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.

Cuyutlan

Going through an area of lovely beaches and awful internet so service is somewhat screwed up. Apologies. The hunt for WiFi continues sporadically. 

To Manzanillo

There are North Americans who will tell you that Highway 200 which traces the Pacific coast of Mexico is bandit country. Not so far it isn’t. It is a land of milk and honey, Mexican style. 

We left Tenacatita Bay with some reluctance. 

Rusty the wild dog loved the freedom of spending all day watching people come and go from his various hidey holes, unconstrained and free to do as he  liked. He was reluctant to leave. 

Layne enjoyed ordering food for delivery by Ivan, not only as a happy opportunity to not have to cook but also as a way of interacting with Mexico. This was the best swimming beach. She was reluctant to leave.

We were running out of supplies and I cannot deny I suffered from my ever present curiosity about what I might find around the corner. Luckily I enjoy driving our van. I was secretly excited to get back on the road, a fact I hid from my family with probably not much success.

Our plan was to drive around the bay and check out the communities of La Manzanilla (Camomile Town) and Bocas Del Iguana whose lights we had seen twinkling across the water at night. Google thought this was the fastest way to Boca from Highway 200. It's a great mapping service but it has difficulty discerning secondary dirt roads from faster paved ones, sometimes. 

It was cool and sunny at eight in the morning and we were in the mood to see and explore after so much time spent sitting still. Google sent us down an absurd dirt road to the sea. We admired the cultivated fields and stands of tropical fruits but it wasn’t where we wanted to go, we thought. We weren't looking for an isolated RV park but a community with local culture and shops and stuff. We passed some joggers and figured we needed to get back to the main road as we were seeing nothing here, except papaya.

We turned around with some slight difficulty but luckily I am good at backing up. We found and  followed the paved road reading the map ourselves and passed the two gringa women jogging who seemed startled to see us again. We arrived at Boca, a lovely tropical setting of palms overlooking a swamp wherein we are told crocodiles lurk. Not that we saw any but we drove past the campground and onto the beach on a road that shrank to the width of GANNET 2, more or less.

There was a parade of umbrellas on the beach, too early to be occupied. I could see lots of Mexicans camping and Quebecois RVers parked in one spot for the winter with all accessories out. We walked Rusty on the beach not planning to stay at all long. The waves onshore were rough making swimming unlikely, and we are explorer/swimmers not given to sitting in one place for six months at a time. That must be obvious by now if you have been following along since we left the Keys October 25th!

In the distance I could see the main sailboat anchorage where we had parked 24 years ago when we were youngsters and traveled with two large dogs. Layne took command of the dinghy here, rode the waves and found her confidence. It was a stellar moment in our cruise. Yesterday it just looked like an anchorage...

The beach was pretty as of course they all are but it did not seem friendly to swimmers with large waves crashing on the sand throwing up a mist of spray. There was a reason everyone here had come to our spot across the bay to sit on a quiet beach, easy to swim and snorkel.

Everywhere North Americans are to be found (with their dogs) there is much jogging going on apparently. We pressed on toward Layne’s sentimental favorite, Melaque where she and Nora had vacationed 45 years ago when she was attending Hastings School of Law in San Francisco. She was eager to see her old haunts, an inn near the beach particularly. The streets of Melaque, exhibiting the sort of street culture and shopping we were seeking. But first we had one more exploration stop.

In that spirit of discovery we drove through La Manzanilla a small seaside village of no particular merit as far as we could see. Lots of North Americans crowding sidewalk cafes but no sense of place for us on our flyby visit. Nothing to see here so we moved along as we bopped along the coast following any road that appealed to us. It was great fun being explorers.

We had been told of a worthwhile ATM (“cajero”) to get money by a visitor to our beach. He said the machine charges relatively little and gives a good  exchange rate. He said it was at the Army base and so it was as disbelieving as I was. Therefore I had a gringo moment here. As you can see from the Google map below Highway 200 is a four lane main road entering what is formally known as San Patricio (St Patrick)-Melaque. The ATM is clearly marked but I sailed on by on our first attempt. Banjercito means Army Bank and is the government bank used for transactions like paying for fees and so forth. That they had a public ATM at an Army base boggled my mind slightly. I am always ready to give it a go, no matter how stupid the idea.

So I made a u-turn by turning right and and doubling back on a side road, and then I passed the ATM on the wrong side of the median with no parking. Then I had to make another tight  u-turn before driving back to the ATM in its booth by the side of the road in front of the army base. Phew! I will confess I saw nothing good coming from blocking the entrance to the base with my huge tin box on wheels. The entrance was protected by some huge spikes in the ground but in the US blocking a military installation would not go over well. Imagine. So I pushed Layne out and told her to get on with it while I did my merry go round act a second time. I was stressed. This below is an Indian copy of an Italian Ape and is used as a taxi in Manzanillo:

I took no photos of the actual location but Google street view works in Mexico as well as it does in the US so help yourself…On my third pass Layne came out and said the soldier at the gate told her I was an idiot (more or less) and to park my elephant in the right hand travel lane of the road. As you do in Mexico. So I did and no one hooted or got confused as they would in the US. They just drove on by. Obviously. We got $700 in pesos so well worth the stress. Thank you First State Bank of the Florida Keys for guarding our retirement checks so zealously. 

So far so good. We were in Melaque, I found Laynes old haunt Posada Las Gaviotas (The Seagulls Inn) and we discovered Melaque’s streets are narrow and very busy and not to undertaken by the faint of heart. We parked the van in the main square (the photo above the map up the page) and went for a walk around town as anticipated.

It was not a success. I had to keep Rusty on the leash as the traffic was intense: gringos wobbling on bicycles, Mexicans making urgent deliveries on motorcycles with cars and trucks blasting through the mess with inches to spare on the narrow crowded streets. My head was spinning even as Layne tried to reconcile  her memories of being the sole American in a sleepy beach town nearly half a century ago. “I remember this alleyway” and I took a grumpy photo. 

Nostalgia is a grumpy beast and demands so much of us, our attention, our memories, our hopes, our beliefs and so often returns not just nothing but full blown disappointment and we always are ready to go back for more. Melaque delivered disappointment in spades. Layne sat silently next to me as we left town with me feeling crappy I had not found the little slice of Paradise she remembered and we nearly forgot that we actually enjoyed a little of what we found! Silly us.

We found an empanada place and decided to take a seat and watch the street. Our order never arrived, not even our drink, as little meat pies were cooked and handed out to regulars asking by. We got up and left feeling even more disoriented. Then we got back to the van at the plaza and found a lady making tacos in the Tuxtla style. Which I have no idea what to is but was ready to try.

First she poured us a huge cup of horchata which is my favorite Mexican drink, better than chocolate (fighting words, I know). Its sweet rice water with a vanilla flavor and ideal for cutting the spiciness of typical street food. Then she threw our four tacos on the griddle.

I ordered two potato tacos as I'd never heard of them before, so if it doesn't sound gross I'll give it a try. Spicy mush was the verdict. And two chicken which had more texture. All of that for $3:50 and a smile.

Rusty was having fun watching the world go by. So after all that excitement we got on the road. We got back into the van and drove through Barra de Navidad another town of fond memory. Barra was more what we liked, slow paced and pretty but by now we knew trying the futility of tryin to recreate the past. So despite memories of a  fabulous stop here two decades ago with friends while docking at the not yet opened grand hotel's marina, we pressed on. Friday was our work day after the days of lounging at the beach depleting our supplies and our target was the city of Manzanillo. It lies an hour south along Highway 200 where San Kloo (Sam's Club) would yield another folding office chair and Walmart and Soriana Supermarket would fill the fridge and food lockers for another extended stay at the beach, we hoped.

I know it may sound odd that we seek out American stores but there is a reason, even if you would prefer we shop only at little stores in the villages. As you will see we do stop at the Abarrotes and roadside vendors but for us this trip isn't just a vacation, it's our life. which is to say we like to recreate foods we enjoy at home as much as we like eating Mexican food. Shopping in a large US box store in Mexico is much like doing the same at home with added Mexican variations of course. But we still need shampoo, and razor blades and we like non Mexican cheeses and non tropical fruits. We have found pears along the road but guess whose stock stickers they carry in even the tiniest of stores? Everyone shops Walmart in Mexico. Tomorrow I'll show you what we find along the road decidedly not big box store style.

Digging For Mexico

In thinking about my last day at this most perfect of beach camps I was thinking of a post with few words and more pictures.

Tenacatita Bay. A dog walk. A Panasonic FZ1000 around my neck. 

Mexicans get time off and they bring their families to the beach with the household car or motorcycle. 

I walk my dog just like I used to in the Keys. Rusty spends our days chasing different shady spots in between doing some sun bathing. He walks down to the beach when we go swimming but he doesn’t get into the water himself. 

Our tiny beach is around the rocky point from the main restaurant row, whence come our delivered lunches. We get the smoothest swimming waters thanks to the ring of rocks breaking up the swells. 

It’s a lovely spot but we are running out of supplies. Our water is now below ten gallons, our pesos are below 2,000 ($100) and the sunscreen situation is critical. Friday we drive and resupply for the weekend. 

Our van neighbors, the New Mexico Sprinter, mentioned a couple of locations down the coast and one might be an interesting campground for us. If their large undisciplined dogs were welcome Rusty should be fine there. We shall see. 

Layne has been toying with an idea that we should try renting a house or bungalow in the area. She’s keen to live in a community for a few weeks  and to be integrated, rather than being on the edge of local life in a van. I take her point though we do both enjoy living in the van. Our travel plans have always included the notion we might enjoy stops along the way in rented accommodations that might … accommodate a traveling friend. Airplanes fly all over the place and make catching up with us easy. All plans are tentative. 

Our days flow by like you might expect, swimming reading eating and chatting. In the morning Rusty and I walk the beach and in the evening we walk over the hill and walk the restaurant row. Except yesterday when Rusty and I got back there was a problem. Layne saw a GMC Yukon in trouble in the soft sand.

The American in the back was helping dig the vehicle into the soft sand but it must have been easier  in his estimation to be jumping on the bumper than doing something sensible like hard pushing. He had a half empty tequila bottle in hand so his judgement may have been impaired. I don’t doubt his driving was as he left the beach later in his pick up. Meanwhile Layne pointed me out to the Mexican father who was driving the Yukon as his potential savior. That I was the solution to his problem might not  have been immediately apparent but I was probably a better bet in any event than the cheerful inebriate clinging to the back of his sunken vehicle. 

I had the orange Go Treads in their bag. I had my highly rated collapsible sand shovel. I got them out in seconds and approached my first stuck car with my shiny brand new equipment and the intriguing notion this all might just work. 

I was curious to see if my tools would save the day and let me say here they were perfect.  It became a textbook recovery. I was astonished  by my air of competence lent to me by the perfect tools.  Extraordinary. 
Done and dusted. The family had a great evening at the beach and I had the glow of satisfaction of a job well done. I was particularly pleased my tools were packed such that they are easy to get to in the basement locker of GANNET2. Plus next time I pull them out they won’t look shiny new. I shall reek of eau de experienced hard core overlander.  A result all round with none more astonished by his prowess than me, the savior






Another great day at the beach.