One day, while having a lunch of cheese, crackers and hot sauce on the side of a small rural road, Jacob made the observation that our tourist visas were near their expiration date. We were about midway through Guerrero at that time, and looking forward to all the dirt roads our map showed, winding through the massive state of Oaxaca. Our discussion that day, as always, was rather brief. We came to the conclusion that we would get on a toll road and blast through the next fifteen hundred kilometres or so of Mexico like lightening. Maybe it was time for a change of pace; we had long since become intimately acquainted with the country. To the point of recognizing all the popular songs, knowing the names of our favourite regional cheeses, and even being able to predict when to hold our breath to avoid the overpoweringly putrescent stench of rotten animal carcass. It is perhaps, best not to get too attached to things held familiar. A nomad has to know when to move on.

So we blasted through the coastlines of Guerrero and Oaxaca, occasionally finding paradise beaches with only a handful of kids from sleepy fishing villages playing in the waves. In Puerto Escondido we were offered beds at a fire station. The firemen treated us to a meal of Armadillo meat and related stories of the supernatural from Oaxacan folklore.

But mainly we just pedalled our bikes. Grinding out the hours on the straight and flat, there was an overabundance of time to think; time to reminisce on fond memories, or hit the repeat button on your mental music collection. I started to feel like a prisoner of my mind. I wished that something would liberate me from the monotony of the Carretera (high way), but all I could do was sprint at the top pace allowed by the knobby treads of mountain bike tires.

Then one day we rolled into a small town all mad with thirst and completely out of water. Lately we had been filling our dromedary bags from twenty-litre jugs of purified water that we would buy from small grocery stores. It was cheaper to buy purified water than to pump it ourselves ‘factoring in the cost of replacement filters’ and it was tastier to drink water untainted by our iodine purifying solution. For some reason, finding water in this town proved to be a bit of a hassle. One market would send us on to the next; merchants would assure us that what we desired did in fact exist, if not at the next door down then certainly at the gas station. Eventually we came to the gas station they too would not sell us water. I decided to fill my Dromedary bag from the restroom tap, but a heavy set man beat me to the entrance and proceeded to take control of the sink. Hanging from one of his hands was a large bucket containing razors, a bar of soap caked in hair and grit, and cigarette butts. As he positioned himself in front of the mirror, I found myself impolitely staring; was he really going to chain smoke during his shave?

Suddenly overcome with nausea I turned my head and went in search of alternative water sources, but none were to be found. An attendant informed me about the existence of a garden hose that was conveniently located at the feet of the man with the bucket full of shaving equipment. I walked back to the restroom trying to gather the courage to ask the man to step aside for a moment. But when I got there, I found the man with his shirt removed and his protruding belly resting upon the edge of the sink I felt an instant drain of will power. We waited nearly half an hour in a thin strip of shade outside the restroom for the man to finish up with the meticulous care of his face.

We fuelled by the budding excitement of entering a new country and starting a new leg of the journey, we couldn’t adhere to our usual tendency of chilling out — it was hot and our adrenaline was high. We would make it to Chiapas by tomorrow morning, possibly this very night, and then Guatemala was only a few more days away. Driven, unconsciously, to preserve the efficiency of our pace, the shaving man incident seemed interminable. I looked up as the man finally took his leave of the mirror. Whatever he had done to clean up the lower part of his face was eclipsed by a thick drooping moustache.

Fully loaded with water, we once again took to the highway. Spinning over flat plains, we could see the road for miles ahead, every foot covered by traffic backed up by a rickety steam-roller. As we weaved our way through the line of stranded cars, we often had to barge into the narrow space between bumpers when an oversized bus or truck made it impossible to pass on the right side. Drivers glared at us as we executed our impertinent manoeuvre; each awaiting their turn to make the dangerous pass into oncoming traffic. When we finally reached the steam-roller, I was shocked to see the “shaving man� unconcernedly piloting the shuddering beast. With the same drooping moustache, his shirt rolled up over his rounded belly, and a cigarette hanging lazily from his lips. Then, as Goat and I sped past, suddenly the machinery made a bold leap forward, accelerating into chase mode. It felt like a cartoon sequence from the Road Runner Show, where the conniving Willie Coyote operates a contraption on the verge of malfunction to catch a bird madly spinning its legs. Had the presence of oddball gringos disturbed the serene atmosphere of ´Tranquillo´s afternoon shave? Would he catch up and pulverize our bike frames and bones into fine dust? Picturing the Roadrunner’s whirling legs which left in their wake a trail of flames I tried to match his intensity with my pedalling. Eventually, having put enough distance between my rear end, and that noisy wheel of immense crushing force, I could relax a bit.

Up ahead I could see a tow truck crew attaching hefty chains to the burned out shell of an exploded tanker truck. The charred remains were upside down in the drainage alongside the road; it appeared unlikely that the tow truck alone would be able to drag the long crumbling skeleton out of its pit. I wanted to hang around to witness the Herculean feat, yet moments after stopping; I could already hear the roar of the mechanical beast catching up from behind. It was time to move!

Due to our fast pace we had endured the record stretch of nearly two weeks without internet connection. So later that day we, when found a Cybercafé in a small town near the Chiapan border our eyes virtually melted into the warm glow of computer monitors. Before any of us could muster the willpower to rally an exit from cyberspace, the real world had become dark.

Toll roads are much too dangerous to ride on at night, even for short amounts of time, so we asked the locals where the best place in town would be to set up our hammocks. One man encouraged us to go to the central park. Another told us we could camp in trees behind a gas station — there we found a guard with a machine gun who forbade us from venturing anywhere near the gas tanks. Finally, we asked the police, and they motioned for us to set up our hammocks from the pillars in front their office right in the centre of downtown. Throughout the night, young people with expensive sound systems drove by our camp blasting their favourite party music. Sometime near the break of dawn the night-shift-police washed their cars and performed random engine maintenance about three feet away from my head. At seven o’clock sharp the megaphone system of a roving street hawker clicked on. We could count on the merchant listing off his whole inventory of goods for the next few hours.

We were well acquainted with these persistent amplified voices — they rarely took breaks for breath, nor altered their script. Every member of town no doubt knew the inventory by heart. After nearly half an hour of trying to ignore this auditory abuse I heard Jacob mumble: “This would be the absolute worst place in the world to nurse a hang-overâ€?.

Later on that morning we crossed into Chiapas, and the terrain transformed from the marsh wetlands of lower Oaxaca to dense tropical foliage of the Sierra foothills. Studying our road map, we gauged the distance we had covered in the past ten days to be roughly eight hundred kilometres. In that time we crossed a land that daily underwent drastic transformation, passing through towns and villages of diverse cultures and history. It all went by like a blur, my mind focusing on instead the random eccentric encounters, and of course that carrot at the end of a stick; Guatemala. We were just three hundred kilometres of toll road away.

Bike chains (especially the extra-long version our bikes require) have more moving parts than the rest of the bike put together. And not just moving — but grinding together, while being exposed to moisture and all sorts of dirt and grime.

Clearly, lubrication is of the highest importance. But, chain lube has an almost impossible job description: It must be thick enough to resist heat and moisture, thin enough to penetrate into the inner workings of all those moving parts, sticky enough to hold position on exposed smooth metal, but not so tacky that it collects dirt, becoming a grinding paste.

There are several companies whose products have reached this holy grail of chemical engineering, but their elixirs are astronomically expensive (for the off road bike tourist who must clean-lube their chain every other day) and far from available in rural Latin America.

Fortunately there is a solution that is cheap, readily available, well within your ability even if you failed high school chemistry, and most importantly, it works really well.

Only two ingredients are necessary:
Oil (of the heavy sticky variety), and solvent.

                      

Our favorites are motor oil, and white gas.
(Though gear oil, chainsaw bar oil, paint thinner, mineral spirits and regular gasoline are all reasonable substitutes)

The mixing ratio varies from 1×1 to 3×1 (solvent to oil) depending on your materials and conditions (in wet weather your oil wants to be thicker, etc.).

Simply mix, and use…

The magic is that the solvent helps the thick (lubricating) oil penetrate into all the little cracks where it is needed, and then evaporates, leaving your oil stuck right where it needs to be, but lasts long enough that when you wipe your chain after oiling (always wipe off excess oil) the thinned oil comes right off. Leaving your chain well lubed, and clean/unlikely to attract dirt.

Your chain is happy, so it lasts longer, and so does your trip.

            A substantial roundabout between the states of Michoacan and Guerrero wheels the traffic around like a spinning game of fate.   Roads spoke off to all parts of the country, including Acapulco and Mexico City, but without the benefit of any signs, your path can veer off into uncertainty.  We paused to review our map before entering the endless deluge of cars rushing to their future.  Like a steel bearing dropped into a roulette wheel, we spun madly to circle the roundabout with the flow of traffic.                         

            We were flushed out on a road heading towards Mexico City.  The sky was draped over with a hazy layer of clouds delivering a steady drizzle.  We shared the road with both the speeding vehicles and the ever encroaching jungle that formed an impenetrable six foot wall of barbed plants reaching out to snag us.   No…these conditions were not suitable to our desired mode of travel, but we could find no other options and only could hope that the cars on the road could see us through their rain splattered windshields.

            As the rain picked up, I wiped off my sunglasses and saw Sean talking to some locals resting from the laborious task of clearing a patch of roadside vegetation.  The smell of liquor greeted me as I stopped to chat.  A happy go lucky fella´ with a big machete and even bigger drunken smile made some incomprehensible noises while flailing his arms about in what appeared to be an attempt to communicate.

            “Amigos,� I was able to translate.

            We have had much experience with this apparently universal language of the village borrachos.  They don’t know any English, they’re too drunk to play a proper game of charades or even articulate decipherable Spanish words, and they can’t fathom the gringo speaks Spanish anyways.  This, however, does little to stop them from inventing their own language, which, as far as I can tell only really has one word in it´s vocabulary.  

            “AMIGOS.� 

             “Si, Buenas tardes AMIGO.  ¿Como esta usted?� I said, instantly regretting further engagement in the conversation.

            Again, a wild gesticulation of body movements and boisterous speech was unleashed; this time, he almost lost his balance, nearly floundering into a pile of debris.  But he steadied himself and grinned at his triumph over gravity while his eyes settled in a satisfied, but crooked, uncertain gaze. 

            “Amigos,� We established again.  

            The other guy, 53 years old, had divorced his wife and estranged his family in the United States, to live in Mexico.  He gave no indication that he missed them very much, and seemed quite content with his 16 year old girlfriend.

            “She’s one of about 6 in this village,� he proudly proclaimed in English while the young girl lovingly wrapped her arms around him, attempting to woo him into telling her what he just said.

            “That’s her uncle.� He motioned to the drunk, who was still amusingly staring off into space.  “I just buy this land.� He looked over the lot, nodding his head with satisfaction.  “I bring back a Jeep Grand Cherokee and pay a coyote to smuggle girl into the US and they give me this land.�

            “¿You want to come to my house? Eat authentic Mexican food.  You can stay at my house.” He offered, carefull searching his English Words.

            Helpless to resist the magic phrase, “Free Food,� particularly when accompanied by an invitation to sleep under a roof during a rainstorm, we followed him home.

            Fate works like this in our world.  If we lingered a few minutes longer at that roundabout, we would have spent the night with a tarp as our shelter and the same old meal of rice and beans.  Instead, we feasted on tacos in town and slept inside, only to be awoken by the smell of hot coffee and a traditional Mexican breakfast.   We departed with full bellies and the satisfaction of a good night’s rest.

            Under a sky opened up by the blazing sun, we took to the road through an area called “Tierra Caliente�.  A description for which we could readily vouch as our shirts quickly became saturated with sweat and our gringo skin “tostada�.  Feeling somewhat prematurely exhausted, we set up camp in avocado orchard well before dark.  As we lounged in the shade, we couldn’t help but wonder if something more than the sun was responsible for draining our energy.    

             Our curiosity was soon abated by a collective need to empty our bowels in the middle of the night.  Goat succumbed to a raging fever and passed out en route to the bathroom.  We started the night with a full roll of toilet paper and by the time the sun rose, we were running low.

            The next morning we began eating Imodium AD like candy, to no avail and were forced to camp for two more nights while Goat’s fever broke.  It became apparent that after living on the road with two of your friends for over a year, you run out of things to talk about.

            In an effort seek camaraderie, conversations about bowel movements can become an important bonding experience.  For the next week, discussions about our “stool�  became commonplace and terms like “soft serve� and “explosive� took on whole new meanings.  I wouldn’t let a day go by without knowing the intimate details about their digestive waste.

            Unfortunately, the few days of rest in the avocado orchard did not bring us back to good health; but we had to keep moving.  We each stocked up on toilet paper to keep ”at the ready” in our handlebar bags, and continued across the “tierra caliente”. 

            Chronic dehydration plagued my ability to ride, and I sought electrolytes and cold beverages at every possible stop.  But to put it gently, everything just went right through me.  

             In spite of our health, we slowly and not so surely made our way over a sizeable mountain range before dropping into the town of Iguala.  While squatting on top of the pass looking out over the valley, I couldn’t help but think back to that roundabout and wonder, “What if I had left that intersection just ten minutes later?�   

             Prologue: There was pain and anguish in the time of cholera.  It was not until a heavy course of antibiotics were we able to produce anything but “soft serve�.                                                                      

Upon realizing that my tourist visa does not last a lifetime, I checked my visa to discover that its life expires before the end of the month. 

Instead of our most anticipated bike explorations through the regions of Oaxaca and Chiapas, we struggled over the Sierra Madres on a paved road to the much quicker Coastal Route. 

Our life is palm trees, mosquitos, sunshine and terrifying roads with overgrown spikey foliage where the bike lane would be where it to exist (which it doesn´t).  We are looking forward to getting on the unkown dirt roads of Guatemala.

A river crossing.

An alacran in my bike shorts trying to hitch a ride.