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Joseph Savant
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Solo to Tierra del Fuego...

9.05.2017

The seed for riding to the tip of South America was planted in 1991, overhearing a group of guys at a BMW dealer in Fort Worth preparing for a trip from Alaska to Ushuaia. The idea bit me hard at age 31, but it seemed an impossibility with a family and a life-consuming business to run. Nevertheless, the idea remained in the back of my consciousness, a tiny speck of an ember, never quite dying out.

After getting back into riding 11 years ago, the ember was fanned by stories from motorcycle websites and travelers met, slowly flickering into a flame. The logistics of a solo trip south seemed overwhelming. Work, bills and a home all kept the dream just a fantasy. Time slipped away as I tried to make it all happen. The reality that unless something radical was done in my life, the cycle of working to pay bills would never end. As I turned 55, waiting any longer seemed far more foolish than making a radical life change. I knew too many people who'd postponed their dreams, only to die early or develop issues that would never allow it. I did not want that to be me.

It seemed the only solution was to rid myself of every bit of responsibility possible. Getting radical was what had to be done. I began selling my "sacred cows" and possessions, culminating in the sale of my home to free me of responsibility and fund the enterprise. What I found in that process, was that my sadness in selling a lifetime of accumulated possessions quickly turned to joy. Somehow, each layer I sold off or gave away lifted a weight from my shoulders. By the end of the process, I couldn't give things away fast enough. Dumpsters were my new friends. I felt newness of life replacing the unrecognized weight of all the things I'd accumulated in my life.

I left for the North America expedition in June 2016 with no particular agenda, other than a northward trek through as much beautiful terrain as possible. The trip rambled on until reaching the Arctic Ocean at Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, before reversing south and ending in a 4 month exploration of Mexico. At the end, I'd traveled 9 months and 30,000 miles by motorcycle. It was a great adventure.

The U.S., Canada and Mexico route in 2016-2017



A bit more detail on the Mexico route:

After that experience, my solo journey to South America begins in earnest. The direction on the map is Ushuaia, Argentina, but the true destination lies somewhere in the soul. Traveling to Patagonia by motorcycle is a bit more common now than in 1991, but for me it's the journey I've waited for and as I've learned from previous travels, it's always about the journey, not the destination. I've also found that roads are simply pathways to the people who will touch your life. We make our plans but they are often confounded, so rather than saying “I’m riding to Ushuaia!”, I’m just going to say “I’m heading south”...

The route will take me back through Mexico, then Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica and Panama. From there, I plan to ship the bike by sailboat to Colombia and explore South America, ending up in the southernmost town of Ushuaia and the literal end of the road in Tierra Del Fuego National Park around February.

Some photos from the recent trek through the West, Canada, Alaska and Mexico:

The Dalton Highway, Alaska

San Juans, Colorado

Somewhere, USA

Yukon Territory, Canada

San Cristobal de las Casas, Chiapas, Mexico

Uruapan, Michoacan, Mexico

Patzcuaro, Michoacan, Mexico

#Camera #BMWR1200GS #Adventure #SouthAmerica #Patagonia

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

Focus on Travel Cameras

9.06.2017

Since many adventure motorcyclists are also into travel photography, I thought I'd share a little on my gear choices.

Over the years I've used several camera systems for my travels and the search for perfection will likely continue. Traveling on a motorcycle is similar to backpacking in that space is limited and the quest for "smaller, lighter and better" never ends.

My career as an advertising photographer required many camera systems and much heavy gear. For adventure riding I wanted to be unencumbered and leave the gear behind. High end pocket cameras got great results, within their limitations, and for me that usually meant lack of lens range. Pocket zooms inherently cannot be made to perform at pro levels due to optical physics and complexity, so the better ones usually have a limited zoom range. The quality they do produce is frankly astonishing considering the physics, but generally they lacked lens range on the telephoto end. I tried super-zooms, only to find the resolution and fringing unacceptable for my tastes.

On the North America trek - specifically the U.S., Canada and Alaska - I carried a Lumix GM-5 System with interchangeable lenses that worked very well and was miniscule. It reigns as the smallest ILC camera with a viewfinder in the Micro 4/3 format and sported a 16 mp image. The body is the size of a deck of cards and in the M4/3 system there are a couple hundred lenses or more that work with the body. IQ was very good for such a small system. My only complaints are that the tiny viewfinder made hitting critical focus difficult when in a rush. Otherwise very happy with the quality and improvement over pocket cameras, however though the diminutive size was incredible for traveling, it was almost too small for my large hands and shooting quickly was difficult. I wanted to find a system that still was small but would let me shoot faster and check focus more easily.

Lumix GM-5 and GF-7 with two kit zooms

I'd carried my Fujifilm XT system and lenses on a couple of previous trips into Mexico and got great image quality, and even though it is much smaller than a DSLR, it still took up a fair amount of room.

A couple of years earlier, I'd bought a Sony Nex 5N to take on a trip into Mexico and other than very limited lens choices at the time, I felt it gave great image quality in a small package that wasn't "too" small. I couldn't live with the optical quality of kit zooms they offered, though I loved the size of the lenses. Having used the best lenses in the world as a pro, I was used to razor sharp images a la Zeiss, Leica, Nikon and Canon amongst others.

Time passed and Sony improved their lens range with several pro grade lenses. In packing for a possible year on the motorcycle, I had more than usual and space was a premium. I found my existing Fuji XT system to be just a little too large for the space allotted. The old Nex 5N and lenses easily fit in the space, so I decided to check out the latest Sony gear and was happy to find they'd added some Zeiss lenses to the mix. I jumped back into the E-Mount system with two older A6000 bodies and some mint condition used Sony/Zeiss glass. I took more gear than I really needed, but the system is small enough that it's still reasonable for size and weight.

In Guanajuato, Mexico, I had a street vendor make a pigskin leather carry bag to my specs. It fits the system perfectly and more importantly is very low profile on the streets. It looks like a leather shoulder pouch instead of a tourist camera bag that shouts "steal me".

Currently I'm taking the 2 Sony A6000 bodies with 6 lenses - 16-70 Zeiss zoom, 55 1.8 Zeiss prime, 85 1.8 Sony prime, 55-210 Sony travel zoom, 30mm Sigma 1.4 prime and 12mm Rokinon manual focus ultrawide. Two bodies were chosen, mainly for a backup body in case of failure on such a long trip, but also to allow a second mounted lens for shooting. Amazing that 2 bodies and 6 lenses fit in the 3" x 10" x 12" leather bag. That's a complete pro location system.

In Use:

On the bike, the tank bag carries one body with 16-70 zoom attached, a 55-210 lens and batteries. The two zooms give a range of 24mm to 315mm equivalent for any situation I come upon and are close at hand. The leather bag with second body and other lenses reside in a locked case. Having a split system leaves me some gear in case the tank bag kit gets stolen.

On the streets, I carry a body w 16-70 zoom over my shoulder but tucked under my arm. The 55-210 in a cargo pants pocket on short walks. Exploration days, I carry the entire kit in the leather bag, one body in the bag with a lens mounted and the other tucked under my arm or in hand.

The 16-70 f4, 55-210 f3.5-6.3 and 55 f1.8 are mainstays. Least used are the 30 f1.4 and 12mm f2, both of which are razor sharp btw, as are the 16-70 and 55 1.8. The Sony 55-210 is a mixed bag - sometimes very sharp at some length/aperture combos and at other times just average. I've never figured out the "sweet spots" of the lens, but the size, weight and range are perfect for travel. All other E-mount zooms in a similar focal range are massively larger. I suspect that the 85 1.8 and 16-70 will be my main walkabout lenses.

I've never found the "perfect system" or the way to carry it, so it's a variation of all the above - sometimes all in the bag, sometimes just a body and lens, lenses in pockets, etc.

Other Options: I think a high end pocket camera such as the Lumix LX series, Sony RX100 and similar in a coat pocket is a great way to go and would allow one to dismiss a tank bag completely. My older ride reports were done exclusively with the Panasonic Lumix LX3, LX5 and LX7 pocket cameras but the short zoom range was frustrating. For any trips of less magnitude than this one, I'd be perfectly fine with the GM5 or a pocket camera, but this may be a once-in-a-lifetime trip with a monster variety of shooting opportunities and I want to increase my chances of getting more and better shots as much as I can within the size constraint envelope.

My six lens A6000 kit with 3" x 10" x 12" bag, vs my Lumix GM-5 four lens kit and pouch

Images captured with the Panasonic GM5 system are as good as with the Sony E series, save the higher resolution and somewhat better lowlight capabilities of the Sony. The quicker autofocus and larger viewfinder of the Sony are pluses.

I'd love to have the GM5 and the two primes with me to complement the Sony. The GM5 and a couple of lenses are easy to slip in a pocket and so small they don't draw any attention. But then again, if I had the room I'd also like to carry a drone and an espresso machine.


#Camera

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

MmmmmMexico!

9.07.2017

Despite having finished the recent 30,000 mile trip as well as multiple solo trips, I still experience a case of nerves before each departure. I'd returned from Mexico due to my mother falling deathly ill, and spent the summer in Dallas, watching her health slowly improve. Going from a daily life of motorcycle travel in beautiful landscapes to a sudden situation of caretaker in a large city wasn't easy, but I was glad of the outcome.

For me, the unfortunate downside of having spare time means that I have an opportunity to overthink, over-prepare and over-pack. The premise of heading into multiple countries for a long period, facing everything from jungle heat and rains to mountain temperatures and snow, as well as highly remote areas, means much more than normal must be carried. Additional clothing, parts, tools and other items are needed, but the space on a motorcycle has limits, not only for the space but more importantly weight. I am a minimalist when it comes to travel, with less truly being more. Many folks merely add more gear and more bags, strapping things all over their motorcycle until it is heavily overloaded and dangerous. All that gear can be vulnerable to street theft when stopped for a meal or a stretch of the legs and can be a burden physically and mentally.

I spent my preparation time ruthlessly editing gear, buying lighter and/or smaller, saving any degree of weight or space possible. Anything that could do double duty was substituted. For the first time I am carrying a large amount of photo gear rather than my typical small travel system, since this trip would probably never be repeated. I also wanted to carry camp gear, mainly for shelter if stranded. My bike has three hard locking cases and I wanted to try and get everything in them if possible. Surprisingly, I was able to, except the tent, which I put in a small waterproof duffle on the back seat. Despite this trip being the longest and most challenging I've ever faced, I must say it was probably the most minimally packed I've yet done. I brought more things than necessary, but then again I have no idea what daily use and routines will be. Thinning out gear always happens on a trip, so I'm sure a few things will be moved, tossed or donated along the way.

The deadline for leaving North America is usually around September, which without major delays will put you at the south tip of Argentina about February, which corresponds to July in North America. Ushuaia is roughly the equivalent of Alaska with ice and snow often arriving as early as March or early April. My mother's health was still an issue, and the need to get on the road was approaching fast. If I missed it, I'd have to postpone the trip a year, but I also didn't want to leave with her health so poor. She told me that I should go ahead and go as her health might stay stable for many months and one couldn't live life in a guessing game. The decision to go ahead with my trip was a difficult one, as I knew there was a real possibility she might not live. When I rode out the day of leaving, I felt no joy at what lay ahead, only concerns about the future.

From Dallas, I made my way south towards Laredo, seeing a few friends in Austin and San Antonio before stopping for a week in the tiny town of Dilley, Texas, south of San Antonio. My friend Hank, a world traveler and expert mechanic, has a BMW motorcycle repair shop called "MotoHank" located in the town. He serves many world motorcycle travelers who come through Laredo into the U.S.

Aside from our friendship, I wanted to have my bike checked over before embarking. After a new set of Heidenau tires, Hank checked the bike thoroughly since it now carried over 60,000 miles on the odometer, not exactly a new bike to head south on. I was disappointed to find the drive shaft was showing early signs of bearing failure, not to mention the repair and replacement cost, but I was also very glad a severe problem had been caught early.

After a few days of waiting out a hurricane in the tiny town of Dilley, I rolled onto Interstate 35 for Laredo and the crossing into Mexico. It felt good to be moving in the mid-sixties temperatures and sunshine of a rare cool day in the first week of September. The town of Cotulla and its mass of quickly built oil-boom hotels and restaurants slipped by as I settled into the rhythm of the road. The howl of the Heidenau tires rang in my ears until I passed through the magic 65 mph line where they go silent. I tried to block my thoughts of all that might lie ahead and just take in the day and weather. It's far too easy to let one's mind wander as to all the "what if's" that might lie ahead.

The exit for Texas Highway 255 finally came up after an hour of droning south past the endless flats of scrub mesquite. I'd decided to skip the long crossing lines in Laredo and go 25 miles north to the Colombia Solidarity Bridge crossing. The highway to Colombia has always been a toll road, but I was pleasantly surprised to see pieces of tape covering the word "toll"on every sign - an actual toll road that had paid for itself.

My decision to avoid the lines at Nuevo Laredo and go north to Colombia proved a good one. There were no people at the crossing, either coming in or going out. I paid the $3.50 bridge fee and headed across the muddy green Rio Grande bridge. Halfway over, I crossed the line into Mexico, making my adventure now "official."

Pulling under the inspection port on the Mexican side, I got my first red light and siren for inspection on any trip into Mexico. I climbed off the bike as the guard began a barrage of questions in Spanish, of which none I understood. I stuttered back "no hablo Espanol." He pointed to each locked case for me to open as he continued speaking Spanish. I wasn't sure what he was saying, so I randomly replied "Argentina", assuming he was asking where I was going. His eyes got wide and he shook his head as if I were crazy.

I pointed to myself and said "gringo loco". He didn't respond but tapped on my duffel and asked about it. I couldn't think of the word for "tent" so I just said "camping". He stared for a bit, then lost interest with a "bueno" and turned away just as the inspection alarm went off again. In the inspection port, there stood an identical red BMW R1200GS Adventure like mine. The guard spun back around and looked at me like "What?", doing a double take at each of us again. I shrugged and made a goofy face, then headed inside for the Inmigración and Aduana process. It was quick and easy. I got my passport stamped and entry visa paid, then paid my motorcycle deposit and was on the road in about 15 minutes.

For anyone entering Mexico, if you can get to the Aduana in Nuevo Laredo before 9 am, the lines are reasonable, but if not, consider the Colombia crossing about 30 miles north of Laredo. It adds about 30 minutes each way, but bypasses the craziness of Nuevo Laredo and the hour or two it sometimes takes in the lines. Many times I have been through that crossing and there have been little or no people, except on holidays.

If you've never done it before, the entry process into Mexico is as follows:

Go to Inmigración first, present your passport, fill out the visa form you receive, return it to an immigration officer. He gives it back. Next, you take the immigration form, your passport, vehicle title (and/or registration), and driver's license to the little combination snack & copy kiosk. Pay for copies with a few pesos. Next, take the copies and originals over to the Aduana window. You'll pay a $400 deposit for the motorcycle ($200 if it's pre-2000) which is refunded upon exiting out of the country, plus $29 fee, then $52 for the tourist visa. Credit cards are accepted other than for the copies. You will receive paperwork and a windshield sticker. Keep every scrap of paper. The windshield sticker is supposed to be placed on the bike windshield, HOWEVER, I have been told by other experienced travelers to simply leave it off, as it immediately and easily identifies you as a foreigner. I never put my sticker on, and have never been asked at any checkpoint. Take the payment receipts back to Inmigración for proof of payment. The officer will give you the lower portion of the visa form.

The process is "similar" at each crossing but can differ depending on crossing and officers. Recently at both Laredo and Colombia, they've been demanding vehicle registration and NOT a title, turning away those without. I always carry my title and registration. Today however, they didn't even mention registration. Such is Mexico.

Santiago, a quiet little "Pueblo Magico" south of Monterrey, was my destination for the night. It is the right distance for a full day's ride from Laredo. It is a pleasant and serene town, surrounded by mountains and a great place to spend a night or two. From Santiago you can either head due south towards Vera Cruz along the coast, or go west on some fantastic twisting roads across the mountains to the western high desert.

The long and flat highway ride from Laredo to Monterey was boring but I focused on trying to read any new vibrations that might come from the new drive shaft installation. It's always sketchy having a repair done just before heading out on a long trip, since the repair needs to prove itself.

Monterey supplied flooded streets from a heavy rain, with traffic congestion and excitement to counteract the earlier boredom of the highway and after weaving through the city and out the south side, I arrived about 3 p.m. in Santiago. I had to wait about 20 minutes for the hotel attendant to arrive to open the hotel. As I sat swigging water on the main square, an older, distinguished gentleman pulled over on his scooter. He began speaking in Spanish then switched to English for my benefit. He talked of his other motorcycles and that he loved the scooter for running to the store. As we talked of my travels, he said “Mexico is a great and beautiful country, but I think the peoples is not so good.” It was his way of warning me to be careful as he rode off for an ice cream.

I had the entire colorful hotel to myself, and with school and tourist season over it's a nice relief to have some solitude.

Walking the quiet town that afternoon, the surrounding mountains were covered in mist as the sky above undulated from blue to gray, slowly dissolving into gray dusk and eventual darkness.

 

Thoughts of the day… the endless, flat landscape of scrub mesquite brush and wind-shredded plastic bags captive to barb wire fences from Laredo to Monterrey. Riding in hub deep water on the streets of Monterrey from heavy rains and the accompanying dousing from cars adjacent, a little girl staring at me through the dirty glass of a rear car window, eyes enlarging in fear as I turned to look at her. The strange smelling cocktail mix of diesel fumes, grilling meat and Fabuloso cleaner as one cruises in traffic through the city, the misty Sierra Madre mountains looming over me as the day shortens.

Santiago is a step back in time in some ways. It is a peaceful town, minus an incident where the mayor was assassinated a few years earlier for not cooperating with a drug cartel, but it is colorful, serene and has some great little cafes. Sitting on a park bench, its tranquility slowly swept over me as the dusk fell into late evening.

Though the canyons of the Sierra Madre mountains to my west, towards Galeana or Los Lirios, are tugging at me to head for a stunning ride to the amazing village of Real de Catorce tomorrow, I think I'll take a different route south through Linares, Ciudad Victoria and on to Xilitla, a ride I've never taken. The bike is running well and handling like a dream with the new tires. Despite my micro-focused attention for vibrations with the new drive shaft, all seems to be well!

#Mexico #Patagonia #Adventure #BMWR1200GS










Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

South to Xilitla

9.08.2017

So I left a little late from Santiago, rebelling against any schedule now that I'm free for the foreseeable future. I filled up the big BMW's tank at the local Pemex with "Roja" (premium gas) to the tune of nearly 500 pesos, which at the current valuation is about $25 U.S.! Mexico had had an almost 30% jump in fuel prices since my last visit, but I was shocked to pay more than I did in the U.S. compared to previous trips. I had been told there were riots and protests around Mexico at the instant price jump, but it appears the days of inexpensive gasoline are over.

The village of Xilitla showed to be around 360 miles south and an eight hour trip, passing through Linares, Ciudad Victoria, Ciudad Mante and Ciudad Valles. I rolled on the throttle in the morning sunshine and raced southward, the mountains lying to my right, beautiful as the miles fell under my wheels. I kept an eye on them in my boredom. I say boredom with a caveat…

Having ridden in Mexico many times now, I never cease to be amazed at the continuous challenges as one rides. It's like watching an insane video game of sorts, as something happens on the road, on the roadside, or just off the road. It's never boring, always exciting or threatening, and always when least expected. If you are bored, then you’re probably 30 seconds away from a near death experience involving a chicken, a wheelbarrow, a scooter, a donkey, a tractor, a goat or a herd of goats, a semi, a bus, an old truck, a new car, a large pothole, a sugarcane truck and a man with a machete. That said, I stayed focused as much as possible but still had a few harrowing moments.

As the day progressed, the trip was made both a bit more beautiful and a bit more sad by the fluttering wings of thousands of butterflies. The majority were yellow, with a few monarchs thrown in. They all traveled from the right side of the road to the left, something I found fascinating. As I plowed through them, killing hundreds, I never saw any deviation of movement from the right to the left. Maybe they were being sucked gently into the hurricane that was forming to the east, or my left. No matter what, it sucked for a bunch of them.

The eastern side of Mexico is fertile and filled with fruit groves and farms. Vendors sat on the roadside selling avocados and oranges as I passed grove after grove. I’d skipped breakfast and had hoped to make it all the way to Ciudad Valles for a late lunch, but it wasn't happening. By the time I took the loop around Ciudad Victoria, I was starving and almost died before reaching an OXXO station in Mante. I swilled down an Arizona iced tea and as I inhaled a prepackaged deli sandwich, a starving dog suddenly appeared in front of me. She was so emaciated it was hard to believe she was still alive. I told her she needed the food more than I and tossed her the remainder of the sandwich, which she gobbled instantly, then looked up at me for more. I explained to her in Spanish that I had no more. A one-eyed dog appeared from nowhere, snarling and chased her away. That was my cue to go as well.

In the skies above, the huge, white umbrella of tropical storm Katia loomed, bringing welcome shade and slightly cooler temperatures. However, it was an ominous sign of oncoming bad weather and I pushed the needle on the speedometer to get further south quickly. I had no idea of the current status of the storm that had formed at my leaving Texas, and was now heading for Tampico on the Gulf Coast. My route south for Xilitla paralleled the coast, only 80 miles or so away as the crow flies. Having waited out Hurricane Harvey in Dilley, I'd made my break for Mexico between the two storms and I didn't want to get caught in torrential rains and flooding on the eastern side of the Sierra's.

Of note, one thing I did learn today is that you DO NOT STOP for school buses loading and unloading. As I was flying down the narrow two lane road in the country, in the opposite lane I saw a school bus with flashing yellow lights, so I slowed to a crawl. The bus stopped with flashing lights and kids begin to pile off. As I sat, I was almost rear-ended by a speeding vehicle from behind which scared the crap out of me. I gunned it and watched in the rearview, as not a single car slowed down for the school bus. Lesson learned.

From Ciudad Valles, the road changed from a flat landscape of farmland to lush, tropical, and mountainous as the road began to turn west for Xilitla. The patchy blacktop twisted and turned through huge groves of banana plants, flowers and other tropical delights. The narrow roadway was a lot of fun on the motorcycle, but the ever present trucks, buses, and old vehicles moving slowly made it a challenge. The settlements and endless unmarked speed bumps known as "topes", kept everything moving slowly except for my occasional bursts of acceleration to pass on blind curves or at any place possible. The last 20 miles seemed to take forever, especially after eight hours of intense riding.

One bright spot came as I passed a man chopping a Volkswagen Vanagon into pieces with an axe. He had taken most of the top and sides off and was cutting down the last of the pillars with a mighty swing of his blade. The loud booming sound made quite an impression as I passed just at the moment his axe struck metal.

Catching glimpses of deep canyons and high mountains shrouded in clouds on the narrow winding road were exhilarating. It was disappointing not to be able to get photos, as the roadsides had no shoulder and it was impossible to stop.

The village of Xilitla finally appeared on a mountainside ahead, as small homes and buildings clustered amongst the lush green. MotoHank had told me about the town and the eccentric English sculptor who'd made a surreal concrete world on the edge of the town. The artist was Sir Edward James and the world he'd made, “Las Pozas”, had been abandoned after his death. It is now intertwined with the jungle. In my search for a hotel in a sprinkling rain, I took the dirt and stone road past the entrance of the sculpture garden. What could be seen of Las Pozas looked to be a fantastic and strange place to explore.

The sparse hotels near the Las Pozas garden were too pricey, so I headed into town and searched with one of my phone apps, finding an inexpensive place. Though it was right off the main road, it was difficult find, sitting a block down a steep, narrow alleyway and poorly marked. When I finally spotted the tiny sign, I parked my bike in front of a bar on the main highway and walked down the steep alley. The building wasn't clearly marked and I had no idea which one it was. I began to walk up to the front door of what I thought was the hotel, but heard two boys yelling “Señor! Seńor!” behind me. Seeing Gringo Gigantica about to enter an unsuspecting home caused quite a stir. I could see their intrigue with the gringo motorcycle man as they began asking me questions in Spanish. I could tell they were concerned that I was about to enter someone's home unknowingly. I said “hotel?” in my best Spanish. They both looked at me, puzzled. I repeated and suddenly one of the boys brightened up and said “otel”, pointing to the building adjacent. His mother came out on her balcony across the street and shouted multiple times to me, pointing at the same building. Problem solved. The thing is, my pronunciation of "hotel" sounded exactly like their pronunciation of "hotel"... Right? :D

With the two boys on my heels, I wandered into a small garage and up some steps directly into a beautiful apartment. The boys and I shouted “hola!” to no answer. Just as I turned to walk out, a lady came breathlessly running up the steps. She was the owner, Elizabeth, and spoke no English but was sweet and kind. She had several new apartments in the building, each complete with kitchenette and two bedrooms. They were 300 pesos a night, or roughly $15 U.S. That was 1/5 the price of the other hotels I’d found. The room was great and ten minutes later she brought me a large glass of limonada, ice cold and delicious!

Luckily the hotel's small garage had room enough to squeeze my bike in for the night, the security of my motorcycle always a priority.

My "otel" is the one with red clay tiles on the right - the street is steeper than it looks and making the slow off-camber-severe angle-up-into-the-garage very slowly scared me more than anything in a while! It was tricky on the slope and angle so slowly, but the bike was safe for the night.

After cooling down and resting a few minutes I wandered out to find a real meal for the evening. I was immediately struck by the friendliness of the people here. They didn't seem to view me with the cautious suspicion experienced in some parts of Mexico. In the alleys and the streets the people smiled genuinely. Hard to define exactly, but I felt good in this place.

#BMWR1200GS #Adventure #Patagonia #Mexico #SouthAmerica #Camera #Photography

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

Rainy Streets

9.09.2017

The french doors of my darkened room opened into the night, to sounds of a gentle rain over a town slowly drifting to sleep. The bleat of goats I heard nearby, fodder for the handwritten “cabrito” sign on a piece of cardboard taped to a roadside milk crate. Drunken shouts echoed down the alleyway from the nearby cantina where exhausted workers played cards and drank, the smell of beer and sweat fresh in my mind from when I'd passed the open door in the darkness earlier.

I remembered the smiles of the cook and waitress as I’d passed the open air cafe on my way to the little store adjacent. Inside the cramped little tienda, two small children squealed with laughter at a Disney movie in Spanish playing on the tiny old tube tv sitting on a box. Their watchful mama smiled kindly as she handed me change for the pack of tortillas that would be my dinner. Her little shop was illuminated weakly by a single, cold and dim fluorescent bulb that flickered. It made me want to get back outside under the night sky.

The day had been spent wandering Xilitla, dodging spats of rain and walking the steep, green-tinged streets covered with algae from the constant jungle moisture. I liked Xilitla. Oddly, it seemed a world away from the rest of Mexico I knew, as if I’d been transported to another country further south. The people noticed the gringo but didn’t care, going about their business undisturbed.

The sky had been filled with fog and rain, broken with momentary spots of sunshine and blue, but the humidity lay so heavily that I feared the consequences of temperatures higher than the 72 degrees of the day. It had been frustrating trying to capture photos of life and of the town, feelings and moments so hard to convey with images. But that, however, is the eternal struggle of being a traveling photographer.

In the dark of my room I settled into a review of the photos of the day on the laptop, until my eyes were too heavy to remain awake.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Location… Location… Location!

 
 
 
 
 
 
Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

Las Pozas: A Surreal Garden

9.09.2017

In the afternoon I grabbed a cab for Las Pozas, the jungle-drowned remains of a concrete wonderland built by the wealthy aristocrat artist Sir Edward James. The cab driver spoke no English but we communicated enough to find out he’d had little work when I said “Mucho trabajo?” He shook his head and answered “poquito”, then I gleaned “lluvia Katia”, “escuela” and “tourista” to understand why.

As we rolled up the muddy, rocky road to the Las Pozas garden, he said “mucho agua mañana”, warning me of heavy rains the coming day as a response to my stating I was on a motorcycle journey. I’d been torn as to whether to change plans and head inland this morning to escape Hurricane Katia’s downpours, but heavy morning rains seemed to indicate she'd already arrived. No matter, the day had become relatively dry which allowed me to explore the little streets of Xilitla.

Passing some roadside trinket vendors we arrived at the entrance gate. The teenage boy selling tickets was perturbed that I didn't speak Spanish well enough, insulting me under his breath. I paid entry and began the walk. The surreal sculptures and buildings were in one of the lushest areas I’ve ever been. Everywhere I looked there were green fungus-covered concrete forms, organic plant-like shapes and buildings woven together in random patterns, greatly detailed and artistic in forms that boggled the mind as to the time and expense involved in creating this world.

 

The humidity was thick and despite reasonable temperatures I was drenched as if by a downpour in about 5 minutes. Pathways of natural stone wound and twisted up and around the steep terrain, passing under and through vegetation and towering trees. They led to surprise fantasy structures with no purpose other than to exist as forms of imagination.


The sounds of a rushing mountain stream were the backdrop in a massive tangle of jungle growth, glimpsed occasionally from dripping, moss covered concrete steps and structures.

I wandered about in this Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole, occasionally photographing tourists posed against the backdrop of surrealty.

#Photography #Adventure #Mexico #Travel #LasPozas

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

Dancin' In Xilitla

9.10.2017

After an outstanding breakfast of "chilaquiles", I headed out into morning mist, heading up steep streets to the main square. Live music was playing, quite good, and I entered the jardin to find some locals dancing to the sound of the band. The vocalist was great, but my eyes fixated on the guitarist, a boy with cerebral palsy. His distorted body held his guitar at an odd angle, his head against the instrument playing it with great intensity and enthusiasm, raising and lowering it like a rock star with great joy on his face.

I stood in the stop and go rain, savoring the sounds and sites of a local people enjoying themselves. I had little desire to photograph the scene, instead finding myself alive in the moment. Surrounded by mountains and mist, the only gringo in town, I felt completely alone in a different world.


Afterward, I wandered the streets trying to catch a photo here and there, but mostly just fascinated by the sights, sounds, and colors of the street market amidst the rain and sunshine as they fell together. After several challenging months in Texas, I tried to bask in as much of a different world as I could, hoping it would begin to sweep away recent memories and turn my eyes forward to a new and exciting world. I had not yet begun to feel the exhilaration and rush of the big adventure that lay ahead.


Wandering the Mercado, I found a vendor making bistec tacos for six pesos each, roughly 30 cents U.S. An order of two fit the bill as I watched him searing and finely chopping the meat, tossing cilantro and grilled onions in the mix. A weathered, indigenous couple sat directly across from me at the tiny table, emotionless until I smiled, upon which they burst into big smiles and said "Buenos Tardes!". The tacos were well worth the 12 pesos... the smiles across the table worth even more.

Earlier, the bells of the church had intermixed with the music on the plaza, a mixed call to mass. I wandered back to the church and inside was coddled by the sweet sounds of parishioners singing. I sat in the corner a while and watched, feeling the serenity and peace of the old place.

​ As I walked from the church back out into the plaza, a drunken man pursued me, asking forcefully and almost demanding money. I feigned un-understanding, walking away quickly as he pursued. As a gringo I've always been a target for money in my travels. So much so that at times it can feel like harassment and it's easy to harden your heart. I combat the situation by looking for the people who truly appear to be in need, surreptitiously slipping them pesos when possible. The nation of Mexico has a high rate of poverty and there are so many in need that it can be heartbreaking.

The day finally done, my walk back to the hotel down the long, steep street lay under the watchful eyes of a soldier, his green camouflaged body half hidden behind a concrete light pole. True to his tactical training, his presence was barely seen under the tropical vegetation covering the sandbagged machine gun emplacement. What lay down the side street he guarded mattered not as I waved and did my Jethro Bodine smile to his unflinching stone face.

A sight for sore eyes. Blue sky!


A rain shower came and I quickly ducked under the narrow overhang of a hardware store, pressing against its roll up door covered in condensation for a few minutes until the rain lightened.


Tomorrow points me a few hours west over the Sierra Gorda. I'll be a bit sad to leave Xilitla, but my internal master dictates motion and fresh experience. I'm not sure why this little town has fulfilled me so. In many ways it's not what I like - the rain and humidity primarily - but it seems to have filled some cracks in my soul and given me time to shift my thoughts from a challenging summer season. But then that's why we ride don't we... to escape our cages and fly, if but only on the ground.


Tomorrow, the high deserts and the Pueblo Magico of Bernal.

#Photography #BMWR1200GS #Adventure #Travel #Mexico

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

The Road to Bernal

9.11.2017

After a couple of wet days the sunny morning and blue skies were a welcome sight for my day of leaving. Hurricane Katia had turned out to be a dud thankfully.

As I was packing my bike, the hotel owner came out to talk. I forget his name, but he spoke pretty good English, having worked in Houston for 15 years and getting his masters electrician rating. Over that time, he’d sent his money home to his wife in Xilitla. When his work permit renewal came up, he never received the notice in the mail and ended up losing his status. Now, he can never return to the U.S., but with the money saved, he'd built the entire four story hotel/home by himself including all the furniture, by hand, even cutting the trees in the forest to use for lumber. I was more than impressed. He'd spent nine years and still had the top floor yet to finish.

We talked about my trip and he warned me not to ride at night, not to go to any part of the states of Michoacan or Guerrero, and even to be very careful in Tamaulipas. I chose not to tell him I’d ridden in much of Michoacan the previous spring. He told me goodbye and went to work on the top floor, while his wife Elizabeth came out to watch me finish. In my pocket I still had some quarters, nickels and dimes rattling around. I handed it to her, not knowing how to say it was for her two young boys. I handed it to her and said "niños". She saw me struggling for the words and laughed, finally saying it was for their “colección”. I laughed and said "si!"

Once the side cases were closed and the duffel strapped, I backed gingerly out into the alley on my tiptoes, the 650 pound motorcycle feeling especially tall and unwieldy. The differing angles of the steep alley and driveway made it tenuous, but I got it revved and up the steep street to the main road, stopping at a little grocery shop or "abarrotes" for bottled water and a pack of tortillas for my breakfast and the road.

As I swigged some water with a fresh tortilla in my hand, a lady struggled to push her old mother in a wheelchair up the street past me. I smiled with a “Buenos dias”. They both responded with big smiles. A minute later I noticed the lady trying to lock the rear wheels of the wheelchair on the steep cobblestones, preparing to hold it for her mother so she could try to get out of it. In front of her stood a high curb that I new she'd never be able to climb. Mexico is not what you'd call "handicap friendly". I jumped off the bike, half eaten tortilla hanging from my mouth, and ran over to help. The old woman was too weak to even lift herself and the fact the chair was facing up a steep hill didn’t help. I took her hand and she struggled greatly to stand, but then I just said “perdón” and deadlifted her up to her feet. She wrestled to stay standing while her daughter struggled with the wheelchair, unable to hand me the old woman's cane. I held her, slowly moving us to the doorway, where she clung dearly until her daughter came with the cane. I looked up at the set of concrete steps she had to climb to her apartment and just shook my head. It broke my heart to think she had to struggle that way each day.

I got the motorcycle turned around and hit the road out of town, climbing up into the mountains. It was an incredibly beautiful day, temperatures in the sixties and sunny. The road was twisty as it wound higher and higher. I rode slowly and just took it all in, the thick vegetation and deep valleys of green, high waterfalls and many fruit trees.

My destination for the day was the quiet and lovely town of Bernal, one of Mexico's "Pueblo Magicos". It was about 150 miles away, but I kept stopping and looking at views, absorbing and just having a great, easy ride. Freedom reigns.

Xilitla lies on the eastern side of the Sierra Madre range, amid the tropical climate from the nearby Gulf of Mexico. As I traveled west, climbing higher to crest the Sierras, pines became common along with cooler temperatures. Little villages appeared on the steep hillsides, several with beautiful churches or missions, and I’d loop around the plazas to see them. The most impressive was the church facade in the town of Landa Matamores, where I pulled up to park and found myself next to a man and his little boy on the sidewalk.

The man, Santiago, was enamored with my bike being a BMW, as I find all across Mexico. I indicated that he could set his little son Manuelito on the bike since kids always seem to enjoy getting on it. Santiago communicated that he wanted to take a picture with a cell phone, but it was with his wife in the government building across the street. I indicated to him I’d be back in 10 minutes and went off to see the church, under the scrutiny of a few Mexican soldiers on the sidewalk.

Upon my return, Santiago and little Manuelito were gone. I figured they would return and waited. Ten minutes turned into twenty. I saw him running back to me, showing me his car key and indicating it wouldn’t start. He ran away again and about 15 minutes passed before I saw him and his family returning. They stood aways off, almost as if afraid to approach. When I waved they excitedly ran to the bike for pictures. I shot a couple of family photos with the bike on their phone. It was sweet, as they had obviously gone home and changed clothes for the photographs. When we finished, a man came out of the government building to hand me a brochure of the town. He was genuinely friendly and happy to see me, shaking my hand and nodding with a big smile.

The nearby soldiers were still grimly watching, but the open-heartedness of the three people I'd just met won my affection for the town. There are times when being a moto traveler has its perks. One of those perks is often the friendliness and interest of people whom you meet. It's the rare time when an everyday man gets to be a mini-celebrity!

Leaving my mini-celebrity status behind, the road climbed higher and higher, with views even better, until reaching 8,500’. The temps had dropped to the mid 50’s in the sunshine and I'd gotten a bit chilled in my mesh jacket and short sleeve T-shirt. I stopped to take a butt break and grab a juice from a tiny store in a small village. The folks weren’t friendly as in the previous town and I didn’t get a good vibe. When I walked into the little store, a man from an auto repair shop a couple of doors down ran quickly up and into the store where he sat on a chair behind the counter. I nodded and smiled but he didn’t care. I bought a bottle of juice from the young girl behind the counter with him, but she seemed somewhat afraid of me. The man continued to stare, obvious that he neither liked nor trusted me. I sat outside on a tiny bench to rest for a bit. He came and stood in the doorway to watch me until I left. It was apparent I was unwelcome there, a rare feeling in Mexico, but it was what it was. Only when I got on the bike did he walk back inside.

The small town seemed to be primarily of an indigenous tribe. The rare times I have felt uncomfortable or unwanted in Mexico have usually been in indigenous villages. From there I crested the mountain range, where there was a sudden change from the lush, cool, green and forested eastern side of the mountains, to a sudden dry, barren, brown and cactus laden high desert. From the heights, ahead I could see a twisting ribbon of switchbacks and curves swirling around the mountainsides below.

The dry climate and higher temperatures of the desert made the ride less comfortable, though the curving roads and vistas were enjoyable. The 140 miles or so to Bernal had taken me almost 5 hours due to my multiple stops and slow pace to enjoy the ride. I was ready to be off the bike by the time I made it into the center of town.

Bernal sits beneath a huge stone outcropping. It is a small, quiet town of simple yet colorful buildings not too far from the bustling city of Queretaro to the west.

I had forgotten to find an ATM in Xilitla and was very low on pesos. I was distraught to find that the only ATM would not process any card I tried, then finally locked me out. I tried to call my card companies, but my variations of calling codes to the USA kept giving me a recording “Servicio no disponiblé”. I'd found two quaint hotels off the main plaza, however they would only accept cash and not take a credit card. Crap!

As I stood in the empty plaza, a waitress who’d apparently been watching me came over to offer help, but she spoke no English. My phone was dying and I couldn’t use my translation apps. She grabbed my arm and drug me to the restaurant, shouting a man’s name. The cook came out and he knew as much English as I know Spanish, but I asked him if the hotels took credit cards. He said "yes" and pointed out one down the street.

The waitress took me down the street and around a corner to make sure I found it. I thanked her and she ran off. Ringing the buzzer several times brought no response. I saw a workman in the courtyard who'd wished he’d not made eye contact. Rather than let me in, he yelled down a hallway. About 5 minutes later, through the glass I saw a very old man with a cane, walking as slowly as Tim Conway’s "old man" character. He came out into the hall, stopped and looked, then turned around and headed back into a room. I gave up and as I turned to leave a woman appeared off the street, apparently the owner. She was very nice and happy to get me a room, then when I said “tarjeta” she said no. Dang it!

I rode about the town on the bike, finding no hotels that would take cards and I didn’t have enough cash for a room. Disappointed and tired, I rode out of the sleepy little town onto the main highway where I finally found a ridiculously priced place, but at least they accepted credit cards and at last I got a room for the night. I'd made a rookie mistake by not getting pesos in Xilitla.

After getting checked in I rode back to the old square at dusk to find a meal. With the few pesos I had, I found a street vendor selling about 6 kinds of "elotes", a blend of steamed corn mixed with mayonnaise, grated cheese and other things and grabbed a cup of it for dinner.

The sun having disappeared, it was chilly as I walked around and headed back to the bike. There were two women and a man in the plaza as I walked towards my bike, shooting a few photos. Though I didn't pay much attention to the three, I noticed they were all looking up in the evening sky.

As I neared my motorcycle, I heard a man shouting and turned to see him running across the plaza towards me. He breathlessly came up pointing at my camera, then up into the sky, speaking to me in Spanish. I fumbled with my words and he quickly changed to broken English. He pointed to the sky to my right and then back across the plaza to my left. At each point, I saw a round, white, orb sitting motionless in the sky. Each was small, but identical, and they were definitely not stars or planets. Their appearance was similar to a pearl. At first in all the rush I was confused, until I realized he was trying to get me to take a picture of the event. He waved his cell phone and pointed at my lens, indicating I could get a much better picture than his phone.

I stared for quite a while at the two orbs in the air. Though small, they were absolutely undeniable and something unnatural. Had there been only one, it would have easily been able to discount it as a distant white balloon in the sky or something similar. The fact that there were two, identical, in different places, at the same height, and neither were moving was hard to explain. I observed them for several minutes. Using my telephoto lens was quite frustrating, as the evening light was very low and my lens dark, so much so I could not get it to focus properly. It had gotten so dark that I couldn't even focus manually. The few shots I was able to capture were blurred from camera shake due to very slow shutter speeds. It's somewhat embarrassing to be a professional photographer and yet unable to capture such a bizarre phenomenon.

As the man and I watched, the two orbs vanished. We looked at each other, me with raised eyebrows, and shook our heads. In his broken English, he introduced himself as "Jesus" and shook my hand. I was still incredulous, but he said that the orbs appeared somewhat regularly and frequently over the town. He told me that their appearances had been increasing. I wasn't sure what to say, and I'm not sure what it was, but I've never seen anything like it and can't deny what I saw.

This was only the second time I've seen something in the sky that I cannot explain. Interestingly, the other time was 6 months earlier in Mexico in San Cristóbal near Guatemala. There, an entire plaza of people, including myself and my riding partner watched in disbelief at a phenomenon in the skies over the town for a good 15 minutes.

Whatever, it was quite an interesting way to end the evening. Jesus climbed into his truck as I fired up my bike and headed for the hotel in the night. The road from Xilitla through the Sierra Gorda to Bernal is highly recommended.

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

Tula de Allende, Mexico

9.12.2017

It was cold when I headed out to load the bike from the hotel, probably 50º F, but by the time I finished it had warmed up a bit. I hadn't expected much cool weather in Mexico, but I was happy to have it. The trip previous had been terribly hot and I'd braced myself for similar conditions. Pinching my few remaining pesos and skipping breakfast to save a little money for gas "just in case”, I rolled out for the city of Queretaro and a better chance of banks with ATM's. I'm always a bit paranoid with ATM cards in foreign countries - sometimes they work and sometimes they don't!

The terrain was flat and the air cold but within 45 minutes I was searching for an ATM in downtown Queretaro. Of course, the GPS was wrong about ATM locations, but I found a bank and withdrew about $10,000,000 dollars worth of pesos just to make me feel better. I'd been seriously stressed at the previous day's lack of cash.

The streets in the old section of the city were being torn up and redone, so the direct ways to the Centro were blocked. After meandering for what seemed ages and passing church after church, I found a parking spot next to a small plaza and grabbed a jamon y queso torta for a late breakfast. The streets around the plaza were littered with vendors selling Mexican Independence Day souvenirs, and I figured any additional Mexican bling on the bike might be a good thing, being a gringo and all. I'd spent 3 months in Mexico just after Trump's inauguration and got a few anti-Trump words and the cold shoulder a few times, but overall it wasn't bad. Usually it was explained that they hated Trump, not Americans. Still, I figured it wouldn't hurt and bought a stick-on set of Mexican flags to grace the windshield along with my standard set of Mexican flag decals on the bike.

Previously, I'd only passed through Queretaro heading south in blistering heat, the stop and go traffic making the experience torture. It was nice to see the city under different circumstances. There was a good vibe, especially in the older section. I’d read somewhere that it’s a good place to live as a Norteño if you need the supports of a big city.

That said, after the previous 4 days in the mountains and quaint villages, my senses were assaulted by the clamor of the big town and quickly I tagged Tula de Allende as my destination for the day.

Taking the slower free or “libre” roads to save some cash, I wound slowly through village after village, tope after tope, pothole after pothole. As I entered the highlands north of Mexico City, the elevation was around 7500 feet and the air was cool. The rolling hills were covered in flowers and cornfields… many, many cornfields. There was an odd sense of timelessness, hard to put into words, as if a lingering sense of the ancients who lived and grew corn in the region remained. No matter, I enjoyed the sense of being lost in the moment.

I reached Tula around 4 pm, home of an archeological pyramid site from the era of the Toltecs. I circled the central part of the town until finding a parking spot. Some handmade tacos were in order. From my little table and chair at the doorway of the taco place, I watched as people strolled past and stared, the sight of a big, long haired gringo not very common.

This dude made delicious tacos. Three tacos and a Coke for $2 US equivalent

A $28 deal for a hotel was found. It was nice, clean and quite colorful, despite feeling a bit expensive after some $12 hotels. Once unloaded and settled in, I decided to climbed back on the bike and head back to the downtown area.

I walked a few blocks and ogled the medieval fortress-styled church, eventually perching at a coffee shop to do some people watching before retiring to my mobile hacienda.

#Photography #BMWR1200GS #Adventure #Travel #Mexico

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

Cholula... Saucy and Hot

9.13.2017

I was up early, sorting through stuff in my morning ritual. The bike was gathered from the secure parking lot and as I was loading up a young man coming down the street spotted the moto, running over to me and speaking excitedly. We miscommunicated a bit, but he was very excited to see a motorcycle traveler. He was all smiles and happily pointed me the way to Tula's Toltec archaeological pyramid site.

When I arrived at the Toltec pyramids the parking lot was empty. Four or five tour guides ran down the steps towards me, but I waved and said “No, gracias!”. As I locked my helmet and jacket to the bike, a very old man showed up out of nowhere. He appeared to be mute, and pointed at the bike as if to say he would watch over it for me. I nodded "yes" and watched him as he shuffled away, barely able to walk, much less stand. He was so old and teetering that I’m not sure he could do more than fall over if someone tried to mess with my motorcycle, but at least he could tell me that it had been stolen. Well, actually, since he couldn't speak I guess he couldn't really do that either.

It was early enough in the morning that the ubiquitous souvenir vendors who lined sections of the official walkway were still setting up their wares. I'd caught them off guard so I made it through with little harassment. Sometimes by the time you've made it through, it feels as if you'd run the gauntlet of a frat boy hazing.

The long walk led through dry, dusty paths and thorn bushes until the ruins could be seen. Working my way through some exhibits, I passed between the pyramids until the vista of the current city of Tula lay before me from the high place of the temples. The pyramid site was small in comparison to say, Teotihuacan, but was still impressive. The site was well preserved considering the Toltec’s reign fell between the Maya and Aztec cultures.

The ruins on the hilltop above Tula really give a sense of the past and the highly developed culture that was there. Though the site is smaller and much less crowded than Teotihuacan, in many ways I felt it offered a more accessible experience than larger sites and gave time to imagine the past. I recommend it if you are near the area.

 
 

The tall, carved stone columns of Toltec warriors that remained from the temple atop the pyramid were impressive, as were the views of the countryside.

The early morning temperature had been 45º F, but by the time I got into the site it was getting toasty and as the temperatures soared I was looking for shade. The walk back to the main entrance was dry and hot and I was sweating as I trundled past flowering trees and thorn bushes on the paths. Upon returning to the bike, the old man had evidently spotted me coming and made his way over. He stood proudly by the motorcycle and my 10 peso tip made him smile from ear-to-ear. One never knows what is an appropriate tip in Mexico, and often what seems very small to me is too much - or so I've been told by other travelers.

My destination for the evening was the town of Cholula, engulfed by the swell of the larger city of Puebla. It was roughly 3 hours south on the "Arco Norte", the high speed tollway that bypasses Mexico City to Puebla. It was a nice ride in the cool temperatures of higher elevations and the scenery was good, especially for a tollway. I was warned to be sure and keep the ticket spit from the machine as you enter the tollway, as that ticket determines what you will pay upon exit. One gets so many receipts from the tollways that you typically stuff them anywhere until you find a trash can, but if you lose this ticket it's expensive.

The ride was high speed and enjoyable, listening to Glass Animals through my Etymotics ear buds and dodging the occasional pothole on the otherwise pristine tollway, threading the needle between the crawling semi-trucks filling both lanes on the hills and watching the rearview mirrors for the autobahn-fast drivers on the inside lane.

AirBnb had led me to a relatively inexpensive room in the downtown section of Cholula. The address deposited me in front of a small restaurant and I was concerned I'd come to the wrong place. Noise from the street faded slowly as I made my way through the narrow hallway, stepping into the peaceful and pretty courtyard of a cafe. A young man named Edgar welcomed me with a big smile and in English told me to sit while he finished something in the kitchen. They were preparing the evening meal for the restaurant and I could hear voices and commotion through the little window of the kitchen area.

As I soon learned, the family restaurant had fresh food cooked by the mother, and in the front portion of the building they also rented simple rooms. I'd gone without food that day and arriving at 4 pm I was very hungry. His mother was still in the kitchen and she sensed my hunger I guess, sending out an early evening meal to my table. It came in courses, fresh baked bread with a smokey hot sauce, then homemade cream vegetable soup with shredded chicken, followed by pasta with cream sauce and cheese, followed by the main course of stewed chicken and vegetables with buttered mashed potatoes! It was by far the largest meal I'd ever had in Mexico, and by the time it was over I was miserable but happy! They then brought dessert, which was fresh cantaloupe slices in a rich cream with assorted chopped nuts. I dutifully finished it... in order not to offend of course. The bill for the entire meal was 50 pesos. That’s only $2.80 in US dollars! Crazy.

After the delicious meal and some relaxation in the tiny room, I decided to explore a little though the skies were threatening rain. Cholula was busy as I rode around in afternoon traffic. The heavy overcast killed any chance of decent photography and parking in the city was very difficult. I'd hoped to walk around shooting pics but it didn't happen.

Cholula is an interesting town, replete with a huge, ancient pyramid in the center of town, partially uncovered and supposedly with miles of underground tunnels. The Spanish had built a huge church on the top of a high hill, not realizing there was an ancient pyramid buried beneath.

As I tried to find my way back through the one-way streets to my room for the night, I ended up on a desolate industrial street only to see two photographers on the sidewalk photographing a girl.

They waved for me to pass, but I couldn't resist pulling over to watch. Their subject was a teenage girl and the main shooter was having her repeatedly jump and pose in front of a mural and some graffiti.

 

When they finished they wandered over to speak with me. The girl spoke a little bit of English and we had fun talking. She had just turned 15 and for her quinceañera her uncle had given her a photo shoot. He also happened to be the main photographer. They were intrigued about the bike and my trip, and excited to hear my feelings about Mexico. They wanted pictures by the bike and afterward we exchanged information. It was a fun and unexpected moment!

My arrival back at the restaurant/room found mama and the girls watering all the plants and cleaning the floors extensively. They are a very happy family with lots of laughter. As I finish writing this, I have heard them laughing and talking and singing songs together for hours. And I think that is what I enjoy about Mexico the most… the joy of life that I find sprinkled across the land.

#Photography #BMWR1200GS #Adventure #Travel #Mexico

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

The Way to Oaxaca

9.14.2017

Leaving Cholula that morning, I thanked mama and her family, giving the girls a hug which made them burst into giggles. I retrieved the bike from the secure lot around the corner, loaded up my gear and hit the tollway south for Oaxaca. It was a wild, fast ride to get through Puebla, but the crazy traffic and dangerous rush is also addictive.

The tollway south ends up in amazing landscape, going high in the mountains and across impressive bridges. An hour away from Oaxaca I passed a Pemex station packed with police trucks and black clad men, a foretaste of what lay ahead. The highway goes into beautiful hills and forests of saguaro-like cactus, going up and down through some great terrain. At one point a couple of bikes passed me at probably 120 mph, waving as they did. Mexican motorcyclists waste no time on the road and ride faster than any place I've yet traveled.

The road is littered with semi's chugging slowly up hills and attempting to pass each other, and traveling with any speed on the bike required threading the needle between them as well as passing on blind curves to beat the lines of vehicles stuck behind them. Amidst this, a huge convoy of police trucks lay ahead. Overall there must have been about 100, spread in clusters, some going slowly and some quickly. One by one I picked my way around each, always feeling a bit weird passing law enforcement at high speed, through blind curves and over double yellow lines. They couldn't care less.

The road came to a screeching halt for a bad crash, a double semi trailer rig having flipped over and off into a shallow canyon. They had drug the rearmost trailer out, but the remaining trailer and cab lay upside down and flattened, no doubt its driver dead.

Rain was forecast for Oaxaca and in the mountains as I rode, thick showers almost sheer white in density dumped incalculable amounts of rain. I somehow managed to skirt the edges of the rain dumps with only a few spatters, finally making Oaxaca and the interminable traffic on the outskirts.

I'd booked a cheap place on AirBNB, whose owner said he had a BMW GS and a place for me to park right in the center of town. At the address, I waited with flashers on in a “no parking” area for a while until the owner finally sent his maid to open the place for me. It was an "interesting" place to stay, rooms with only metal doors requiring padlocks. The shared bath and kitchen seemed like some place in Afghanistan, but what made the questionable place worthwhile was a roof deck overlooking the city.

My room reeked of weed, so much so that I thought a neighbor was puffing away. Instead it was from the previous guest, as when I sat on the bed, a fresh puff billowed up.

The owner arrived to tell me of his F800GS Adventure, and also that the nearby parking garage of his friend was full. Instead we'd need to park "nearby" at his other rent home that had secure parking. I followed his scooter as he zoomed through traffic and tight spaces that made me squirm trying to get the big GS through. It culminated in crossing major traffic on a narrow pedestrian walkway, barely getting the GS between posts, people in cars laughing and pointing at the antics. Finally able to get across, we raced up “pedestrian only” streets and between barricades until I was completely lost.

We stopped at a nice home and he opened the gates, showed me his F800GS and where to park, then hopped on his scooter and took off leaving me standing there. I had no idea where I was. A bit bewildered, I googled my hotel address and found it to be 2.5 km away. I had a nice, long, hot 37 minute walk back wearing all my motorcycle gear, boots and carrying my helmet.

I have the full 34 minute version of the above video if you'd like to see it :D )

He'd made it sound like his apartment with parking was just around the corner so I had assumed parking would be just a couple blocks away...

As I neared a set of steps in the centro, I swear I passed the actor Nick Nolte, almost bumping into him. He was walking with a guide and grumbling something like "let's go this way." If it wasn't him, then he's got a serious twin with the same voice.

Drenched with sweat and tired, I unlocked the gate and climbed the stairs to my room. I changed clothes then climbed a rickety metal staircase to the roof deck and took in the great views of the city.

A Canadian motorcyclist, "CanuckCharlie", had contacted me online when he saw that I was traveling in the same area of Mexico as he. He'd arrived in Oaxaca and we agreed to meet at the main plaza for dinner. As I neared Plaza Zocalo, I could hear the music and sounds of a lively crowd. A cultural dance was in progress with a drum band outside the large cathedral. I watched a bit, mesmerized by the color and music as daylight slowly turned to dusk.

 

Across from the cathedral plaza, the adjacent park was quite different. It was covered with homemade tarp and cardboard shelters, speakers blaring as orators shouted about things unknown. What a contrast to my last visit to Oaxaca, where the park was the typical traditional family gathering place and full of green grass. Now it felt like a homeless tent city, with dirt and trash about. I watched and walked carefully, not feeling in any danger, just not knowing what may stir with a gringo photographing a political protest. When I asked about it later, I was told the teachers union had "occupied" the park to protest on the upcoming Independence Day. That was likely the case, but it was a shame that others used it as an excuse for trashing the park, since Oaxaca is a beautiful, hip and vibrant city.

Charlie finally texted me that he’d arrived at the plaza. It was good to meet him and walk the streets, talking about the similarities of experiences, solo motorcycle travel and what lay ahead for each of us. Charlie had been born in China, but his parents had immigrated to Canada. He was an electrical engineer for Ford Motor Company in Detroit and had been given a one year sabbatical, so he'd decided to ride to South America and continue on to Europe afterwards.

I was enjoying Oaxaca. My previous time here had been lost in a hazy memory from the fatigue of having ridden too hard for too many days before arrival. Now I had time to take it in.

#Photography #BMWR1200GS #Adventure #Travel #Mexico

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

Oaxaca!

9.15.2017

Having slept like a baby, possibly induced by the residual pot in the air of my room, I took a shower in the shared bathroom, feeling fully as if I'd just experienced the showers of a Mexican prison (minus certain scenarios, I might add). I scrambled for my gear and grabbed a quick organic veggies-type pastry from the hip coffee shop next to the apartment, scarfing it down on the way to the plaza.

The lively night before made the plaza seem eerily quiet as folks walked quickly to work across its expanse. I wandered into the big church again and then around the homeless camp in the adjacent park.

There were some comments that the Independence Day show was not going to happen other than an official ceremony - some said due to the teacher protests and others since it might seem inappropriate with the major earthquake still affecting the region - of which there seemed to be no major damage in Oaxaca City. My arrival in Mexico had coincided with a hurricane and major earthquakes in central and southern Mexico.

Charlie popped up on the plaza in search of a money exchange, having had no luck at several banks who would not exchange US currency. Weird. He finally found one that required his passport, so he headed back to his hotel to grab it and we agreed to meet again in an hour.

I wandered past some hardcore special forces guys with trained dogs and fierce faces. They were prevalent around the area and amidst the mercado I was wandering through. The market was, as usual, a scene of whirling motion and smells, shouts and suspicious stares. I circled amidst it and finally stopped at a butcher's counter that specialized in internal organs. She was happy and showed me all the parts and pieces, naming them in Spanish. She was happy to pose for a picture and I blew her kiss of thanks which made her burst into laughter.

Back on the streets, the heat was rising as was the presence of additional police and military forces - of which there seem to be an endless variety. I was told that due to the occupation of the park, the usual festivities might not happen. Considering how festive Mexico is, I had figured it would be like July the 4th on steroids, however about the only indication of Mexico's Independence Day were the ubiquitous carts selling flags and souvenirs.

Charlie had returned in triumph after getting some cash and wanted to head out for Hierves del Agua, a calcified waterfall formation a few hours away. Our bikes were too much of a hassle to get, so the plan was to catch a cab to a small town and board a pickup for the final stretch to the falls. The official Oaxaca tourism kiosk was manned by an English speaking girl, who informed us of prices and how to get to Hierves, showing us on a map that we needed to walk a long ways to the city stadium where we could catch a cab.

On the way I tried my luck at getting a shot of some of the special forces policia - a pointless exercise I knew - but hey ya never know. The group we approached only allowed me to shoot pics of their dog while they watched in their black boonie hats, Oakley sunglasses, black outfits and body armor, swinging collapsible stock H&K G3 battle rifles and Colt M4 carbines. They were some ruff hombres.

A thirty minute walk later we were sweaty and standing in the heat, as a river of buses and cabs passed, stuffed to the gills with people and no signs of "Mitla", our destination. After an hour of trying to find one, we instead nabbed a bus for 20 pesos and launched into an hour and a half nauseating ride, standing most of the way. But hey, it was way cheaper than the $550 pesos one cabbie had asked.

Jumping off the bus in the tiny town of Mitla we both needed some car-sickness recovery time. We then found the truck for the 45 minute ride on a rough dirt road that switchbacked up the steep mountainside. We shared it with another couple to save a bit of money.

The "falls", for lack of a better term, are calcified formations from sulfur springs and over time shallow pools were formed on the tops. At some point one was modified to create a large infinity pool deep enough to swim in. After settling down from the bus and truck ride, the vista and waters did their trick. We'd left much later in the day than planned due to the cab and bus fiasco, but wiled away the time relaxing and watching the other tourists.

CanuckCharlie

Realizing it would be late getting back to town, we finally wandered back to catch one of the last pickups back down the mountain to Mitla. We shared it with three other backpackers who chose to sit in the truck bed. Charlie and I scored the back seat and were watched by the beautiful little niña in front with her mama and papa. She was in love with Charlie and full of personality, scoring a slab of chile covered watermelon from his fruit snack cup. From the rear tarp covered pickup bed, waves of pot smoke billowed from the passengers in the party section.

The high road back to Mitla late in the day was awesome, and our return by cab to Oaxaca was interesting to say the least. The cabbie would only take us if we could get five in the car. Needless to say I was in the front seat with Mr. Canuck buried under a couple hundred pounds of backpackers in the back seat. Yep, six passengers total in a late 80's Nissan Sentra - seven since I count as two. I couldn't even see Charlie for the first 30 minutes.

The ride back to Oaxaca Centro was long and crazy in the dark. Of our sardine can companions, one of them spoke English, living in California but having grown up in Mexico. She was very helpful and when I shared about the two "ufo/signs in the sky" I'd seen, she said it was very common here, especially near any of the Aztec sites. When Charlie told her we'd walked to the stadium to catch a cab as per the tourism center's advice, she laughed out loud and said the place to catch a cab to Mitla was right next to plaza where the tourism kiosk was. She said we needed to ask at least 7 people where something is before you'll really find it. Charlie and I just laughed. Mexico. The cab cost each of us 25 pesos for almost two hours ride time, which was roughly $1.50. I don't know how in the hell they even pay for gas, much less make a living.

It was 9 pm by the time we got out of the cab and onto the streets in a desperate search for comida. A flank steak and cheese quesadilla from a street vendor served as an appetizer followed by second course from another vendor - an ear of corn slathered in mayonesa and cheese plus chile powder. We wandered the dark streets back toward the plaza, stopping to eat our corn on a deserted street cordoned off by the police. A moment later whistles began blowing and the cops got active. We sort of froze, the barricades were quickly moved and a black Jeep Grand Cherokee came racing around the corner and stopped in front of us. A white suburban following closely slammed in behind, the doors flying open and secret service type personnel pouring out and around the black suited men who were getting out of the Grand Cherokee. Apparently we had a private, front row seat to the arrival of the governor of the state of Oaxaca with his security detail.

The extreme presence of all the military and special forces now suddenly made sense.

With sleepy yawns, we wandered to and then waited in the plaza for the official presentation, and unlike Mexico, it came directly on time at 11 pm with a short, strong statement from a government balcony, preceded with trumpets and the national anthem sung a by a soprano. That was it, no fireworks or celebration and the crowd began dispersing. From the plaza we saw through a window as the governor stood for photos in the chamber, illuminated by flashes as guests swapped in and out aside him.

tags: #Photography #BMWR1200GS #Adventure #Mexico #Travel
Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

Quakin' In Huatulco

9.16.2017

One of the benefits of a long trip is that you can go whichever way you want, whenever you want. The flipside of the coin is that you have so many choices and it changes daily...

Charlie and I both were unsure which way to head after Oaxaca, the only commonality being that we were both headed for San Cristobal de Las Casas. He wanted to ride south through the mountains to the Pacific coastal area, a place I preferred not to go as I'd been there three months earlier and it was brutally hot with temps up to 106º and 100 percent humidity. It had been exhausting in riding gear and the tiny Mexican roads required a slow pace and constant attention. After looking at my options to the north, I reluctantly decided to continue with him to the coast only because I'd be backtracking a bit otherwise.

Before we could get out of town, I had to walk the 2.5 kilometers to pick up my bike from my AirBNB host's other rental house where I'd had to park it. He met me there and it felt good to be back on the bike and drying the sweat off from the walk, heading back to the hotel to load up. My stay had been poor, the room and facilities bad. I dropped off the key at a nearby hostel and found my way to Charlie's hotel. He was ready to go, but I hadn't eaten any breakfast so I grabbed a LaLa liquid yogurt and swigged it down, its cool creaminess refreshing as I sat in my sweat-soaked riding gear.

Adios Oaxaca!

Our route out of Oaxaca was MEX 175, which led through small towns and villages, slowly climbing into the mountains and then back down to sea level. Charlie had read about a motorcyclist being robbed near the town of Salina Cruz, so he was a bit concerned. In one village, a group of women were blocking the road with a white rope, stopping every car and asking or demanding donations. I wasn't sure what they would do when I got there, but luckily one girl dropped her end of the rope and we whisked by, having a laugh at surviving our first road block from a dangerous group of teen girls.

Nearing the mountains, a whiff of grilling meat caught our attention and a roadside lunch cooked on a wood fired barrel hit the spot.

Canuck hoped to make a camping area on the beach for the night, but I knew the roads were difficult and took far longer than expected. The cool temperatures were appreciated as we climbed and twisted high up into the mist covered mountains, actually getting chilled as we rode near 8500 feet in elevation. The curves and road required constant attention and as the hours passed fatigue rolled in. Riding in Mexico is difficult and you must concentrate continually, dodging cattle and animals, potholes and road debris, cars in oncoming lanes around blind curves, people walking on the roadside and the list goes on. The total concentration and hours of curves can tire you quickly, but you can't let up until your destination arrives.

In spits of rain, the road took us high into the clouds on top of the mountains, and as we crested the ridge and began working down, I began to notice red dirt piles along the way and areas of small slides. It was then I realized that these were remnants of the previous week's earthquake off the coast of Chiapas. Passing a small village, its main entrance arch lay crumbled in a pile, cordoned off with logs and branches, as proof of the seismic activity.

The road began to have missing areas where sections had fallen away down the steep mountain, the asphalt crust protruding over the edge. Some were quickly marked with a paint line but others not. It was impossible to know how far under the ragged edge of the breakaway the earth had gone. One tried to stay as far into the other lane as possible just in case a section collapsed. It was apparent the area had been through a severe shaking.

A few miles later we rounded a corner to discover the road covered with a massive landslide and debris. A lone boy waved as we pulled up next to a front end loader, which looked to have been used to create a narrow strip through the rubble and dirt. It was passable but wet and muddy. As we waited, a small truck passed, loaded with people. The truck got stuck and we ran to help as they unloaded, all of us pushing backwards as he gunned it and got free.

I rode over first, avoiding a soft, spongy area that would have loved to eat the GS, and then Charlie followed. From the other side one could see the seriousness of the slide, the mountain gone beneath the road.

As we continued on down the western slope towards the ocean, the oppressive heat of the Pacific side climbed to the mid 90's. We'd only gone 154 miles in 7 hours of riding and were beat from the heat. The resort area of Huatulco was not far away, adjacent to the National Park bearing its name. A nice hotel was found with a pool and air conditioning, both of us agreeing it was well worth the money for the night.

A swim, a shower and a late meal at a nearby bar were in order and a perfect fit. We were the only patrons in the bar restaurant as the entire town seemed deserted. At the hotel I was asleep in less than 5 minutes.

#Photography #BMWR1200GS #Adventure #Travel #Mexico #Landslide #Earthquake

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

San Cristóbal de Las Casas

9.17.2017

The next morning about 7 am, I'd awoken to the feel of my bed shaking. At first I thought Charlie was shaking my bed to wake me, but when I looked over, Charlie had just popped up awake and was sitting up in his bed. He asked if I'd felt the shaking and I told him it had woken me. Checking my volcano and earthquake app showed there had been 11 earthquakes in the last 9 hours of the night, luckily only strong enough to wake us that morning.

Coming out of the ice cold air-conditioned room to eat breakfast and load the bikes was like walking into a sauna. Simply standing still and doing nothing, the sweat dripped off each elbow. It would be a long day ahead as we aimed for San Cristobal de Las Casas, 6.5 hours ahead on Google Maps, which, properly interpreted, meant closer to 8 or 9 hours.

The road past Salina Cruz was hot, long and could have been interesting if the heat wasn't so distracting. By the time we got north of Salina a few miles, (glad to be past it as my last experience there was miserable), we both needed gasoline. Unfortunately the stations were either out or had very long lines. As we looked for another station, I spotted a small place offering seafood cocktails and pulled in. We were hot, hungry and ready to cool off, postponing the search for gas until later.

The place was empty, but the cocktails were loaded to the brim with camarones and pulpo - prawns and octopus. They were delicious and I ignored my fears as to whether they had used purified water when making them.

Charlie proved to be quite popular with the girls, as they lit up like Christmas trees when he looked their way. They were anxious to get pictures with him before we left for the tollway, and a much-needed gas station somewhere ahead.

By the time we made the city of Tuxtla Gutierrez, we were toast and didn't have the last hour and 40 miles in us. It was after 7 and we grabbed the first decent hotel we found, a Holiday Inn that wasn't cheap but neither of us cared. It had a pool and even a Domino's Pizza adjacent. Again, the pool was a welcome relief before hitting the room for sleep.

Morning arrived with reports of more earthquakes, though none had been felt and we began the process of dragging gear to the lobby before retrieving the bikes for loading. As I waited, a guy ran across the parking lot and grabbed my hand, excited to see the big BMW. He only spoke Spanish but made it clear he had a Yamaha and had never seen a big GS in person. He was a lot of fun and very excited as he ran off on his way.

San Cristobal de Las Casas lay about 45 minutes ahead and I was anxious to get back. In my previous trip, it was the last town in Mexico that Kim and I had made before turning back for Texas. It was the place I wanted to return to before hitting Guatemala and roads south. San Cristobal is a really great town with culture and a hip vibe, lots of Europeans and indigenous peoples, music, art and funky cafes and coffee shops. San Cristobal lies in the state of Chiapas, known for it's political uprising against Mexico, and in fact rebels had taken over the town of San Cristobal a few years back. A guerrilla war had gone on for a while between Chiapas rebels and the Mexican government, with the government reaching a truce of sorts by leaving the rebels alone. The rebel group is known for barricading roads and demanding payment to pass as a way to fund their army, so it is somewhat common to experience a "toll" when traveling through. The locals still support the group known as "EZLN" and the group has a storefront in the town of Chiapas. On my previous trip I'd bought an "EZLN" decal for my sidecases as a souvenir and I figured it might not hurt to have one on the bike if I did get surrounded by a rebel group on a back road.

The short ride in was not without a little effort, as the road climbs high up above Tuxtla and into heavy clouds. On portions, the visibility was almost zero, coming across trucks and cars stopped or broken down in the heavy fog. The town was finally made and a good hotel found for a decent rate.

I was wondering how much damage had been done in the town due to the major earthquake in the region and had been unable to find out anything previous to arrival, but it seemed the main church and one other were closed due to structural damage. Not too bad thankfully. It's approaching the end of rainy season, but San Cristobal and the region were still listed as 60-100% rain on all forecasts. We were lucky to have had very little on the ride in, but it wasn't long before the afternoon clouds and rain came.

Hitting the streets for food and exploration, the main plaza and cathedral were both cordoned off. The damage was visible high on the walls with structural cracks and missing plaster.

The threatening skies and closed areas squelched the usually vibrant plaza scenes, covered with indigenous peoples selling blankets and clothing. We were a bit surprised when a siren began wailing. People on the streets stopped and people poured out of the buildings, clogging the streets, standing silently and watching the roof lines. We stood with them and assumed it was for quakes - "terremotos" - and waited but felt nothing. I asked a policeman about the siren and he responded with "terremoto". It turned out that was the moment when the more severe Mexico City quake was happening.

The rains began to fall lightly as we huddled under the roof of a taco stand and scarfed down a few delicious ones. Two girls with backpacks attempted to squeeze under and we traded places, discovering they were from Israel and traveling for a month in Mexico. San Cristobal is a main spot for backpackers.

Wandering further, we got stuck in major afternoon downpours and hid out in the plastic tarp-covered mercado, watching as the tenants poked at sagging balloons of water above them with brooms and metal poles, running the water over to the neighbor's tarp.

The rain subsided long enough to lure us for a run to the hotel, but it was interrupted by another downpour and we dove into a coffee shop to warm up, followed shortly by the drenched Israeli girls we'd just met earlier and many others.

The process continued again several times until we finally made our hotel, pants soaked to the knees by the rivers of water running through the streets. Wet clothes littered the room and refused to dry with the high humidity of the constant rains.

Later that evening the rains subsided and we wandered the quiet streets lined with closed doorways and closed businesses, victims of the rainy season. The usually vibrant atmosphere of San Cristobal, with its eclectic mix of street musicians and hippies was silent.

#Earthquake #Photography #Adventure #Travel #Mexico #SanCristobaldelasCasas

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

Fear & Loathing In San Juan Chamula

9.20.2017

One of the places I'd wanted to visit on my last trip was the indigenous town of San Juan Chamula just outside San Cristóbal. It’s a bit notorious for its people and self-rule. Many stories abound about the serious nature of the Tzotzil people and their reputation for ferocity. When I'd stayed in San Cristobal a few months previous, I’d been told by a local that the visit to the iglesia in San Juan Chamula would be interesting but to be careful, as they were known to have their own ideas of law and order. The town and peoples have a long standing history of violence and rebellion against the Mexican government, who now leave them to themselves to a large degree to avoid problems.

The main draw of Chamula is the old Catholic church that the locals took over in the past, rebelling against the church and substituting their ancient religion instead. Now they follow a mixture of Catholicism and shamanistic rituals from their heritage. Animal sacrifice is a part of it, in which chickens are used amidst candles and prayers to capture the evil spirits that plague, their blood spilt in the process on the floor of the church.

Originally I had wanted to ride the motorcycle to the village to explore, but the local who'd earlier suggested the visit had warned me not to take the bike, strongly suggesting I go with a group tour instead.

With that in mind Charlie and I walked to the square to find a tour early in the morning, finally connecting with a driver. As we picked up others in the Toyota van, of course the two Israeli girls we'd seen the previous day boarded the bus with us. We laughed about the three encounters but it is a small world in San Cristobal.

 

The driver spoke enough English to share with us as we drove the few miles out of town to the village of Zinacantan. We were told that the meaning of the place dealt with bats, an animal that was revered as protecting the sky gods, since they were common there. The women of the town wear purple shawls, somewhat shaped like and representing the wings of a bat from their ancestry.

First stop was the Esglesia de Sant Sebastia, a small church that was damaged in the recent quake, a portion of the roof collapsing. We were warned not to take pictures inside the church. It was a shame, as the place was beautiful in its simplicity, laden with the flowers that the area is famous for, with large colored banners and many burning candles. Our guide said the native people accepted Catholicism under threat of death, however incorporated their secret symbolism and worship into both the design and decor, the banners hung in a way that shadowed the shape of pyramids with animals painted above the saints on the walls.

I dropped a few coins in the pan held by one of the Indian women who was collecting for earthquake repairs and wandered out to photograph the front, between tenacious amber vendors. A group of local men sat drinking under a canopy and one came over speaking in what was likely the native tongue. I felt he was mocking me since I didn't understand, but I played along...

The next stop was the main church in the town, closed due to damage, and a walkthrough of the small chapel to the side, now filled almost completely with statues of saints that had been carried there from other churches after the quake. We'd been warned not to photograph in the chapel or take photos of the people since it was considered "stealing their soul". Apparently one of the men in the church had made a deal with the devil, since he sat happily for pictures as long as the cash flowed his way. Money before God. Same in almost every religion methinks.

At yet another tourist stop we got the textile tour, replete with costumes for a mock wedding, followed by samples of "pox" (posh), a whiskey made from sugar cane and a home fire-cooked meal. It was interesting and enjoyable until the wood smoke drove us all outside.

The purple color of the village and the shawl symbolic of bat wings

It's definitely "me"… but I feel it needs a sash belt and leather machete scabbard? Maybe a different hat for evening wear?

As we drove the remaining few miles to San Juan Chamula, we passed old huts made of mud bricks and tree limbs alongside brand new modern homes. The guide told us that Chamula was the home of counterfeit CD's, DVD's and much more, sold all over Mexico and there were many wealthy people there from such business. I'm guessing the lack of government presence is an incentive.

Nearing the center of the town, our guide warned us that the people of Chamula were "wild people" and trying to photograph them and most importantly, the interior of the church, was a distinct no-no. If so, you could be attacked and if a gringo, forced to pay at least $1500 USD on the spot. If you were a Mexican it would be worse, as recently a man was stripped naked, beaten and tied up in a tree as punishment. He said they were deadly serious about honoring their religion and had no issues dealing with people whom they felt had dishonored it, in whatever way they felt to punish.

Our tour van passed an old shell of a stone church surrounded by a graveyard, beautifully filled with what appeared to be marigolds in bloom. Many people were at fresh graves which were covered with pine needles and flowers. It would have been an amazing photo opportunity in different circumstances. Our van parked on the street on the edge of town and we were warned again about taking pictures of individual people or the interior of the church. As we sat listening to our guide, a drunken man leaning heavily on and half carried by his natively garbed wife and children stumbled past. Our guide watched him and then studied back down the street from whence he'd come. Ahead there was a large group of men, dressed in black goatskin ponchos, some wearing white skins and cowboy hats. Amidst them were men festooned in colorful native outfits, dancing around a pole surrounded with smoke and burning piles of incense.

Our guide hesitated, then said a local celebration was going on and that we needed to stay close together and walk quickly to the church. Having heard him say not to photograph individuals, I had assumed it was okay to shoot overall scenes, but as I got out of the van I felt a serious darkness about the place and shoved the camera back into my pouch, swinging the bag behind me and putting my hands in my pockets. It just felt seriously heavy there and I followed that inner sense to forget about photography.

Our group walked towards the men who were drinking heavily and burning incense, dancing in costumes. Some were so drunk they could barely stand while others lay passed out on the ground. Our guide told us to wait while he walked ahead to speak to someone about whether we were allowed through. Charlie was beside me, camera in hand and lifted it to shoot a picture of the crowd of men ahead. I cringed and as he did so, I saw a very serious looking dude in a black goat skin begin to walk straight towards Charlie. Our guide was waiting in the crowd that the man had come out of. He turned to watch what was about to happen to us, staying put where he was and shaking his head. I knew he was making no claim of us.

Black Goat Man walked slowly and directly to Charlie, angry, intense and pointing to the camera. He locked his eyes to Charlie's face, stepping directly to him and demanding in his language what I assumed to be the camera. It was hard to tell if he was wanting the camera or Charlie. Luckily one of our group was a native of Mexico and began explaining that the picture would be deleted, as Charlie began fumbling and trying to delete the image.

I studied the man who stood two feet in front of me, his mouth and lips seriously scarred from what were probably innumerable fights, his teeth having cut through the skin under countless punches and actually creating holes in his lips. The moment was very intense. A few feet ahead were about one hundred men amidst a native ritual, stoned and drunk and I was sorely afraid it was all about to go to hell. The words of our companion tourist and Charlie's apparent deletion of the photo seemed to appease his anger a little. Tensions were so thick you could cut it with a knife. Our Mexican companion continued to talk to the man as his anger slowly ebbed away. Ahead, our guide was angry and motioned us ahead through the crowd. We didn't waste time moving on. I just walked with my hands in my pockets, head down and made no eye contact with anyone since my height made me the most visible target.

The crowds increased as we got closer to the church, and I have to say that last few hundred yards to the main plaza and church was a very long walk indeed. There were men drunk and passed out all over the streets. I read later that most of the men in the town were commonly drunk before 11 am. In the main plaza we were told we could photograph the facade of the church only, from what appeared to be an "official" point. Around us stood some of the angriest and inebriated men I've seen, and I have no doubt they were looking for an excuse to get ugly. There was no way I was pulling out a serious camera in that atmosphere, so I shot one photo with my cell phone to appear like a tourist and not a photographer.

Buying a ticket and entering the church was a surreal moment. It was thick with incense and candle smoke, the floor covered with pine needles and people calling to their gods and saints. White candles on the floor were for minor needs and progressively darker colored ones were for increasingly serious problems. Our guide pulled us aside and said in no way should we get near any of the rituals on the floor as they were very serious and things might go badly if people felt disrespected. I stared at the floor, covered everywhere with burning candles and people in prayer, thinking how easy that was to say and how impossible it would be to do. The damn pine needles on top of the tile floor added to the fear of slipping and falling onto a ceremony, then becoming the world's largest featherless, chicken sacrifice.

Without going too deeply, the feel of the place was heavy and dark. The floor was covered with people praying and candles burning. From the ceiling hung bundles of flowers and herbs. Heavy smoke and incense filled the air and it was a sight to see, though feeling dangerous and uncomfortable, especially after the tension of our earlier experience. After tiptoeing through without incident, it felt good to get back outside, but it was almost like going from the frying pan into the fire. Men wandered the plaza and it felt explosive and dangerous.

The two Israeli girls stepped outside behind me and were immediately approached by drunken men trying to kiss them. They screamed and jumped away, running to stand behind me for protection. The remnants of our group came out and assembled, to which the two girls quickly said they were ready to get out of the place. We were all uncomfortable and ready to leave. The walk back to the van was again a long walk, a boy stopping the guide and demanding money for the parking of the van on the public street. Our guide immediately paid what was asked, and told me that when someone asks you for something in Chamula, it's not a question and you better do whatever they ask of you. I could tell that our guide was fearful and disturbed about our time there.

Finally back in the van, everyone was quiet. The two Israeli girls whispered that they were ready to get away from the place as fast as possible. Charlie and I both agreed. There is a heavy, palpable, sense of darkness and anger there, and though I'm glad I saw the pagan temple it's not a place I wish to return.

There was a palpable sense of relief when we cleared the town of San Juan Chamula and the van ride back was filled with silence. It may be that our group happened to catch the place on a bad day, but the experience had left a pall over the group, our ride back to San Cristobal a far cry from the jovial ride in.

#SanCristobaldelasCasas #Photography #BMWR1200GS #Earthquake #Travel #Mexico

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Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

The Road Leads to Guatemala

9.21.2017

Charlie and I were both tired from our time in San Cristóbal, primarily due to the starting of a religious Festival in the town. At all hours of the day there were constant fireworks, not your average Black Cats but extremely loud booms like a 44 Magnum. In addition, for some reason a marching band seemed to walk past our window multiple times throughout the night. 3 a.m., 4 a.m., 7 a.m. and randomly throughout the day.

No complaints about the hotel, as it was nice and reasonably close to the plaza. The consistent rain put a damper on the usual lively town but we still enjoyed it... other than the experience in Chamula which dogged Charlie's mind a bit. It didn't bother me long, because I'm not afraid to publicly admit that I was more than willing to throw Charlie under the bus, and not only that but I would have paid to have the bus washed, the tank filled and personally served complimentary beverages to the passengers. Just kidding Charlie...

That evening we went for soup and explored another plaza, watching traditional dancers practicing no doubt for a festival performance. A few steps away four teenage boys practiced breakdancing to a boombox at the gazebo. The contrast of the two performances encapsulated Mexico.

The next day of leaving came early and I was a crabby arse trying to load the bike. I'd rearranged a few items to gain another quarter inch of space but my improvements were for naught as I still had to practically sit on the case lids to close them. My lack of sleep was showing.

After an expensive but decent breakfast in the hotel, we rolled the bikes out of the secured parking garage into a beautiful, blue sky day.

 

Our routes were the same for a few miles, but Charlie's plans were for a different destination and he peeled off north for Palenque while I went on to Comitán. I told him not to worry about the famous Chiapas blockades, but to let me know how much they charged. I also suggested he not take a picture of them :D

After parting ways, I took in the beautiful scenery and blue skies. The temperature was about 60 degrees. To my right and left, fields of corn and small huts with smoking chimneys covered the hillsides, lone farmers tending to whatever they tend to. On the roadsides women and children herded goats and carried bundles.

It was green and lush, but with pines and no tropical plants. The elevation was around seven or eight thousand feet and the small villages I passed through featured women in indigenous dress. The feeling that I was truly entering a foreign land settled in.

After so much time in Mexico including my previous trip a few months earlier, I had deleted my plans for Palénque and was ready to hit Guatemala. I decided to take the short ride to Comitán which is about an hour and a half from San Cristobal and a similar distance to the Guatemalan border. The bike and I had just seemed to be warmed up and in the groove when the town slid under my wheels. Entering the Centro I was a little surprised to find a picturesque town with a beautiful plaza. I'm not sure what I was expecting since I had no idea about the town, but it was nice, clean and pretty, complemented by the bright sunshine, blue skies, and white clouds. More importantly, it felt good and friendly.

It didn't take long to find the hotel I'd Googled the night before, and I was in the quaint, quiet, colorful little place by 11:30 in the morning. The parking area for the bike was in front of the room and the gates were closed in the evening. For 250 pesos, about 14 USD, the simple room and Wifi was all I needed.

The little hotel was empty, with a cool breeze blowing through windows and across the porch where I sat checking messages. In no time at all I couldn't stay awake and fell across the bed, door and windows open, with the rustling curtains from the cool wind and distant traffic sounds the last thing I remember.

About 3:30 I heard a WhatsApp message ding on my phone. Charlie had checked into his place in Palenque, having passed through a few blockades on the way but with no issues. I dragged myself up and walked into the town center, exploring a few blocks and the plaza looking for a late lunch. People were very friendly and smiled which felt good.

I parked my tush in various places to people watch and relax, small children running up to me out of curiosity, their parents smiling and waving. I watched and listened as a large drum band played outside the cathedral. People do what people do, couples on benches kissing, mothers and daughters holding hands as they walked, teenagers smoking cigarettes and texting as they awkwardly tried to impress the other sex. Girls giggled and old men walked with canes as the daylight slowly waned.

I sat on the edge of a fountain listening to the band and smiled at an old gentleman next to me. He smiled back and began a conversation in Spanish. Though I did not understand him, the few words I picked out seemed to be where I was from and my age. He had a very difficult stutter but we still communicated a while. He finally left with a big smile and a wave.

I wandered about in the dark a bit before hitting the room to get my documents in order for the next day's crossing into Guatemala.

#SanCristobaldelasCasas #Photography #BMWR1200GS #Adventure #Travel #Mexico

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

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