Xpujil to Laguna Silvituc (61 Miles)
The beautiful thing about all of our mistakes in life is that, in the universe, nothing is ever wasted. Heat exhaustion taught me to be more aware of my hydration, my nutrition intake, ideal hours of biking (avoiding mid-day), seeking shade when necessary and getting plenty of rest. I left Xpujil and my luxurious hotel and headed towards Laguna Silvituc. The weather, jungle and highway felt friendly again. I set out early in the day after eating a solid breakfast, preparing isotonic solutions in bottles and drinking LOTS of water. The air was cool and sporadic cloud cover offered a barrier between me and the barbarous sun. Peddling felt fun again. At one point in the journey I was joined by a mob of monkeys which seemed to try and keep pace with me as they scrambled and swung through the trees matching my peddle strokes one branch at a time. At a another point in the trip, children hid behind a curtain of sugarcane and threw rocks at me which startled the shit out of me and made me laugh. I cycled on listening to audio books and lecture compilations by Ram Dass and Allen Watts. I took breaks to check out small villages with a populations of no more than 50 people. I refilled my water, ate hand-made tamales and ask directions. Kind and obliging people gave me helpful suggestions on where to camp and find showers along the way.
I arrived in the general area of my destination in the early afternoon. Laguna Silvituc is a HUGE tropical lake with a few small towns scattered along its banks. I biked around a portion of its shores asking a few local hotels if they offered places for people to set up tents or hammocks. They all said “no” and their modest rooms were more than I needed and their prices were more than I cared to spend. As I continued to cycle around the lake, I came upon a watering hole called The Maya Bar and Restaurant which sat directly on the banks of the lake. It had a HUGE inviting lakeside yard full of large shaded tables ideal for writing and relaxing. It also had LOTS of perfect hammock trees and plenty of tent space for camping . I was greeted by the matron of the bar, Tiffany, who generously invited me to eat dinner, use the internet, set up camp and even wash up in her modest bathroom, fully equipped with soap and shampoo.
Tiffany was from Belize and had recently been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She left her family and moved to Mexico to be close to the city of Campeche, which has a large hospital with a reputable cancer treatment program. How Tiffany came to assume the position as “La Patrona” of this lakeside bar is an interesting story. While she was passing through the beach town of Chetumal, on her way to the hospital, Tiffany met the owners of The Maya Bar and Restaurant. They offered her a job bartending and waiting tables and she quickly turned this job into a beautifully executed craft. As each day rolled into night, the bar would rapidly fill up with rancheros, local mechanics and young men from the neighborhood who came to drink beer, play the jukebox and see Tiffany. Large sharable bottles of Corona Familiar, Sol and Tecate would accumulate on tables and “musica romantica” would BOOM from the house speakers. Tiffany knew all of customers names and she would float from table to table sitting, drinking, laughing and dancing with the fellas. At one point she plopped down at my table, smiling and looking exhausted. She pulled out a small plastic bag full of pills to show me the quantity of painkillers she consumes each night in order to create this exhibition. She explained to me that each morning she wakes up early and takes a two-hour and 45 minute (200 km) bus ride to Campeche for her daily cancer treatments. She then returns to the bar, washes up in the one-person sink she so graciously shared with me and commences the evening circus. It felt like a scene from a Guillermo Arriaga film: both poetic and tragic.
Laguna Silvituc to Escarcega (35 Miles)
I went to sleep that night thinking about Tiffany’s story. I think creating space for people to share and then truly listening to them puts us face to face with the humanity which resides in all of us. Listening to people share their struggles and “brokenness” forces us to contemplate poverty and injustice and the human cost to everything. Taking time to sit with people and listen to them as we travel allows us to see things we wouldn’t usually see and hear things we wouldn’t usually hear. The countries we pass through now have faces and names and heartbeats.
I slept in my hammock that night swinging between two trees in the backyard of The Maya Bar and Restaurant. I got a great night sleep! It rained, but I was situated below so many layers of palm branches that I never got wet. I was pulled out of my slumber by the sounds of more tropical birds than I can identify by ear and a beautiful sunrise coming up over the lake. This week’s cycling goal is to arrive in the large city of Villahermosa located 534 miles from where I began my trip in Cancun. As I departed Laguna Silvituc I had exactly 225 miles left to go. I knocked out 35 miles that day before arriving at a campsite just outside of the big bustling city of Escarcega. The campsite was large and beautiful and framed by the wildness of the natural jungle environment. There was plenty of room for my tent and hammock and the site provided showers and bathrooms. I had to share the campsite with a tribe of goats (for this post I had to google what the collective noun for a group of goats is. Sheep are a flock, goats are a tribe or a trip) which I thoroughly enjoyed! And I had to shared the bathroom with a HUGE ill-tempered iguana who got violently startled every time I entered, which in turn scared the shit out of me (no pun intended…well, maybe).
The campsite also advertised free Wi-Fi, which wasn’t entirely untrue. About 500 yards away from the campsite, through a meandering and wild jungle trail, there was a house completely fenced in and guarded by two very spirited and auditory Pit Bulls. A very nice family lived there who gave me their high-speed WIFI password and a tree stump to sit on. Most of this blogpost was written in the pitch dark, wearing a head lamp and sitting on that very tree stump where the excitable Pit Bulls kept me company.
Escarcega to Catazaja (115 Miles)
I do not know why I wake up feeling so rejuvenated when I sleep outdoors in a hammock, but it is a life changing experience. Is it the womb-like shape I am forced to rest in? Or the sleep-inducing and stress-reducing properties of nature? Perhaps it’s the complete absence of electromagnetic fields which exist in conventional houses. Or maybe it’s the lack of fluorescent lights hitting my optic nerve just before bed when my endocrine system is getting ready to sleep. Whatever it is, I sleep great outdoors and I wake up each morning feeling like a new person with boundless energy, ready to take on the world!
Today, I cycled into Escarcega, purchased some fruits, nuts/seeds and water and continued onward. The next 115 miles was broken up into a few trips. If I arrive in a quaint town that looks interesting, I set up camp somewhere out of the way and bike around town to explore. I have learned that even the smallest and most unincorporated pueblos have a soccer field, bus shelter, bandshell or playground which is covered from the rain. These impromptu campsites always have pillars, goal posts or bleachers perfect for stringing up a hammock.
I’ve also learned that these sites are often popular (and sometimes the only) place for local teenagers to hangout away from their larger extended families. Often times I have had to brush aside used prophylactics and empty beer bottles in order to park my bike and set up my tent. On more than one occasion I have woken up in my hammock surrounded by begrudging teenagers staring at me as if to say, “Really dude? The only place we have to party, make-out, listen to loud music, laugh, dance, talk-shit and drink beer and YOU HAD TO CAMP HERE?”
Catazaja: Manatee Sanctuary and land of Mexican Jesus.
On the map, between Palenque and Villahermosa, was a peninsula of a town called Catazaja. The photos online looked beautiful and the lake that surrounded the small town was reportedly a Manatee sanctuary which, pre-Covid, had a vibrant local tourism season. When I arrived at the lonesome road where the map told me I should turn off in order to cycle towards Catazaja, something appeared very odd. The entire road was barricaded by rocks, large pieces of broken concrete, old tires, cinder blocks and discarded car parts. I stood there with my bicycle and all my gear examining the map on my phone in a state of complete confusion. If this eery setting took place in a Hollywood movie, there would for sure be some apocalyptic explanations: nuclear fall-out, zombie apocalypse, fundamentalist cult take-over, medical disaster causing deadly virus spread by a capuchin monkey…You get the idea.
A local ranchero walking towards me with his horse saw me looking curious and perplexed in front of the pile of rubble. He made large encouraging hand gestures that suggested I should just climb over the rubble with my bike and gear and head into town….so I did. As I cycled down this country road, I began to pass houses, corner stores and a few restaurants, however everything was closed and there was no sign of civilization. It was quiet and eery as if the entire town had closed up due to lack of interest and moved away. After the last week of camping, I was looking forward to a comfortable bed and a warm shower. I was hoping to find a cheap hotel. I came upon one building with a hand-written sign that had the words HOTEL scrawled on the outside. When I approached the accommodations, a woman came out (first sign of humanity in Catazaja) and impatiently asked, “What do you want? Tell me!” I pointed to her hand-written sign and asked if she had any rooms available. She softened with a smile as if she had forgotten that she wrote HOTEL on the outside of her home. “Oh no, I am not service right now. Sorry.”
So I continued biking towards the interior of the town. I passed more vacant lots, empty homes and businesses which appeared permanently closed. The closer I got towards the nucleus of town, the more evidence of life began to slowly appear. People looked at me suspiciously. I would smile and wave and most would not smile and wave back. This was not the usual warm welcome I had been receiving from curious folks in other towns when I show’d up sweaty and sunburnt on my bicycle carrying a mountain of camping gear and a guitar.
I asked a few people where I might find a hotel and I was unenthusiastically directed to a location a few blocks away. I cycled on, followed their directions and came to a pleasant looking building with the words HOTEL painted on the side of it. An inebriated neighbor across the street by the name of Cristobal assured me that if I knocked on the door and rang the buzzer enough times someone would greet me. The hotel was owned and operated by a kind and elderly woman by the name of Maria. She offered me a simple room with a fan and shower for $12. The modest room was as delightful as the owner was. With all the endearing mannerisms of a concerned grandmother, she inquired about my bicycle and where I had come from. When I explained how long I had traveled and where I was intending to go, she said authoritatively, “Put god first!”. I wasn’t entirely sure whose god she was referring to, but as I took the room key from her I assured her that I would.
I have always found people’s religious leanings fascinating. I am always curious to know HOW people identify with their faith and what their connection to it is? Is their participation strictly and blindly based on what has been passed down from their family and community? Or do they truly believe in and adhere to the system of rituals, scriptures, sacred days and gathering places? Do they feel more or less protected by their governments for identifying with their chosen religion? I wanted to ask My hostess Maria all of these questions, but I feared getting into a controversial discussion, which I may struggle to uphold in Spanish, would cause a sacramental riff between us.
Maria gave me the keys to my room and as I turned around, there in the entryway of the hotel was a huge beautiful mural explaining it all. It was a detailed painting of the local lake with exquisite drawings of each happy aquatic creature which lives below its surface: fish, turtles and manatees. There on top, walking proudly and confidently across the water, was a handsome Mexican Jesus.
I have always found it fascinating in different areas of the world, how different cultures have depicted the popular christian deity, Jesus Christ. In paintings and cathedrals throughout Europe he is painted as a youthful bearded fair skinned European (despite him allegedly emerging physically, and in a liturgical sense, from the mediterranean, where Northeast Africa and Asia collide). In the USA, countless paintings portray him looking like a handsome feathered haired Caucasian with blue eyes. In this hotel, the Jesus on Maria’s wall, was donning the classic white shepherds robe, conservatively short jet-black hair (unique, since most paintings I’ve seen portray him with shoulder-length locks) and bushy black eyebrows. What was remarkable though was his facial hair! This Jesus exhibited an exceptional mustache, representative of Mexico’s famous champion of agrarianism, Emiliano Zapata. It was like something between a dashing Movie star and a Mexican revolutionary: holding a lamb and, of course, walking on water. It was a territorial masterpiece!
And although I don’t practice or identify with any organized religion, I decided that day I would heed Maria’s assertive suggestion and accept the protection of her regional heirloom catholic spirit guide. “Ok Mexican Jesus, take the handlebars, shit’s about to get interesting.”