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