by Neil Peart
[And how about some of these bird names? Ivory-billed woodcreeper, red-crowned ant tanager, buff-throated foliage gleaner, slaty-tailed trogon.]
Talking with Steven last night about whole “Gallon Jug” [plantation] scene around Chan Chich (drinking their coffee again this morning), all of it part of the Bowen family “fiefdom,” 250,000 acres or something, and no doubt there’s lots more around the country. Family also owns Coca-Cola bottling rights for the country, and have been here in Belize for seven or eight generations apparently, so must be descended from British planters, or lumber barons.
Resort here in Belize that was taken over and robbed by Guatemalan baddies, also bus hijacked and soldier killed. Stories and more stories.
Chipping away at a letter to Brutus last couple of days, bringing him “up to date” since Cuernavaca.
Dec. 17, ’98 Chan Chich Lodge Belize
¡Hola Chupacabra!
Two miles from the Guatemalan border, in the middle of hundreds of miles of jungle, at the end of 80 miles of dirt road, 12 cabañas in the center of an unrestored Mayan site, grassy mounds covering ruined pyramids and temples around a plaza of tropical gardens, palms, ceiba trees, and tropical hardwoods. This morning’s guided nature walk gave me a page-full of bird sightings, and after dinner tonight Steven, Shelly, and I are signed up for the night walk. After looking at the photos from the lodge’s infrared-triggered camera on the path nearby, of jaguars, ocelots, and that sort of thing, I’m hoping we see, oh, maybe some leaf-cutter ants . . .
So yeah, this is a pretty special place, and we came here from the Lamanai Outpost Lodge, which is set on a wide part of the New River, beside some restored Mayan ruins, and also offered great bird-watching (including two kinds of toucans — say that fast! — and lots of parrots), the spooky-monster sounds of howler monkeys in the trees, and though not quite as upscaleluxurious as this place, still very beautiful and friendly. My thoughts run along the lines that Jackie and Selena would love these places, and you would love getting here.
And speaking of getting here . . . when last we spoke (I sure hope you’ve been getting my Mexican letters; my Mom reported that none of the postcards to my grandfather had arrived, after three weeks), I was just about to head for Mexico City. Well. I made a smooth exit from Cuernavaca, taking the “cuota” way up high through surprisingly thick forests of mixed pines and deciduous trees (which we didn’t see in the darkness of our passage), as high as three-thousand-something meters, then winding down to the Calzada Tlalpan. You’ll remember that I had to get turned around and on to the side part of that, which wasn’t an easy manoeuvre, and when I did, I found no Grupo Bavaria.
Thinking I must have come in too low, I circled around again, up to the Periférico and through the usual madness, all the while painfully aware of the “6” at the end of my licence plate, and every time I passed a cop sure that there was a flashing light above my head saying “arrest me.” Anyway, sure enough, the BMW shop was gone. (The night before I had entertained that thought, and laughed at myself for worrying so much: made a journal note, “No wonder I’ve got a freakin’ ulcer!”)
Next morning now, and before I continue with that riveting tale, I must tell you about our night walk. Shelly begged off, so it was just Steven and me, with our guide Luis. We each had bright flashlights, while Luis had a big trigger-operated spotlight over his shoulder for when we found things. And we did too, creeping along the dark forest trails and playing our beams in the undergrowth and up into the canopy, occasionally stopping and turning off the lights to stand in the absolute dark and listen. Creepy! Luis found us a white-eared possum, a kinkajou (possum-like tree critter), a pauraque (a nighthawk or “goatsucker” — see your salutation above!), and best of all, an ocelot. Trés cool. (And would make a lovely collar for my Vansons, I couldn’t help thinking, ha!)
So anyway . . . there I was, lost on the Calzada Tlalpan, in the mid-morning Monday madness of Mexico City, on my “No-Drive Day.” Now what? Well, I parked the bike, hailed a Beetle taxi, wrote down the name “Grupo Bavaria,” and between us, worked out that it was “cambio,” was now “un domicilio,” and that the new place was “un poco largo” [they’ve moved; it was now a house; the new place is a little far away], but that I would follow him there; still feeling like a “moving target” on the road, with that number 6 just screaming at the world. Or at least at the cops.
The new dealer is in San Angel, next to Coyoacán, and is a slick, brand-new, motorcycles-only operation, owned by a nice young English-speaking dude named Erik. (There was also a uniformed paramilitary-looking security guard out front, with a tightly leashed Alsatian, which hints at the current social climate of Mexico City.) So there I was; yet I was not there. The service department was in a separate location, right back near the intersection of the Periférico and the Calzada Tlalpan. Oh man!
Armed with map and directions, I flailed my way over there, unapprehended (Erik suggested that I would have been better off removing the offending plate, but said they didn’t pay too much attention to motorcycles anyway), and met Pedro, the 62-year-old service manager who was cast in a similar mold to our old friend Martín. A prime character, and I just had to surrender and listen to everything he had to say about what was wrong with my transmission, where I was going next, how I should get there, and all like that.
Another indicator of life in Mexico City these days is that it’s not safe to hail a taxi: an epidemic of robberies, especially against foreigners, and people beaten up until they surrendered the PIN numbers for their ATM cards. ¡Jesu Christo! So Pedro got me a Beetle, spoke to the driver and showed him some police badge which he possessed (for some reason I didn’t quite catch), and I was off to the Four Seasons. A couple of good days there, taking care of business, sending you a letter and a couple of books, visiting a dentist to have a couple of crowns glued back in, working phone, fax, and Fedex, eating well, and looking at all those beautiful women that seem to adorn that hotel (as you’ll remember — and not that we care).
(Later that same day, in Belize City.)
As you know, it’s hard to get much letter-writing or journalizing done when there are other people around, expecting you to pay them attention and that. And me so used to being the “lone saddletramp,” the Ghost Rider, but of course it’s nice having some company. Shelly flew out of Chan Chich at noon today, bound for home, and Steven in his Jeep Wrangler followed me back out through the jungle and Mennonite farming communities (lots of them in this country) to the main road, and south through drier savanna to this place, a nice inn in what is, by all accounts, a pretty nasty city. However, it was a destination we could reach in daylight, and will set us up to head into the Maya Mountains tomorrow, for a night at Francis Ford Coppola’s joint, the Blancaneaux Lodge. If it’s anywhere near as nice as where we’ve been, it will be alright.
(I have just been adding up all my bird sightings of the past few days — because I’m a very boring guy! — and came up with more than 40, most of which I’d never seen before. The best thing, of course, is that all this nature-watching keeps my little brain occupied in healthier directions than it tends to wander into on its own.)
And after that lengthy parenthesis, back to Mexico City . . .
So I show up at the Altavista BMW service department at 7:30 on Thursday morning, for that is when Pedro says he’ll be there, but no one shows up until 9:00, when I learn that Pedro has quit (some disagreement with the owner, who reminded me of that pony-tailed guy from the Logística company, while Pedro, as I said, reminded me of Martín, so you could imagine certain “personality conflicts”).
The air pressure in my rear tire had been down 10 pounds when I left Oaxaca, and I had topped it up along the way, asking Pedro to check it out and replace the tire if it was punctured. When I showed up that morning, the tire and wheel were off the bike, with a mark showing a big nail in it, but the new service manager, a young German-Mexican named Kurt, hadn’t known what I wanted done, or how to get hold of me, and
now he said, “Maybe we can get a new tire by tomorrow . . .”
Oh man.
So I notice a couple of GSes in the shop belonging to the Edelweiss tour company, and one of them has a fairly new Bridgestone on the back. And you can guess the rest . . .
A little past noon, I’m heading around the Periférico to the west (the way we went with Luis that time), then across the city on a central expressway called the Viaducto, toward the airport and, hopefully, Puebla and the east. After various confusions, missing signs, and flailing circles, I escape, and head to Veracruz.
As you had surmised, it was a very happening town, with a colorful zócalo under a lighted clock tower and palms wrapped in beaded lights. Marimba bands, mariachis, acrobat on a slack wire, a dance orchestra, hundreds of people on a humid evening, a funky waterfront arcade of souvenir stands (no stickers once again, though at least I learned the word to ask for: “calcomanías”).
Dec. 22, ’98 Placencia, Belize
Well, Mr. Stinky Pants, sorry to leave you hanging like that for so long, but I’ve been . . . busy. Yeah, that’s it. Anyway, here we are at the end of the road (and what a road, but I’ll get to that) and from here it’s all back-tracking for me — back across to Mexico City, and home, home, home!
I’m not sure which direction to take you in, at this point, in terms of catching you up, for once again, there’s a lot to tell. For now, I’ll pick up the story from Veracruz, and try to get you from there to here (and I can tell you right now, you almost can’t get here from there). I’m also a bit out of the loop regarding your status, for I called the elusive Mr. Bloomenfeld twice from Mexico City, but he didn’t call back. Must have thought it was you calling. Ha ha . . .
Anyway, aiming for Palenque that day, I didn’t think I had too far to go (that lying map again!), so I started out on a scenic route along the coast; until the rain came pouring down, when I defected back to the “cuota” [toll road].
A journal excerpt:
Just thinking, would really like a day of more-or-less peaceful travel. Haven’t had since Baja.
[Later] And won’t get today. 144 pesos ($40) in tolls once again, including a couple of small bridges on the initial “scenic route.” Probably balances what I would have paid, if I’d stuck to the “cuota,” like a sensible person. (“It looked nice on the map.” Classic Mexican mistake!) Another long day, though I guess any day in which I “arrive alive” is a good day. Sort of.
It all started . . . with a fairly easy exit from Veracruz, then some flailing around for the right road. So often the number is wrong, or the one destination given isn’t even on the map, or is so remote and seemingly wrong (like Oaxaca from Mexico City) that you think it can’t be right.
On the numbers, can the map be wrong? Was thinking today that I love the idea of a country that can put up wrong or, at best, imprecise signs, but the reality is something else. Call it hell.
Then the rain, heavy enough to stop for rainsuit. (Watched by curious locals the whole time.) Now the “scenic route” seemed pointless, so took “escape route,” 175 I think, which did provide one amazing little town along river, with nice plaza and church, and buildings in every shade of pink, yellow, blue, and green. Then circled entrance to cuota a few times; again, none of the entrances looked right. Once on, I had a nice long stretch of four-lane, then construction at Lazaro Cárdenas. No signs, just dust and chaos and tons of traffic. From then on, trucks and buses to pass, and again through Villahermosa, no agreement with signs and map, just keep going and hope it’s right. As I wrote after first Mexican trip, “even when you’re on the right road, you have no way of knowing.”
Hawkers today selling pineapples, oranges, bananas, and parrots (sure sign of climate change). Especially prevalent at toll booths. Always soldiers there too: don’t even think about toll-jumping!
Begin to be more daunted by the journey back to Mexico City. Could be long, and tough. Looks wide open on the map.
The map . . .
Anyway, Palenque was all you thought it would be. I spent an extra day there, and went hiking around the ruins, and up and down the pyramids (my legs ached for days after all the steep, narrow descents), and was again pretty much “Mr. Out-of-Season” there, scoring a nice little cabaña in the forest, beside a brown stream hung with trees and vines, and the constant sound of sawing insects, and at night, fireflies in the rain. Very nice. Remind me to take you there sometime. If we’re in the area . . .
Then it was time to dash for the Belize border, during which journey I was struck by a black vulture! They seem to be a little more sluggish in lifting off their roadkill than the turkey vultures we’re used to, and this fat fucker flapped straight ahead of me instead of to the side. When I saw impact was unavoidable, I just ducked and held on, and it hit heavily, tearing my left front signal light right off, and leaving vulture-tidbits all over my gauges, handlebar, mirror, tank, and leathers. Like, yuck!
Cleaning up as best I could with some roadside leaves (with a glance back down the road at the black lump of dead vulture — lunch for his brothers), I carried on, got through the border with minimal nonsense, and brought you to the beginning of this letter.
Well . . . for a start, Mr. Coppola’s place was overpriced, and the staff was, for the most part, none-too-swift. The setting, beside the fast-flowing Rio Frio amid young (probably third-growth) pines, was nice, but that was about it. I probably won’t take you there sometime.
(Incidentally, Chan Chich has rather fallen in our estimation now, with the discovery of about 50 angry red bites, presumably bedbugs, on hips, thighs, back of knees, and other tender areas.)
Next morning, Steven and I were tempted by a 35-mile trip to the Mayan ruins at Caracol (and the end of the road), but the weather threatened, and we were already 20 miles up a fairly “dynamic” mountain dirt road, so we decided to get out and head south. Probably wise, for no sooner had we turned down the “Hummingbird Highway” than it started to rain hard: tropical-style. Looking for a place to stop for rain gear, and wiping at my face shield every few seconds, I headed across one of those wooden-plank bridges: the base laid diagonally, with two “tracks” of lengthwise planks. Usually I took those in the middle, to avoid the wheels getting caught on the planks, but this time it was a mistake, for that was where all the trucks and buses had dripped their oil and grease, and with the sudden heavy rain, and the heat, it was hopelessly slick.
The bike went out from under me, sliding all the way to the end of the bridge and tearing up the whole front end on the side-railings. Fender ripped off, headlight smashed, oil cooler twisted up and in, instrument binnacle mashed back into the forks, side trim-bits torn off, engine guard crushed, and the other front signal light demolished. As for me, I took a pretty good fall too, bruising my ribs (not as well as you did, of course) and banging my forearm against one of the railing uprights as I slid by (I had time to think, “broken arm for sure,” but just a nasty bruise — oh yeah, and some pain). The Vansons saved me from splinters and worse damage, and one of my boots was torn up a little, but that’s certainly acceptable.
Steven was right behind me, and fortunately carrying all my bags, so we determined that I seemed to be in one piece, picked up the bike (which wasn’t) from under the guard rail (many of these bogus “temporary” bridges don’t even have them, which would probably have put the bike and me in the river), and bungeed and strapped the binnacle away from the forks, then tossed the rest of the wreckage in the Jeep. Otherwise, the bike ran and steered fine, and a friendly maintenance guy at the hotel made me a plexiglas cover for the headlight. It and the instruments sit at a crazy angle, but they all work. What a machine.
And now we faced the worst road known to man. And of course, it rained like hell. (At least, if it rains in hell, it’s like that, and this road goes there. Or comes from there — 40 miles of muddy washboard, potholes, and sloppy mush.)
You can imagine that I was feeling pretty sore and stiff, my ribs taking a nasty pounding and my bruise
d throttle-arm soon in moderate agony, plus of course I was still fairly freaked at having crashed. So near the end too, after exactly four months, and 44,000 kilometres [27,500 miles]; oh yeah, I turned over 100,000 coming out of Palenque, and stopped to photograph that exciting event on the odometer. At one point, we even stopped and took shelter under a roadside “palapa” for a while, hoping the rain would let up. It didn’t. Three-and-a-half hours to go 40 miles, all in first gear, and often with my feet down in the slop, as “outriggers.” Steven was in 4WD the whole time, and couldn’t have gone much faster even on his own. You’d have loved it!
However, this place is spectacular: the Luba Hati, “house of the moon,” where Jackie and I were supposed to have spent a month last March, when we came back from London, as a beginning to putting together some kind of a new life. Well, it didn’t quite work out that way, did it?
Anyway, that’s about enough out of me, eh? (Every letter seems to get longer, but then more seems to happen as I travel south.) Now I just want to get through the next few days, make it back to Mexico City, dump the poor smashed-up “El Rojo,” and fly away home. From there I’ll be able to call you, and we’ll talk.
But if you start laughing about my crash, I shall just hang up. It’s all your fault, after all, that I have to do my own stunts!
Later dude, El Bridge-Buster
One afternoon, the owner of the Luba Hati gave me a note from a local hardware and lumber merchant, Steve Christensen, who wrote that he had seen my smashed-up motorcycle parked there, and wondered if I might be “fed up” and want to sell it. I thought about it, briefly, but decided that our travels together were not over yet.