Highway 200 Southward

 

Barra de Navidad, Jalisco

To drive through Mexico is to transform oneself into a different driver. I am happy rolling at 35mph down the highway, window open smelling the dust and checking out the sights.  Our friend Ron coined the phrase "the magic third lane" for a particular driving technique enjoyed in Mexico, where many vehicles can't go fast even if they wanted to. Highways have to accommodate elderly agricultural pick ups, small motorcycles doing duty as family sedans and fast modern sedans driven by rich young heirs to family fortunes. It could be complicated. Fortunately common sense prevails.

The sign above on the roadside in Colima says "Use the shoulder to allow passing" and I ask you to imagine that sign in the US where passing someone is a defiant act of terrorism designed to make the person passed feel small and insignificant. In Mexico passing is a choice, the passed carry on with their lives unhurried.  In this next photo observe the truck passing a slow moving tractor and where the shoulder runs under my van. And yes I took the photos while driving, using a telephoto hence you will notice some reflections from the windshield and occasional odd angles. 

This is what Ron calls the magic third lane which appears on normal two lane highways when someone wants to pass. No muss no fuss no aggravation. I pull onto the shoulder when cars or 18 wheelers come up behind me and they pass at their leisure when they see a more or less safe space. I find this style of driving very relaxing as no one is honking or tailgating or pushing, and everyone does what works for them. You might call it the sensible freedom of driving, Mexican style. And I know this attitude flies in the face of all you have heard about crazy Mexican driving styles and I know I won't change your mind, but this works for me a lot better than an angry American getting road rage and waving a gun at me.

On our honeymoon sailing the Caribbean we first saw banana plants wrapped in blue bags. It was on the island of St Vincent where we rented a car, an precursor of our travel style always looking to explore by driving, and here we were again. Funny how here thousands of miles away they use the same identical technique to speed the ripening of the fruit. Don’t worry though because US consumers only get the most perfect fruit. Americans may get the perfect fruit but travelers on Highway 200 get to enjoy the views, and when you are enjoying a well funded retirement the views suffice.

I’m not going to minimize the hard work for small returns because I appreciate my escape from a life of agriculture and I know these farmers have less than anyone I know but for me the arrival in the tropics, the familiar trees and bushes, is a source of pleasure. In summer we’d be hopping between RV parks to stay plugged in and operating the air. We can run air conditioning overnight off the batteries but that requires driving the next day to recharge them if there is no shore power. Our solar panels keep up with minor electricity use not heavy prolonged discharge by the roof top air.

After passing the Colima state line and after getting over the tropical scenery I noticed people sitting roadside selling tubas. A little known fact is I used to play double B flat tubas and sousaphones in my youth.

I’ll be the first to admit I don’t know much about Colima but I planned to find out more. They have a surplus of tubas? Excellent. Do they ship, I wondered? We stopped to check out the tuba scene roadside. 

No surprise I was bound to be disappointed, but not too much. In Colima where they have usurped the language, tuba comes in a to go cup. A drink made of fermented coconut juice can be quite delicious, it turns out. Throw in some ice cubes a handful of peanuts and you are set to keep driving. Unless you are married to Layne the inveterate shopper.

“I see fruit,” she said with a tone of excitement equal to that of someone who sees dead people. What she meant before she disappeared in a cloud of dust was that she had spotted the makings of fruit salad. I looked sadly at GANNET2 parked Mexican style.

My inner gringo manifested himself and I backed off the highway and found a spot away from the road. A man appeared. “Am I molesting you?” I asked. I love the Spanish word for disturbing or upsetting “molestar” because I think laterally when I’m navigating more than one language. 

“Not at all,” he said. “You’re from Florida?” Yes I nodded. 

“Oh,” he said breaking into fluent English. 

“I lived twenty years in Indiantown! Do you know it?”

Well yes I’ve motored the St Lucie canal from Lake Okeechobee. We chatted. No problem he assured me as Rusty took up residence in the shade of his house.

Back at the road side fruit stand Layne had met a Mexican who has a business in Nebraska and was showing his American sons where they were from. His family was traveling in a white Nissan van, a popular low slung model widely used as public transportation in Latin America. Worry warts nag me about ground clearance on a Promaster but they haven’t seen the low slung Nissan…

Layne got her sliced fruit sprinkled with salt and chili flakes and the Mexican from Nebraska exchanged WhatsApp info which is how you communicate in Mexico. “Come by my place on your way North,” he said smiling. “I’ll show you the real Mexico!” Remind me again how scary Mexico is? We left them to their long ride packed into their Nissan van. Nice people. 

On the road again. Destination Manzanillo, the big city with all needed services.