Villahermosa Has Me By The...

Post date: Jun 18, 2010 8:57:18 PM

As my bike has been in repair since Friday, or something (I can barely keep track of the days here.), I have had to find ways to pass the time. At my hotel I’ve stayed in three rooms, mainly because only the last one actually received internet reception. Entertainment usually amounts to walking around. I bought some sandals to replace the ones I forgot in Tulum, and I visited the plaza here in downtown. Being Sunday, it’s the time people traditionally flock to the plaza. Tonight they played a salsa-hip hop music. A giant crowd of adults and children circled the square while one man I assumed to be drunk danced happily and somewhat coordinatedly to the music. All the faces were flat. Only a couple people in the crowd danced along. The man in the middle appeared to be just a random guy, not some entertainer. For many, many minutes this went on, without anyone doing anything. I was tempted to jump in and lively up the scene, but I was concerned that that was culturally inexcusable here. Then three teenage boys came to the center and did a dance, somewhat provocatively. Meanwhile toddlers who’d just found their legs were running about the square, like they always do at dances. Then some clowns came to the center. The crowd was somewhat enthused by them. The clowns brought kindergarten-aged boys and girls to the middle for a dance off, pairing each boy with a girl. It was hilarious. Every kid danced, and some of them could actually dance like Shakira or Madonna-backup dancer-in-training. The “show” ended thereafter, at which point some young guy came to the middle. The crowd was clearning, but he started dancing… and stripping. Off came the shirt, and the pants came down to the ankles. I laughed with many others. He went no further than that. I chatted with a gay guy who approached me as I was leaving. He wanted something I was not about to offer… so I went home. All in all, I was confused about all the people just sitting there, not dancing, not even talking to each other. Were they there for the clowns? The music? What?

At the post office the next morning, I was again taught the Mexican perception of time: it doesn’t exist. However, the nice lady wasted lots of time trying to help me with finding a good motorcycle mechanic. It was quite nice of her, but I felt sorry for the person behind me, especially since her information really wasn’t that good. I appreciated the effort nonetheless. American affluence is hinged on productivity, but that productivity comes at a price. I’ll write about that someday.

I need to workout more often. Everyday, something, whether it’s stretching or pushups or jogging or hapkido or pushing my dead motorcycle up a hill. Travel like this abolishes your eating, sleeping, exercising, cleansing, and other routines.

At the shop to pick up my motorcycle, I find that the repairs were insufficient and harmful; the vibration was the same, and now I had a shifting problem. The mechanic said it would take at least 10 days to order a new part. What was I to do? My tourist card expired in four or five days, and my motorcycle import permit before that. I just want to get out of Mexico!

I had to consider my options, so I walked to a nice pond in a park where a woman was fishing with just some fishing line and some unknown bait. She’d throw it out there, then very slowly, pull in the line. I think she had something at one point, but she never landed it. I saw a neon green iguana there. This was the nicest place I’d found in Villahermosa. Many options, none great: go to Mexico City, stay with Garry, visit his mechanic? Sell the bike? (illegal, and would sell for too little), find another repair shop? I’d have to get an extension on my permits regardless. I took the bike to the hostel I’d found, telling the mechanic to call me when he knew if he could get the new part sooner.

The hostel was supervised by this weird little male around the age of 20. He acted gay, was very quiet, and had virtually no interest in answering my questions or helping me with typical tourist stuff. The place had roaches, the dishes were dirty, and so on… plus the keyboard’s spacebar didn’t work. The internet history was clogged with porn. I had little choice; it was the cheapest place in town with semi-functional internet.

After visiting the internet café down the street, I bought some milk for my third-meal-straight peanut butter, syrup, and bread dinner at the giant supermarket. I’m telling you, that was like home. Signs with clear labels! Aisles and aisles of beverages, cereal, spices… all organized like they “should” be! There were shoes over there, kitchen supplies there… and bright lights over head, clean floors beneath. I almost crawled into a corner and slept. Home… Home? I recognized at that point how conditioned America had made me, how dependent America had made me, on a consumer-based society. I longed to cling to that which was familiar, reliable, and comprehendible. It was like an oasis. I relate now to cultural centers in the U.S. for foreigners.

Luckily I met a great young man at the hostel with whom I could speak and laugh. He’s French, living in San Diego (sort of). Complicated story: he came to the U.S. on an internship. The internship expired, thereby terminating his visa. The U.S. said “Get out!” So, that’s why he is in Mexico (his dad is Mexican, but he was born and raised in France.) His plan is to sneak back into San Diego to collect his belongings and stay a couple more weeks until he can return to France. We joked about taking a boat across. As always when I meet an English-speaker from another country, we discussed culture. He informed me that the French are very proud and prefer to remain in their country, but only the Parisians are snobs. Suppose the U.S. is the same way.

The next day reminds me of what Rocky said (can Rocky be quoted for wisdom?)… he said something like, “It’s now how hard you hit ‘em, it’s how many punches you can take.” I feel like Rocky getting pummeled, here in Mexico. This day, attempting to extend my tourist card and vehicle import permit, Migracion and Aduana (customs) say I have to get the *$)# out of Mexico… tomorrow. They’re advice? Take a bus to the border four hours away by bus, reenter with a new tourist card, return to Villahermosa, repair the bike, get a 5 day pass from the government to operate my motorcycle again, then leave Mexico. I almost vomited, cried, pooped, and bashed my head all at once. Mexico, let me go! At least I met a nice Irish motorcycler who offered to help me out and who knew of a good mechanic. At that point I was heartbeats away from gunning it to Guatemala without looking back, chancing it on my shoddy motorcycle. But I called Tim, and Tim said, “Eh.” So I continued with the original plan, which was to visit another mechanic.

I loved this mechanic. A good sense of humor, a clean shop, some parts in stock, and he had the brilliant idea of using Google Translator to facilitate our communication! He said it wasn’t the clutch, it was safe to get to the border and back, and that he could make all the repairs. I was happy. He even did something to slightly improve the vibration and shifting. I left there with that plan. Grudgingly I went back to the hostel. It rained this night. It was beautiful.

Had to ring the bell to leave the hostel because Mariano locks the gate. The house was really kinda nice, but unkept. The patio was painted with a vibrant jungle scene. The bike felt good on the highway to Tenosique.

The beauty of riding is similar to the beauty of running. You can clear your head, develop courage for certain decisions, and make peace with particularly unsatisfying handouts from life. The point is, you’re going somewhere. You’re putting things behind you. But with riding there’s no sore knees later. Just a sore butt and lower back, and maybe a broken nose.

I thought about the mechanic giving his go ahead to the border and back, the costs of all this back-and-forth, and my soul-deep discontent in Mexico. One month in Mexico. Way behind schedule.

So I checked my maps, did the math, made a turn early, and I gunned it for Guatemala City.