by Randy Denmon
I would have loved to stay a few days to explore more of the city, but we were on the road to Veracruz and hopefully beyond by noon. I hadn’t slept well the night before, but this morning, my worries again seemed to wane, and I was overtaken with the thrill of the trip and a newfound potency to give it our all. If we failed, we’d go down fighting. I could live with that.
Our route was along the oldest and most famous road in Mexico, Federal Highway 150, once called the National Road, built along the old overland trade route from the sea to the country’s capital. Though the modern road deviated from the original route in places, it was along this general corridor that Cortez marched on Tenochtitlan, now Mexico City, from Veracruz five hundred years earlier.
Three hundred years later, General Winfield Scott and the American army used this path through the mountains to take Mexico City, all but ending the Mexican-American War after defeating the Mexican army at Cerro Gordo. That war resulted in the United States gaining possession from Mexico of Arizona, California, Nevada, New Mexico, and Utah, as well as portions of Colorado, Kansas, Oklahoma, and Wyoming.
The drive to the coastal plain took us from an elevation of 7,100 feet to sea level in a hundred miles. The early portion of the trip was dominated by the towering, snowcapped Orizaba Volcano, just off to our north, a jagged cone silhouetted against a cobalt sky and isolated from any apexes of significance. The volcano is the third highest peak in North America, at 18,491 feet, and the second tallest free-standing mountain in the world, behind Mount Kilimanjaro. I have climbed Kilimanjaro, but from the road, Orizaba looks like a much more daunting ascent, its upper slopes very steep.
• • •
The pass through Maltrada was a modern engineering marvel, the road descending more than three thousand feet in ten miles. Ahead, we saw the coastal plain over precipitous, almost vertical drops abutting the road that made my toes tingle. The big sky towered over the evergreen surrounds. Mystically, we rolled around sharp curves, down steep declines, over magnificent bridges, and through several tunnels, somehow getting closer to the little towns in the valleys below. The rollercoaster ride made me appreciate my profession and predecessors. Mexico’s civil engineers originally pushed a railroad through these mountains in 1873.
Maybe all those days in a classroom studying subjects with intimidating names like thermodynamics or fluid mechanics (without an attractive women within a quarter mile of the classroom) had some benefits. There are a lot of words to describe engineering—tedious, thorough, precise, too serious—but descending the pass reminded me how lucky we are today. The men who built this road through the pass didn’t have computers, calculators, or bulldozers.
With only pencil and paper, doing something as simple as calculating an inverse or raising something to a third root can be a major effort. Instead of pushing a few buttons, this work required pages of tables and calculations.
The modern engineering marvel below our butts loved the pass. The descent took no energy and actually added ten miles of range to the car. The Tesla Model S is equipped with a relatively new technology, regenerative braking. This allows the car’s lithium-ion batteries to charge ever so slightly while braking or descending. Braking results in a huge loss of energy for all motorized vehicles, and piston-driven cars have no means to recapture it, so it’s lost, grinding down the brake pads and tires. Regenerative braking captures and stores this often-wasted energy.
• • •
We spent the day trying to figure out how to best utilize the slopes and brakes to maximize our chances of reaching our goal tonight—a comfortable bed and a 240-volt socket. Finding the right mix was as much art as science.
In Cordoba, at the bottom of the pass, we pulled over, and I did a quick calculation. With the boost from the descent and at our current driving pace, we had enough battery power to travel almost 350 miles. Going over a few maps, we decided to bypass Veracruz and push on for the area in the mountains around Lake Catemaco that had a few tourist hotels. The total distance for the day would be about 225 miles, our best to date.
We moved onto the coastal plain, the ground now flat. We passed through fields of pineapple, orange, and something very familiar to Dean and me and our dear home in Louisiana—miles and miles of sugarcane. Better yet, now south of Veracruz, we had for the most part put the Mexican narcoworld safely behind us.
The Tesla’s thermometer read eighty-seven degrees in January! The temperature had risen thirty degrees now that we were out of the mountains. Back in the States, the biggest story of the week was the deep freeze, the polar vortex descending on the country. Much of the Midwest and East Coast were below zero, and even in Louisiana, nightly temperatures dipped into the teens, closing schools.
The warm air rushing by and the desolate, rural setting perked up my spirits with renewed vigor. Only the night before, I was an emotional nutcase. Maybe I’m a fruitcake, on a perpetual Ferris wheel. I likely could find dozens of reputable citizens to attest to that. That’s how I got in this mess in the first place.
As the day wore on, we went over a bunch of rivers, the first of any significance on the trip. First, we crossed the Rio Papaloanplan via its modern cable-stayed bridge, then the Rio Tesechoacan. The rivers worried me. I knew the complexities of crossing them in Latin America. When out of service, a surprisingly frequent occurrence, it might mean a day-long detour.
Late in the afternoon, I said, “This is the second day in a row without a Federale stop.”
“Don’t jinx us,” Dean moaned.
I looked at the miles of sugar cane, the lime-colored stalks fluttering in the light wind. Black clouds of smoke from the burning after the harvest wafted over the fields of green, adding an urgent, busy ambiance, all so familiar to us. “From here on, the Federales will likely be the least of our worries.”
I picked up the map. We’d covered almost 180 miles and still had almost 120 miles in the tank, but the easy part of the trip was now behind us. From here, rural, impoverished Chiapas and six Central American countries lay ahead. We’d be traveling for the most part off the tourist circuits, likely down bad roads with few western services.
As I scribbled some notes, Dean flashed his hazel eyes at me. “While you’re jotting down that narrative, be sure to let your readers know this isn’t a voyage of self-discovery for me, or a spiritual journey. It’s just what I’m used to.”
I continued to study the map. There were four possible towns in the next hour we could try to overnight in: Santiago Tuxtla, San Andres Tuxtla, Catemaco, and Acayucan. Only the latter was on the direct route, but services there seemed unlikely. The other three towns required a thirty-mile side trip to the east.
It was decision time. Until now, our route had been pretty straightforward, but henceforward we’d have to make choices. Which road to take or which town to shoot for? With our limited range at the end of the day, we’d unlikely have much room for error.
Another problem loomed, one we’d face daily as we bravely trudged on. How far should we push our range? If we found a town where we thought we could get a charge, but we still had seventy or eighty miles left in the tank, should we drive on? Over the course of the trip, fifty miles a day would add up to a lot of saved time, but if we got too intrepid, we faced the chance of ending up in the middle of nowhere, probably around dark. If we couldn’t find a charge, we’d be stuck for no telling how long.
The first major decision of the sojourn reminded me that we were the masters of our domain. We weren’t just plunging on with our fate predetermined. We were an integral part of the process that would determine if we passed or failed.
We neared the turnoff for Mexican Highway 179. The highway cut over to Catemaco directly, reducing our drive from a hundred miles to fifty. Our guidebook suggested we take the longer route.
“What do you think?” I asked.
Without hesitation, Dean said, “Let’s do it.”
The shadows growing long, we took off into the unknown. Let me say this now. If yo
u’re reading this book as a travel guide, do not take Highway 179. If you’re a charged-up redneck in a souped-up 4x4 looking for fun, this is a hell of an adventure, but not in a Tesla that sits six inches—at best—off the ground.
Initially, the road wasn’t that bad, asphalt with some large potholes. The only thing stirring my gut was the scenery, miles of sugarcane dotted with only a small farmhouse every couple of miles. As we ventured on, the road deteriorated, first to some type of hybrid gravel and asphalt, then to a dirt path filled with two-foot-deep potholes and blocked by washouts, where a hasty repair allowed one-way traffic.
In the shadows, we dodged more than fifty topes, dozens of chickens, horses, washouts, pedestrians, and even a couple of fanatical taxis. The potholes made anything in New Orleans seem like new airport runway.
Then came four bridges, if you want to call them bridges, each only wooden arches made of rough timbers lashed together and scalped back to the original piers after apparently being washed out. In the States, I wouldn’t have walked across these bridges without making a personal inspection first, much less drive a two-and-a-half-ton car across them.
The road kept so much of Dean’s attention, dodging obstacles, he didn’t even film. Just in case, I grabbed the camera about thirty minutes down the highway.
We trudged along at maybe 15 mph for more than an hour. I cringed as the Tesla bumped along, its bottom scraping on the coarse gravel of the potholes or asphalt topes. My stomach tumbled, but the car just kept going. The sun started to dip below the horizon just as we climbed out of the delta and back into some small, tree-covered hills.
My heart jumped at the sight of two men ahead, standing on each side of the road. They held a flagged cable across the road, forcing us to stop. Were we about to be robbed? If they wanted the car, they should have taken it before we dragged it over all those potholes and bridges.
I looked back. Through the thick vegetation, I saw a few sprinkles of the lonesome valley behind us. Ahead, nothing but thick canopy—not even the hope of civilization or a man-made structure in sight. I didn’t fancy turning around and driving back down HWY 179 in the darkness.
“What do you think?” Dean said in a hoarse voice, driving ahead cautiously.
Finally one of the men approached the driver’s side, shouting some Spanish. Dean nudged the car forward, and I thought he might run through the hasty cable. Another man stepped in front of the car. Holy shit.
The first man came to Dean’s window, putting two hands on the door. Middle-aged, dark, short, like a thousand other Mexicans we’d seen that week, he didn’t appear hostile or armed. He belched some more Spanish.
My pulse pounding, I tried to understand his garbled words. Something about wanting money. “Dinero,” I said. No problem, I’ve got plenty to give you.
“Sí,” the man said, shoving his head further into Dean’s window and continuing to babble.
A few tense seconds passed.
Dean looked at me. “Don’t think they’re robbing us.
But I think they’re collecting money for something, maybe the road.”
I turned to the man and spoke my best Spanish. “¿Quieres algo de dinero para reparar el calle?”
“Sí, sí,” the man said, his face still stern.
Relief fell over my entire body. “That’s it. They want some money to fix the road.”
“Pretty smart of them,” Dean said, laughing.
The man returned the smile and backed away from the car.
I reached into the center console and handed the man all our change, probably fifty pesos. “Good idea,” I said in Spanish as we rode off, still amused.
Somehow we made it. I’ll give a prop to Goodyear and its nineteen-inch tires that survived all those treacherous potholes. First-class American craftsmanship, and we did appreciate it.
Under the setting sun, we passed through Santiago Tuxtla and San Andres Tuxtla. Our guidebook said cigars were made in the latter. No need to stop. I needed something stronger than a cigar. Just at dark, grooving to some Michael Jackson, we finally pulled into Catemaco and found an RV park and campground.
An elderly man had his RV backed up to a row of power outlets. I examined the sockets, 30-amp, 240-volt with a modern American plug. I looked over to some cabins for rent, but no one appeared to be at the campsite except the lone RVer.
I approached him. “You speak English?”
“Yes.”
“You American?”
“German.”
“Is someone here with the campground and RV park?”
“I think the owner’s gone for the day.”
“My car is electric. We need some of this power.”
“Just plug it in,” the man said, “and pitch here. You can settle up with the owner tomorrow. He seems like an agreeable fellow.”
The park had cabins, but nobody to let us in. Darkness began to envelope everything. I didn’t feel like camping after six hours on the road. If we were looking for adventure, we had found it.
As the last brushstrokes of sunlight painted the horizon, we rode through the small downtown and found a hotel with window AC units. The speed bump at its entrance was too big for the Tesla. We tried another hotel, a block over, the Hotel Playa Cristal. I quickly explained our situation to the friendly clerk, another Antonio, and he walked us behind the hotel to a secure, fenced-in parking area. He pointed to a 240-volt socket on the wall.
It couldn’t be this easy. Dean pulled out our charging adapter as a few of the staff studied the strange car. Plugging it in, we got a green positive. I looked at the trip meter. We’d gone 234 miles today, the best day yet, but we were in the middle of nowhere with only about seventy miles of battery remaining. With 18-amp power, we’d be fully charged by noon the next day.
“How much?” I asked.
“Seven hundred and fifty pesos.”
About fifty dollars. “We’ll take it.”
Topes and Potholes
The next day, waiting for the Tesla to be fully charged, we spent the morning exploring Catemaco, a tiny village 1,100 feet above sea level in the volcanic Tuxtla Mountains. Wedged beside Lake Catemaco, formed by a lava slide that created a natural dam in the high valley, the scenery was a nature lover’s paradise. The unique volcanic belt abutted the coast. High rainfall and rich soil was something of an anomaly that created a biosphere of rainforest, coastal lagoons, and waterfalls—a haven for tree huggers and bird-watchers, but not much for road warriors on the hunt for easy 240-volt power, a bed, and a hot shower.
I had heard the village was famous for its witches with special powers to excise your internal demons. Maybe I could get some real and meaningful freedom—they could erase my memory, all forty-something years of it. I’d lose a few cherished moments, but on the whole, the pluses would outweigh the negatives. I asked at the hotel, but my inquiries resulted in no leads.
Checking out, I asked the hotel manager, a short, slender, middle-aged gentleman named Miguel, about HWY 179.
He mumbled and moaned, wringing his hands, his animated brown eyes wandering. “Huh, the worst of everything, the government and the San Juan River. We complain all the time, but they don’t care about our little village, our way of life. We write letters, but they’re tired of rebuilding it every year. The rich politicians in Mexico City don’t give a damn about us.”
“I’m starting to feel more at home every day. Mexico and America aren’t that different,” I replied, signing the ticket. I’d do my best to make sure that was the last river delta we’d see until returning to Louisiana.
We spent the morning strolling Catemaco’s shaded, tranquil promenade populated with a few bars and restaurants, hastily slapped together along the waterfront but with great views of the lake and mountains. With tropical birds chirping and a fishy smell in our noses, we spied the decaying colonial architecture.
Just before noon, I sent some pictures and updates of our trip to Marcus Morton, a friend and movie producer in Santa Monica. Marcus w
as forwarding the updates to several other people who were tracking the trip, most notably, Mike Dunckley, an executive for several companies developing electric motorcycles, and through Mike, Bill Moore, who runs the webpage EV World. Bill stays on top of the latest news and developments in the electric vehicle industry. His webpage is one of the major hubs for industry professionals and EV enthusiasts looking for current information.
We still hadn’t done enough to get EV World’s attention, or Bill to run a story, but with only a few more days of progress, people in the States would start to take notice. Marcus did send me a few brief questions in case he had some inquiries. One read: “What inspired you to take on this journey?”
I jotted a response without even thinking it over: “Just the challenge of it inspired me. Something like this has never been attempted. It’s rare in 2014 to get to try something nobody has done.” After sending it, I reread it a few times. It perfectly explained Dean’s and my thoughts, at least initially.
Around noon, Dean stumbled into the room. “The car’s charged. Let’s get going.”
“Just a second. Going over a few notes.”
“Don’t fret over that too much,” Dean said. “Country-club Republicans like you don’t do this type of stuff. That alone is a news story.”
Shortly, we said goodbye to the affable staff at the Playa Cristal. Our goal today was Tuxtla Gutierrez, the capital of Chiapas, 240 miles down the road. There, we might find some better services. I needed to do some laundry. I was down to one set of clean clothes. The day before, my cell phone had quit. Maybe in Tuxtla Gutierrez I could get it reactivated?