1 | Mexico Called

Mexico called and said it missed me.

My friend MotoHank asked me come along with him on a short 3 day trip to Real de Catorce with a couple of other riders. Hank and the others had to get back quickly to San Antonio, but I decided I'd stay a bit longer and return by myself.

Leaving DFW, I headed south to Austin for lunch with a MotoBro, then on to San Antonio where I hung out with a few of Hank’s riding buddies at La Tuna before ending up in Dilley for some shuteye. The next day at Hank's shop I had the bittersweet surprise of seeing my old 1998 R1100GS Anniversary with its new owner from San Antonio. Since I was planning to ride from Alaska to the tip of South America, I’d decided a newer moto would be the ticket and had purchased a slightly used BMW R1200GSA. It felt a bit strange to see my bike rolling in with a different rider after all the years of adventures, but Saul turned out the be the perfect new owner. This would be the first trip of any substance on my new-to-me R1200GSA. I was looking forward to getting some real road and terrain time on it, having ridden it only in the DFW area where I'm camped temporarily.

My new baby…

Sunday morning we all met at Hank’s shop, flew down I-35 and hit Nuevo Laredo for Immigration and Vehicle Importation paperwork. Sunday is a good day to travel since the immigration lines are minimal at the border and traffic is a little less in Monterrey.

Our goal was the magic little village of Real De Catorce, a long day’s ride from Laredo if one pushes it, however our plan was to spend the night south of Monterrey in Santiago and then cut across the Sierra Madre mountains the next day to Real.

We throttled out of the border town by 10-ish for our destination, Santiago, a beautiful and peaceful town a little south of Monterrey. Dodging and lane splitting in Monterrey is always fun, but there was no traffic and we moved through easily.

The square in Santiago was in full swing when we arrived late in the afternoon, with live music playing, families and children filling the park. The church overlooking the center had services going with a street festival on the flagstone road adjacent. Sitting in the plaza, I was struck by the wholesomeness of the scene - families laughing and playing, lovers holding hands on park benches, elderly couples dressed up and strolling slowly. It is a rich experience and one I wish I could see in the United States.

After getting checked into the lodgings, we explored the street market and wandered the little town, climbing the elevated viewing plaza that overlooks the valley to one side and the town on the other.

As the day waned, we found a small restaurant for a meal and then continued wandering the streets.

My three riding partners for this excursion…

Hank, aka “MotoHank”, BMW mechanic, photographer and world traveller

Larry, landscape architect…

Patrick, graphic designer and world moto traveller

By the time we’d finished our meal it was getting dark and we hung out on the plaza to catch the evening entertainment and sights.

The fresh mountain air and a gentle midnight rain sang sweet lullabies through the open windows of the hotel that evening.

2 | To Real De Catorce

The next morning, Monday, we found breakfast in a cafe on the square, then loaded the bikes and donned the heavy gear for the ride.

From Santiago it was a short ride south to catch MX 20 across the mountains, a fantastic road. We stopped at Cascada de Cola de Caballo (Horsetail Falls) for a short hike up the canyon to the falls. T’was a beautiful spot for sure.

From the canyon we headed high into the mountains on the tight and twisty road that required some serious concentration.

We were engulfed in the cold mist and fog of the high peaks, eventually clearing enough to see the stunning mountains and canyons with quick glimpses off the sheer edges. The road had some very tight switchbacks and plenty of amazing scenery, not to mention topés (speed bumps), loose livestock and random vehicles. It is a great motorcycle road!

The high, twisty, mist covered mountains transformed into massive canyons with a scale impossible to capture… not that I didn’t try.

There were massive sheer cliffs and tight narrow canyons, windy open expanses with mountains and orchards.

We grabbed a short butt break at an old church and a ramble-down house straight out of a spaghetti western.

The were some children playing outside the log house and I prodded Hank to ask if we could look inside, the smokestack spewing blue wood smoke. I'd have paid to see how they lived, but a hard look with much suspicion from a face in the door answered the question. Our offers to give a few pesos brought deafening silence, as the family disappeared into the dwelling. I can understand why they wouldn’t want complete strangers in their home, but sometimes it happens.

The mountains slowly disappeared as we entered the high desert, the “altiplano” on the eastern side of the range and connected with MX57, a tollway south towards Matehuala where our turn for Real De Catorce would be, passing through the military checkpoints with just a wave. A couple of hours at 90 mph brought us to the cut through for the little town of Cedral, then the 14 mile long cobblestone road for Real De Catorce, a village from the 1700's sitting at 9000’ in the desert mountains.

At the base of the mountain before reaching Real, we found an unfinished church in the village of Portrero. Much time in the late day was spent as we explored and shot photos, only worsening as we discovered a huge abandoned hacienda adjacent and spent more time exploring and shooting. Larry, one of our group, is a well known landscape architect and city planner, so his input and enthusiasm in the ruins was welcomed.

Moorish architectural designs can be seen throughout Mexico, stemming from the time of the Moors occupation of Spain.

After wandering the ruins, Patrick stayed with his bike while the rest of us wandered into the old hacienda nearby.

Back at the motorcycles, Patrick and his bike were no where in sight. We waited for a bit then decided he must have gone on ahead to Real, which was just a couple of miles away. We rode around the little village to no avail, then decided to go on to the town.

As the sun fell behind the mountain we rumbled up, the noise of the engines masked by the vibration of the cobblestones and the myriad contents of our side cases. The original cobblestone road is fourteen miles long, culminating in a dusty, cool and dank ride through a two mile long mine tunnel that ends in a wonderful mountain village at 9000’ elevation. The little town sits high, isolated and still remains in the 18th and 19th century, its steep cobblestone streets and stone block buildings much as they were when Real was one of the richest mining cities in Mexico.

We stopped briefly at an overlook to the valley where we’d been, and watched to see if Patrick was visible below us just in case we’d missed him.

From whence we came…

One reaches Real De Catorce by way of a 1.5 mile tunnel through the mountain, originally a mine tunnel, which is an alternating one way. You pay the small toll fee then wait for traffic to clear that’s coming from the other side then are given a “go” by the attendant.

Exiting the dank and diesel fume filled tunnel, it’s a step back in time. The cobblestone streets are steep and require a lot of concentration when riding slowly, even more so when stopping on the heavily varied heights.

The sun set as we found our hotel, rode the bikes onto the sidewalk, climbed off the bikes and unpacked gear. The cold mountain air flowing down the streets was refreshing after many hours in the sun.

There was no sign of Patrick, either at the tunnel or in the town. We unloaded gear and were in the process of changing clothes when Patrick walked into our room. He was sweaty and a bit pissed off, having felt like he’d been abandoned. Our explanations of looking for him, and his lack of letting us know he was leaving with no note or anything calmed him some, although he never told us where he’d disappeared to or why.

More tomorrow amigos...

3 | Pueblo Fantasma

Tuesday morning dawned bright and crisp in the high elevation, with the sounds of roosters, donkeys, rattling pickups and horse hooves on cobblestone the morning alarm. A bit of wandering early for some photos brought smiles and interesting encounters, followed by a breakfast of scrambled eggs and thinly sliced ham, with a great cup of café de olla.

BMW Breakfast Bros

Our plan for the day was to ride horses to the top of the mountain to the old ghost town, “Pueblo Fantasma”, overlooking Real, the abandoned mine and buildings dating to the late 1600’s.

Hank spotted a friend on the street who was adorned in Bohemian apparel and a big smile. I can’t pronounce her name, but she’d grown up in Real, then lived in Denmark with her Danish mother and had recently moved back. We were introduced to a friend of hers from Ireland, Brian, a photographer who was doing a documentary on one of the religious festivals in Real.

We talked cameras for a while before our caballero whistled and motioned for us to follow him. We huffed and puffed up one the steepest streets in town to a pile of ruins which served as holding pens for the horses.

It’s a long and steep climb to Pueblo Fantasma, so the horse trek was well worth the 300 pesos per person - roughly $15 US.

Feeling absolutely nothing like tourists, we plodded our way up the narrow streets on cranky horses, who were determined to injure or scare the rider.

The steep old road was slick and polished cobblestone initially, falling away to polished rock. The horses were being assholes, no doubt hating their lives, pushing and fighting, slipping and sliding along sheer drops, the burro-mounted caballero yelling occasionally at one or the other of the horses.

We passed through ruins of old haciendas and mine related buildings, now only partial stone walls remaining. At one point, Real De Catorce was the richest town in Mexico, its silver mines producing huge quantities of wealth. Many rich men and opportunists built haciendas, but abandoned them and fled for their lives when during the Mexican Revolution, Pancho Villa, one of the generals of the revolutionary forces, headed for Real, killing wealthy landowners as he crossed the country.

Bypassing the ruined Pueblo, we rode all the way over the mountain, descending what could only be called a goat trail in most places. It was seriously steep and narrow, our guide yelling at the horses as they proceeded to lurch and argue with each other. At times it was a bit harrowing. At times it was terrifying.

Our route passed through various ruins and mine buildings, dynamite shacks and granaries, eventually ending up at a church from the late 1600’s perched high above the valley leading into Real. Hank and I had tried to reach the old church previously by motorcycle from a different route but had run out of daylight, so getting to visit it was a nice surprise.

From the high place, we watched as a military convoy of Mexican “Marinas” slowly wound their way up the mountain road below us on the way to Real.

After exploring the church and shooting a zillion images, we had to backtrack up the steep and narrow trail to the top, and I’ll admit I wasn’t too thrilled about it. My horse was being a bitch or a bastard, bashing me into another horse as often as possible.

We crested the top again and came to the ruins of the original mine, it’s 1000’ deep shaft taking a rock ten seconds to strike bottom. The various building ruins related to the mining process for silver, crushing the stone and washing the product. A lone mine shaft we explored brought us some silvery sparkles in the darkness, illuminated by the light of a cell phone.

The little stone sheds held dynamite for the mining operations and were built a ways away from the other buildings.

The final leg back down to the town was as disconcerting as the way up, the horses fighting each other and slipping and sliding their way down the steep trail and polished rocks.

Our guide was paid and tipped, the walk into town short where a sidewalk cafe provided pork pozolé and gorditas while we watched the folks on the street. Clumps of “Marinas” walked past and spoke to us with big smiles and friendly faces despite the military gear. Seems the military enjoyed spreading cheer… thankfully I might add. Maybe they are tasked with being friendly to ingratiate themselves for good public opinion, or maybe they are just friendly. Who knows, but it was nice to be around a Mexican military group who weren’t wearing black masks.

Pozolé!

The girl from Denmark and Brian from Ireland…

After lunch we separated for various ways and I found a few photo ops on the way to the hotel.

Perusing the little shops, I bought a bracelet from a local artisan, for whom my 500 peso note was too large to change. He gave me the bracelet and indicated for me to go and bring back the money at a later time.

As we attempted to converse, a vagabond couple walked up and began speaking to him in Spanish. I wandered away and eventually got enough small change to return and pay for the handmade clay bracelet. The couple were still there and we spoke. Patricio and his girlfriend were from Italy, having flown to the Yucatan where an old Suzuki motorcycle had left them stranded. They’d continued their journey all over Mexico and central America by bus, but he was excited to talk motorcycles with me. He was aware of our arrival on the GS’s and where we were staying, apparently as did the whole town.

Patricio and his girlfriend

As the day faded, I made my way back to the hotel, spending a few moments looking over the motorcycle. On the street, I watched as a lone blind man made his way up the street with his walking cane. As he passed, I said “Buenos Tardes!” and he smiled and nodded, of course only knowing the greeting had come from his left.

As the sun set, the four of us headed for the roof of the hotel to watch the sunset and generally act stupid.

Once the sun had dipped below the mountain, the cold air of nightfall drove us down and to a restaurant for dinner.

Earlier, Patrick had seen 4 riders coming into town on adventure bikes and they ended up having a meal with us that evening. They had trailered to Del Rio from Kansas and then ridden to Saltillo where they met their Mexican motorcycle guide. Incredibly, one of the riders recognized Patrick from a previous trip to ride in the Himalayas, where they’s ridden together years before. What a small world it is.

The exertion in the high altitude had taken its toll on us lowlanders and we headed back to hotel where the others packed for leaving. Hank, Patrick and Larry all had to be back in San Antonio but I had no deadline and had decided to stay a couple more days to spend a little time kicking back and shooting some pics. My previous trips to Real had always been rushed and I wanted to savor the solitude and spirit of this little magical town.

4 | El Gringo Solo

The crew was up early to pack the bikes and get ready for their marathon day back to Texas.

At 8 am the restaurant opened for breakfast and everyone’s fatigue was showing a bit. Huevos revueltos con jamon was the order of the day before we said our goodbyes in front of the restaurant.

As the sound of the three big twin GS’s slowly disappeared down the street, I took in the crisp air and sunshine in several deep breaths. The altitude certainly played a part in my deep breaths and the steep streets didn’t help either. I had adopted the street style of the old natives, walking very slowly and with short steps, but I had the added excuse of stopping for photos to disguise how out of shape I was.

With the disappearance of the motorcycle engine sounds, I focused on the random sound of voices, sweeping brooms on the street and the morning sounds of a town coming to life.

With my companions gone, I felt a rush of excitement, partly due to the moment and partly due to being alone in Mexico with nary a bit of Spanish language skills. Real is a place to savor, to breathe in, to set aside any sense of schedule and just to be. The bohemian travelers one meets there all say the same thing… just let go of time. It’s easy to do.

The sleepy town was slowly waking and I had to explore the morning activity in the beautiful crisp air and sunshine.

As I wandered, thoughts of where on the road Hank, Patrick and Larry would be passed through my mind, but wherever it was, it was a long, high speed highway, far removed from the pace of this little town.

Having met such friendly people each time I’ve come, I must say I feel that somehow I’ve lost something that I desperately want to regain. I consider myself a caring, open, and honest person who lives by the golden rule, yet the way people I’ve met open their homes and lives to a stranger just humbles and shames me. I’ll spare my thoughts about the hardness and futility of the American lifestyle, but I have to look deeper inside at the walls I live behind.

To a photographer’s eye, Real is an eternal landscape of textures, moments, light and juxtapositions. It's like being a kid in a candy store and yet exhausting from the number of images one takes... even more so the ones that are missed.

As my thoughts of motorcycles and goodbye’s faded, I walked the sunlit streets and felt a sense of complete freedom, no schedules, no agenda, nothing but the sun and the sky as my friends. It was a rare feeling and I took it all in in deep breaths. I also needed the oxygen.

I shot image after image, stalking figures both unsuspecting and aware, waiting for the moment… which rarely came or when it did was ruined by the sudden appearance of someone into the shot. All you photographers out there know the frustration.

As I made my way up to the municipal plaza by the cathedral, a sound of drums came loudly as a series of differing groups of school children arrived, each marching down a different street carrying flags and banners. They were proud and excited.

I watched as they marched and assembled beneath the watchful eyes of teachers and parents.

I have no idea what the festival was about, but then that’s what I love about Mexico. It’s a country of celebrations and surprises, often in unexpected places and at unexpected times. I remember rounding a curve deep in the mountains of an isolated place, only to have to pull aside as a mass of people marched down the road in religious regalia carrying crosses, the image of them such a contrast in the deserted desert mountains.

My wanderings eventually took me towards the old original church and cemetery on the edge of town. I stopped for a Mexican Coke and savored the flavor while sitting on the stone ring of the old bullfight arena, the glass bottled Coke's lukewarm contents growing warmer in the stinging mountain sun.

I reminded myself to return the glass bottle to the tiny street-side shop where the lady and her daughter had stared wide-eyed at the big gringo in their tiny shop. I found a tree stump along the dusty road and hid the bottle until I returned that way.

Swinging open one of the old iron gates at the entry to the iglesia, I made my way up to the old church and the cemetery surrounding it.

The old chapel was built in the late 1700’s and then abandoned when the larger Templo de la Purisima Concepcion, dedicated to Francis of Assissi was built in the center of the town which had grown closer to the tunnel. Though the newer large church is impressive, the original one stole my heart immediately on my first visit.

Amongst the graves of the cemetery which choke the church entrance from the deceased’s desires to be as near the altar as possible, I saw the small, old gentleman caretaker and his wife. As I approached him he looked up and smiled in recognition. Each visit to Real, I’d always come to visit the chapel and he remembered. He reached out and grabbed my hand with both his, squeezing hard and smiling a big grin. I said “Jose” pointing to myself and he replied “Alejandro”. We attempted to communicate as usual, not really understanding but knowing each other’s desire to be able to.

The interior frescoes are beautiful in their colors and brokenness, being original to the construction. I love just sitting in the still quietness and soaking it in.

After a long time in the church I wandered out onto the steps and looked at the valley far below, sidestepping graves that literally lay directly in front of the entrance steps. Alejandro sat in the cemetery on a grave and smiled as I waved at him, then wandered across the road and climbed down into a small canyon, following it to the edge of the cliff, but it was hot and I was getting tired as the day had passed away.

I climbed back up and slowly walked the dusty cobblestone road back towards town, retrieving the hidden Coke bottle from the tree stump, passing a lady sitting by herself on a step. She was an older Hispanic woman and dressed a bit like a tourist. I greeted her as best I could and she began speaking to me in Spanish. We attempted to talk and in her tiny bit of English told me “Toronto, Ontario, Hershey’s Chocolate, Houston” to let me know she’d traveled to the US and Canada. We laughed in our attempts to communicate and then she produced a large list of handwritten things to do in Real, pointing at each one and asking “si or no?” We had fun and in my attempt to say it was a pleasure to meet said “bonita’ or some other word trying express “good” - she laughed and feigned flattery. I laughed and walked on, depositing the Coke bottle with a man in the little shop where I’d bought it, who looked at me like I was crazy.

A few steps further down the road I met Brian again, the young photographer from Ireland and his friend and assistant Raine. They’d hiked up to the Cerro Quemado, the sacred mountain top of the Huichol Indians, who make a pilgrimage yearly to the mountain. It sits high above the plains that harbor peyote, a part of their ancient ritual. The sacred high place along with the peyote also draws new agers from around the world for its “energy”.

I eventually made the main street for a coffee and a rest on the sidewalk out front. Pleasantries were exchanged with a few passersby until I headed to the hotel... to download images, sort and rate, tweak, export, attempt to upload again and again, attempt to connect to the forums, attempt to edit and export GoPro footage and then upload to Youtube, then write something interesting to post, go to SmugMug and attempt to connect, wait for the uploads to complete, copy links for each photo and paste them into the ride report, check Youtube upload status, all while the internet connection stopping in 15 minute intervals, made even more fun by the hotel attendant randomly resetting the modem from somewhere downstairs… only to find the online forum posting page has lost it’s “token” and I have to redo it all again. Grrrr.

Sometimes I wonder why I do this… :D

5 | Streets of Real

I awoke grumbly and later than usual, due to being up way too late trying to get uploads done with the sporadic internet. I’d changed rooms in the hotel from a double to a single to save money and also to get to enjoy the balcony doors open to the street below. Usually the echoing sounds of old trucks, roosters and the like wake me up each morning, but not this time.

I spent some time trying to finish up the online stuff and get my camera batteries charged and ready, so by the time I got on the street it was nearing 10:30. Again the sun was bright and the skies clear with a crispness in the air. I wandered the streets until I saw tortillas being made by hand on the grill in a doorway and went in for breakfast. I was the only patron at the moment, but café de ollá and dos gorditas con huevos y queso were a good way to start my day.

She made the tortillas by hand and watched the street, while the sound of music from street vendors echoed in the town. Real gets a fair amount of tourists from Mexico to attend various religious festivals, so there are plenty of little streetside vendors.

The tortillas slowly rose like puffer fish on the griddle until the steam poured out, the señorita quickly grabbing them, slicing them open and filling them with all the goodness I needed.

As the place began filling with patrons, I finished up and wandered across the street to the art and history museum and paid 10 pesos for entry - about 50¢. It occupies the old mint, with an upper floor dedicated to the history of the area and some great old photographs of the Huichol Indians, along with artifacts and such. The lower floors are galleries and exhibits of artists and their works.

Exiting, the attendant pointed across to the large church and gave me hand signals where to go and repeated “milagros” several times. I thanked him and though I’d been several times, I wandered over to visit again. The church is much larger than the older original on the edge of town but is impressive in itself. It was empty, save for four who knelt for prayers.

I watched in reverence and walked slowly on the wooden plank floors which squeaked loudly under my weight no matter how slowly I moved. The loud echoes seemed a inappropriate with the piousness of the worshippers. And about those floors, there is some debate as to what they are, as they appear almost as wooden doors or lids with hand holds in them, the purpose unknown.

In a room on the left side of the sanctuary are hundreds, maybe thousands, of hand written and hand painted letters from those who testify of their healings and miracles. It is quite impressive to see.

As I made my way back into the main sanctuary, I stopped to change lenses and of course dropped a rear lens cap, only to watch it roll like a tiny wheel straight into the nearest hole in the floor. At last the mystery of the wooden floor and its holes was revealed - a trap for anything dropped apparently.

Crass as it may seem, I waited until the worshippers left before getting on my knees in the main aisle to see if I could find it in the hole. I could see it and actually touch the top of it with my finger, but my hand was too large to gain the extra 1/2” needed to catch it between two fingers. I tried to fish it out with my sunglasses to no avail and even looked around to see if there might be something I could use, but I’d have had to disassemble some holy relic so I decided not to.

I prayed for a “milagro” to no avail. Though I was alone for the moment, I was aware that inevitably someone would walk in while I was on my hands and knees in the main aisle, so I made sure my back was towards the door and they might think I was in reverent prayer…

I could barely feel the lens cap and like the way a raccoon is trapped by its hand in a bottle, unable to release whatever it has grasped, I realized the potential to become the Quasimodo for this Mexican cathedral, forever on my knees in the aisle with my hand in the hole, tourists tossing food scraps to me and screaming in fear as I reacted.

Fearing my future, I decided I’d spent enough time on my knees in the main aisle and gave up.

From the church I walked to the fountain in front of the municipal building, then down another street until I spotted a young vagabond couple, the girl wrapped like a gypsy and the boy dirty, burned dark and disheveled. In the U.S. I’d say they were homeless and living on the streets, but here they’re just another traveling Bohemian couple. They were in a heated argument in perfect English, debating their website's design, internet traffic patterns and promulgation while they worked on their MacBook laptops. I had to chuckle at the sight.

I wandered the streets and checked out a few other hotels for future trips that were a bit cheaper than my current hotel, as much as I love it.

Aside from my tush, the only other casualty from our horse trek a couple days previous had been the small camera pouch I used in my tank bag. My cranky horse chose to bash it (and me) repeatedly into the other horses with ferocity, actually ripping the seams out on the innocent pouch. I’d been through a couple of shops looking for a suitable leather replacement the day after, but nothing was right. I’d stumbled into a shop owned by an Italian leather maker to see if there was any pouch I could use for a camera bag.

He had been gone to lunch that day, but was in his shop today. In broken English we discussed my problem and he said he could make me a simple pouch to carry one camera body with lens mounted along with a second lens. He drew the design on paper and said he’d have it ready in the morning. I thanked him and wandered out, excited to get it the next day.

As I neared the hotel, a dog lay casually in the street and as we looked at each other, a guy selling jewelry on the sidewalk spoke to me in a French accent, telling me the dog’s name.

Guillaume was from Switzerland, young and sporting the gypsy look that is the style of young and old non-locals living in the area. While we spoke, a darkened Hispanic man with tattoos and piercings arrived with tortillas, cheese and avocados. The man introduced himself and asked if I would like some of the food. He, Guillaume and a third young man all lived in the same house in the little village of Los Catorce further down the mountain. They all shared their food and made jewelry to sell on weekends. Indeed each had a blanket with their own styles of handmade jewelry on it. I thanked him for the offer of food and he responded that I was welcome to stay at his home the next time I came to visit the town.

It was late in the day when I took my seat on a stone curb and watched the setting sun skim across the building facades and the faces of those who passed by.

6 | The Last Day

This day was my last in the little town, so I bought a Ferrari. In Real de Catorce of all places. A black one.

As with backpacking, moto travel is a minimalist sport. Smaller and lighter is better. I’ve tried various small travel camera systems over the years and this trip was my first to use the tiny Lumix GM5 and GF7 cameras and lenses. They feature 16 mp sensors and proven image quality. For lenses I am using the 12-32 and 35-100 kit zooms - very tiny, very sharp and an Olympus 45mm 1.8 for a fast 90mm equivalent.

The GM5 is minuscule, the size of a deck of cards with a tiny electronic viewfinder and the GF7 is a bit cheaper and with a tilt screen. The entire kit - 2 bodies, 3 lenses, charger, 4 batteries and related stuff all fit in a 3.5 x 5 x 8” case. Yep.

But back to Ferraris… local leather craftsman Simone Ferrari, who came from Bologna, Italy to Real 25 years ago, had designed a simple, discreet black leather pouch for me based on the camera size and had made it in a few hours for a reasonable price.

Simone Ferrari and partner Jemma

One amazing thing about Real De Catorce is how many interesting people visit this town. Each trip I’ve made has been filled with interesting encounters, especially considering how few travelers come.

I’d bumped into Maria each day, a traveler from Portugal who was living in Real. She told me that on the weekends the town filled up with local farmers selling produce, craftsmen and artisans selling wares and the population swells a bit with tourists. All my previous trips to Real had been midweek, having heard that the tunnel is closed on weekends to vehicle traffic.

This afternoon, a Friday, I could tell locals were preparing for the weekend as several shops and cafes were open that I’d never seen open before. In addition there were more street vendors than usual.

What you do in Real is walk, talk, smile and take it in, with the occasional time on a bench to watch the others doing the same thing. So that’s what I did. I explored a few other hotels out of curiosity and marked a few for the future, though the Mina Real where I’ve typically stayed is superb.

As the day progressed I bumped into 3 Norteńos, whom I’d met at breakfast, returning from their attempted hike to the old ghost town. They’d asked about it that morning and I suggested they take the horses rather than walk, but they feared riding horses. Sure enough, they had turned back before reaching the top but still had enjoyed it. I suggested they hike to the Cerro Quemado the next day, though further, it would be a bit easier than the steep rocky approach to the Pueblo Fantasma.

Perusing the shops, I found one where the owner made the well known Huichol beaded sculptures, painstakingly glueing tiny colored beads onto sculpted figures.

It was late in the day when my breakfast finally wore off, the smell of gorditas wafting down the street drawing me back to the little place across from the church for a meal. I ordered dos gorditas y una Coca and grabbed a tiny table outside to people watch.

My Coca came out in the grasp of a very young boy whose hands were covered in oil and grease from the food. He struggled to get the cap off with the opener, a task made more difficult by the oil on his hands. I said “Gracias el jefe” which made him smile very big. He then began a burst of Spanish to which I replied “No hablo español”. He paused and looked at me for a bit then reached for my camera. I showed it to him, then took a pic or two or three.

He was enamored with seeing himself on the screen and we became best buddies. He then picked up my phone and deftly began swiping through the apps like a pro, I’m sure looking for games, while speaking to me in Spanish. When a mother's call came from within the cafe, he quickly dropped the phone and squirted back inside.

The streets had a bit more activity than normal and as the day wound down I wandered a little longer.

I had thoroughly enjoyed my time in Real, wanting to stretch it out, but my time of leaving was coming the next morning. I spent as much time on the streets as I could until I finally gave in and headed for the hotel. On the street outside, the blind man I’d seen almost every day felt his way past with his walking stick. I greeted him with “Buenos tardes” as I had each time. He smiled and nodded his appreciation.

As darkness fell, I sat in the room and looked at photos of the day and thought about the week.

If I could sum up Real in a word or two, it would be the sound of children’s laughter. It’s a noisy place, but not in a bad way, just that there are many sounds - an ambient backdrop of roosters, donkeys, horse hooves, rattling trucks with bad mufflers, birds singing, Mexican music, off-key random trumpet blasts, voices, short whistles and the sound of children. But mostly the sounds of children, their laughter, screams, giggles and excitement. The town is full of children and they seem to be very happy. That is a good thing for my soul, to know there is a place filled with happy children.

7 | Leaving

The day dawned overcast and gloomy, much like my mood about heading out for Texas. There was a genuine sadness in leaving, a bit deeper than just a returning to the reality of life.

I double checked the room before suiting up and clumping down the stairs in my boots, finally remembering to duck the concrete beam that sits in the dark just outside my room and 4 inches lower than the door.

I laid the key at the front desk along with a “muchas gracias amigo” to the attendant who wore a big smile. I’d woken up early in anticipation and had loaded the bike, which now sat idling to warm up enough to avoid a stall on the steep streets. I rolled off the curb and down before heading back uphill and around the corner for a quick coffee.

One of the three Norteño’s I’d seen the day before, an American lady from Australia, was having a coffee and waiting for the couple who were traveling with her to arrive for breakfast. We spoke about the town and their previous day's hike, shortened by the man’s back condition and then I understood why they hadn’t ridden the horses. They were still excited to try to hike to the Quemado however.

After pleasantries and finishing my cup of café de olla, I wished her well and headed out on the street to finalize the bike before getting on the road. The skies were still gloomy as I put my ear buds in and readied my road music on my phone. Down the street I saw the American couple entering the cafe to meet their friend. They saw me and waved, then the man's wife ran up and began speaking to me. I pulled the earplugs back out so that I could hear. She wished me well and safe travels, which I appreciated. I told her maybe we’d all see each other again on the road. With a big “Adios” she ran back down to the cafe.

I put the earbuds back in and lifted the helmet to put it on, carefully starting to slide it down so as not pull out the plugs, when I heard the sound of a bongo drum behind me. Turning, I saw a young guy smiling and playing the drum with his finger tips. I pulled my helmet off and the earplugs out again so that I could hear him speaking to me. It was Guillaume, the guy from Switzerland I’d met the day before on the street. Guillaume spoke excellent English with a French accent, having grown up Geneva.

He was asking if I was leaving Real for good and heading for Texas again. When I answered yes, he asked which border crossing was best. Though I was heading for Laredo, I suggested either Piedras Negras or Del Rio as having less traffic. He laughed and said he’d crossed into Mexico at Piedras Negras, but the next time wanted to enter Texas through Del Rio, “because”, he said, “Del Rio is actually my last name. My mother is Spanish.”

I told him "Guillaume Del Rio" sounded like a name from a movie to which he laughed out loud. I wished him well in his travels and he shook my hand, then continued down the street with his cryptic bongo beat.

Again I carefully put my earplugs in and this time slid my helmet on without managing to pull them out. As I buckled the strap and started to climb on, I saw motion to my right. I turned to see the man whose wife had just wished me safe journeys a few moments earlier. He was waving at me and saying something. Once again I pulled the helmet off and the ear plugs out so that I could hear. His name was Joe, and he said they’d started breakfast and were talking about me being a kindred travel spirit and wanted to stay in touch. He wanted to exchange info so we both looked for a pen and a scrap of paper. They lived in Chico, California part of the year and on a small lake in Mexico the rest of the time. He invited me to come visit and then talked about the area where they lived near the Pacific, motorcycles, his back injury and much more. He shook my hand and then headed back for the cafe.

My “hit the road time” of 9 am had slipped away and it was 10 before I finally got my earbuds and helmet on for the final time. I zipped up and closed the jacket vents, turned on my music and fired up the bike. Slowly and carefully I turned the bike around on the rough streets and then slowly idled down the main one, taking in the last look. The caballeros who stand on the corners watched as I rode by, Guillaume and a couple of friends on the sidewalk waved as I ducked under an overhead tarp and past folks sitting at tables eating food from the street vendors. As I accelerated and turned up the steep street past the plaza, I saw Jemma and Maria outside Simone Ferrari’s shop waving to me but I was unable to take my hand off the bars and respond.

I rode much more slowly than usual on my way to the tunnel, as I wanted to absorb the last remnants of this trip. When I arrived at the tunnel entrance, the attendant motioned for me to stop and wait - which meant the vehicles were coming from the other end.

As I sat and waited, a break in the clouds came and so did the heat of wearing riding gear in full sun. I got off the bike and shot a few photos while I waited, watching the people who were watching me and the bike.

After what seemed an eternity I saw pinpoint lights moving in the tunnel signaling the beginning of the end of my wait, though it was a long time before all the cars, pickups and a bus finally rumbled out into the dusty parking area.

The guard waved and I hurriedly threw on my gloves, fired up the bike and rolled into the tunnel making sure I didn't have to ride behind any of the waiting trucks for the two mile trip. There was a pall of dust, acrid diesel, mustiness and damp, mixed with gasoline laced exhaust fumes as I rolled in.

The air was cool though and felt good after the heat of the sun. I listened to the sound of the rumbling Boxer engine echoing with the sound of the cobblestones and watched the shaking headlight pattern on the walls as I passed from pool of light to pool of light from the sodium vapor lamps above.

Coming out finally into the light and passing waiting vehicles, I saw some blue in the sky and felt a tinge of excitement for the thought of riding again.

As I rounded the high curving cobblestone road, the old church we'd explored a few days before on horseback stood silhouetted high on the hill ahead. It was a nice sight to remember as the miles and day slipped by on the way to Laredo.

8 | Doors

After editing my images from the time in Real De Catorce, I realized I’d taken a lot of photos of doors - of which there are many interesting ones for sure. It seemed like a small gallery might be appropriate…