Camping Mexico

The Canadian Government has issued a stern advisory for Canadians travelling overland into Mexico. We are told to excercise a high degree of caution due to a deteriorating security situation in many parts of the country. Non-essential travel is discouraged.

“Canadians should avoid crossing Mexico’s northern border by land, as shootouts, attacks, and illegal roadblocks may occur at any time. Criminals especially target SUVs and full-size pickup trucks for theft and carjacking along highways,” warns the advisory.

I view stern warnings with suspicion.

We threw caution to the wind and drove our small motor home across the Arizona border at Nogales and had a fantastic, worry-free five weeks exploring old Mexico. The primary danger was navigating narrow, shoulderless roads – with certain death on either side – while being overtaken by crazy bus drivers ignoring double solid lines.

I consulted our guidebook to decipher a sign boldly admonishing drivers: “No rebase con raya continua.” This translates as “No passing on solid line.”

Next winter I’ll perhaps take a job teaching illiterate Mexican drivers to read Spanish.

Although we passed through numerous checkpoints manned by Uzi-toting Policia Federales we saw no sign of any bad guys. My biggest daily fear, other than being taken out on a “raya continua”, was the feared Mexican Topés. These are not roving bands of armed insurrectionists. They are far more dangerous. They are speed bumps.

Mexican highway officials seem to take perverse pleasure in locating these menacing blocks of raised asphalt in the most unlikely spots, often camouflaged by a shady tree on an otherwise open highway. You may think I jest but try hitting a topé at 100 kmh in an RV. What this does to a fine collection of Martini glasses is not suitable for print.

Lo de Marcos

Anyone who has been to Mexico knows that feral dogs roam freely. Garbage, rubble, discarded beer cans and plastic bottles are strewn across the country, willy-nilly. Any pristine hillside is fair game as a rubbage heap. Endless miles of beautiful sandy beach are marred with refuse, mostly non-degradable plastic thrown up with the tide.

But a small contingent of retired Canadians, camped for the winter in the town of Lo de Marcos on the Riviera Nayarit, decided they could by example make a small difference. They didn’t want to forego their cold cervesas or purified water but nor did they want to see empty bottles and plastic tossed into the gutters of their adopted Mexican home.

For centuries Lo de Marcos was a quiet fishing village. In the last ten years its proximity to Puerta Vallarta has resulted in an influx of “Norteamericanos” visitors – Canadians and Americans. And tourists make garbage; rubbish the locals are apparently not pre-disposed to dispose of.

So the “Amigos de Lo De Marcos” talked to the local Ejido, a communal group organized like an Indian reservation, and asked permission to help clean up. The plan was simple. The Amigos purchased special containers for empty plastic bottles, placed them strategically on street corners throughout town and launched an awareness campaign. They even agreed to pick the bottles up once a week and make sure the empties ended up at a plastic recycling plant.

A great way to earn the respect of a Mexican villager is to demonstrate that a gringo can do more than adorn a hammock while guzzling beer; that he can actually perform manual labour.

Within weeks there was not an empty container to be seen in town.

We volunteered for pick-up one morning. Locals, young and old alike, bid us “buenas dias” and waved happily in genuine gratefulness as we did the circuit.

Then there is the dog problem.

In front of almost every Mexican casa is a pile of rubble, a discarded bicycletta and two dogs lazing in the middle of the road.

Most Mexican dogs have a healthy appearance and are well fed. Yet they belong to no one. The dog’s job is to lay quietly all day in the heat of a dusty street, oblivious to traffic and then to wander all night, howling and barking.

The Amigos decided that the residents of Lo de Marcos would snooze better if something were done about the ever-expanding packs of pups howling from dusk ‘til dawn. They partnered with local veterinarians and introduced a program to spay and neuter the canine hordes.

Some locals yelped a bit at first when the program was introduced but the exponential growth of puppy poop has now been cur-tailed. (sic)

The Copper Canyon Railway

We bid adieu to our Lo de Marcos amigos. The US border was almost 2000 km away. Our GPS told us that our home in the northern hinterland was 4500 km distant. We had miles to go before we slept.

A few hundred kilometers up the road we detoured inland to the lovely colonial City of El Fuerte where we intended to jump aboard the famous Copper Canyon Railway on its steep passage through the Sierra Madre Mountains.

But alas, “the best laid plans…” Apparently, during our stay in Lo de Marcos, we had acquired not only fond memories but also a delayed case of Montezuma’s revenge, delivered courtesy of a fried fish dinner at a romantic beachfront restaurant. We were far too sick to endure a mountainous railway journey.

So we checked into the beautiful Hotel Torres del Fuerte, fueled up on antibiotics and electrolytes and laid low. The temperature in the hot sun on the street was stifling but the cool shade under the hotel’s courtyard portico was the perfect place to sit, read and obey grumbling intestines during our recuperation.

The r&r at Hotel Torres did us a world of good. We brushed up on our Spanish conjugations with the hotel manageress who nurtured us faithfully. She didn’t have much else to do. During our entire stay we were the only guests.

For four mellow days I watched sunlight sift through the courtyard as Leonardo the hotel gardener casually watered the bougainvillea. On the fifth day, despite our beautiful surroundings, morning felt like Groundhog Day. So we grabbed a taxi to the train station. Our RV stayed behind tucked safely in the hotel courtyard under Leonardo’s care.

The Copper Canyon Railway is a remarkable feat of engineering. From El Fuerte, in the State of Sinaloa, to Creel, Chihuahua the train gains over 2400 meters in elevation, passes through 86 tunnels and traverses innumerable trestles. This 300km journey takes over seven hours – if you take the first class train and pay extra, as did we. God knows how long the milk run takes.

I love trains. I wandered from engine to caboose. At each end a guard – sub-machine gun cocked – suggested I reverse course.

The dining car was out of an Agatha Christie novel. Cervesa prices were out of this world. The temperature outside was 40°C. Still I chose to forego our air-conditioned coach and instead stood for hours listening to the clackety-clack in the stifling air between cars.

April is high season but the train was virtually empty. Mexican tourism has been devastated by the lack of Norteamericanos, scared off by irrational fear.

We disembarked at Creel and travelled by truck for another hour to the remote village of Cusarare where we visited the indigenous Raramuri people – independent natives who forsake electricity and other modern conveniences. Colorfully dressed women toiled in the heat, coaxing their wash clean in a creek’s sparse trickle.

After two nights we retraced our route to El Fuerte, picked up our van (spic and span thanks to Leonardo) and continued the long trek toward Red Deer.

So live a little. Camp Mexico – but watch for dogs sleeping in the road, beware of the “raya continua” and consider investing in plastic stem wear!

Gerry