April 1st, 2004

No time to celebrate this special day. After a mighty good sleep in the comfort of a bed we head out for breakfast and a long swim to relax our stiff legs. We chill till the afternoon. Some restaurant owners treat us like poo and Johanne tells them where it’s at, their service sucks. They get mad, tortillas hit the fan. It’s time for another swim; the water is surprisingly clear and refreshing. We head off at four following the theory that the sun won’t be too hot. That theory is way wrong, we grind our burning butts away from the beach up some serious steepness. We improvise a song called, “Because we really like it”, about how much we like it that our legs will only fall off after our rear ends spontaneously combust. We pass Melaque, no sign of Casey.
In the evening we begin looking for camp spots as the sun sets. A guy with a loudspeaker horn on his pick up truck (for village publicity and announcements) tells us that there is a good place down the road ‘under a big tree’. He then tries to sell me a big bag of weed. Both Jo and I decide to ignore his instructions due to dual feelings of misgiving as we continue down the road. We approach a ranch and ask for a piece of earth where to plop Mary (our tent). The people we talk to don’t own the ranch, but they take care of it. They are a couple years younger than us and have a little son Angel. Blanca (Angel’s mom) ends up inviting us to sleep inside in a spare room. We spend the evening playing cards and talking with these nice folks.

We make it to Manzanillo in the early afternoon and stop for lunch in the really nice place that comes recommended by the ex-boxer-half-drunk-gas-station-attendant. In the afternoon we finish crossing the largeness of this port city. We continue down the toll road through palm groves. The ocean is just visible off to the left. So far on the whole trip Johanne has had about 50 flat tires to my 5 and today is no exception. She hits the wrong end of a big ole nail and the moment has come to replace her rear tire once again. We arrive in Cuyutlan at sunset and set up our tent on the beach surrounded by parasols, tied up chairs, and other seaside paraphernalia. A nighttime skinny dip is in order. We have the luxury of a footbath right beside our tent to wash of the sand before going to bed.

We have a breakfast of plums and little fresh mangos on the beachfront sidewalk. Johanne is fighting some dehydration this morning so we make frequent stops to drink. After passing Tecoman we see a rudimentary shelter made out of wooden poles and a roof improvised out of tin, plastic, and palm fronds. A big homemade BBQ is frying a good two doxen chickens and we stop to try one out. We wait out the heat under this humble shelter and take the time to write these words. (Which I will then transcribe a month later at my uncle’s house in Mexico city). Tecoman had been the latest rendezvous point for Casey but no sign of the friend was apparent. We bike down a long stretch of unpaved road and make it to the state of Michoacan. Johanne has a big headache which we’re no longer sure to ascribe to dehydration. Our map sorta sucks so we ask a local if there is a town close by and push on to the smallish San Juan de Alima. In recovery mode, we stay for two nights. They have no internet in this town and I make some awkward attempts to have my Cousin Samanta contact Casey from Mexico city.

Turns out Casey met up with a bunch of drunk guys just north of Tecoman. We had ask these same guys directions, but they managed to send him in the wrong direction through town so we didn’t manage to meet even though we were there at the same time


April 5th, 2004

We leave San Juan in the afternoon, glad to be out of the hordes of Easter week (Semana Santa) tourists and the high seasonal prices. Slugging through the heat is a most welcome alternative. We meet the devil, a Quebecois man by the roadside who confesses to have become a “door in” for Americans who want to buy property here. He has become a Mexican through marriage and that is what he does for a living (his horns are clearly visible). We get to La Placita (the little place) it does turn out to be the place. Just up the road someone had yelled at us out his car window something mostly incoherent like “looking for you!” we both responded with the joyful yell of “CASEY!!” When we stop in front of an internet café we see a bike loaded down somewhat like ours propped against the wall and Casey comes running across the street for a happy reunion. We head down to the beach for a ceremonial skinny swim and camp out to the tune of a salty pasta.

The three of us head along the coast, climbing long winding hills and coasting down sweet slopes without losing sight of the ocean. We sweat. We get to a little town and a shop owner sells us her own hand made tortillas. A horde of young boys accompanies us down to the beach with many hoots. They watch us make lunch, fascinated by our every move. They get us a whole bunch of coconuts from a treetop under which we drink the sweet juice, rest, and play guitar.

No need to huff through more repetitions of the hot ascents or the cool swingy descents of the coast along Hwy 200 that brought us to our beach side palapa. I choose rather to remember different details in this account. In a high-speed curve at the bottom of a long hill we come upon a fleet of bright green parrots squawking in the trees. The infernal ruckus is a counterpart to their startlingly beautiful color. We are now three people and run out of water instantly in these hot temperatures. Arriving in a village totally dry we find out that we can fit almost a full 20 liters in our various bottles if we drink about four as we pour. We eat langoustine fresh from the river at a small restaurant made of old wood. Our meal is accompanied by a freakin’ loud jukebox. We sleep beside the river but need to move so as not to be in the way of a tractor and dump truck that are moving gravel. The valley we sleep in is full of loose donkeys who honk us awake. We’re all really tired, especially me, my legs are really stiff and I’ve got a headache. Nonetheless we do a good 40kms before 11am a very good start and we decide, enough for the day. We fill up water again already and go crash in some hammocks. Our tent is set up under a Palapa near some horse poo. We shall remember this place as our Palapoo. It’s Semana Santa and Mexican holliday goers party all night. As such the night is filled with party yells and Mexican style screams. We grow to hate the jukebox. Our tent sits on an empty lot beside an old style well, so we can wash.

I’m still under the weather this morning but somewhat rested. We buy a kilo of cookies for breakfast. Casey masterminds this plan and we chow the Gamesa, our eyes say yes but our stomachs say no. We move on and stop under a big tree that shades us from a sun that started kicking our butts at 11am.