LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

takes you onto the freeway for a couple km until the San Blas turnoff.

      But traffic is quite accommodating for once. It doesn’t last long though as this traffic is soon replaced by less friendly drivers bent on squeezing you off the road. One truck comes up over a hill, overtaking another truck and heading straight for you. You stop and jump out of the way at the last moment as it sure aint. Quite a few snakes end up as road kill on the side of the road. Some are impressively scary. One or two might be something else entirely, a boa maybe.

      There are many little hills on the way to San Blas. Up and down you go like a never ending roller coaster finally at last smoothing out the last few km into town. Off the highway traffic is much lighter but some drivers insist on being unfriendly, driving as dangerously close as possible. Of course others are friendly, not overtaking until absolutely safe to do so.

      And into San Blas. There doesn’t seem to be much about this town. It has the facilities for tourists, ie hotels, but not really. And it doesn’t have the character Ruiz had. Maybe all the character is to be found on the hotel strip towards the beach.

      So you head to the beach. Restaurants line the beachfront. A cerveza on the beach sounds nice. You make conversation with some foreigners. You say hi to some other foreigners but they are somewhat less responsive. It gets late. You head back into town. Some food, a banana milkshake, and it’s about time to call it a night.

      You stop off at the off license for a couple of beers. “How much is one?” “Ten.” You take two and give the guy a fifty peso note. He gives back ten. You stand, waiting for the rest of the change. “Ten plus ten equals twenty. I gave you fifty. Thirty change.” You’re not getting the rest of your change. The guy looks a little mentally challenged so you try your best not to resolve to asshole mode. You ask a question and he gives you an almost nod. Is that yes or no? Ten and ten equal twenty. Not forty. You put the beers back in the fridge and leave with your fifty. Fuck that.

      Los Ayalas.: Helmets are used for a reason

      Thursday August 23, 2007, 101 km (63 miles) – Total so far: 2,220 km (1,379 miles)

      After a restless night you head off down the coast to Los Ayalas. The first twenty km follow the coast along for an idyllic ride. After that you head inland up and down tall hills. But the road is nice and traffic minimal. You even feel safe riding helmetless. At one point the road is blocked by two cowboys, complete with lasso herding cattle.

      It rains. Hard. You come to a town and pull up at one of those OXXO stores you like so much. They have stools set against the side. You lean the bike against the wall. You lock the bike. But by the time you step inside the stools are taken by two staff members. You stand dumbfounded just inside the door for a few moments. The staff look at you, wondering what this foreigner in the strange clothes is doing. Then you go. But fret not, a nice restaurant is close at hand for you to wait out the rain.

      The rain doesn’t stop so you move on anyway. One, then another truck reinforce the notion that helmets are there for a reason. So you put yours back on. Most of the traffic is very cyclist friendly. It’s the loud minority you need to watch out for.

      You make it into town and cruise down the hotel strip looking for a bargain. But none are to be found. You spend over an hour heading up and down the strip but eventually go back to one you found early on. This place looks touristy and fake. San Blas was the place to chill for another day or so. Okay, maybe not THIS day being wet and all but once you found the beach it was alright. There must be a defect in your guidebook. You are best off throwing it away and getting a different brand. It isn’t in sync with where people actually go. Oh well.

      Puerto Vallarta.: Dangerous? No shit

      Friday August 24, 2007, 76 km (47 miles) – Total so far: 2,296 km (1,427 miles)

      The road is narrow and hilly. Traffic is for the most part unwelcoming. The usual array of buses and trucks pass with as little room as possible no matter what conditions you are present. A cop pulls you over. “It’s very dangerous.” He says. “No lights. No mirror. No registration.” After a while of this and your agreeing with him he lets you on with the assurance you’ll buy a mirror in Puerto Vallarta.

      At the peak of the tallest and the last hill traffic builds up and remains constant for the remainder of the day. But it’s not that bad. At the foot of the hill, and on the coast, the road widens allowing an extra lane of traffic and nice wide shoulders just for you.

      You ride past the expensive resorts and through all the built up area into town. There are three or four lanes each way. Bus drivers still manage to make assholes of themselves though.

      And welcome to Puerto Vallarta. Yesterday saw some hurricane action so some streets are still a little wet to say the least. It looks like gringo land too. Lots of white faces about chilling in cafes and relaxing. A few places offer massages but they are all a bit expensive.

      Puerto Vallarhta.: The Mexican from hell

      Sunday August 26, 2007

      It is Friday night. You go out. You get drunk. You dance. And you meet a man called Tony. Tony is a middle aged Mexican. On Saturday you meet Tony again. You sit in a café reading your book and Tony walks past. He invites you to go up town where the real Mexico is. To go where the girls are pure. He invites you to smoke dope. You say you aren’t interested in smoking.

      You take a bus to a village on the edge of town. To where the jungle is. “I’m going to need ten dollars for the dope.” “No, I’m okay. I don’t really want any.” “Okay. Five dollars.” “No thanks.” “But that’s why we came here.” Tony is angry. He buys some dope. You sit near the river and drink water. Tony comes over. He’s not happy. “Why are you so bad to me?” He asks. Company doesn’t look so good. Tony wanders off. You see him board a bus back into town. He’s ditched you. Good. You get on a different bus for the ride back into town happy to be out of there.

      You see Tony again that night at the bar. You wave when you make eye contact and he comes over. He says the police were there on horseback and he had to bolt. “If they caught me with the weed I go to jail. You go to jail.” Tony is full of shite. It is all you can drink again. You have a metal bucket full of ice. One corona in your hand. One in the ice. Tony wants some drink. He’s already half drunk. The bar manager isn’t happy with him. He swaps the full corona in the bucket for an empty one. The bar staff see him and the manager comes over. He tries to hide it under the table but they are on to him. The manager is not happy. “No more open bar for you.” He tells you. Tony says he’ll sort it out. Tony leaves. You speak to the manager and apologise. Eventually he says okay. You go back to the bar and drink your cerveza.

      They don’t give you any more buckets full of ice. You order your beers one by one. You get drunk. You go back to the hotel. You stay one more day. Sunday is uneventful. You sit in cafes reading books and chat to an American guy looking at buying property here. He says you were lucky nothing bad happened. Perhaps you should be a little more careful next time.

      Towards Tomatlan.: Bad doggy

      Monday August 27, 2007, 92 km (57 miles) – Total so far: 2,388 km (1,484 miles)

      You have nightmares about fixing flat tires. You wake early. The bed feels good. You get up late. It is after one by the time you get going. You head south out of town. Up and down the little hills. Then the hills get bigger. No matter. It rains. You get wet. It stops raining. You are still wet. Wet with rain. Wet with sweat.

      Traffic is light. In fact it is idyllic. All day traffic is minimal and courteous. But of course that one asshole bus driver does have to appear and try to run you off the road despite the rest of the road being open. But after dealing with a hundred such assholes each day a single cunt is of no bother.

      Some dogs run out to attack. Usually in Mexico dogs stop the chase after the second shout. They

Скачать книгу