What Is Pax Gaea?
Recently I have entertained a few e-mails speculating on the "meaning" of Pax Gaea. I must admit that the speculations have been quite amusing. One person suggested that I have converted my family to Wicca or that I’m promoting some new brand of earth worship and am out to build my cult fortress in the mountains of Mexico. While I have no problems with Wiccans and I do revere the earth on a number of levels, there is absolutely nothing religious about the Pax Gaea philosophy although there are a number of spiritual aspects to it. But its origin had nothing to do with spirituality at all. It had to do with plans I have been making for a round the world driving trip and the quest for a really cool name.
I have always been fascinated by the great adventures of the past starting with the original migrations of the Asians over the Bering Land Bridge of the Americas and the Polynesians and their population of the South Pacific and possibly the southern tip of the Americas. Since then, from the Phoenicians to the Vikings to the great age of exploration in the 15th through 19th Centuries all the way to deep sea and deep space we've just kept exploring and searching and finding great new discoveries that shatter all pre-conceived notions of the world or universe we though we knew. Since I was a kid I marveled at those people who were brave enough to give up the comforts of home and family and were curious, crazy, or greedy enough to venture off into the unknown. I make not always like or agree with the end result of that exploration, but the journey itself is always a source of wonder and amazement.
This served as my basis of interest in the sciences as well. As I began my own internal exploration, calling into question all that I had been raised to believe, I became infinitely fascinated with the sciences. It’s a natural progression as it is merely exploration of how things work and how can you harness that knowledge to affect it. As I learned more I discovered it only lead to more questions. Good for me as I am infinitely curious about everything. While I am an adherent to the axiom of Occam’s Razor, the notion that the simplest answer is usually the correct one, I also came to understand that, before you can apply that principle, you have to have a very broad base of knowledge in order to reach that simple answer. So I have been on a lifelong search for knowledge that will likely continue until my dying day.
Naturally that has led me to questions regarding the very nature of what
Stephen J. Gould coined as the Two Magisteria, the two realms of science and religion that seeks to answer all the great questions of life in very different ways. He posited that the realms of science and religion were not wholly mutually exclusive. While science may try to answer questions naturalistically, religion based its conclusions on supernatural answers. He suggested it as two very large circles that, at a very narrow point, both bump against one another. By defining that veritable no-mans lands, science and religion could possibly one day stop viewing each other as competitors and, instead, work together to solve the bigger questions that both realms seemed to fall short. It is an interesting notion and one that has occupied my thoughts for years.
I began to posit that on other aspects of life such as commerce and politics, freedom and security, the past and the future, the real and the imaginary and began to see that, when you seek commonalities between two competing points, you can find even more comparisons that expand that field of overlap. What if you pursued every situation with the same intent? What if you stopped seeing the difference in things and found the similarities? What if instead of expecting a confrontation you instead expected an accommodation? Would you not begin to see things draw together rather then drive apart?
It’s a glaring obviate to anyone who understands human nature that all humans have much more in common then they have different. Start genetically. When you consider that all share 99.9% percent common traits and that the .1% is what determines the race, ethnicity, hair and eye color, body type and which diseases or maladies will inflict one person or the other, it’s pretty amazing how we let that .1% define everything about us. That .1% gets amplified by such factors as birthplace, early childhood development, religious instruction, political indoctrination, socio-economics and education and the era in which you are born. These factors are all that makes the difference and yet it is these differences that drive us apart. But take what each of us, other than the genetic, have in common. Except for those afflicted with some sort of chemical or brain abnormality we really only want the same thing. The ability to get up in the morning at the place of our choosing, to be able to provide for ourselves and our families, to gain more than we expend, to obtain knowledge or resources that allow us to make life better and easier for our offspring, to be able to partake in those oh-so-human pleasures freely, to go to sleep with a reasonable assumption that we will not be molested or murdered and to expire relatively painlessly after a long, healthy, productive life, preferably in our sleep with the knowledge that we lived a good life. How we get there is all based upon those amplifying factors and the capabilities of our base genetic stock. The other thing we all have in common as that we’re living these lives on the same small bubble a mere 25,000 miles in circumference with the vast majority of it covered in water. When you consider there is 5 billion of us all sharing a small percentage of the land mass, it would seem to make sense we should do what we can to get along so that little speck of dry ground doesn’t feel...or become smaller.
So back to my fascination with explorers. Up until fairly recently, our ability to share our various knowledge bases was limited owing to distance, language and political barriers that prohibited us from know much more beyond our limited view. But technology has changed that and now, we can conduct instantaneous information with total strangers half way around the globe and actually break through these barriers and get to know people without the filter of culture, language and politics. And it is amazing that, when you bother to actually talk to someone from a culture or nation supposedly at war or in diametric opposition to you, you find that they misunderstand you as much as you misunderstand them. You discover that we are not the cartoon caricatures our respective leaders try to draw of one another. You find how totally human they are and how they really only want in life what you want. So why do we let our leaders, religious, political or economic continue to divide us? And why are they so committed to making sure we loathe and fear each other so badly? Could it be that, by keeping us divided they get to control us? They assure their value and perpetuate their station by making themselves the only thing that keeps those "others" from destroying us?
When I began to grasp this simple but oh so powerful notion, I began to feel what no minister, no politician or no employer could make me feel... I began to feel free. I began to realize that when I no longer needed to be afraid of those who are different than me I can choose to get to know them and feel confident that they have no more malice towards me than I have towards them.
That’s when I began planning my own great expedition, one that is driven to visit every place on my planet that I can drive my Land Rover. I sat down and began sketching this plan that links every country by road or by ferry that would roll my wheels across every border. I had followed the day to day progress of a team of explorers that were doing a mini-version on this concept on behalf of Parkinson’s Disease called, appropriately enough,
http://www.drivearoundtheworld.com . Okay, so I began laying out this meticulous concept that would link all 240 nations from pole to pole and I calculated how it could be done in four years, starting and ending in New York City. And it needed a reason other than my desire to log some 250,000 miles other than my fascination to do so. So I began working on that one concept on which we all have nations have common ground... the fight against pediatric aids. No matter how you feel about the adults who contract this deadly disease and how they do so, we can all at least agree that children born with this life ending illness are innocent of their plight can’t we?
So such a huge idea required an equally loft name. And I tried to formulate a concept that takes all my hopes and beliefs in people and our shard commonalities and put it all under one banner. And so I reached into my beloved world of science for the answer for one word that would crystalize the concept. And that word was...
Pangaea.If you aren’t familiar with the term, blame your eighth grade science teacher. While it has gone through various states of debate, the theory is sound and accepted by the vast body of scientists. Pangaea is the name given to the one Super Continent that existed billions of years ago. It suggests that in the early days of Earth creation, when dry land began to initially form, the world consisted of one big continent, But, as the earth is fluid and subject to movement, an action known as plate tectonics, the continent began to expand and separate forming what are our current continents today. As the earth is water and a relatively thin crust float over a molten ball of lava, we see the planet ever undergoing growth and rebirth through vulcanism, And plate tectonics is something we experience every minute of every day but rarely feel in the form of earthquakes and the other natural events that result from them like tsunamis and landslides. You have to be in awe of a force so strong as to be able to drive these mass bodies apart. But what kind of sheer power and will would you need to draw them back together, if not physically, at least metaphorically?
And that was where the concept of Pax Gaea came together. I liked the idea that, no matter how power the forces that try to drive us apart, if our will is greater than those forces of division, we can be drawn back together. And the name worked on so many levels. Take the two words, Pax from the Latin "Peace" and "Gaea" from the Greek for earth. Peace Earth. What a concept! And despite our divisions, if we could acknowlege each other’s common humanity and unite on one cause, we begin the process of drawing together.
As I said there is nothing religious about the philosophy or mission of Pax Gaea. But there is something spiritual. Again, drawing from my endless fascination for scientific theory, I began reading on the theories of
James Lovelock. He spent decade as a chemist working for NASA to create sensors that would detect the most minute traces of organic chemical that would suggest the presence of life. His work led him to the theory that the earth behaves as a Super Organism made up from all living things and from their material environment. A writer friend suggested dubbing it the Gaia Theory. Lovelock argues that such things as the level of oxygen, the formation of clouds, and the saltiness of the oceans may be controlled by interacting physical, chemical and biological processes. He believes that "the self-regulation of climate and chemical composition is a process that emerges from the rightly coupled evolution of rocks, air and the ocean - in addition to that of organisms. Such interlocking self-regulation, while rarely optimal - consider the cold and hot places of the earth, the wet and the dry - nevertheless keeps the Earth a place fit for life."
It’s a fascinating concept and, if it proves to be true, what an amazing thought that we are fortunate enough to be very rare within the universe to have been part of the evolutionary process of a living, breathing sentient creature called Earth. Which leads us back to Stephen J. Gould and his concept of the Two Magisteria.Is this one of those juxtapositions where both the realms of science and religion could share common ground. If there enough possibility for the scientist to conceed a power greater than natural and for the cleric to admit that the true answers to meaning of existence lies not in faith of an afterlife, but an in depth scientific study of this life? These were the questions Carl Sagan pondered as he stared into the cosmos. What if every answer we were seeing about the beginning of life can be found right here? What if the answer to "why are we here" could be answered, because Gaia wanted it to?
What if all the answers to all the great mysteries was right here in place sight, at the tips of our toes?
That is Pax Gaea.
We have now been in our new home in Gringolandia for a week and have at last settled into a routine that allows us to accomplish the bulk of our tasks throughout the day. Our primary reason for coming to Mexico was to write the book, and I am proud of the progress we are making. We are finalizing Chapter Two, and each chapter is running kind of long. Big surprise to anyone who knows me, right? We’ve an interesting approach to writing that, I must confess, is perfect for a guy like me who thinks and talks much faster than most people could transcribe.
We typically rise around nine or ten and feed the girls and organize their schoolwork for the day. I’m taking charge of history, geography and science (very fun experiments are coming up soon). Pen is taking charge of reading, math and posting. I must say the geography game we play is turning out to be as much fun for me as it is for the girls (okay, probably more so). We took a list of all 240 recognized nations, cut them onto individual pieces of paper and, every morning, Elea stirs and Abi draws the assigned nation for the day. I then print the worksheet and outline map for that country, and the girls have a list of facts they have to ferret out using the Atlas and Internet to find that information (I’ll admit it. I’m a bastard. Some of these facts are a bit obscure and require a bit of research to find, but Abi seems to have inherited my love for research and is becoming a master of the search engine.) After compiling the data, Abi has to plot those key elements on the outline map and then present a narrative of the data she compiled. One of the aspects is a Fun Fact, and I am a harsh judge as she has to find a fact we did not know (it is unfair when your parents are recovering Jeopardy and Trivia Pursuit junkies, I must confess).
In the late morning and early afternoon we all work on our blogs. In fact they’ve recently added pictures and new blog entries at
www.paxgaea.com. I’ll retreat to a quiet spot to review some of the facts that I’ll be integrating into that evening’s writing session as the girls dive into the computer for their research and work on their assignments. Pen will review their writing and offer editorial suggestions and direction. (I must say, she is really and excellent and very patient teacher!) In mid afternoon we’ll walk into town and we’ll shop for dinner and other essentials as well as grab a light lunch from one of the street vendors or local restaurants. We have become devotees of La Surtidora Cafe on the Plaza Don Vasco de Quiroga, the main plaza where they feature the best Mexican coffee I have ever tasted. It is also a gathering point for the gringos, so we have a chance to meet and catch up with the varied cast of characters we’ve met here. The girls love to play in the fountain, and on the Plaza Green and there are so many children here for them to play with. It is one of the reasons, besides our obvious need to exercise, we make the daily trips into town. After catching the last few deals we can in the village market or the countless little specialty shops, we’ll select a section of town we haven’t visited yet and hike through those streets. Patzcauro occupies a small valley and stretches up the mountainside, so it is an excellent workout.
We’ll then hike back home and start dinner while we finalize homework for the day. After dinner we’ll play a game (last night Elea was kicking our butts in Crazy Eights until Pen rallied to humiliate us all.). As Pen settles the girls in for the evening, the girls taking turns reading to her and Pen closing their evening while reading to them. Right now they’re reading The Open Door, a collection of poems and stories compiled in 1927 that we borrowed from Pen’s Mother (it seemed as if it may have been a popular book in the McMullan household as both her mother and her brother Phil’s names are inscribed inside). I’ll clean up the kitchen and get the coffee brewing and lay out our support materials for the evening and, around 10 or so, Pen and I will turn to working on the novel. We are writing this in the narrative form. I’ll take a few minutes to briefly cover the facts we’re integrating into the story so Pen can better understand the historical context into which we’re immersing our characters. While this is historical fiction, we’re adamant that the history be as factually accurate as possible. While a popular novel and a great story are most critical to assuring the success of this novel, it is critical to me that the history be able to stand up to expert scrutiny, thus making our fiction historically plausible. Patrick O’Brien was a master of this style and, while he was appealing to a very narrow band of Royal Navy history buffs (like me) and less concerned with appealing to a popular audience, specifically as he writes in a style reflective of the language of 19th Century England, we are attempting to keep the descriptions and narrative more contemporary and allowing our character’s dialogues to reflect the period. When we’ve reached agreement as to how we’ll integrate our characters, I’ll narrate as Pen transcribes, stopping me every now and then to clarify a point or to remind me of continuity issues or protesting an action which she views as inconsistent with the character. We’ll typically write until 3 a.m. or so and collapse from the efforts of a very long day.
We have squeezed in a few side trips, such as a circumnavigation of Lake Patzcuaro in an effort to get an overview of the neighboring Indian villages. We also took an afternoon to travel to Morelia to visit Office Depot and give the girls a treat of McDonald’s. (Okay, again, I confess. It was a nice treat to devour a few Quartas Con Queso and Popas as I had missed a little tasting American fast food. Next time we’ll venture to Hamburguesa Rey... Burger King where I’m dying to see what they call a Whopper!) Today, it’s raining pretty hard, so we may have to scrub our walk but, in one respect, Patzcuaro and Wilmington weather are much alike...if you don’t like the weather, wait a half hour because this torrential down pour could break into a glorious warm afternoon ideal for a healthy jaunt. I was recently asked if there is anything I don’t like about the trip so far, and I must say there is one thing. I am smoking way too much. I’ve a switched to a brand called Boots that is similar to Marlboro. As I spend so much time at the computer and don’t have to go outside to smoke and as it is tolerated everywhere in Mexico, I’ve gone a bit overboard. I’ve tied to integrate more pistachios into my nightly writing regiment so I can cut back and we may being seeing positive health benefits form our high altitude jaunts. But, it’s days like this, when the rains are pouring down, dancing rhythmically upon the skylights which are now casting a gray light throughout the entire room, where copious amounts of hot coffee and cigarettes are just that much more compelling, and I realize that I am spending a small fortunate on cigarettes, so I must figure out a way to scale back. Other than that, I am absolutely intoxicated by this adventure.
We do appreciate your continued support and wishes of good writing and thank you all for being so supportive. I love this country and its people and have found kindred spirits from America who seem to truly understand why people like us venture out such as this. They too, are sometimes questioned as to their motivations for adopting the expatriate life. Despite what people may believe, we love our native home, but we grow concerned daily that that individualism that inspired our country to greatness is being supplanted by a complacency and ignorance that harkens back to that era that made us all choose the freedom of Independence rather than the security of Autocracy. Spending so much of my time reviewing the last 300 years of world history, it is obvious how easy it is to fall into the trap that the powers that be are much wiser and better informed than you are and how easily a people will surrender their best interests for the sake of flag and cross. We too, know our nation’s potential, and we hope that something will be a catalyst to spark that sparks us from our complacent slumber.
What that catalyst will be is the million-dollar question.
It finally dawned on me that it has been five days since I’ve updated my postings. We have been trying to fall into a routine of sorts so as to maximize our time here, and it has been difficult striking a balance. While writing this novel was the inspiration for pulling up stakes and heading 3,000 miles south, the many items on our agenda include getting back in shape, making dramatic changes to our diet, crafting an effective home school program for the girls, immersing them into a new language and culture plus attempting to take in the sights of this beautiful place. We also have a goal of documenting this process, not only to keep family and friends up to date but in essence to serve as an inspiration for those who, like us, aren’t quite prepared to surrender to the dictum and regimens of American middle class existence. I have been pleased to discover that there are many more like us who either have or are abandoning the myth of the American dream that hard work and dedication to your employers, faithful voting and tax paying support to your country and devout submission to a bearded middle eastern religious construct will somehow leave you healthy, wealthy and wise.
Let’s confront the awful truth. American corporation scare nothing for the people who toil away their lives in a quest to meet the company’s goals. Their very construct -- soulless, faceless entities breathed to live by individuals who wish to divest personal responsibility for the sake of ruthless accumulation -- isn’t something new or a "changing paradigm" of corporate America. This has always been the case since the very first corporations were set up for the purposes of exploration and trade by the European powers over 500 years ago. With the blessing of crown and cross, they ventured to all points of the compass in search of vast tracts of land of which to claim possession, to render the inhabitants into supplication and to recruit mass numbers of the powerless and weak, to uproot and toil with little or no reward to fatten the wallets of their task masters. While there may be a rainbow of colors and shapes presented in the cavalcade of the world’s flags and official standards represent the corralling of some six billion of us, In truth, every one of those flags have only one color and one symbol behind their motivation... a twice vertically crucified green "S." We may not see that in the forefront, but look closely. Buried deep within that cavalcade of color and shapes, your magic eye will see the true reason for any nation’s existence.
What the United States model did was not to give power to the masses but to build into the system that, provided you give reverence and worship to the true symbol of our nation and proper supplication to those who dwell closer to it, perhaps you can, too, will sup from that one true tree of life ... the money tree. Likewise, as America loves to boast its being a beacon of freedom to all the world, in truth what freedoms and powers we do have were carefully crafted to be kept in check by those whom we elected or allowed to be appointed before us. While I have always been a huge fan of American history and have always tried to put in perspective how that history affected my pre-Columbian ancestors who got along just fine without European influence, the reality of our system came into sharp focus for me last night as I was devising Abi’s and Elea’s geography and history courses. I devised both as a kind of game, creating a randomizer to direct the focus of each day’s studies to a different part of the world. We began with the United States so I could show them how their research of the internet and the thousand pounds or so of books we toted down here can help them find the answers. As I was explaining our federal electoral system to the girls, it hit me like a ton of bricks how truly limited in power the people of the United States are, how we have accepted as our role in government.
Take the electoral college system. Now, I have justified repeatedly why such a system may have been necessary some two hundred years hence But, really, when you think about it, why did we allow a system that immediately dismissed the "one man, one vote" notion of democracy and instead give all the power to our states, who can decide to dismiss the aspiration of 49.9% of its citizens and give all votes from that state to someone whom the 49.9% deem not only an unworthy choice but also absolutely wrong and bad for the perpetuation of our freedoms? Why should my mere geographic choice of home immediately amplify or dismiss my vote? Why should I, we, give up that much power to our elected representatives when the one who casts the vote may likewise enjoy their position of power by an equally slim margin?
While I and my fellow Americans may be free to address this topic and while it may serve as effective polemic fodder in the back and forth of pundit talk shows, what likelihood would success be if someone started a campaign to abolish the electoral college? Probably none. As much as the conservative side of the aisle likes to brand the media as "liberal," it is highly unlikely that any holder of a broadcast license would dare tell the government that it has given itself too much power and it is supporting a campaign to abolish the electoral college system. Such a campaign, you see, would not take hold overnight and, somewhere in the process, it is to be certain that said license would come up for review by the Federal Communication Commission whose rulers are, more often then not, arbitrary political appointees, and the Damocles Sword dangles precariously over the thin thread that connects the broadcaster to their license would be incentive enough to force them to tamp down the rhetoric and quash the campaign. Likewise, the print media, who is fortunate not to suffer such a regulatory oversight, is also highly unlikely to support a campaign that moves to forever check the power of the government simply because access to sources is the name of the game. It’s not just the publicly elected or appointed faces who go on the record with their statements, it is the legion of low level functionaries who serve all three branches of government and who owe their livelihoods to those who are appointed or elected to supervise them. Should any major media outlet seriously broach the question of the electoral college and campaign for its abolition, you can guarantee that directives would go out to every member of every department of every branch of government, federal, state and local, that that outlet is officially persona non grata in the eyes of the government. It is likewise assured that the multi-national corporations whose products make up the vast array of advertising dollars accounting for the lion’s share of media corporation profits would distance themselves from supporting such a radical notion as empowering the individual American with the right to have his vote cast for the person he feels best represents his views without passing through the filter of his state’s viewpoint. Even if they were to support the notion of one man one vote, every corporation is subjected to some degree of regulatory oversight by the government, and that degree is wholly dependent on how effectively they have curried favor in the eyes of that overseeing body. As such a notion, like the abolition of the electoral college, directly challenges their power to select the president, you can rest assured that, quite coincidentally, those respective branches and committees would immediately discover a need to convene and discuss regulatory issues that will directly and dramatically effect the bottom line of that industry which dares to challenge their power.
As we see that for-profit mainstream media is highly unlikely to throw their support behind this cause, the best any of us can hope for is that such a campaign be organized on the grassroots level, either here in the media or via the so-called "underground" media of the free weeklies that stuff the stands of every major metropolis. As they have neither dollars to lose nor enjoy the type of prominence necessary to lose an official inside source, they can afford to be a bit bolder in those causes they choose to embrace. But who would read them? Unfortunately, it’s back to the choir who, as sheer numbers go, are so small that to mount an effective campaign it may actually require them to get off their butts and into the streets to demand that each person have their individual voted counted. Unfortunately, this generation lacks a leader strong, committed and dynamic enough to get those who care in the streets in the kinds of numbers that can’t be ignored. This type of campaign requires not a Saturday march down main street and a roster of speeches from a stage before the parade permits end at sundown. It requires a commitment that directly confronts and effects the centers of profit, who can rest assured that the outraged will be back in their cubicles on Monday morning, pounding away at their keyboards and tackling those vast piles of data that will shackle them to their desks for 8, 10, 12, 14 hours a day, rob them of their weekends and vacation time in order to keep up with the endless flow of work and make them way too tired or busy to commit themselves to taking back the power that rightfully belongs to them as the true owners of this idea we call America.
What about the church? Surely, this message of the rights of man and its providential source runs to the core of the fundamental religious freedoms that so many of our predecessors embraced as a reason to flee the oppressive regimes that stifled them. Certainly, this notion of liberation philosophy, the rights of free people, is perfectly in line with the teaching of all the great prophets around which these religions were created. Would the pulpit likewise be the perfect setting for communicating this message of man’s God-given right to be free? Well, not if they intend to hold on to their tax exempt status. Let’s be honest, the biggest recipient of untaxed dollars aren’t drug dealers or on-line gambling sites. That dubious distinction belongs to the Church itself. It is no surprise that the American landscape is quickly being dominated by oversized steeples standing watch over mega-churches, packed to the rafters with faithful adherents of feel-good evangelism. World politics give much more credence these days to end times philosophy, and the scared and confused are happy to part with as many tax deductible dollars as are necessary to make themselves feel better. And the churches are happily telling them that the red, white and blue and the old rugged cross are their only salvation.
You can see the genius that was put into play when our founders devised the Constitution. It was innovative in that it very specifically detailed and separated the powers of the three branches of government. It devised a system that assured that the three branches kept each other in check so that no one branch held all the power. It devised a method of regular election and appointment so that the voter felt confident that periodically they had a chance to weigh in as to the general direction of the country. They even devised a system that allowed for modifying the Constitution should the times require a rethinking of key rights and limitations without having to completely re-write the entire document. It even made the point of saying that any power not specifically enumerated by that document was a power reserved for the states.
The states. In 1787, a state actually represented something. The pre-revolutionary makeup of states were fairly predictable and representative as each colony, for the most part, represented distinctive ethnic and religious groups of people. But what relevance do states hold today? It may be true that the south and midwest are decidedly more conservative and the metropolitan corridors of the seaboards are predictably more liberal, but are those two broad categories as easily defined as red and blue? Is everyone in North Carolina really a born-again evangelical Christian with a passion for NASCAR, an armory of guns and a firm commitment that Liddy Dole and Richard Burr are the poster boy and girl for the people of North Carolina, as its red state designation suggests? And is everyone in California really a latte sipping, tree hugging, gay marriage supporting grandmotherly female as embodied in Barbara Boxer and Dianne Feinstein and the blue banner they likewise wave? Of course not. So why do we let 55 people in California and 15 people in North Carolina gather in a room and cast one big vote on behalf of us all?
Because they have rigged the system to keep the power in their hands. They have devised a pseudo-polemic defined as Democrat and Republican, two primary colors to paint everyone in any given states. And they have made a deal, that only the states and these two parties will ever truly get the chance to determine who leads our country. And even if they can’t come to a final conclusion by reaching agreement of the elector count, do they return that power back to the people? Heavens to betsy, golly gee, no. They kick that responsibility to a panel of nine, black robed individuals who owe their lifetime jobs to previous presidents, and they get to determine who will lead us based solely upon the premise of which party held the power when they got their job.
Think about that. Rather than letting the 300 million of us cast the deciding votes that 538 people couldn’t resolve, that power is put into the hands of ... nine people. While that may not be an attractive proposition to the 300 million, you can imagine how attractive such a notion would be to the few hundred or thousand that make up the ruling class of the rest of the world. Our revolution and republican model of government was inspirational and, over the next two hundred years, nation after nation cast off their old crown-centric models to design similar Constitutionally based systems of representative government. While some gave great power to democracy, the vast majority adopted the republican model which vest the power in the hands of the elected and the parties they serve rather then the electorate. The veneer of democracy is just thick enough to allow the republican models to condemn the absolute monarchic, communistic or dictatorial as omni-present overlords, providing just enough cover to make their version of absolute totalitarianism much more palatable.
Is this what our ancestors fought and died for in 1776? Would they have willingly picked up arms to fight King George if they had known that they were supplanting one big dictatorship for 51 smaller ones? Would they have bled and sacrificed if they knew that, in the end, the individual would not freely and importantly choose whom they feel best represents them? And would they be happy to know that this vast beautiful country they escaped to was now owned lock, stock and barrel by petty corporate tyrannies who exploit their descendents to sacrifice time with their children, not to mention life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, so a few thousand people can control our fates?
So is it too late? Is democracy a fancified notion that we promote worldwide to make ourselves look better in our republican reality? Not so to the people who’ve taken to the streets in Mexico. As many of you may know, the presidential election here harks back to the much contested U.S. presidential election of 2000. While most of us are ignorant to Mexican politics, the last two elections have been absolute models of democracy, as power has been wrested from a party who ruled exclusively for over 70 years. The victory of Vincente Fox energized the populace on both the left and the right, with record numbers in the most recent election of the modern and monied as well as the poor and the trampled on turning out to give the narrowest of margins ever in a free election -- by some estimates, as low as 0.3% of the vote. The party in power wants to certify the vote and allow the courts and the election commission to stamp their approval on their very tiny victory. The people that challenged that power want every vote recounted. Sound familiar? The difference between the emerging Mexican democracy and the centuries-old American republic is that those who have been labeled as losers refuse to cavalierly accept that loss, lick their wounds and allow those elected and appointed above them to tell them they are powerless. Millions have taken to the streets, not just to stroll and shout in the Saturday sun, but to use the boulevards of political and economic power as literal campsites until their demand of a full recount is met.
It is hard to say whether or not their demand will win the day. But it is heartening to know that there are those who are willing to sacrifice life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness in order to have their voices heard and their votes counted.
It’s too bad that this most American of activities has to be exemplified south of the United States border. Perhaps as neither the media, the government, the churches or the electorate have the will or courage to exemplify the meaning of democracy, we’ll take heart that at least somewhere in the world, democracy still exists. And perhaps, if we can set aside our lattes and Budweiser, get off our oversized backsides and demand our voices be heard rather than allowing suit-wearing sycophants to speak for us, we might one day prove we are worthy of the slogan "the land of the free and the home of the brave."
You may wonder what this has to do with my novel. While many of you may know that this is a work of historical fiction rooted in the Golden Age of Piracy, it goes to core of the notion of what happens when rugged individualism goes loggerheads with institutional power. It addresses the notion that an act is only illegal and piratical if the action is not sanctified by the royal seal of power. And it confronts the reality of exactly what freedom is. It demonstrates one of the truly democratic institutions ever to exist in the most unlikely of settings. It shows to what depths of deception the powerful will descend to maintain a firm grasp on the reins of control, even if it means creating an illusion of freedom for those whom they dominate and own.
It may not have made sense to many for me to pen this story centered upon the high seas from a mountaintop lakeside perch in Mexico. But, given this desperate struggle for democracy and freedom taking part in the town squares of thousands of Mexican villages, it really is the most inspirational place to do so.
Next time, I’ll spare the preaching and focus on the travelogue and cultural acclimation we are undergoing. For the time being, please enjoy the pictures of our trip to Mexico at
http://www.paxgaea.com and peruse the blog entries from Abi and Pen. We have undergone an extensive rewrite of the Prologue and finally completed Chapter One. We launch into Chapter Two this evening. We are inspired, focused and targeted to finish the first draft by Dia de la Muerta.
On the Day Of the Dead, Thatcher will finally be fully brought to life. At least, that is, until we rewrite him again.
Musings From A Mexican Pizza Parlor Philosopher
Well, at long last we finally have Internet. It is nice to know that the issues we have in the states with respect to coordinating with the cable guy seems to be universal everywhere. I woke early this morning to run a very large load of mildewed laundry to the lavadaria. As we were short on baggage space we had to load a lot of our winter clothes into seabags which were stored on the roof rack. With all the rain we had on the trip and the daily downpours here in the mountains those clothes were fairly ripe. I ran back to wait for the cable guy who popped in around 9:30 but he had to run back to the office when the network went down. He tried his best to communicate this in Spanish to us and told us to call in one hour.
We gave him about two hours with no sign of an Internet signal and then we attempted to contact Telecable, our provider. While Telmex, the national telephone company, is also the national Internet and cable company, it appears that if you don’t want a phone line, which can take up to three years to have installed, you may work with one of the few independent suppliers. We were fortunate that our landlord showed up just as we were failing in our attempt to communicate, and she happily translated the information from the operator at Telecable. Apparently, it appeared our technician wasn’t coming back but we were instructed to just keep trying the Internet and, hopefully, eventually, it will begin working. We took the afternoon straightening up around the house and tearing into our voluminous reading list. Our much need delivery of bottled water likewise arrived and it was nice to actually have gallons of drinkable water rather than having to constantly purchase 600-ml bottles every day just to get by. It’s amazing how much water you drink everyday and how much you appreciate it when you have to rely on a pre-packaged source. Every half-hour or so I would check the connection, confirm we still had no Internet and return back to my book. We resolved that if by 4:30 we had not established an Internet connection, we’d head off and knock down our list of errands and try again tomorrow.
At 4:00, I tried the connection again and, to my pleasant surprise, we were once again connected to the Internet. I would equate the feeling to being lost at sea in a lifeboat and then suddenly seeing a luxury cruise liner heading your way. We were saved, and I dove into my blogs and sorted through the hundreds of unread e-mails. I confess that I got caught up in finally establishing contact with home and, after much cajoling, we headed out at 5:30 to do errands.
We picked up the huge stack of clothes I had dropped off earlier and found them wonderfully fresh smelling and clean. We then headed into Patzcuaro Centro to hunt down the numerous miscellaneous items we need to make the house more of a home. One of the pleasant, albeit inconvenient, differences between Patzcuaro and Wilmington is that we have no Wal-Mart to contend with, so we had to negotiate our way through dozens of little stores, each specializing in a few items. I had hoped to pick up one of those tasty open fire cooked chickens to bring home for dinner, but our shopping ran longer than expected and we had to settle for pizza. I sat and chatted with the young fellow who had taken my to-go order, and we had a totally bi-lingual conversation, me in English and he in Spanish, and yet we really seemed to be communicating. We talked about how it seemed strange that, in Europe Germans may be Germans, Spanish may be Spanish, English may be English and Italians may be Italians but they are also, always, proudly Europeans. In his view though, while people in the United States consider themselves to be Americans, everyone else on these two continents we call America, don’t seem to have the right to claim the title of American. He seemed to be disturbed by the notion that gringos don’t seem to recognize that there are hundreds of millions of Americans whom they marginalize as non-American. This was, perhaps, why they had such a visceral reaction to immigration from the south. That though they were Americans, they were Latin Americans and thus, alien. While Europeans may speak more languages and enjoy distinctive cultures from country to country, they were likewise united in their pride of being Europeans. So why, he seemed to ask, can’t we all take pride in being Americans? Why can’t we be like Europe and open our borders and co-mingle our languages and cultures like they do? Why are Americans afraid of their fellow Americans?
These were great questions to ponder as I handed the girls their Pepsis in a plastic bag. In an effort to cut down on trash and minimize the health hazards of broken glass, Mexico has made the deposit costs of glass bottles so outrageous that restaurants no longer release their glass bottles. As the pizza parlor had no plastic or Styrofoam cups, the waiter poured the Pepsi into plastic bags, inserted a straw and tied a watertight knot on the bag. The girls were surprised but we likewise marveled at the innovation. We came home, enjoyed pizza and sodas (and for me a glass bottled Negro Modelo with a deposit higher than the beer itself) and I put Abi to work on her first blog (look for that sometime tomorrow at
http://www.paxgaea.com ).
It is a nice change of pace to once again be able to stream Air America on-line as we pull together our various on-line and library elements and prepare to begin writing Thatcher. Tomorrow we begin falling into our daily routine to accommodate our daily walks to town to shop for lunch and dinner, coffee and crema at one of our favorite coffee shops, home schooling for the girls and language classes for all of us, blogging and, after the girls go to bed, four to six hours of writing nightly. We have a goal to finish the first draft by the first of November, so we’ve much to do to keep us busy between now and Dia De La Muerta, the Day of the Dead… a fitting deadline for our first draft.
Keep the e-mails and messages coming. We thrive on your encouragement.
At Home In Gringolandia
We are finally official residents of Patzcuaro!
I must give credence to this Pax Gaea notion that wrong turns so often lead you in the right direction. On Sunday, we checked out of the Hacienda Mariposas after taking one more walk around the grounds. We followed a horse trail through the woods and a break in the fence that led us to the most spectacular meadow you can imagine. It stretched for miles with picture postcard hills rising up among miles long of green. Cattle dotted the hillsides and a network of paths crisscrossed the fertile pastureland as little groups of families traveled along them responding to distant church bells pealing the call to mass. We plopped down on a little patch of earth along one of those hillsides and watched as storm clouds gathered and the air grew heavy with impending rain and rushed back to the Hacienda with the first distant flash of lightning to begin packing. The first drops of rain began to fall as we finished loading the Discovery and I made my way to the officina for check out. I was a little agape with sticker shock for the two nights accommodation but this is a first class resort and, under very different circumstances, were this a vacation and I was looking to unwind and be pampered, I would choose this place again in a heartbeat. Rene introduced me to Innocentio, his chauffeur who hailed from the neighboring town of Santa Clara and instructed him to seek out accommodations in that town that were in my price range. Our friend Tom, who owns a very cool resort in Ixtapa,
Present Moment Retreat, suggested we may want to check out some cabins in Santa Clara, so we decided to head to Santa Clara, about 15 miles away, to investigate both the town and, possibly, very affordable accommodations for a few days.
The rain was coming down in steady sheets as we ascended higher into the mountains to Santa Clara. We reached the village in about a half-hour and were diverted onto side roads as a major festival in commemoration to a local saint was underway. We were forced along a wide outer loop of the city and were amazed as the resolve of the townspeople to continue on with the celebration despite the heavenly deluge. In short order we were on the edge of town and failed to notice any signs advertising our target destination. We traveled a few more miles more and turned around heading back to Santa Clara and were once again diverted away from the center of the town, only this time we were at least on the high side of the village. We knew the Cabanitas de Betanias was supposed to be on the hill overlooking Santa Clara so I took a chance with a precarious random right turn that carried me very steeply up a road past a few estates and private clubs, good indications of resort accommodations. Suddenly we encountered a long line of pick up trucks stopped on the road. Apparently the deluge had toppled a massive tree directly in front of the entrance of the Cabanitas de Betanias, making it impossible for us to enter for as many hours as it would take to dispatch a highway team with chainsaws to remove the road and electrical crews to restring the downed power lines. I inquired to see if there was perhaps another way in to the Cabanitas or a road that would put me on the other side of the entrance, but apparently there was absolutely no other way in. Unless we wanted to wait half the day on the outside chance that a road crew would see the urgency of responding on a Sunday during a major festival to clear a tree, we had no chance but to turn back. We inched our way through a tight nine point U-turn on the narrow road perched precariously on the hillside and traveled back into Santa Clara. We figured, if nothing else, we would at least try to get a cellphone from one of the myriad of Telcel Dealerships in town, but the one we chose had a representative who spoke absolutely no English and demonstrated little patience with our minimal Spanish so we opted to hold off the purchase until we could make a deal with someone with whom we could better strike a communication middle ground.
I began to get that feeling that we were on the wrong course. Santa Clara, despite its charm and perhaps Innocentios capability to find affordable and appropriate housing, I just didnt like the idea of giving up on Patzcuaro, so we headed back down the mountain to that pretty little city that had lured us to drive 3,000 miles to visit. We made our way to the
Villa Gardenias, the hotel that we had inquired with the day before, and they were still willing to take our oversized dog and us for a fraction of the cost of the Hacienda. The Villa Gardenias is one of those places you may not fully appreciate from the roadside but, once you enter, you quickly realize what a lovely little place it is. The officina sits at the head of an open courtyard designed like a Spanish plaza festooned with flowers and alive with the sounds of parrots and macaws. As the name suggests, Gardenias dominate the lovely gardens flanking the open tiled courtyard. The rooms flank the garden, and outside each room is a cute little table and set of chairs with an ashtray subtly suggesting that smokers should retreat to the lovely setting should they feel the need to imbibe their odiferous pastime. We shuttled in the voluminous number of bags, kids and dog into an adorable bungalow style hotel room, beautifully decorated with Mexican pottery and cabinetry and a spray of freshly cut gardenias. The room immediately brought your pulse down a few dozen beats and, after chasing down a nice dinner in a downtown sidewalk café, we settled in to watch "A Fish Called Wanda" subtitled into Spanish and made plans to get serious in our home search tomorrow.
On Monday, we woke early and headed out to the Perimetro, the road that rings Patzcuaro, in search of breakfast. We chose a small little family run stand and dove into one of our best breakfasts since arriving in Mexico. and for dirt-cheap. Trino and his wife Aras and their three children broke out the only table they had and set it with a table cloth and all the chairs they could scrounge up and set before us a feast to fit a king. Aras is a very pretty woman and her three children took to serving us as if we were honored guests, bringing plate after plate of fresh made tortillas until I was about to bust, and all of this for just about $8.00. I was blown away with the food and service and yet, tipping seemed an uncommon practice here at the roadside stands which cater typically to locals rather than the tourists who may not see fine dining potential at a 10x 10 roadside stand with a single butane burner positioned directly in front of a muffler and brake shop. Every time I tried to tip the kids, they gave the money back to me, telling me that it was unnecessary. Trino, the father, who also runs a taxi, finally interceded and explained to his wife and kids that we were trying to express our gratitude and would be insulted if the kids wouldnt take the tip. Trino speaks great English, having driven a cab in Chicago, Dallas and New York. To him, the money may have been great, but it kept him away from his beautiful family. Were I in his shoes, I could understand the conflict. Instead, he took his last set of earnings, bought a cab in his hometown and set up shop from one of the three stools that flanked the counter at his wifes open air lunch counter.
The only thing lacking at this little roadside gourmet was coffee. The instant Nescafe sufficed but, after breakfast we made our way back to the Plaza Vasco de Quiroga and got an Americano at the coffee shop that seems to cater to a lot of expatriates. It was easy to spot the knot of gringos sipping away at the lattes, and we smiled as we past, making our way to the Telcel around the corner. As Pen was in negotiating with the owner, I hung outside with Rommel. One of the fellows who were sitting at the tabla americanos walked up and commented on Rommels striking features. William Chapman is a 6 ½ year expatriate who moved from Pennsylvania, putting behind him a lucrative law career and the family book business in Vermont to open a bookstore in neighboring Tzurumutaro. We talked at length about our mutual love of books and dogs. As we were chatting and smoking, a lovely couple from Wickenburg, Arizona stopped by and discussed real estate options in the area. The husband, Will Lochridge, is another former radio guy, having worked for NBC and ABC in New York then moving to Arizona to buy and later sell a radio station. He and his wife settled down in Wickenburg and opened the Refried Bean, a Mexican Décor store that gave them the great excuse to travel extensively throughout Mexico on buying trips.
When the subject got around to real estate, I picked his brain about rentals. I threw out a few of the names I had heard and he gave me very honest assessments of the properties that he knew were available. But he also clued me in that having a big bag of fur like Rommel would limit my options greatly. Having six dogs of his own, he jokingly accepted the blame for making gringo-accommodating rental property less dog friendly. He did, however, know of a local renter that catered to the needs of Americans and was very dog friendly in their rental considerations. He directed me to an art gallery down the road and put me in touch with Marty and Monica Gray. I jumped on his lead and drove the few miles to Galeria Vicki y Rafael in search of the landlords of the much-fabled Gringolandia a collection of hillside apartments just outside of the Centro. We were successful in locating the gallery but, alas, it was closed. Interestingly, next to the art gallery was a biker bar with the very non-Hispanic name of Mr. Grays. We were on the right track but just needed to establish contact with the landlords. We returned to the Villa Gardenia and, by luck, the owner, Blanca Goldwasser, was on site. I inquired if she was familiar with Marty or Monica Gray. As luck would have it, she was and she began making phone calls to hunt down Monica. In less than an hour, she called the hotel and we made arrangements to meet her at Gringolandia.
We traveled the few minutes to her home and met Monica outside her gate. Her husband Marty was at the facility readying one of their apartments that had just become available for rental. She climbed inside the Rover and directed me to a road that climbed steeply up a hillside. At the top were a collection of rambling structures, 25 apartments and homes spread along the steep incline the fabled Gringolandia. It was very easy to see how such a reputation may have been earned as I immediately spotted the license plates of the cars scattered along the hillside hailing from such exotic locales as California, Washington, New Mexico and Ontario. The men working on the apartment which had come up for rent were at lunch and had disappeared with the keys, so we sat on the long stone porch that stretched the length of the four apartments in this section and took in the magnificent view of Lake Patzcuaro. It gave us a chance to get to know a little more about this couple with a unique penchant of attracting Americans.
Marty is a lifelong sea captain who retired after 25 years of coastal shipping and king crab fishing in Alaska. The fishing and coastal cargo trade in Alaska is lucrative but seasonal, which gave Marty his ability to give into his wanderlust and bounce around the globe for weeks and months at a stretch. About six years ago he retired and moved to Zihuatenejo, a coastal fishing village on the Pacific, where he and a fellow sea captain opened a bar, restaurant and resort. They had a go at that for about three years, and Marty sold out his portion and followed a girlfriend to Patzcuaro. Now, the way he describes her you cant help but be fascinated. A gorgeous little American blonde who looked more fashion model than world adventurer, she had spent a lifetime globe hopping, clearing 40 acres of forest to build a resort in Costa Rica, buying and selling resorts all throughout Latin America. She had ventured here to Patzcuaro with Marty to pursue yet another interest but got sidetracked with a possible lucrative venture in the South Pacific that has netted her a literal gold mine in the Solomon Islands. It was during this time of flux that Marty met Monica.
Monica comes from a long line of real estate speculators. Her father, an American, came to the Patzcuaro some 40 years ago and set about developing the outer perimeter of this historic old city. One of those developments was this collection of hillside homes and apartments which friends and associates began renting during their business and pleasure ventures from the states, which led to the euphemistic dubbing of Gringolandia. Monica was sent to business school and took over the family business, expanding to nearly 40 properties in and about Patzcuaro collectively known as Departementos Vicki, in honor of her mother.
The workmen finally arrived and opened the door to the rental they had been busy rehabilitating. The first thing you notice is the spectacular vaulted ceiling reaching thirty feet high, crowned in rough timber braces. Two huge skylights allow a magnificent spray of light throughout the entire room. Framing the doors are windows, some still bearing the calling card of the radical Americans who had previously occupied the place, leaving their forwarding address by way of a bumper sticker that declares "Ill see you in Cuba." A huge fireplace dominates one corner of the massive studio leading into a stone lined kitchen with a vast row of windows spreading from wall to wall and reaching to the ceiling. To the left you step up a few stairs and turn left and ascend another flight to a long wide loft stretching the length of the main room and framed by a wrought iron railing. Descending down the stairs you proceed down a hallway lined with wall to ceiling cabinets and make a left turn into the bathroom with has, among its other interesting features, a recessed garden with palms and hanging masks.
We fell in love instantly and only deeper considering the price which was well within our budget. We retreated to Monica and Martys fabulous villa complete with an indoor swimming pool prominently featured in the center courtyard and spent the afternoon drinking beer and feasting on a fabulous spread of dishes served up from Monicas kitchen. I introduced Marty to Google Earth, he being a man who loves maps and travel. According to Monica, he stayed up half the night flying around the world on the coolest mapping software program every devised.
We spent all day Tuesday making preparations for the move including joining Monica on a pillaging trip of one of the un-rented apartments for original art. We plan to hang it as soon as we figure out which store in town sells them and the proper Spanish word for "picture hanger." Monica is a devotee of Tarot and was intrigued that I was drawn to her painting of "the Fool" which she swears is my Tarot Card.
This morning (Wednesday) we moved into the apartment and spent the day shopping for the basics to set up our home. I had to re-familiarize myself with a gas stove and water heater. Tonight I set up the computers in anticipation of the cable mans 9 a.m. arrival to connect us to the Internet. As we opted not to bring a television and have no intention of buying one, I guess well have to keep up with the broader media world via their web sites. In the meantime, please feel free to write us at our new address:
The Carrolls
Departamentos Vicki, #7
Patzcuaro, Michoacan,
Mexico, C.P. 61600
Or reach us at our local number:
011-43-41-03-07-96
Once weve got the house situated, Pen, Abigail and Eleanor will be sharing their thoughts via their blogs plus we have yet to cull through the hundreds of pictures weve taken so far to add to the web site. As for me, after fourteen years, it is my hope that Pen and I will sit down this weekend to bring Thatcher to life.
It only seems fitting that, as we settle into our new home in Gringolandia, with the unique cast of characters we assembled in our own personal story, Thatcher and his quirky contemporaries will finally have the home they deserve the printed page.
House Hunting In Patzcuaro
We were disappointed when we reached Morelia that the two realty companies that we had made contact with prior to leaving Wilmington seemed not to be too interested in trying to find rental accommodations for us once we arrived here. We were fortunate, however, that Eduardo had put us in contact Saida and Jose Maho who live in Patzcuaro and may have a line on property. We contacted Saida at 10:30 on Saturday and, true to his word, Eduardo had spoken to her. She was going to look around to see what she had available and we would get back up with her in the late afternoon.
We headed into Patzcuaro after a great late breakfast and tried to get some banking and Internet issues resolved. I’ve apparently assigned a password for broadband that I don’t remember so, until we resolve this issue, I’ll have to burn my entries onto CD and go on-line at
Meg@net, a local Internet Café.
We talked to Saida later in the afternoon, and she put us on the track of a cabin she thought would run around $300 a month. We followed up on that lead to what can best be described as a camping community of small two story apartments. While there were two bedrooms, a bathroom, a living space and a small kitchen with two burners and a breathtaking view of the lake, the price, unfortunately was hiked by $200 a month. While I must confess it had an inspirational view, with no telephone, Internet or an oven to cook in, plus the automatic price increase by almost 66%, what I call the Land Rover tax, it was just too primitive to justify the cost.
We headed back into Patzcuaro and I decided to do some random turns down streets near the lake. While we did find rentals, some even with a bit of charm and character that were affordable, none came furnished, requiring us to buy all the furniture we’d need, not an acceptable choice. We did run into two American ladies who had been in a rental for about a week and they did clue us into a few American expatriates who have real estate connections in town. We’ll have to wait until Monday to follow up on those leads, as it is now Sunday. We’ll continue to investigate on our own today and see what we can line up for the first of the week.
As I’ve mentioned, the Hacienda Mariposa where we are staying is one of the most beautiful inns I’ve ever visited, and it seems to be a Mecca for visiting Americans. This morning we met a fellow with a Rhodesian Ridgeback who moved to Ixtapa from Minnesota and opened up an inn, and a young couple from Pennsylvania who are both metalsmiths here to investigate the local craft. As much as I love the Hacienda Mariposas, I believe that, as finding a house may take a few more days than anticipated, I may have to find less pricey accommodations. Before heading back to the Hacienda for dinner, we checked out the Villa Gardenias, another dog friendly hotel, which is much more in line with my budget. When we returned to the Hacienda, I talked to Rene about our rental hunt and he said he’d make a few calls for me to see what he could line up. I hope he as is as helpful and understanding when I break it to him about heading the Villa Gardenias. Meanwhile we spent the evening pouring through two beautiful portrait books about Michoacan and Paranguayas, which detail the state and the Indian influence on the food and culture of the region. Rene’s friend, Adalberto Rios Szalay, had written and photographed much of the contents while staying at the Hacienda Mariposas. There is no doubting its inspirational qualities. That I can confess.
We’re off to breakfast and a day of house hunting. Ciao.
Morelia, Mexico to Patzcuaro, Mexico
The Quality Inn in Morelia puts out a very nice spread in their breakfast buffet and, I must confess, I over indulged. As we move deeper into Indigenous Country there are many more corn offerings including one dish I ate this morning which was ground corm meal rolled into the shape of a piece of corn. Man was it sweet! We had a great breakfast and put together a plan to be on the road by 11:00 a.m., to be in Patzcuaro by noon. Guess I was grazing too long at the buffet because we got back to the room around 11 a.m. and still had to pack up. We got the bags together as hastily as possible, and I wheeled everything out to Fabiola and was shocked to find it shining. Now I know the rain the night before was pretty hard, but this was impossible. It seems that a family makes a living going around washing the cars of the guests, and they leave it up to you to determine what the shine, or lavado, is worth. I had no idea so I consulted with the front desk and they gave me a price I thought was way too low so I threw in a little extra and they seemed very happy. I still feel like I got way too great a deal. Fabiola was covered in this thick gray mud cake since the frontier, but now she looks absolutely beautiful. I loaded up the bags and called my friend Eduardo Betancourt who was kenneling Rommel and he told me heÃ?d see me in 30 minutes.
While we were waiting for the doctor, I worked the phones trying to get up with the realtors we had been put in contact with. None of them had rentals available in Patzcuaro, and I was distressed to discover we may have to find some other cool little village in the area to lodge, which would be fine but not what we had hoped for. While we discussed our options, true to his word, Dr. Betancourt came roaring into the parking lot with Rommel safely ensconced in the dog box. He chided me for the crappy food I fed Rommel and put Rommel on a diet of Purina Pro Plan which, quite honestly, I had coming to me. I do feed Rommel lousy food but IÃ?m used to buying the stuff I buy for three dogs instead of one. We chatted for a bit and asked him his thoughts on rental properties in Patzcuaro. I told him my dilemma about the realtors and he immediately thought of someone who might have a rental in Patzcuaro. If we didnÃ?t mind following him back to his office he could get the number for us. We followed Eduardo through the now dry streets of Morelia -- without a doubt one of the prettiest big cities IÃ?ve ever visited -- and made our way to his clinic. It is a very attractive facility with the clinic on the bottom floor and the kennel on top. We chatted a bit more about the book plan, and he gave me the numbers for his friends and promised to try to get up with them today. Tomorrow IÃ?ll call Saida and Jose and, with any luck, weÃ?ll be in our new place by the beginning of next week.
Eduardo is a very brilliant guy. We chatted a bit about his work and my novel and an idea I had for him based on his rescue of Rommel -- a potential business opportunity that is desperately needed here in Mexico. I was amazed to discover, as well as being a vet,
EduardoÃ?s specialty is veterinary surgery. Now, you think about the commitment this man has to dogs when heÃ?s tied up for hours on end operating on dogs, plus running his veterinary business, plus going out into terrible weather to rescue some Americans. This guy impresses me in ways few people do, and he and I are going to see if I can put my vast marketing skills to work on helping him create a great new service here in Mexico.
We finally got back on the road after taking a little loop around the town. Next time we get down here, Eduardo will take some time to show us around to the Ã?realÃ? Morelia, that special something that has kept him here all these years. We tanked up and hit the road for our last 40 kilometers of this part of our drive, flying along a wide four-lane highway and capping off the last few miles upon a gorgeous two lane. Making the turn into Patzcuaro gave me a sense of awe few places have. This old colonial town has been around since the 1600Ã?s yet, at every turn, we found mind-blowing architecture and those unmistakable whitewashed walls of the colonial town.
There are two very distinctive town squares in Patzcuaro; the first as you arrive hosts the permanent market that features local foods and handicraft from area craftspeople and farmers. The other, which includes the oldest University in North America (more on that later) and one of the oldest libraries features the Indian Market. From our initial glimpse this city is exactly what we had hoped for. Perhaps there is a sense of space, a need to find a remote destination as attractive as you hope to justify the journey but our initial impressions are all we had hoped for. We came to the end of town and the girls were in need of "facilities" so I took a left thinking IÃ?d find a Pemex on the edge of town after which we could resume our tour. Rather I found myself on the outskirts of town heading up into the mountains. I decided to turn around at the next turn off. The driveway we found led us instead into one of the lodgings we had on our list of pet friendly locations...
Hacienda Mariposas.
We pulled up the cobbled driveway and parked and beheld in awe the beautiful broad greens before us. I leashed Rommel to walk him beyond the gates so as to not disrespect the request for Ã?"No Fumar Por FavorÃ?. After taking care of RommelÃ?s and my needs I returned to begin walking around the ground. Hacienda Mariposas stretches across a steep swath of land along a hillside with meticulously maintained yards, gardens and a livestock pen. The cobblestones snake along the perimeter of the property to a stable with a half dozen beautiful mounts. We inquired about possible lodging but the staff, like us, was not quite bi-lingual enough to communicate effectively and, from what we could gather, there was no lodging available. We had spotted a number of candidates back in town to check and were about to depart when El Jefe, Rene Ocana, arrived just as we about to leave. Rene is a striking, silver haired man who retired 11 years ago as a fiduciary trust manager with a contract for the valley and county of Sonoma, wine country, in California. He instructed the staff to make ready accommodations and told us to return in a little while to check in. He drew me a map of sites and restaurants in Patzcuaro to see while we waited.
We returned to the Indian Market Square and arrived just as the sky once again opened up. I fished out the rain gear and we toured the square despite the deluge. The recommended restaurant, alas, did not feature outdoor seating and as we had Rommel in tow, we settled for another cafe but I ordered the Sopas Tarasca, a local soup that is a staple of the Indian diet and was floored by its flavor. The best way to describe it is it is like liquefied bean soup with tortillas and cheese and it was absolutely addicting. Combining that with Huevos Oaxacataqueros, a dish with eggs and mole sauce, and I was in heaven.
We returned to the Hacienda Mariposas a few hours later, and the staff checked us into what I can only describe as one of the most beautiful suites I could ever imagine. The entryway is two large double doors with massive pull handles opening up to a beautiful central hall lined with books and comfortable seating. To the left, we step into this gorgeous sitting area with high vaulted ceilings crowned with skylights. We saw a bedroom with two double beds which we assumed we would be sharingÃ?? but we still hadnÃ?t bothered to notice a whole other half of the suite which contained this broad open office area and another huge bedroom with one of the largest beds I have ever seen. Both bathrooms are themselves works of art with tiled and painted sink basins. Rene is a man who loves art, and it is obvious in the decorum we encounter everywhere we look.
Though a short day by driving standards, we were all exhausted and the girls picked selections to read from ReneÃ?s well stocked library as Pen and I got the two fireplaces roaring, and we settled in with good books in art filled tranquility.
IÃ?ve given a lot of thought to this long, beautiful drive, and IÃ?ve concluded that nothing thrills me more than the road. Since I was a kid, when my truck driver dad would throw me in the cab of his rig or when he would load up the kids in the middle of the night and I would wake to the sound of the tires humming along the highway and open my eyes just enough to see dad pushing our truck and trailer somewhere down the road for a long evening, I have always been enchanted by long stretches of asphalt and concrete. As a young man, I was fortunate that my best friend was also a road dog like me and, we racked up tens of thousand of miles just because we felt the desire to launch into the desert in the middle of the night and see where the sunrise would find us. We would grab a quick bite and a dozen cups of coffee and turn around and head home, or some other direction if the spirit moved us. It wasnÃ?t about the destination that drove us to spin the odometer; it was the drive itself.
I must confess that, while writing the novel may have been the motivation to check out and move on to some secluded destination where we could let Thatcher finally come to life upon the printed page, it was my need to drive someplace new, far away and foreign that truly thrilled me. In a few days, with the help of friends, we will find a home to settle into and begin the process of animating our piratical golem. In the meantime, we will enjoy this hacienda life, visit the lake and furiously compose that first draft so I can reward myself with the next drive!. Target, Belize! While the girls may not get quite the same rush I do just being on the road, I do see the spark of the Carroll gene, that gypsy spirit so curious about what hides just over that next hill. Not everyone possesses it but, when you are fortunate to have a spouse who enjoys a great adventure and kids who, like it or not, possess within them a genetic marker that attracts them to highway signs, you know you have no choice but to give into that wanderlust and see where the roads will take you. This highway took me to a small mountainside paradise. The result of its inspirations will hopefully carry us towards a Xanadu waiting to be discovered, marveled and described. Patzcuaro is destination one in a wide-open world before us, Gaea willing.
It would then be only fitting that, here, in Patzcuaro, 3,000 miles from home on an adventure to write about my favorite pirate that I can quote from Captain Jack Sparrow of the Black Pearl. "Steady as she goes, lads. Now.. bring me that horizon".
San Luis Potosi, Mexico to Morelia, Mexico
Well, after eight long days of travel, we are finally on the threshold of our new home, Patzcuaro, which is only 60 miles away.
As noted in the last blog, we opted to hang around the Holiday Inn Quixote a little later today to take advantage of the amenities the hotel had to offer. We left San Luis Potosi about 1:00 p.m. with the intention of stopping in Queretaro if the road turns out to be unpromising. It turns out the highway was virtually just like an Interstate so we made Queretaro by 3:00 and decided to push on as close as we could get to Morelia before nightfall. Beyond Queretaro the road changed dramatically and we were now back on two lane highways with steep gradients and large trucks nearly impossible to pass. Pen studies the map and saw two possible roads to Morelia, one appearing as if it were either and Autopista or Super Carretera so we patiently chugged behind the truck traffic until we saw the sign for the Autopista and in minutes we were back to traveling at 110 km/h or so all the way to Salamanca. We seemed to be having a lot of luck finding and following signs to Morelia but, alas, we reached a crossroad with no clear indication so we took the right turn and quickly discovered we were going the wrong way. We found a friendly Pemex station and an attendant who seemed to have a genuine affection for Rommel and he sketched out a route to Morelia. Now, I thought I had translated what he said to be about 200 kilometros but, once we were on the right road the signs all indicated a little over 100 kilometers. It was two lane traffic but moving fast and I figured if our luck held, we could be in Morelia by 7 p.m., find a hotel and chill out for a bit after the last long leg.
No sooner do I boast that possibility do we see a sign rerouting us through twisting rutted side streets through rough barrios around a small city. But as soon as we found our way through the detour we immediately began climbing to Morelia. Each climb brought us into spectacular lake country with breathtaking vista from these two lane ridge lined roads. Pen and the girls were snapping pictures and marveling at the sights. We were forced through yet another detour that was choked with traffic. I decided that I would trust my instincts and follow a sign indicating the direction to Morelia rather than the stream of traffic and found myself squeezing through the narrow little colonial streets next to a spectacular mission that seemed to have no apparent outlet. I asked a kind old man sitting on an adobe stoop outside his home how to get my way back to road to Morelia. He smiled and indicated a series of twists and turns through this ancient barrio that eventually put me back into the stream of traffic that, moments later thinned out and sent us across this ancient bridge that dissected this spectacular lake and immediately sent us climbing again.
We noticed as we drove that a huge road building project was underway to place an Autopista between Salamanca and Morelia. All these vast breathtaking lakes were an obvious tourist attraction judging the meticulously laid out markets fully paved and electrified that were shuttered by the time we passed. It dawn on us that, in a few short years this hard to get to little hideaway we discovered will be speeding hundred of thousands of new tourists to the region so we were fortunate to stumble across it before it became the next big Mexican hotspot. Sections of the new highway were already opened that connect an Autopista between Guadalajara and Mexico City so we sped the last few miles into Morelia just as the sky opened up and sheets of rain began pouring down.
Morelia is a very large city with mixtures of 400-year-old colonial structures combined with wildly modern structures. But one thing they greatly suffer from is the ability to channel off heavy bouts of rain and these cobble stoned streets became a virtual raging river as water reached the middle of the doors for the tens of thousands of cars that were weaving their way through Morelia. Everywhere we looked cars were stalling in their attempts to cross too deep water. Shopkeepers were making a futile effort to squeegee washing across their floors. In some places, the water was not only high but also swift, as many of these streets are incredibly steep and narrow. I must confess that I felt like I was in a Land Rover commercial as my sweet little Discovery Fabiola picked her way through the deluge with no problems. She was getting a firm grip on those cobbles as if they were a river bottom and we coursed through the flooded, dark streets craning our necks to find a hotel.
A
Quality Inn sign caught my eye and we waded through a particularly chaotic channel of water to get to it. I put my begging face on, made sure I was sufficiently soaked and then began my spiel about the long drive, the horrible weather, my exhausted ninas and my pequieto perro and please, if only she could find it in her heart to let us stay. My sob story worked on the first try and a bold young attendant followed me out to the Rover to begin removing my ridiculous quantities of baggage to the room. We were a motley crew, striding across those wet tile floors. It was only after the desk clerk got a look at Rommel that she began to panic. Now, I don’t see Rommel as that big of a dog. Perhaps I am gauging that against our two Great Pyranees dogs that we had to give up for this trip. Now those dogs were huge and next to them, Rommel looked pretty puny but, to others, they must see a big dog. The look on her face when she called me over told me I had a much harder sales job to do. She took my pitch as being for a dog with, perhaps, a little less presence than this Rottweiler/Pit Bull/Hound mix. She looked so pained but told me there was no way he could come in. No matter if I was willing to pay more or cover any damages. If her bosses saw the size of that dog when they came in the morning, she would be immediately fired. Our drenched and pitiful expressions motivated her to begin dialing to see if she could locate any hotel that would take us but she hit one dead end after another. Finally, she told me to have a seat and give her a few moments to try another avenue. Just as I began thinking that we would all be spending the evening sleeping upright in the Rover, she comes to me with an option. She had called a veterinarian friend of hers to tell him of her dilemma and he offered to let Rommel stay at his kennel for the night. I was ecstatic, considering the hour and asked her to draw me a map and I’d head there now. She patted my hand sympathetically and said that wasn’t necessary, he’d come pick Rommel up if I was happy with the option.
20 minutes later,
Dr. Eduardo M Betancourt Morales showed up in his little Jetta with a crate and his wife in tow. He apologized for taking so long to arrive which, to me, seemed amazingly short in this horrid weather, but they had just sat down to dinner when he got the call. To say he was kind, sympathetic and loving was an understatement. In his impeccable English he explained that Mexicans don’t commonly share a love for pets, specifically big dogs, as do Americans. He was happy to come out at this late hours in this horrible weather because he knows what it is to love dogs. He explained how Rommel would be in an inside kennel tonight and, in the morning, weather dependent, he’d be let out into an exterior pen to play and exercise. As soon as we were ready to go, we needed only to call Dr. Betancourt and he’d deliver Rommel back to us within a half-hour. All this… for about 20 bucks!
Dr. Betancourt and the young lady at the front desk are my new heroes. We just finished an excellent dinner, the girls are sleeping fitfully despite the torrent of rain, thunder and lightening that rages outside out window. Tomorrow we’ll pack up for what hopefully will be one last time as we get up with the realtor, hook up with our new veterinarian Dr. Betancourt and retrieve our trouble making boy and climb up into the mountains that ring Lake Patzcuaro, our new home for the next half year.
I will give my final thoughts on the trip in the next blog but I must say how absolutely privileged I feel to have been able to make this possibly once in a lifetime trip to this fascinating place. I put together this journey with as little planning as possible not because I was shirking responsibility or that I’m not a freak for itineraries. It was just that, in my hope to promote this simple philosophy of Pax Gaea, the notion that we are one earth and one people with the same hopes, dreams and aspirations, total strangers will do good and go beyond the call of duty when given the chance to... even for a long haired, crazy bearded man, his three precocious women and a oversized neurotic dog.
This world is full of good people. It is such a shame that we can’t take time out to get to know total strangers much less the neighbors who share our fence line. Why we let our differences drive us apart rather than letting our common humanity bring us together is something I hope to explore. Bit by bit I may pick up the language and key phrases so as to better communicate with my new neighbors but, more than that, I hope my spirit and my belief in the fundamental goodness of people allows me to send a message that I am grateful that, deep down, we are all so much alike and so greatly desire the chance to connect with everyone we encounter
Tampico, Mexico to San Luis Potosi, Mexico
I had every intention of posting this last night while it was fresh in my mind but I discovered how easy it is to lose everything youve just written in a blog with one accidental keystroke. Now, Im writing in word and pasting to my blogs, saving incessantly!
We woke yesterday a bit late and with a long list of things to do but the Hotel Miramar Inn and the staff were so great we just found ourselves moving in low gear. We enjoyed a great breakfast of Mexican eggs, frijoles and a big stack of corn tortilla and copious quantities of coffee. We finally headed out around 11:00, taking one more pass along Playa Miramar though, because we were behind schedule, I opted to snap a few more photos rather than take the much desired dip. Then it was back to the long, complicated route through Tampico to find an ATM, an Internet café and gas. I usually pride myself on my sense of direction and I tried to memorize landmarks that would take me back to the Zona Fiscal, or banking center but I kept making the wrong turn and stopped at the first roadside ATM I could find and drew out a few thousand pesos. Equal bad luck locating the dozen or so Internet Cafes I had seen coming into town so we planned to make a stop in Ciudad Valles to accomplish that goal. Next was finding a Pemex gas station to refuel. Now, say what you want about full service but thank Gaea for people who have the patience to withstand loco Americanos. My attendant, who knew absolutely no English, tried to communicate how to get back on Carretera 70 as clearly as he could, and having no success, a few other attendants jumped in to try to clarify until, finally, one resorted to drawing a map for me. I could see their chagrin in my rearview mirror when I turned right instead of left but they sent up a little cheer when I made a U-turn, honking as I passed that they had, indeed, communicated the message to me.
I decided to follow their advice even though each street I turned down felt wrong but, in just a few minutes we were on Avenida Hidalgo and there, looming ahead, was the sign reading Mexico 70 via Ciudad Valles. Now I have been impressed with the Mexican highways thus far but this next stretch confirmed every fear I had of driving in Mexico. The road leading out of Tampico was steep, pitched and rutted and, because of the on-going construction, narrowed to one way traffic. This created a bit of white knuckling on my part but this bad road made its way through beautiful ranch country.
Just as quickly as I had been swallowed in a miles long line of traffic, the sign indicating San Luis Potosi stretched wide open before me as the rest of the traffic diverted off to Ciudad Valles. As we were running behind we opted to roll on and see if we could find an Internet Café in San Luis Potosi instead but, strangely this road felt wrong and desolate as I turn onto what felt like an off ramp and was forced into a construction zone that made me feel like I had missed a sign as I passed by workmen and steamrollers, right through their work area. They seemed nonplussed but I felt a little weird about it and then suddenly a hard right and I were back on a two lane that very quickly began to ascend into very steep mountains. Now, I love driving mountain roads. I have absolute joy twisting along the Blue Ridge Parkway or the Angeles Crest Highway in California but this, this was a driving experience. Every few hundred meters was another sign reading "Curva Peligrosa" and these blind turns were simply that. But, punctuating the severity of the drive were little roadside memorials commemorating someone whom had died. Now, we may see these on roads in the U.S. but these things are elaborate, with permanent stone crosses and little chapels with saints and candles. It seems not only to commemorate the loss but, in this deeply Catholic nation, it seems a constant prayer for the safety of all drivers who pass. The girls made a sport of calling out each new monument and its elaborate accoutrements. I tried to be chipper and make the best of it but Abi, in true unfiltered fashion, finally asks, "Dad are we about to die?" I tried to laugh it off and tell her that, with so many blessing, we were as safe as we could be but I must confess the thought crossed my mind a time or two. I consider us fortunate in that we had virtually no traffic and the rain that seemed to fall on all sides of our mountains, stayed away from our road. In a few hours of seemingly endless switchbacks and twists and turns, we once again found ourselves in one way driving traffic as we proceeded around some of the more precarious of roads but, suddenly, these wide plateaus opened before us and we found ourselves doing 100 km/h across flat two lanes. Just as amazing, out of nowhere a sign pointed us to a sudden right an a "Super Carretera" which is some of the smoothest, flattest asphalt you can ask for and now we were cruising along at 110 and 120 km/h making up for much lost time on switchback mountain. This Super Carretera eventually dumped us onto an Autopista, the pride and joy of the Mexican Highway Department whose roads resemble American Interstates and in a few hours we were in San Luis Potosi.
We had been fortunate thus far to find dog friendly accommodations and I have my pitch wired to make the case for my poco perro mi amore. The first place I saw was a Holiday Inn Express and I began my loco Americano patter. They told me no and were about to send me on my way when a clerk and a manager took pity on me and began calling around to other hotels. We were left with one possibility. The
Holiday Inn Quixote just a mile away would let us put Rommel in a kennel. While it had been rainy, it had an igloo, a big run and, yes, even a chill in the air at this altitude but, it seemed like the perfect option so we took it. This place is a lot more luxurious then we were banking on but it has yet another, kind and accommodating staff, great food and a toleration for Rommel who barked all night. Hes way too spoiled and needed to be reminded that, while family, he is a perro, and needs to be reminded of that occasionally. We just finished a huge breakfast buffet and the girls took a swim, were packing off and heading for Morelia but, as it is almost noon, well settle for Queretaro. We have a list of dog friendly accommodations and are motivated that we are almost to our destination.
Keep writing. We love your encouragement. Hasta Luego!
Brownsville, Texas to Tampico, Mexico
Greetings from the beach in Mexico! Weve finally crossed the border and are now once again on the Gulf of Mexico. I must confess I have been dreading crossing day just about more than anything. Its not because I havent looked forward to being here. I was dreading the nightmare scenario I had played out in my head dozens of times when I reached the border and customs made me unpack my way too top heavy load. We woke by 5:00 and were on the road by 6:50. We stopped long enough to tank up the Rover, load up on bottled water until we acclimatize ourselves to the local H2O and stock up on toilet paper as all savvy Mexico travelers say that toilet paper and bath towels are in short supply in rest stops and hotels.
We crossed the bridge spanning the Rio Grande at 7:45 and began the customs process. I pulled out extra clothes to change into after the inspection ordeal to come or so I thought. We parked at the immigration center and I entered to begin what I thought would be a lengthy visa process. The stern clerk was very kind to me in spite of my minimal Spanish. She gave me four short forms to fill out, one for each passport, signed and stamped our visas and sent me to the Paisano Veiculos department across the room. There, the lady perused my insurance, sent me for copies of my passport and title, took the money for the Visas and sent me on my way. I inquired about Rommels veterinary certification but they had absolutely no interest in it. So, I walked back to the car with my visas and vehicle registration information, climbed behind the wheel and drove to the next station where the vehicle inspection was to take place. The inspector asked what we were carrying, bid us a good day and waved us on. In less than a half-hour, we were done. We didnt anticipate such a smooth process and, as the banks didnt open for almost two more hours, we decided to head to Ciudad Victoria, about 200 miles inland, to get clear of the border and hunt down a bank to exchange our dollars for pesos.
Our first real challenge was getting through Matamoros. Like so many large cities, the roads wind to and fro and, unless youre a local, its easy to get lost, which I did about four times, taking road turns attempting to get to Mexico Carretera 101. Rain began to fall, making the roads wet, muddy and slippery but, in time, we emerged onto a grand boulevard lined with all the big box retailers, a clear indication we had emerged from the centro and arrived in the suburbs, to the road that would carry us south from Matamoros. The drive to Ciudad Victoria was breathtaking, carrying us first across flat farmland, then into rolling hills covered with chaparral and cactus. Horses, cattle and burros fed from the high grass that lined the sides of the road. As we began to climb, new valleys would open before us, reminding me much of Wyoming and Montana. The Sierra Madre Mountains began to spread before our eyes, stretching the entire length of the country and our destination tomorrow.
Driving in Mexico, I've discovered, is about taking speed limits as suggestions and always staying far to the right to allow cars to pass you. Much of the drive to Ciudad Victoria was on two lane highways with a small lane to the right dotted with a broken line that you are supposed to cross and ride to allow faster traffic to pass. The two-lane 101 was surprisingly smooth and well maintained better than the roads in Texas, I must confess. Now, getting around Ciudad Victoria was a bit of a challenge as we arrived during what appeared to be a noon rush hour.
Ciudad Victoria sprawls across a foothill valley for miles but life is concentrated in the downtown. After circling about 20 square blocks we broke down and parked in a paid lot and walked four blocks to a bank to exchange our currency. Pen and Abi stayed outside on the sidewalk with Rommel while Elea and I wended our way through the long line of customers. Thank Gaea people tolerate mischievous children and stupid Americans, because it is only through the kindness of the people we encountered that got us pointed in the right direction. We got back to the parking lot and paid our 8 pesos (about 80 cents) and hunted for a way to get to Tampico. I stopped into a Pemex gas station, the sole, state owned gas retailer, and decided to tank up for the drive to Tampico. More dumb gringo stuff as I discovered that Visa and American Express arent accepted for most gas purchases, so we dipped into our minimal cash resources and spent 500 pesos for 60 liters of gas. The attendant at the Pemex station seemed to enjoy walking me through the process, including the currency so I paid him the right amount. He pointed me in the right direction and we were off to Tampico.
Another peculiarity of driving in Mexico are these bone jarring speed bumps, some made of huge metal cannon ball type material, some just so big you cant help but scrape your underside. It does accomplish the goal though. Once you hit it hard, you never forget and approach each new speed bump very gingerly. We stopped off at an Oxxo, a convenience store chain that you find at many of the Pemex gas station, paid our 2 pesos each to use the bathroom, bought some hotdogs and chicken and wove our way through a myriad of small towns to Tampico. Signs along the side of the road boast the fact that 3500 kilometros of road is undergoing modernization, meaning roadwork is ever underway. We twisted and turned through a succession of foothills and hair-raising curves, through mountain valleys and finally to the urban sprawl that makes up Tampico.
Tampico is a resort town with gorgeous playas, or beaches. But getting to them and finding hotels was not as easy as one would imagine. After about an hour of wrong turns and long one ways streets and evening rush hour traffic, we finally made our way to Playa Miramar and began hunting for a hotel around 6 p.m. While we could find hotels, none, it would seem none welcome our charming perro, Rommel, so we searched and finally almost settled for a cheap, dirty bungalow with no air conditioning when a sign caught my eye. I made a right turn down a dirt road to a little neighborhood called Moreno where, secured behind a huge, locked gate, was the
Hotel Miramar Inn. Having been flatly refused too many times, I reduced myself to groveling about our sweet, good-natured dog that will be virtually invisible if they would only please, please, please allow him in. Unlike most of Mexico, these folks also took plastic, which would save me a trip to the ATM to pull out a few thousand more pesos for one day.
The attendant who mans the gate directed me to a parking spot, appeared with a luggage cart, insisted on loading and carrying my oversized baggage van to the room, showed me how to work everything and actually demurred and initially refused my tip. He chattered on in Spanish at a rate way beyond my comprehension and I stroke my beard and replied si when it seemed appropriate. The girls were able to get in a swim in the pool complete with waterslide as I walked Rommel and tried to unwind with a Spanish soap opera on Televisa. We ordered room service with enchiladas, frijoles, quesadillas, pink strawberry and chocolate shakes and an armful of bottled waters with plans for a walk and a dip in the multi-hued green, bathtub warm Gulf of Mexico a block away before we get back on the road tomorrow after which we, hopefully, will locate an ATM and an internet café (both of which we saw in abundance during our rush-hour hotel search) so I can upload this and last night's post. Oh, and in contradiction to all those warnings about toilet papers and bath towels, this hotel had plenty of both.
We head into the mountains tomorrow with our destination of
San Luis Potosi, the state capitol of the State by the same name. Im off to the showers before they cut the water off at midnight. Conservation, you know. Until tomorrow...ciao!
