Next Destination Puebla…or so I thought.
My next destination after San Cristobal de las Casas was the city of Puebla. Some old friends and coworkers lived in a small lakeside village outside of Puebla called Buena Vista and I was on my way to visit them. I purchased a one-way ticket to Puebla on an overnight bus which boarded at 11pm. It was supposed to drop me off at 1pm the following day in Puebla’s central bus station. I like overnight busses. I have taken them many times during my previous travels in other countries. They allow me to save money on lodging and if I’m lucky, and if the bus seats are remotely comfortable, I’ll wake up refreshed the next day at my destination. On this particular journey I was under the false impression that all the other passengers on my bus were going to Puebla as well….I was wrong.
It turns out that I was the only one on the bus going to Puebla and the bus was bound for Mexico City. Allegedly the bus stopped in Puebla at some point during the journey. I wouldn’t know because I was too busy sleeping, reading or trying to convince the uninterested person next to me that guacamole is a far superior condiment to ranch dressing. I over shot my target by 81.4 miles and woke up in the wrong place. The most comical part of my screw up was that I casually followed all other passengers off the bus in Mexico City, assuming I was in the correct place. The fact that I was in the wrong city didn’t become apparent to me until after I had already completely reassembled my bicycle and loaded it up with all my gear. A process which took me around 45 minutes. As I cycled out of the bus station I passed under a large welcoming, and slightly antagonistic sign which read; “Welcome to Mexico City”.
So, alas, I was in Mexico City completely unplanned. Part of being a good traveler is being adaptable and conditioned for adversity. So, I shook off my mistake, logged into the bus station Wi-Fi, found a hostel nearby and I committed to visiting Mexico City for a few days. My bike needed repairs anyhow and I was sure that a megatropolis like Mexico City would have more than a handful of options. My introduction to the capital city was WILD. Just pedaling from the bus station to my hostel offered me enough excitement to last me a week! I wasn’t able to actually pedal my bicycle more than a few blocks before the streets became impassible by any form of transport other than walking. The streets were alive!
My bulky camping equipment, guitar and bags tethered to my bicycle created a terrible inconvenience lending itself to even more congestion. All around me were street vendors with loud auditory voices hawking and peddling all things imaginable. I felt like I was in a city full of short-order cooks and auctioneers barking, singing and calling out their offering in such a melodic and convincing tone that I was certain I required one of each: clothing, sunglasses, jewelry, shoes, beverages, random trinkets, souvenirs, coffee and even animals. There were countless taco stalls, prepared food items, fruit vendors and even sex workers. It was not an inconvenience to have to walk my bike and fight the crowds, because this was exciting and fascinating. This is why I love to travel! I hadn’t experienced this degree of commerce and high energy shopping since Mumbai, India.
What I loved about Mexico City was how bike friendly it was. The city had large well-maintained bike lanes which were much larger than many other cities, even in the US. I found MANY bicycle shops which offered multiple options of what I needed. Each bike shop I visited had knowledgeable mechanics who, when I told them about my journey, gave me expert advice on routes and gear. Most of the bike shops I found were located in the Roma neighborhood just west of the historic center. Colonia Roma, or simply Roma as it is called, is a residential and restaurant area of the city which is also home to lots of hip coffee shops, bars, eateries, books stores, boutiques and cafes. It was in this eclectic neighborhood that I had some of the best tacos, churros and mezcal. It is also where I tried for the first time one of Mexico’s most prized ethnographic fermented beverages: pulque. Some of you reading this may know that I wrote a book about non-alcoholic fermented probiotic beverages called The Joy of Home Brewing Kombucha: How to Craft Probiotic and Fermented Drinks. I have a fascination with fermentation and plant medicine and pulque is a fermented beverage with historical and cultural significance here in Mexico.
Here is what I learned:
Pulque is made from the same family of plants as tequila and mezcal but it is not as strong due to it being fermented and not distilled. It has a frothy, milky consistency, an acidic scent and a sour flavor. It was considered an Aztec drink of the gods and was traditionally used in the Indian civilizations of central Mexico as an intoxicant for priests and a sedative for victims of ritualistic sacrifices. Pulque was also used as a medicine and a celebratory beverage for warriors. Pulque can still be found in Mexico today and, as an ethnographer from Mexico City told me, it has made a resurgence over the last few years. There were several boutique pulquerias (places where pulque is served) in the Roma neighborhood, so I had to try it out of pure fascination.
It had a very unique flavor and consistency, which I can’t say I liked. It was milky white and served at room temperature, which in Mexico is quite warm. It was tart and slightly effervescent and reminded me of buttermilk or sour dough starter. I suspected there was something floral in it. The consistency was so similar to saliva, that I couldn’t find it thirst quenching or refreshing. Considering the viscous nature of it, a liter felt like a lot to consume, and I committed to choking it down. Even at 6% alcohol I couldn’t imagine drinking enough of it to get drunk. I have no interest in ever drinking pulque again, but I am glad I sampled the Aztec drink of the gods while enjoying the hip streets of Mexico City. My adventure buddy in Mexico City was a Canadian by the name of Dan. Moving forward he will be referred to as “Canadian Dan”. Very original.
“A tourist doesn’t know where he’s been. A traveler doesn’t know where he is going”. -Paul Theroux
One of the highlights of wandering around Roma was an interesting conversation I had with Jose Luis, the owner of Rock Garage, a motorcycle gear shop. Jose Luis was a self-proclaimed “biker” and he had ridden his Harley Davidson motorcycle extensively throughout the world. When I told him about my bicycle journey through Mexico he informed me that he had ridden his motorcycle through 48 of the 50 US states. He was not only a proud owner of a Harley Davidson motorcycle but also an avid enthusiast of the culture and ethos that surrounded it. He had visited my home town of Milwaukee, WI on more than one occasion for motorcycle rallies. I had not asked him for his advice or travel opinions, but when he learned of the method of which I was exploring his homeland he felt moved to share one of his stronger beliefs regarding different types of travelers.
“Being a traveler is different than being a tourist”, proclaimed Jose Luis as his expression got very serious. He adjusted his posture and took on the body language of a college professor.
“A tourist expects the same infrastructure that they have at home. The tourist wants these comforts and amenities to exist in the places they are visiting: like exactly the same. A good traveler on the other hand, recognizes that the journey may be uncomfortable. You have to adapt. You’re are going to experience culture shock, and you should. A tourist seeks out an environment which caters to their comfort zone, where a traveler intentionally seeks an experience outside of his comfort zone.”
I appreciated Jose Luis and I having a common bound over Harley Davidson. Before we parted ways, I asked him if he truly thought Harley Davidson built the best motorcycles. Jose Luis laughed, slapped me on the back and with the same hand gripped my shoulder, “Hell no!” he said, “BMW builds way better bikes than Harley, but who the hell wants a BMW tattoo on their arm? I don’t even want to wear a BMW T-shirt. Harley is all about the culture and style of motorcycle riding and I like that.”
The same night that I met Jose Luis I had a run-in with the police. It was about 9pm at night and I was walking with Canadian Dan when a squad pulled up next to us with its lights on. Two police officers wearing masks approached us and told us that they needed to search us for drugs and weapons. I immediately I have been stopped, approached and shaken down by police in many countries including the US and I learned a long time ago, that in most instances, arguing and getting publicly indignant will get you nowhere. So, I handed one of the officers my backpack, calmly walked over and placed my hands against the squad car and spread my legs in the “frisk me” position. I had nothing illegal on me and I knew putting up a “I’m an American and I have rights” fight was going to get me nowhere. Of course, they found nothing, returned my backpack and thanked me for my cooperation.
Canadian Dan, on the other hand, didn’t accept this profiling/unconstitutional search without a fight. In his best Spanish he told the police that what was happening was ridiculous and that they had no right. He continued his indignant rant as one of the officers put him up against the car and searched his pockets. Dan was of course right, what they were doing was completely unconstitutional, but we weren’t playing by the US or Canadian constitution: we were in Mexico. Dan’s display of defiance was so grandiose that as he continued to get searched by the one officer’s, his partner pulled me aside and discretely asked, “How much is it worth to you to keep your friend out of jail?”. My reaction, without thinking, was to laugh and say, “What? Are you serious?”. This is when I realized he was looking for a bribe. My laughter made him look embarrassed. Of course, they found nothing on Canadian Dan and, out of boredom, finally let us both go.
Go easy on the police:
Systemic corruption is endemic and police forces are often poorly trained and underpaid. The average wage of a police officer is $350 per month which means that many police officers supplement their salaries with bribes. The Mexican government struggles to provide police with sufficient pay so that they resist threats and don’t cohort with the drug cartels. Sometimes working with cartels is more lucrative and safer than resisting their threats and fighting against them. Police officers’ salaries also vary drastically based on experience, skills, gender or location. Some police in Mexico earn as little as $10 US dollars per day. I am NOT condoning their behavior, but for some reason -even though I have been targeted many times by Mexican police and squeezed for bribes-I can’t help but feel compassion for them and their families. If you were under-paid and under-appreciated and were constantly having to deal with entitled white-skinned drunken tourists who spend more money on a cocktail by the pool then you earn in a day, perhaps you’d become more opportunistic as well. I just might do the same thing if I were in their situation.