The Ravings of a Motorcyclist Explorer | Pan American Trails
The Ravings of a Motorcyclist explorer peregrinating through Old Mexico and Guatemala
Photos by Jose Porta
And what a surprise I received the next morning! And what roads! If the four burros hadn’t been taken back to San Juanito the night before I would never have driven over those trails on my motorcycle. It was impossible for me to go through them. True, I had reached the highest mountain peak, and that was something to be thankful for. But the path was leading down a valley, then up another mountain, then down again over an endless chain of rocky, wild, uninhabited and inaccessible mountains.
I had left the ranch and I was now left alone to struggle the best I could. Of all the places I went through, none of them could be compared to the wildness and roughness of these narrow and treacherous trails.
While going down hill I had to let the motorcycle drop from rock to rock and trust to luck that I wouldn’t smash everything to pieces. More than once the brake connection under the frame was cleaved clear through by the sharp rocks and, with the motorcycle out of control, I found myself careening down hill at a maddening speed, until I was thrown through space by the impact of the motorcycle against a protruding rock.
I wasn’t having much fun at the time. Unable to control the motorcycle over those obstacles with the heavy load on it I had to unpack everything and carry all my bundles on my back, a few yards at a time, then come back to the motorcycle and, stripped to the waist, laboring and struggling under a broiling sun, I had the time of my life charging those heretofore unconquered mountainsides, sitting astride a powerful motor which, without a miss, was bellowing its roar of power, confident of its own strength and unaware of the fact that it was the first motor vehicle ever to cross that God-forsaken region.
I traveled all day long without food and without water and without meeting a single human being. I spent hours on one single hill, unable to reach the top.
Night caught me in the wilderness and the next day I reached San Carlos Yautepec, which was only six or seven miles from Rancho Escondido.
There was a commotion at the village when I arrived there and, to give those people a treat I entered the plaza through a steep and rough hill, at full speed, taking all bumps on the high jump and scaring dogs and pigs and chickens who had the misfortune to be in my path.
The one good point about my trip was that when I was traveling through isolated country where there were no roads and I was always in need of the help and assistance of my fellow men, I was invariably well received whenever I reached a ranch or a village, and every possible assistance was given me.
Besides I had left Oaxaca with over twenty letters of introduction in my possession, letters which were meant for the Presidentes of the various villages I had to cross, and which had been given me by several prominent political figures. Such letters proved to be an open sesame of tremendous importance and it was mostly on their account that I was received with the utmost courtesy and the warmest hospitality.
Occasionally such hospitality would be overdone as, for instance, when they used to give me a room to sleep in and then put a sentry in front of my door to watch over my sleep, and that poor man would walk up and down and up and down all night long, almost driving me out of my senses and keeping me awake until dawn. Still, their intentions were good and I had to suffer and then thank them for it.
In San Carlos Yautepec I stayed all night to rest up and next day in the early afternoon I left. I didn’t go very far, and after crossing a few creeks I reached La Manteca, a few miles from San Carlos. From there on it was again as bad a road as I had the day before and to all appearances it was impassable. I arranged it with the local authorities to lend me a boy and a burro who would carry my bundles as far as the next village so that I would have a better chance to drive my motorcycle, unhampered by the extra weight.
Early next morning we started out and again it was the same tale of going over narrow, rocky paths and steep, everlasting hills, with miles upon miles of the steepest climbing. Again I was falling and getting up and smashing that motorcycle to pieces, with that dumb kid and his burro looking on, and stopping when I stopped, going when I went, unable to help me in any other way.
We spent the first night in the mountains, and by dark, on our second day out, we finally reached San Bartolo, without having met a single soul on the way.
There the boy left me and went back to San Carlos.
San Bartolo was a village of the same size as San Carlos, with about two or three hundred people, and here again I had the same kind reception I had in the other village and when I left I was accompanied by a man and a mule.
The only food I had with me was a pile of tortillas and a hunk of dried cheese, having been unable to secure any meat or eggs. My motorcycle had been more fortunate and after scouring the whole village, with the help of the Presidente I was able to collect here and there a few pints of gasoline, which was used for lamps, and which, by t he way, cost me an exhorbitant sum.
After traveling all day over the same mountainous trails we camped again for the night in the wilderness, miles from anywhere.
And when I woke up in the morning I had an unexpected surprise: my guide had deserted me during the night and I was left all alone once more.
Patiently I picked up my bundles and carried them over the top of the first hill, carefully studying the trail at the same time, then I went back to the motorcycle and drove her over the top. It was still and always a neck-breaking exercise, but I had no choice and besides I was anxious to reach the next village.
The country was exceedingly hot and dry and I was always lacking water. It wouldn’t have been half as bad if I had had food and drink with me, but with the thought of water uppermost in my mind I was always pushing doggedly ahead in the hope of meeting a creek or at least a pool of stagnant water.
But water was scarce and my strength was leaving me. Struggling and panting I was incessantly driving ahead with the agonizing thought that I would never be able to find any. But the going was too painful and slow and the path was mostly a succession of rocky steps up to one or two feet in height which made me lose a countless number of precious hours.
My efforts were bound to meet their reward and at last I reached a creek, rippling with cool, clear water. I threw myself face down and drank of it.
I stopped and rested for half an hour while I couldn’t get over my good fortune. There was water at last and I could drink all I wanted of it, and I did drink all I wanted and I filled both of my canteens and at last I left.
I left but I was still thirsty and a few minutes later I had emptied one of my flasks. Yet I couldn’t stand it and I was more thirsty than ever and it struck me funny that I couldn’t quench my thirst. I wanted the rest of the water to last me until I reached the next creek, yet I couldn’t stand the thirst and my throat was drier than ever and my lips were parched and cracked and my whole system was clamouring for water. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I thought I was going crazy. And my mouth was so dry and salty. Salty! Did I say salty? That was it! Suddenly I was struck by the possibility that I had drunk from the wrong creek. I took the remaining canteen and brought it to my lips, taking a sip. It was salt water! How on earth I happened to meet a creek way up in the mountains with salt water was beyond my understanding. The fact remained that it was salty and I had drunk gallons of it.
I threw the contents of the canteen away, lest I should be tempted to drink more out of it. There is no punishment greater than the giving of salt water to a traveler starving from thirst in the desert. It is an agonizing sensation that seems to drain your whole system to the last liquid drop of blood.
I was almost out of my mind, and I forgot exactly what happened until a long time after when I finally reached a creek of sweet water.
This time I made sure it was sweet before I drank and then I gave free vent to my cravings and I partook of the most luscious nectar that Nature ever put at the disposal of man.
Feeling much better I was then able to proceed with renewed vigor although I was still in the midst of the mountains and I had to get down to sea level before I could be sure that I had left the highest mountains of Mexico behind my back.
From San Bartolo I had to reach Tequisixtlan over the same mountainous trails as I had followed so far.
The motor was still in good condition although the frame was all bent and twisted and the front spring and fork were cracked in several places.
What was bothering me the most now were my feet. The soles of my boots had been torn away and, with my boots on, I was practically walking barefooted. It was agony to hit the rocks with my toes when I was trying to balance that bucking motorcycle, especially as I had no footboards on which to rest my feet. Soon my feet began to ache and bleed and I had to stop and cut a piece of bark the shape of my soles and tie them under my boots, but even then I wasn’t relieved very long as they were soon snatched off by the sharp stones.
With aching feet and an empty stomach I finally reached Tequisixtlan. I had to cross a deep river before I could enter the village and I had been worrying about it, but my worries were soon dispelled when I saw a group of men, headed by the presidente, waiting for me on the river shore. They had everything prepared and, after tying two long poles on each side of the motorcycle, eight men were able to easily carry it across the river which was waist deep.
The poor presidente overdid himself to make me feel comfortable. Food and drink were brought to me and a band was improvised by night to give me an atmosphere of typically Mexican life. He then called a meeting and ordered the cobbler to sole my boots, the blacksmith to help me repair the motorcycle and the tailor to fix my torn clothes, all of which was done the next day.
When I was ready to leave he insisted on giving me an escort, but I declined his offer as I preferred to travel alone.
After a few more miles of mountain paths I finally reached flat country once more and a few hours later I struck a remarkably smooth little road (three to four feet wide) which took me to Tehuantepec.
No trip to Mexico is worth while without visiting this little city, the capital of the isthmus which separates the Gulf of Mexico from the Pacific Ocean. Tehuantepec is one of the most typical cities of the Republic, and the costumes of the natives haven’t yet been influenced by our more civilized ways. The Tehuanas (or native women) all wear shawls of a bright red color; their blouses are also red with yellow stripes and they either wear a skirt or, instead of that, a piece of cloth wrapped two or three times around their hips and, of course, they go barefooted.
It was by an army of women in such colorful dress that I was met when I reached the plaza, or market place. I must have been a sight when they saw me and they probably couldn’t understand what it was all about. They swarmed around me and passed all kinds of remarks among themselves. Then the most daring one offered me a fruit. I took it and ate it.
“The poor thing,” a woman said. “He must be awfully hungry.”
The next minute a hundred kind hands stretched towards me with the most luscious and appetizing foods. All I had been eating in the last ten days had been frijoles and tortillas and in very scant quantities. And now food was offered me from all sides. And I grabbed it and ate it with the hunger of a ravenous wolf. I did not have to thank those women. They understood by the way I was eating that I was more than appreciative of their kindness. And we became friends. And at night while I was resting in front of the Palacio Municipal a little Indian girl came up to me and bashfully gave me a papaya melon. “Mother sent you this,” she said, and ran away. A little while later a boy came with another delicacy and the same words, and then it was a procession of little children, bringing me food. Surely those people thought I had the stomach of an elephant.
All was well until I went to sleep. Then I felt cramps in my stomach and soon after I felt sick as a dog. I was paying the price for my gluttony and sure enough the next day I couldn’t eat a bite.
I stayed in Tehuantepec three days, spending most of my time at the blacksmith shop, fixing my motorcycle. Tehuantepec appeared to be a very busy little city, surrounded by a score of smaller villages and, to all outward appearances, getting along much better than the rest of Mexico.
Salina Cruz is the southernmost port of the Republic and is only a two hours’ drive from Tehuantepec. Here the coffee and the delicate fruits of Southern Mexico are loaded on ships and sent all over the world. All those cargoes have to go through Tehuantepec which has good roads connecting it to the villages and coffee plantations of the interior.
I followed those roads and, although they were out of my way to Guatemala, I enjoyed visiting those little towns mostly for the sake of spending a few days on good roads.
San Jeronimo is not far from Tehuantepec, yet the contrast in the natives’ costumes is striking. According to the Tehuanas, the Menas (or San Jeronimo girls) are very wicked. And in fact I found their wickedness to consist in their being modernized, or at least in trying to be so, by aping their Northern sisters, the modern flappers. They wore short skirts, they had shoes on their feet, their hair was bobbed and they used powder and rouge and lipstick.
San Jeronimo was the only city in Southern Mexico that showed signs of these advanced ideas, yet somehow they didn’t fit and those girls seemed to be altogether out of place. They were not matching their surroundings and they were overdoing their make-up.
In Reforma I had the pleasure of meeting an American lady who had been living there for years. The owner of a beautiful ranch, Mrs. Mahoney was well liked and respected by the natives.
I was delighted in meeting somebody I could talk to and I spent two restful days as her guest. And I was still more delighted on the morning when I left when she put a stack of steaming wheat cakes in front of me on my breakfast table. I must have told her that was my weakness and she wanted to surprise me.
Dear Mrs. Mahoney! She didn’t know what was in store for her. I ate those wheat cakes as fast as they were put in front of me and she was kept busy running from the kitchen to the dining room probably wondering how long I would last. As for me I knew it would be a long time before I could have wheat cakes again and I was taking advantage of my opportunity and I just ate and said nothing and wondered if she had made enough batter.
I left Reforma and with it all the good roads behind me. I struggled all day half through poor roads and half over railroad tracks until I reached Chahuite. Next day I was in Arriaga and the day after in Tonala, a city next to Tehuantepec in size and importance.
I remember being very thirsty in Tonala, and while confining myself mostly to soft drinks, when I was offered a toast to the success of my trip, I took a little sip of tequila and then another and another.
It was about noon time when they told me they had a broadcast at five in the afternoon and they expected me to say a few words over the radio. Why, of course, I would be glad to talk over the radio. And would I say something nice about their city? Indeed I would. And it was arranged that they would meet me at four thirty at the hotel where I was staying. Then I was turned loose. I was turned loose with a pint of tequila in my system.
The next thing I remember was meeting a general who insisted on telling all about the past and future revolutions. And we had to drink to all the battles he won. Then somebody else wanted to celebrate something else and before I realized it I was paralyzed.
And four o’clock came and suddenly I thought of the radio program. And they were supposed to come for me in half an hour. And what would they think if they saw me in that condition? I decided that I didn’t like radios anyway and I wobbled down to my hotel. I managed to wrap my blankets on the luggage carrier.
“Senor, please Senor,” the landlady pleaded. “Wait until tomorrow. Please, you are in no condition to go now.”
But I went anyway and I have a vague idea of riding out in the country and going to sleep in the woods where at least the radio people wouldn’t find me.
Tonala meant the end of all roads and I had to go back to the tracks. The railroad goes all the way to the Guatemalan border and is the only way of communication between all those villages.
Yet at times I preferred the worst of roads to the railway tracks. I followed them for two weeks and I found it very arduous and laborious traveling. Indeed I found stretches where I could easily follow a narrow footpath alongside of the tracks, but such stretches never lasted very long and I had to do most of my driving in between the rails.
The rails were supported by ties one or two feet apart which were very poorly filled with dirt or gravel, and it was a continuous jerking up and down, and I had to keep a fair speed lest the front wheel would get stuck in a deep rut.
I would keep going until I was thrown off the tracks. Then I had to labor and sweat to bring the motorcycle back between the rails to start the same game all over again. It seems to me now that there were millions of bridges to be crossed and some of them had a few ties missing in the center which left an open gap four or five feet wide and I had to get off the tracks and take a long detour through the jungles in order to be able to get on the other side of the gap.
And then, last, but not least, there were the trains to be considered. I only met one or two a day, but they were never on schedule and I never knew when to expect them. The noise from my motor would drown the panting of the locomotive as the next corner might have brought me face to face with an oncoming train.
I was forever on the alert for them and when I saw one in the distance I would get off the tracks. Still I did not always escape so easily. At one time I had to jump the rails and land down a bank as a whizzing passenger train met me around a corner. At another time there wasn’t enough room outside of the tracks and I had to hold the motorcycle on a slant on top of a high bank at two feet from the rails while a neverending freight train was going by, brushing my handlebars with its carriages. I was holding my motor on my knees as I was slowly sliding backwards, when a moment of weakness would have been enough to send motorcycle and driver to the bottom of the bank. Finally the last freight car went by and I was able to straighten up and breathe freely. It was experiences of this kind that made traveling over the railroad as hard. if not harder than traveling over the roughest trails. And I was thankful when, two weeks later, I reached Huixtla and was able to leave the tracks and get back to decent roads.
The railway was the shortest route to Guatemala, yet the minute I saw a road I followed it, although it took me way out among the coffee plantations of the state of Chiapas, the last of the Mexican states I had to cross.
Such roads had been built to bring the coffee to the railroad stations and by following them I was able to learn at first hand how the coffee was handled from the time it was planted in the ground until the time it was tied into bags, ready to be shipped all over the world.
Where ever I went I was well received by the plantation owners who were mostly Germans, and I never had any trouble in securing food and shelter whenever I reached a house.
(Continued Next Month)
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