Somewhere outside of Obregón.
I flicked the bike into neutral and greeted the attendant, ``Buenos días, cuanta questa?´´ It was 32, he said.
I was at one of the many toll booths I would encounter during my foray through Mexico.
In my pocket I found I had change for 31 pesos, or 35 pesos. Naturally, I offered the attendant the 35 pesos.
He frowned and asked if I had 32 pesos. I double-checked, verified I did not, and he began tell me something I did not understand.
Then, he yelled over to the next booth, and asked his co-worker if he had change. His co-worker must not have, because the attendant turned to me and began explaining something to me, and again, I did not understand.
Seeing my confusion, the attendant held up the 5 peso coin I had given to him. Pinching the coin, he showed me one side, and pointed to it with the index finger of his other hand, and then to himself. Then he turned the coin to show me the other side, and again pointed at it, and then at me. One last time he pointed at the coin, and then turned his finger to point up.
By the time I processed the pantomime, he had already tossed the coin, shown me the result (it was his side) and raised the gate for me to proceed.
I began laughing, and he began laughing too.
Just laughing at the turn of events, the moment, and the moment of realization. I laughed, "Esta bien!" and thanked him.
I rode away laughing, and thinking, "That's justice!"
Later...
2:26PM
Mazatlán.
 |
| Camorones Imperiales |
I rode through the most beautiful and relaxing countryside. From Culiacán to Mazatlán, on the 15 (libre, not cuota). The entire trip was gorgeous; happy little river towns, restive farm land, and scenic, verdent bluffs. Like if Arizona and Florida had a baby.
I suppose it is all due to a large delta or watershed.
The roads are perfect and smooth, not too much traffic and everything just feels easy.
However, I have noticed that a lot of people speed here, no exceptions even for semi-trucks (I saw one had flipped over a clover leaf going up the ramp, all the contents spilt down the embankment.)
Butterflies were all over and I`m sad to say that many of them hit me, but so many did not, and those streamed by my face and created orange and yellow streaks! There were sweet smells, too. Like dendelion or clover. It was a blissful experience, euphoric, even. Perfect temperatures, smooth, gentle curving roads. It was just as joyful an experience as I could have hoped to have. It felt surreal, at moments, it was such vivid perfection that it felt like a halucination.
During this blissful ride, I came around a gentle curve and upon a man who waved me down with his thumb. I don't know why, but without hesitation, I turned around and pulled up to him.
In the brief moment before I saw him and slowed down to turn around, I took in a white car parked carelessly on the opposite shoulder, with a crushed windshield.
The man was in his thirties, I'd say, with a short beard and rings around his eyes.
He shook my hand and explained he had been traveling the same direction as I was (toward Mazatlán) when he rounded the corner and cut it short, running onto the shoulder. Then he hit a speed limit sign (he said this without irony but I surmised it might have been karmic). The sign explained the smashed windshield.
Then he explained that he over corrected and swerved, apparently did a 180, and wound up on the opposite shoulder, facing the opposite direction.
He started the car and demonstrated that the transmission was stuck in neutral, and besides, he had two front flat tires.
It was a hopeless situation.
During all of this exposition, I noted 4 or 5 broken beer bottles in the bed of this Chevy Tornado (a modern interpretation of the El Camino), and allowed myself to wonder if their contents had played a part in this story.
In any case, I pressed my impovrished Spanish into use, and inquired what I could do to help.
I wasn't going to offer it, but if he asked I knew I would say yes.
He pointed in the direction of Mazatlán and to my bike,
Now is a good time to mention that the bracket for the box had broken a day or two before, and I had not much certainty it would hold the box, and now a man was indicating he'd like to ride on it.
Naturally, I said, "OK."
Off we went, down that winding road. I kept the speed low, and he shifted so that he was sitting on the box, his feet on the seat, and hands on my shoulders. He would be sitting at the height of a semi-truck cab.
I thought, "We must look ridiculous!" but no one seemed to take a second look at this odd couple. He, a bearded Mexican man, I, a white power ranger (all of my protective gear is white and plastic).
About 30 kilometers down the road, we entered a small town. He pointed to an older woman with a cart and indicated he wanted to stop.
She was selling shaved ice and he ordered one for himself and asked if I wanted one, as well. I declined but thanked him.
While she was preparing the treat, a chicken bus rolled up, and he signalled the driver. He indicated to me he would take the bus the rest of the way, so I started the bike and sped away to more curves and Mazatlán.
I want to specially acknowledge the financial contributions from Alexandre Nguyen, Manny Rangel, Michael Pang, my mom, and my aunt Julie, as well as Kate Phillips and Ian Wheatland for helping make these words and pictures possible!
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