de Arareko.

Pictures of a roadside shrine.

Now maybe I should begin to mention some of my disappointment with Copper Canyon.  I was told that it was bigger than the Grand Canyon and the most wonderful thing to see.  But I was not really impressed.  All I had seen was riding up to Creel and that was beautiful, rolling hills with pine trees.  But nothing astounding.  Nothing that took my breath away.
Like this little valley, it was beautiful, a small dirt road, pockmarked with holes, and on either side small fields of corn.  Interspersed with the fields were small ramshackle houses, some new and concrete but most a collection of tin and wood and whatever else could be found.  Beyond the fields and the houses were the boulders, the dark red boulders which created the hills surrounding the valley.
The problem was that I was told it was more impressive than the Grand Canyon.  It was beautiful, yes, but as majestic, no.
But then again, maybe I was missing the good parts.
There must be beautiful dramatic canyons around here, I am just missing them, and so I decided to take the road down to Divisidaro.  I was not really happy with riding the bike around all day; I had done that yesterday and was going to do that again tomorrow.   Today should be a day for walking.
The road to Divisidaro is beautiful, winding through the soft mountains, with pine trees on each side and slow gentle curves.  Beautiful and soft, but not awe inspiring.  At the ten-mile mark, with twenty more to reach Divisidaro, I stopped at a little dirt patch on the side of the road.  I ate one of the honey nut candies and drank some water and decided that I did not want to ride the bike the whole 20 miles to Divisidaro if it was going to be like this, and then the 30 miles back.
A newish clean while pickup truck, with three mid-thirties gentlemen inside, stopped when they saw me.  They asked, with my faltering English if I needed any help.  I said no and thanked them for stopping and they drove off toward Creel.  I felt a little nervous with someone stopping to check on me in the middle of nowhere, so I climbed back on the bike and rode toward Creel.  Within two minutes, they passed me coming the other direction.  I was instantly paranoid.  Where they turning around to come and talk to me again?  This is an empty road, with no towns and very few turn offs, why would they turn around?  Am I being paranoid?   Nothing bad had happened, and there was no reason to be really worried.
Well, except those 10 mock up coffins that were displayed on the main street of Creel, with a picture of each of the dead, including a child, above each coffin.  And on the wall above the black coffins there was a crudely spray-painted sign, asking where was the justice in the horror of these deaths?  With a date in late August 2008.
I rode back to Creel, curled up in bed and read my book.

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Nuevo Casa Grande to Creel

Posted on October 23, 2008 by Benjamin Simpson

October 10, 2008

Nuevo Casa Grande to Creel

It was about a 250-mile drive, in California that is 4-5 hours on a motorcycle, in Mexico it is eight hours.
In the morning along the open plain with mountains on either side, the roads were small, flat, and straight.  On each side were barbed wire fences and fields of corn and unknown plants in even rows.  Standing roped to the fence posts were horses and donkeys, and wandering wherever they liked were cows, some with large horns which looked like a match for me and my motorcycle.
At each small town, the speed limit dropped to 40 kph, (25 mph) and there were speed bumps at the beginning and end of each town.  There was always the same sign, a yellow square on its side, a straight line in black and two mounds.  Which could be the international symbol for the San Onofere Nuclear Power Plant, or a pair of breasts, or a pair of snakes on the road.  I was a little confused a little while later, when there was a speed bump sign with three humps, until I realized that it is a symbol of the triple breasted whore of Erotica 6.  (What?  And you call yourself a Douglass Adams fan?)
I stopped on the outskirts of Buena Ventura, after filling up with petrol, to have a smoke and a coke.  A man in a white pick-up truck stopped and said hello.  He was probably in his mid fifties, soft body of someone who takes care of himself, but no longer need to do manual labor, a small amount of grey in his short black hair, and he spoke excellent English.
He asked if everything was OK.  I smiled and said it was fine, just stopped for a break.  He said he saw my California plates and wondered where I was going.  I said Creel today and Guanajuato for a while.  “All alone?’ He asked.  “Yes” I answered.
He was surprised that I was riding by myself, but quickly told me how he used to be a ‘Wet Back’ and how he worked in the fields near Sacramento for many years.  He now owns a farm in a little community near here, growing cotton.  He mentions that the community that he lives in is a collection of German settlers from many generations ago, so they are not like the rest of the people around here.  I did not ask why that was important to mention.
I told him I was a travel writer, and he said I should come by and write a story about his community.  I said that I was going to Creel today, but I might stop back, and he told me the name of the town, but I forgot it almost instantly.
As the conversation was winding down, he said something, some sort of goodbye phrase that I did not catch.  I wanted to know this new nugget of Spanish so I could use it in the future and asked him to repeat it.  He said, clearly now, “God Be With You.”
He saw the slight disappointment in my face of not learning a new word today, and asked if I believed.  I pondered this for a quarter second wondering which was the best answer, and decided to tell the truth.
‘No’
He asked me why, and I said that it was a complicated answer, and did not really answer him.  But later that day, while riding through the mountains and valleys, I thought that the best answer was that I had read the bible and did not believe that it was the word of god.
He gave the me the same answer that most people do when they hear that I do not believe.  They say that one day I will figure it out, and that one day I will find the truth, and that one day the Holy Spirit will enter my heart.
And I always find this condescending and slightly arrogant.  I want to tell them that you do not know the answer you just believe the answer and that your answer is not any better than my answer and that you do not need to feel sorry for me and that you might be just as wrong as I might be.
I used to argue with Christians in this way, I used to try to get my point across, but it would just make me angry.  I would discuss logic, and make reasoned arguments, and they would discuss logic and make reasoned arguments, until the logic contradicted with the teachings, and they would sit back and smile and say that I just have to have faith and that I just have to believe and that one day I will understand the truth, and it’s all right, You’ll get it one day.
And I would get furious.  But now I find that it is not worth arguing, because the point of arguing with someone is to listen to what they have to say and try to understand it, and for them to listen to what you say and try to understand it.  But with the Christians that I argue with there is no trying to understand my side of the argument.
(And right now, I have to say, that not it is not all Christians, but a majority of them, that I have talked to, act this way.)
And I also have to realize that this man is not trying to do me harm, he is not trying to insult me, he is just trying to help me find the happiness that he has found in Jesus.
I just cannot find happiness that way.
He starts to tell me about all the help that Jesus has done in his life, but I guess he realizes that I am not really listening, so he smiles and says it was nice to meet me, and I tell him that it was nice to meet him, and I set off down my road, and him down his.

The road began in farmland, then east and over a set of mountains to a long valley and more farmland.  Then more mountains and pine trees dotted themselves on the mountainside, and I found myself at Creel.  It was a beautiful drive, with small villages and tiny churches and sweeping vistas of cows in the fields and green mountains in the distance.
I recommend the drive to everyone, as the numbers posted on the road were sometimes different than the ones on the map, here are the towns I passed through:  Ignacio Zaragoza, Babicora, Yepomara, Ciudado Guerrero, and La Junta.

Part Two:

Young Love and an Indirect Party

Jasmine showed me to my room at the hotel, and the kitchen where I could cook food and make coffee.  And she showed me the balcony overlooking the railroad tracks and some shops just behind the main street.  It was five in the afternoon after a long motorcycle ride, so I grabbed a book from their exchange library and sat down to read on the balcony.  It was the Invisible Man by Ellison.  I could not focus so I watched the people walk by.  Below was a small one-way street where the mostly American trucks passed by, as this is a farming community.  But occasionally there was a little Nissan, or a 125cc motorcycle.  The people looked, well, classically Hispanic.  The women were generally short and round with round faces, and the men thin and straight and angular.  The older women and very young girls wore the traditional colorful skirt, the skirt sat on the waist and came out like a bell, to end in frills just above the ankles.  The men wore jeans, button up shirts, and cowboy hats.  But the young people, those from say 14 to 24 wore what they thought was western dress.  The girls modern skirts and the boys t-shirts rather than button up shirts.
I went for a walk into small town and found restaurants and hotels and trinket shops, nothing very exciting, so I bought a small bottle of tequila and retired back to the balcony.   After a little while I met the manager, by the name of Alex, he somewhere in the age of 25 to 30 and was loud and jovial and friendly.  He invited me to join them at the bar tonight.  I agreed, he said meet in the lobby at 10pm.
I was probably about seven now, so I went to my room and played on the internet, and after a while went and sat back on the balcony and sipped tequila and watched the people again.
It was dark now, and most of the people were gone.  I watched a couple stray dogs wander past, one of them stopping to shit on the railroad tracks.  I made a mental note to not step there, but realized that it was probably like that all over the place and make a mental note to watch where I was stepping.
The stray dogs are everywhere, I saw one missing his front paw, and then saw him later in a different part of town.  There was one that must have a skin disease, as almost all the hair had fallen off its back half, showing pink and brown splotched skin.  And then there was a small brown dog with its ribs showing, eating out of an overturned garbage can.  And elderly man through a fist sized rock at the dog, I did not see if it connected, but the dog ran yelping all the way down the street.
As I watched, on the other side of the tracks, in a gravel yard, with a shuttered storefront facing me, something was going on.  There were two people pushing and pulling at each other.  They were hidden in the darkness, just at the corner of the store next to a truck.
Just as I was wondering if something sinister was going on, one of the figures ran out of the darkness, and following him, out ran the other figure.  Instantly, upon seeing their silhouettes and how they ran, I knew what was going on.
The first figure was a boy, wearing pants; the second was a girl, wearing the traditional skirt.  They boy ran around one side of a parked car, and the girl followed.  The boy circled the parked car and she followed.  She paused and they started running the opposite direction.  The boy saw this change of direction and paused to change his.  But he purposely took his time and she caught him.  She held his arms and pushed her body against his, but he twisted out of the grip and started running again.
But not too fast, so she could not catch up.
Their age?  I would guess 13, but I knew they were exactly at the beginning of childhood, with she a little more advanced.
I watched this game for a while, she would grab him, and he would slip away.  I remembered elementary school, when girls suddenly didn’t have cooties any more, but were still scary as hell.
Finally she ended up holding onto him, and he resisted just a little.  They were in the shadow, up against the metal shutter of the closed shop.  And she kissed him.  He squirmed away.  And I thought about how this would be completely opposite in a few years, him doing his best to kiss a girl, and she running away.  But today she held onto him, and kissed him again, and this time he kissed back.
They stood with their arms around each other for five to ten minutes, kissing and giggling and weaving their bodies forward and away from each other.  Eventually they walked hand in hand down the alleyway.  I envy their innocence, but not the loss of it, which will soon happen.

Photo from the hostel balcony, in the afternoon.
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At ten I went to the bar with Alex and his friends.  It was opening night for the bar and Alex seemed to know everyone, including the bartenders.  They all stood around and spoke Spanish.  I stood there and tried to listen and understand.  But I felt out of place, One of Alex’s female friends tried to talk to me, but it was loud and she did not speak much English and so after a few awkward silences, she wandered off.
I was considering going back to my book when I noticed a table of people that did not fit into the general bar scene.  They were obviously hostel tourists.  When I describe them as hostel tourists, it means that they were generally young and drinking.
I walked over and said hello.  I sat next to an English man and there were a few Germans, and a few on the other side of the table who said there names and where they were from, but it was loud and I could not hear that far away.
The Englishman and I talked about American politics and McCain and Obama, but then moved onto sports and Cricket in India and English Football.
About midnight I could not keep my eyes open any more.  I fell asleep instantly back in bed.  But early in the morning a party in the hotel awaked me.  Alex and his friends and I think the whole bar of people were in a party in the kitchen.  I listened for a while and then fell back asleep.  Only to be awoken by the slamming of the front door, and again, and again, and again.   The last time was at five in the morning, and I slept on till morning.

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Temporary Home

Posted on October 17, 2008 by Benjamin Simpson

The hostel in Zacatecas is beautiful.

I have decided to stay here a week or two or three.

This is the view from both my miniature decks:

The room includes a vintage pedal-wheel sewing machine desk, chair, and my own personal bathroom.  All for 115 USD a week.

I will probably wander the city today, maybe take the cable car to the top of the mountain, or maybe today is just a day to do nothing…

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Wednesday

Posted on October 15, 2008 by Benjamin Simpson

I just arrived in Durango,

Not very impressed with this dusty hot city,

Was gonna stay here a day,

but I think I will head off to Zacatecas tomorrow.

I have tons of backed up writing from the last couple days.

Hopefully will get to them soon.

But now I am going to relax,

find myself a good dinner,

and search the bars for some gin.

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First Day in Mexico

Posted on October 13, 2008 by Benjamin Simpson

October 9, 2008.

The early morning customs in a small town was pleasant and easy.
Once inside Mexico, I had no map of this small town, I did not even know it’s name, and still don’t. I just knew that I needed Hwy 2 east.  First I found a bank and withdrew some money and then wandered the city.  After taking some wrong turns, I found the main street and followed that south.
In this small town, and later in other towns, the stop signs (alto) are at seemingly random corners.  Two streets meet in a t-junction, and only two have a stop sign, but which two? The signs are small and almost invisible until right at the intersection.  And there are no markings on the road.   The fun part are the drivers who are piling up behind you, because they know which intersection has a stop sign and which doesn’t.  I found myself pulling into parking spaces every couple blocks to let the cars and trucks past.
Which is strange for me, because I am normally the one speeding along passing everyone.
Finding Hwy 2 was easy because it cut straight through the town in an east west direction, and I headed left or east.
At my first traffic light a truck pulled up next to me.  It was painted flat dark green and was an American full size Chevy pick-up truck.
There was a tubular structure surrounding the open truck bed, like a roll cage for a racecar.  Standing in the back of the truck, with a rifle slung across his back, and his hands resting lightly on the large black tripod mounted machine gun, was a man in a military uniform.
I guess I’m not in the United States any more.

Out on the open road, high desert scrub brush, with views for miles and low mountains in the distance.  The speed limit on the small two-lane road is 80 kph (52 mph) and I was happily puttering along at 55 mph looking at the scenery on this deserted road.  Soon a dark blue Chevy Tahoe with California plates passed me, speeding into the distance.
Two minutes later there was a car slowing down from the opposite direction.  As I got close enough to realize it was a police car (the same as the American police cars),  the lights suddenly spun on the roof.
I was going too fast to stop before passing him, so I slowed down and went past still slowing.  The police car did a U turn.  There was no shoulder so I continued on slowly with my bike on the edge of the road.  The police car quickly throttled past and down the road.
Ten minutes later I passed the police car on the side of the road, with the blue Chevy Tahoe sitting in front of it.

At the military checkpoint the officer smiled as he stopped me.  He looked in his early twenties, with the top button of his green shirt unbuttoned and no rifle over his shoulder.  He asked where I was going I said Mexico City and then corrected myself with Ciudad de Mexico.  I unzipped one of the saddlebags when he asked and he looked quickly at the towel and toiletries.  Never putting his hand on the luggage.  He asked in some mime and some Spanish where I was from, I told him Los Angeles, which I pronounced like an American.  And he said quietly under his breath the Spanish pronunciation.
The checkpoint guard smiled again and looked a the bike and looked at me and said Ciudad de Mexico quietly and I thought he was going to say something about me being loco, but he just waved me on.

A short time later, by the side of the road was a dead cow with three black feathered/red necked buzzards sitting quietly on the dead body.

At the next checkpoint the guard asked for my papers and we had another similar stuttered conversation, and he said something I did not understand and then I realized he said 750 in Spanish.  He was pointing out how large the engine was on my motorcycle, which is printed on the side cover of the bike.  I looked confused not knowing what he was trying to say, but he put his hand next to the throttle and pretended to move the throttle while saying no.  He was telling me NOT to go fast and pointed to the speedometer and the little 80 KPH notch right next to the 50 MPH line.  Follow the speed limit was his message.  I smiled with a Si, Si, and puttered down off the road.
I was cruising along at 55 MPH on an exact similar two-lane road.  There was no shoulder, the edges of the road ended abruptly with a one-foot drop off and a barbed wire fence.  Beyond the barbed wire were now intermittent fields growing nothing.
I watched an 18-wheeler truck gain on me quickly.  He must be going 70.  I sped up, 60, 65, 70 and still he gained.  The grill of the truck was getting larger and larger in my tiny mirrors.  Ahead was a long straight section of road, with no oncoming cars.  I let off the throttle and the truck roared past, with the wind buffeting the bike.
I let the truck gain a short distance, and then throttled up again, I followed his lead, at 70 mph, down the road.
So much for keeping to the speed limit.

Six miles before entering Mexico, my bike turned over 65,000 miles.

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Delay from a Dwindling Norbert

Posted on October 12, 2008 by Benjamin Simpson

Oct 12, 2008.

It is 8:20 Sunday morning and I was to travel south from Creel to Hidalgo de Parral today, but the remnants of Hurricane Norbert are directly overhead.  It rained all night and the sky is black and it continues to drizzle steadily.  I was initially annoyed at the random butterfly’s flapping in Japan to create the weather today, but after a moments thought, I realize that I have nowhere to go in a hurry, and this is a beautiful little city.  It is also a good time to expand on the notes in Plaid’s perfect little notebook and the photographs from yesterday.

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Slowly

Posted on October 9, 2008 by Benjamin Simpson

Nothing exciting has happened in the last few days.  I picked up a cold and spent the last two days curled up doing nothing.  This is in the city of Douglas, Arizona.  Sleepy desert town.  Quiet and pleasant.

I will be hitting the Mexico border in an hour or so.

Below is a thought from the road between Globe Arizona and Douglas Arizona:

“Adopt Highway”
“Adopted by….”
There is a sign that says this every few miles on the back-roads of Arizona.  In town the road is adopted by families, restaurants and car dealerships.  But while riding outside of town for miles and miles and miles through the flat high desert, looking at the dry washes and the scrub brush and the mountains in the distance; the signs change in character.  “In Loving Memory of Danny Wongo Hernandez”  “In Loving Memory of Lucy Tellez” “Brad Denny Always in my Heart Love Jenny”
Some of the signs have garlands of flowers wrapped around the supports.
And then the next sign said “Available”.
Out there in the middle of the desert I smiled, but there was also a slight shiver.  It felt like the sign was calling to me, like it needed a death to make it whole.  But that sounds way to serious, it was not a Stephen King Movie, where the music suddenly becomes fearful.  It was just me driving throught the desert, with an active imagination.
It was just a little strange.
I also realized that I did not want to spend the rest of eternity as a ghost picking up trash on a deserted road in nowhere Arizona.

And a few pictures of a cemetery on the same ride:

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Arizona Rain

Posted on October 6, 2008 by Benjamin Simpson

There are days, like yesterday where I wonder why I ride a motorcycle.  But then there are moments, like yesterday, that make it all worthwhile.
In a car, the occupants are aware of the weather, but in a detached sort of way, like trying not to park your car over a puddle and get your feet wet.  But on a bike it becomes a part of the ride.  It becomes something that affects your thoughts and actions and movements.
As I left Prescott heading east along 260 the temperature started to drop, and the elevation climbed.  I passed a sign on a bank that read 1:22 and 55 degrees.  I stopped and put on more clothing, and then stopped again and put on more clothing.
My bike then started with an intermittent misfire.  I would be riding along, and it would cough a few times, and then ride fine.  It got worse as we climbed in altitude, and as it got colder.  It was the altitude that was making my bike cough.  It was set up for the beach, and the thin air changed the mixture so much, it misfires.
There is the usual loss of power at altitude with the carburetors, and it was exacerbated with the luggage on the back.  But it was only happening every once in a while, and only at certain throttle openings.  So I put the worry at the back of my mind and smiled at the thought that I could tell at what altitude I was traveling with the coughing of the bike.
When it is cold, my body tenses.  I hold the grips a little stronger, my knees grip the tank, and my shoulders bunch up.  This is a problem after a while because the muscle in my right shoulder becomes tense and sore.  It is the muscle that holds the throttle open.  Sometimes from long rides, it gets sore enough where it hurts to turn my head to the left.
A long shower in the evening is the best cure.
But I have been wandering from the subject.
From 260 at Show Low the 60/77 heads south, into the clouds.
In a car the clouds do not matter.  I do not mean that you do not notice them, or that you do not change your driving habits.  But what I do mean, is that clouds and rain mean cold and wet and slippery conditions for your motorcycle-balancing act.
Up to that point I had been through intermittent white clouds during the day, they covered the sun, and sometimes the ground was wet, but there was no rain.
There were dark clouds in front of me now, black menacing clouds with darkness underneath which meant rain.  I considered turning around and skipping this road, but I was on my way, and if it got bad, I would stop and relax under a tree.
The sun was out, but not for long, it dipped and bobbed behind the clouds, until it was gone for good and the chill came with the missing sun.
Then there is the dreaded first drop of rain, I hope that it is just a bug, but then there is another, and another and another.  The road goes from sticky asphalt to slick track, and the speeding drops sting against my exposed neck.
The thoughts start to follow through my brain as the oil slicked center of the lane shows intermittent rainbows and I wonder why I am doing this, and there is just darkness up ahead and not knowing if this will last for ten minutes or ten hours, and wondering how long it will take to dry out my boots and socks and gloves and jacket.
I start to look for somewhere to pull over and wait for this to stop, but there is nothing, no trees, no benches with awnings, no civilization.   There is no choice but to head on, and head on I do.
Is that?  Up ahead?  Yes it looks like a break in the clouds.  I can see white clouds beyond the darkness, and the rain pelting the visor goes from heavy caliber machine gun to small arms fire.  And there is blue up ahead and finally the drops become a few lone shots, and I am clear.   That was not so bad, only ten miles in the rain.
A sign on my right says “Steep Grade Next Seven Miles”   “Trucks Use Low Gear”  and then “You are entering Salt River Canyon”.   The road drops from the high altitude plateau down through cliff walls, and the sun is completely out now, and the road is dry and the drops on the visor are disappearing, and my bike is running strong in the lowering altitude.
Around a bend, and the canyon opens up, suddenly the wall to your left is a sheer drop to the river a thousand feet below.  On the opposite side of the canyon, the red rocks create cliff walls towering above the road and river with green patches of trees clumped to the sides.
Behind me I can still see the dark clouds, but now, up ahead, are just blue sky and little white puffy clouds.
The warmth is good on my face, and all of that fear and depression that comes with the rain has been wiped away as the road switchbacks into the distance.
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The Journey

Posted on October 5, 2008 by Benjamin Simpson

I awoke at 1 AM this Sunday morning already hung over.  Saturday morning was spent taking pictures of the Prescott Arizona Rally.  It began raining hard about noon, which made the 11 miles of dirt road on my 30 year old street bike, um, interesting.   And the 20 miles back to the hotel a reminder of how horrible it is to ride in the rain.

The afternoon was spent getting warm, and then editing and uploading the photographs.  The evening was spent in the back parking lot of the Prescotonian Hotel hanging out with Seth and the other rally drivers drinking beer.  You know how the stories go…  “Remember that time my car caught on fire while racing…”  “Did you see how the Camaro got wedged under the bridge…”  “when my brakes went out on that 90 degree left…”

But I was tired and returned to my cheap hotel room and passed out early, somewhere around nine, which was why I woke up at one, hungover.  Trying to get back to sleep, reading did not work, television did not work, playing solitaire with random music from the computer did not work.  So I finally decided to plan my route south.   By this time I had cut out the random music, and was happily listening to The Sundays first album.

So here is my general idea for the journey south:

Arizona:

East out of Prescott on 169, then 260 following through the mountains.  South on 60/77 which is one of those roads which wiggles a lot, and has green “beauty marker” dots next to it.  South on 70 to meet the 10 freeway near New Mexico.   South on 186 and 191 to Douglass on the Mexico/US Border.

Mexico:

East on 2 to Nuevo Casa Grandes.  South on 10, then south on 23 to the town of Creel, which is the main town of Copper Canyon.  Down through Copper Canyon to Parral.   South on 45 to Durango.  South on 45 to Zacatecas.   From there meander on my whim, generally heading for Guanajuato.

(These plans are subject to change at the whim of the weather, motorcycle or rider and do not constitute a leagal basis for my whereabouts)

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