Drugs, Rapists, and Some Good People Too: Part 1
Maria. My wildlife guide in Monterrey, Mexico.
I wondered where all the "drugs, rapists and some good people" were, that I had been hearing about on the news for the past year. Not even one person tried to sell me fentanyl. “Lame.”
BLOG POST #011 - The Border and Some Good People Too: Part 1
How I learned to ride a motorcycle, speak Spanish and not die. Riding solo in search of adventure from Detroit to Argentina.
The fact that she was smokin' hot was about fifty-seventh down the rank of importance in my mind. But steadily over time, this attribute crept up, notch by notch on the list.
Maria was from Monterrey, which would be my first stop south of the border. We first connected before I had even left the United States, and through an odd set of coincidences and commonalities, “things” grew organically and quite accidentally, from there.
A few days before crossing into Mexico, I had planned ahead on a couple of things. I booked intensive private Spanish language classes in Monterrey. I also found an app called ShowAround, where you can book local guides for any kind of specific activity. My interest was in wildlife, specifically reptiles, and most importantly snakes.
I wanted to go “ferping.” Which is the word I use to describe field work. The act of looking for herpetofauna to take photos, maybe discover a new species, and have a little adventure time.
I signed up for the app, filled out some profile info, then set the filter for naturalists and “outdoorsy” people in Monterrey. I was sure to include a bit about my desire to look for snakes, because if that was a problem for someone, I wanted to scare them off early. The results came back with four or five potential people, a few of which engaged with me and we started to chat.
One of them, Maria, was notably very cute. But honestly, that part of my brain was completely shut off. It was not about that. Besides, she might have been nineteen for all I knew, and I'm not in the habit of ogling teenagers. I'm also not going to be "that guy" who uses an app to be “creepy” for what should otherwise be a regular business transaction among adults. My head is pretty befuddled after the big break-up with my girlfriend about twelve days ago, so I know that noticing Maria's beauty at all was just a fantasy-land-flash of coping mechanism.
Then, things took a different turn and I fell in love with her in an instant.
Crotalus atrox. Western Diamondback Rattlesnake.
Pretty early on, she casually mentioned having done a study on Crotalus atrox.
I thought, "Wait! WHAT?"
Any woman who knows the scientific name for the local species of Western Diamondback Rattlesnakes is going to be an instant nerd-crush of mine!
I may have jumped the gun when I then asked her to marry me. But up to that point, it was all a bunch of silliness, and the joke landed well.
She understood well that I was delighted to find someone who could help me with my weirdo-interest. She had some expertise, and operated without judgment. Lots of people get super freaked out when you mention snakes. So, this snap-fit guide was a rare and pleasant surprise.
View from my lodging in Monterrey.
Her vibe seemed super open-minded and friendly. She sent a bunch of recorded messages instead of typing out texts. Her voice was super high-pitched, sing-song-bubbly in a way that should have been annoying. But for some reason, it was quite pleasant. Her English was quite good with some notable exceptions on certain sounds and pronunciations. It was imperfect enough to be cute, but good enough to always be understood.
At one point she made the mistake of saying the word, "mud," which came out awkwardly. I immediately teased her about it.
For some reason, she couldn't stick the "d" instead it came out sounding something like "moodth."
It was sweet, like a toddler asking for "delly" instead of "jelly."
This became more and more comedic because she just could not make her mouth work the right way to say it. I am fascinated by linguistics and how the brain works. She could say lots of other words ending in "d," but not this one.
"Bad, did, fade, blood, moodth." After a painstaking few days, she started to get it down. But then, we decided to both say it the wrong way from now on because it was much more fun. As a language-learner I found humor, but as a person, I also know that I sound quite silly in Spanish.
Monterrey, Mexico
I was still repressing any thoughts of attraction, but it was really nice to chat with such a smart and beautiful woman, given the state of my tattered heart. My ego was extremely bruised, and the attention from Maria was harmless enough. Our arms-length friend-zone chemistry was very comfortable. We talked a lot each day as I headed south, closing in on the river separating our two countries.
The border crossing itself from Laredo, Texas into Nuevo Laredo, Mexico was astonishingly boring. There were no tattooed cartel henchmen in wife-beater tank tops, holding gold-plated Glocks sideways, execution style. There were no human-trafficking "coyotes" with shipments full of migrant farmers sealed in the back of their semi-truck trailers. There were no sombrero-wearing bandoleros with X-shaped bullet belts across their chests on horseback.
I wondered where all the "drugs, rapists and some good people" were that I had been hearing about on the news for the past year. Not even one person tried to sell me fentanyl.
Outside Monterrey, Mexico.
"Lame."
For the most part, it just looked like a traffic bottleneck with a lot of cops yelling directions, where the flags change colors on the other side of the bridge.
Like many border towns across the globe, it was pretty ratty and fast-paced. Everyone was jostling in different directions, each with their own mission to move their belongings, sell something, or go somewhere. There were a few street vendors offering bottled water and snacks amongst the ubiquitous street dogs and storefronts.
I have no doubt that every shady character and cliché I could think of, actually existed just out of sight. But none of this was out in the open for everyone to see. These kinds of nefarious activities make up a small percentage of what's going on. Crime does its best to stay under the radar and mind its own business.
While there is a large focus on the little proportion of ugly activity in mainstream American culture, I have no allusions about the dangers. I thought, "Rapists? Or poor villagers wanting to pick California strawberries so they can send money home to their mother?"
Hint - it's both.
The border problems are real. But they're nothing new to any country in any part of the world. I don't believe in the myth of a "solution" here. The difference in wealth of the people on either side of this line on the map is just too big. The natural tension between a rich nation and a poor nation that share a two-thousand-mile border is going to need a lot of attention, and the conflict is not going away any time soon.
All told, it probably took me four minutes to get into Mexico and on my way again. It was obvious where to pick up the main road south again, and so off I went at highway speed.
"¡Siempre al Sur!"
A few days ago, I needed a moment of mourning and reflection about leaving a lot of baggage behind. But now the sun was shining in the bright blue sky and I was feeling pretty unshackled. My actual torn skin and my metaphoric torn heart were both healing at a nice pace. I felt a calm, profound peace coming over me.
My motorcycle cannot go up and down because her rubber has to stay on the road. Gravity is a thing. But other than this two-dimensional limitation of not being able to point skyward, La Barra feels like a spaceship. The lightweight, fast, and agile freedom dancing across the infinite road before me. My face out in the open air, the whole experience gives me a magnificent buzz.
Sunrise over Monterrey, Mexico.
I could have driven a car. But that happens inside of a comfy, temperature-controlled cabin, where you can eat a Big Mac and listen to the radio. A motorbike is way more tactile, pushing back the wind with my neck and core, gripping on for control as well as for dear life.
I move levers with my feet to change gears. Turns are an act of total commitment, I have to lean into them as I go. Traveling this way feels intensely personal and connected to my body. Driving a car is done by giving commands to the machine, but riding La Barra is a partnership of mind, metal, flesh and bone — all working in seamless unison.
Considering I didn’t know how to ride a motorcycle, some people might think that this was a ridiculous choice of vehicle for my big trip. Well, there's good merit in that argument; mostly to do with losing limbs or closed-head injuries. However, there are lots of other factors that tipped the balance La Barra's way. A bike is easier to hide in a bush while I camp at the side of the road. I have more agility and control if I need to get away from someone. Being fairly inexpensive, I wouldn't feel that bad if the trip was a failure and I had to ghost-ride it off a cliff, and fly home. (Not that this was possible, once our souls were bonded more and more across the miles.
La Barra.
But the most important reason I chose a motorcycle was because of one lesser-known safety advantage over an automobile. I want to be as invisible and anonymous as possible. If I were driving a car all of this way, I would be exposed, and everybody could see that I was a gringo. I would look much more like a rich foreigner, which can attract unwanted attention.
While wearing my helmet and full body biker clothing, nobody can tell that I'm not just another local dude. I had "jankified" La Barra's look before I left. I blasted her with a mishmash of spray paint colors and took a few of the plastic fuselage covers off. I tried to make her look like a shabby food delivery scooter. Of course, this is silly. I would not exactly blend in if someone stopped to look at me. But since motorcycles are cheap and common, and they zip around in every direction, way less people would be looking at me.
Anytime I am traveling in an unknown country, I do a lot of this similar sort of misdirection. It really does help keep me below the radar for bad guys or overzealous police checkpoints. Most tolls are free for motorcycles and traffic back-ups are not a problem.
I don't have a fuel gauge, so there is an intense system developing to figure out how far I can go before I need to fill up. I reset the odometer when I gas up. Then I go about two hundred miles before stopping again to top it off. I make many more stops than just this, though. I am feeling my way through my first baby steps in another country. I make time for things like adjusting my gear, checking in at home, a little road-side lunch break, or even a short nap.
As long as I am off the road by dark, and I don't miss my room reservation tonight, I am not fussed.
Of course, the most important thing to make time for is the enjoyment of taking it all in. I have a little hotel booked in a part of Monterrey that seems to be nice. It is close to my Spanish classes. The description said it was a hotel, but I get the feeling that it is someone's house. The landlady is prompt about replying to my questions over text. She speaks English and seems kind.
I'm in my groove, riding, enjoying, waving to other bikers, when suddenly La Barra stutters hard.
I holler, "Dammit. What was that?"
One of the things I was hoping most to avoid was engine trouble. I can fix brakes. I can get super inventive with some temporary bracket or jumper wire. But engine trouble would stop me dead in my tracks.
Over the next mile or so, as I am pondering the ugly possibilities, the engine cuts off. I coast to a stop on the shoulder. This is very precarious as 18-wheeler trucks fly past three or four feet away. It seems like they can't be bothered to swerve a teensy little bit away that might give me better odds at survival here.
I check anything obvious or exposed that I can see without taking things apart. I look at the cables and fuel lines and make sure there's no schmutz on the headlight. I feel like a brain surgeon ineptly banging on the side of his broken-down furnace and changing the air filter in the middle of a freezing winter's night. I'm a smart guy, but this is not my area of study.
A minute later, she starts up again. I'm on a proper Mexican freeway where the landscape was pretty bright, open, and barren with not many towns or buildings as far as the eye can see. I don't really have a lot of choice here, but to keep riding and see how it goes.
I had planned for triple the amount of riding hours I needed today. But now suddenly, I am conscious of racing the dark. Unless I'm completely stuck in place, time still shouldn't be a problem. But I am in no position to assume that this won't turn "DEFCON yellow" quickly. No more wandering and daydreaming. Time to focus.
NEXT POST COMING SOON: November 6, 2024
