Ruminations of an Expatriate

A walkway, perhaps a mile in length, has been built along the rock which lines the Northwest Puerto Escondido harbor. The walkway is accessed from the western end of la Playa Prinicpal.

This is the Puerto Escondido beach where families hang out, as the relatively calm sea, the gently sloping beach, and the shallow water is perfect for young frolickers.

The town fishing fleet is anchored just beyond the inner harbor swimming area or parked on the beach. I watched a couple of boats beached by the pilot who accelerated approaching the beach and drove this boat up the beach to dry sand. The boats are the heavy, fiberglass hulled boats one encounters in every coastal Mexican town.

Each morning at about 8:00 the town fishermen are parked on the beach selling their catch from their boats to the gathered crowd of buyers.

Below at left is the view from my hotel room balcony.

Here’s a few shots of the waves which attract surfers to Puerto Escondido.

I will have my pictures of my Puerto Escondido trip developed tomorrow and will begin posting them soon.

I think I’d mentioned that I ended up staying at the Mayflower, just a couple blocks from the bus station, around which there are many hotels, cabanas, and such. The Mayflower is a combination hotel/hostel, thus there are lots of young folks staying in the dormitories, including lots of crazy young fellows. I opted for the hotel side of the operation and paid $230 pesos per night for a private room, two double beds, and a small terrace from which I had a nice view of the sea and where I could work on a tan (today’s exchange rate $10.69 pesos to $1 USA).

Though I did no serious research, the lowest room price I saw written on a wall, or otherwise advertised, was $150 pesos, including hot water and TV. The TV at the Mayflower picked up four stations, but WiFi is available throughout the place.

I think I mentioned the fellow from B. C. and the fellow from Seattle, who once owned land within 10 miles of where I spent my last thirty plus of my pre-expatriate years, who were staying there. There was another very interesting fellow also staying there.

Lee has spent his thirty eight years in the Kentucky/Ohio area. He speaks with a light drawl; and has worked as an automatic transmission mechanic and builder, apparently of some renown, beginning as a child helping in his father’s shop. His skills afforded him and his family a comfortable life. He claims to have been paid in “six figures” to do what ever he did with automatic transmissions, which included building customs transmissions for high performance cars. The shop in which he has worked provided minor sponsorships to NASCAR teams.

A year or so ago Lee’s wife and only two children were killed in an auto accident, three months later his mother died. Soon he was drinking to excess, gaining weight; and became increasingly despondent, even considering suicide, he reports.

About five weeks ago Lee walked into work; announced that he was leaving for a while; flew to Puerto Escondido; and took a room at the Mayflower, where he has become quite a fixture, even dating one of the housekeepers. I never did ask him why he chose Puerto Escondido. The day before I left, Lee reported that he had rented a home in town and that he is considering relocating permanently.

Lee told me, while eating toasted squash seeds, that at 38 his life has been turned upside down, he is happy in Puerto Escondido, and that he’s going to make the most of the opportunities. He indicated he is considering relocating there.

Meanwhile, yesterday I took the bus from Puerto Escondido to Pocutla, about a hour and a half East, and a taxi from there to Puerto Ángel to take a look at the place. Later, I return to Pchutla for the bus to Oaxaca.

Both the Puerto Ángel bay and town are much smaller than Puerto Escondido. The bay is surrounded by rocky hills, against which the waves crash, except for two fairly small, sandy beaches. There is a very small Mexican Naval Base there, and a pier at at the foot of the bay that seems very much over sized for the small harbor. The pier provides a favorable fishing spot where I watched a young fellow, with a treble hook set up on a hand line, snag and land three fish in three casts.

The beach front restaurants carry even more of that flavorful, funk factor than do those in Puerto Escondido, many simply palapa extensions from the proprietor’s home. It is really is quite a charming little fishing village; but no match for Puerto Escondido, flanked almost entirely by wide beaches and with lush vegetation backing the beaches.

Puerto Escondido

Other things I like about Puerto Escondido are that it’s very clean, it’s very relaxed, the folks are friendly, and it is a very beautiful place.

Revisiting the above post some hours later I realize, though the title refers to thoughts in the plural, I left but one. So here’s another.

Plumb and Level

I realized today why plumb and level costruction is so important in USA construction, and why in Mexico it’s generally not so important.

USA construction typically uses factory made, perfectly squared materials, plywood, sheetrock, and OSB for example. To facilitate the application of the factory squared panels the frame must be square and plumb.

Here in Mexico, buildings don’t generally use the factory squared products, but are constructed of cocrete; masonary; mortar; and finished in stucco, which hides almost any imperfection. Concrete and/or mortar can more readily account for plumb and/or level imperfections.

Mezcal

There is lots of Mezcal produced in Oaxaca, and one sees lots of fields of Maguey plants, even high mounttain patches, and roadside distilleries, touting their finest, all along the bus routes through Oaxaca. The Maguey is a variety of the Agave genus, which the reprobates amongst my five readers (which I suspect is in the strong majority) will recognize is the plant from which Tequila is rendered.

I asked a fellow at a beach-side Puerto Escondido restaurant, where I sat for an hour drinking margaritas and watching the comings and goings, as to the difference between the Maguey and Agave. He told me they are the same plant and that the difference in flavor between Oaxacan Mezcal and the Tequila of Jalisco derives from the different environments in which they are grown. Though I appreciated his answer, being a skeptic, I remained unconvinced. I did a Yahoo search and found the following excerpt at this site:

They both derive from varieties of the agave plant. Tequila is made from only one species of agave, the agave tequilana Weber (blue variety). Mezcal, on the other hand, can be made from five (!) different varieties of agave. The production processes also vary, tequila being distilled twice and mezcal being distilled only once.

So it’s the differences in the variety of Agave plant and and the distilling process differentiate Tequila and Mezcal. I know from my distilled spirits research (which resulted in the construction of a valved reflux still from which I produced moonshine) that Tequila and Mezcal are distilled using “Pot Stills”, which is just what you probably will imagine. A large, usually, copper kettle, in which the fermented “mash” is heated to the ethanol boiling point; a vapor-tight kettle cover from which emerges tubing of increasingly small diameter, often including a variety of differently shaped copper structures between the kettle and cover which provide a bit of reflux action; the tubing is then configured as a condenser, often a copper coil immersed in a container through which water continuously flows, causing the ethanol vapors to condense in the tube, from which the product is collected. Distilling twice, as with Tequila, removes more of the non-ethanol chemicals; and, thus produces a purer product. But with pureness comes a reduction in flavors.

Perhaps you also know that to truly be called Tequila, it must to have been produced from 100% Blue Agave. Both Mezcal and Tequila are made from the juicy, pulpy base of the Agave plant, which resembles a large pineapple and from which the succulent leaves grow. I was told that the plants mature in seven to ten years. When mature the leaves are cleaved from the pineapple with machetes; the pineapple is removed, trimmed, heated for a time; pulped, fermented, and distilled; and that which will become the more expensive stuff is placed in barrels, which impart colors and flavors that intensify over time. The four year old Mezcal is quite dark and very flavorful. The clear stuff may have been produced last week.

I was told by the fellow at La Casa de Mezcal in Oaxaca that worms are placed in Mezcal bottles as a marketing gimmick which apparently works in the gringo market, and that Mexican do not include worms in their blends. The only place I’ve seen Mezcal with worms is in tourist areas.

OK. I’m reaady to pass judgement. Puerto Escondido is the best beach town I’ve visted.

For your reference I can report I’ve visted a number of Dalmatian and USA beach towns, a number of North Yucatan beach towns, Cabo, Cancun, Ixtapa, Playa Baracoa Cuba and probably others I’ve forgotten.

I had breakfast yesterday morning with Dennis, from B.C., and Nicholas, from Seattle, at one of the cafes along street fronting the beach.

I asked the waiter for his opinion as to the best place from which to take photos of the area. Without hesitation he pointed to the luxury hotel looming on the hill above, and answered from the hotel’s roof top bar.

I returned to my room to change into my walking shoes, and headed for the hotel.

Upon arrival I explained to the desk attendant my desire to visit the roof top bar for a beer or two and to take photos of the town. Being a bit early for the bar, and she being not certain of the propriety of my request, made a call to check.

Soon a genial fellow arrived to size up the situation and, I think, me.. I explained my desire and he responded “adelante senor, es en segundo piso”.

I climbed the stairs to the bar, with chairs still upended on the tables, and encountered two pleasant women who had already been informed of my purposes. I downed a Bohemia and a Leon, two of my favorite dark beers, and shot some panoramic photos of the beautiful setting.

The long, sandy, crescent beach, is lined landward by low rise hotels, many with a flavorful funk factor, and scenic restaurant palapas, all respectfully set back from the periodic caprice of the sea.. Each end of the beach is flanked by natural rock barriers which protect the small harbor. The sea at the base of the harbor is relatively calm, and the adjacent beach is a family affair. While the sea breaks along the side of the harbor in large, crashing, tubular waves popular with surfers. It’s all, like, very tubular, man.

It is indeed scenic here. This an authentic beach town where Mexicans vacation. The town feels very relaxed, the tourist area is well kept and clean, and there are no high-rise, beach front hotels. I like it here a lot.

Having fulfilled my photo mission I headed off in search of some beach sandals, as the sandals I brought had rubbed raw a spot on the top and one toe of each foot within the first fifteen minutes of wear.

More later.

I arrived in Puerto Escondido this evening about 8:00 and checked into the Mayflower hotel, a short walk from the bus station and right on the edge of the tourist district. A fact mitigated by it’s 230 peso per night rate.

I haven’t explored much yet; but, so far, it seems like a nice place. I will, of course, report in more detail upon my return home and when I have had my photos developed.

I can report, though, there is a fellow staying here from Vancouver, B.C., not far from where I lived most of my life in Washington state.

And to top that fact, there is another fellow staying here who lives in Seattle, works under contract for Microsoft, and until recently lived in Olympia, WA, the city of my birth.

Even more amazing, he used to own land in Matlock, a few miles from where I spent the last 30 years preceeding my expatriation

The encounter brings to mind my 2000 Dalmatia trip during which I ran into 7 gringos, five of whom were from WA state, 3 from Olympia.

Please keep in mind I am posting with my phone, and exercise understanding patience with editorial problems.

I left Xalapa this morning at 11:00 for Veracruz, having bought bus tickets yessterday from Xalapa to Veracruz and from Veracruz to Oaxaca, where I arrived about 9:00 tonight.

I had decided to not buy a ticket from Oaxaca to Puerto Escondido, in case the bus from Veracruz was late. A wise choice as it turned out. The result, however is a night in Oxaca.

As it has turned out I encountered a lovely hotel, with only about ten rooms, just a few blocks from the bus station.

I am posting this from my hotel room using my phone. I will take some photos of the hotel in the morning and post them later.

I will be leaving the day after tomorrow for Puerto Escondido, Oaxaca to continue the trip that was interrupted by my misfortune in the Oaxaca bus station.

I will try to keep you informed of my travels.

I had mentioned in my Another Visit to Migración post that, after completing my errands and feeling quite satisfied, I decided to stop at the La Capella restaurant and treat myself to lunch. I had often passed the place but never stopped to try it.

As I put it in the post:

The food was great, the service excellent, the decor beautiful, and the folks there very friendly. The walls of the restaurant are adorned with paintings of exaggeratedly fat, cartoonish subjects. I asked if I might take photos and was told of course. I also asked about the pantings and was informed that they are by a Columbian artist named Botero.

La Capella is located at 103 Avenida Xalapeños Ilustres, across the street from the cathedral in San Jose. The tables are outfitted with crisp white tablecloths and the dining room floor is of rich, dark wood.

I had a 10″ Pizza Capella which included vegetables, sausage, and mushrooms served on a round wooden platter for $84 pesos. The restaurant also offers a variety of pasta dishes from $50 to $100 pesos, fish, chicken dishes, and beef steaks, including gringo cuts. There is also a bar upstairs, which I did not visit, as it opens at 8:00 PM, but was told by the staff is quite nice.

It really is a very nice place with a warm and friendly staff. If you’re in town, check it out.

This morning at about 6:45 I noticed the door to my apartment rattling and felt the building shaking. I went out into the building passageway and asked a neighbor I encountered there if she had noticed the building shaking and she responded that she had not.

I have just read and AFP news service report that “A strong earthquake measuring 6.4 magnitude struck the Oaxaca region of Mexico early Tuesday, the US Geological Survey said.”

The USGS reports the epicenter as 23 NW of Arriaga, Chiapas at 6:50 AM local time.

This site displays a map and provides a means to report if you felt the temblor.

Speaking of earthquakes, I lived for most of my life near coastal Washington State. Just off shore is a subduction zone where the San Juan tectonic plate is forced beneath the North American plate. The friction generated by the grinding of the plates builds great force which is occasionally relieved through greater than normal movement of the San Juan plate, and, thus, begetting an earthquake.

Here are my observations of three earthquakes within a three year period.

At 6:19 the morning of June 10, 2001, while reading the morning news at my PC, I heard a slight explosive sound and felt mild shaking, followed by a lull, followed by a louder explosive sound and brief hard shaking. For the third time in slightly less than 2 years, I have experienced an earthquake.

The USGS reports the quake at a 5 magnitude and centered 24 miles below the surface, just a couple miles North of my home. So that’s two of these three recent earthquakes centered within 5 miles of my home.

This time the whole thing latest just a few seconds but the shaking seemed more intense than the shaking of the two other recent earthquakes. Shaking during the July, 1999 quake lasted for perhaps 20 seconds but was not as intense as it was this morning. While the main effect of the February, 2001 quake, centered 30 miles from here, was rolling of the earth for perhaps 10 seconds. It was quite a sensation, while standing on the earth, to feel as though I were on the rolling sea. I do not recall hearing creaking from the house framing during the other quakes, just rattling of glass in the cupboards and such; but this time the roof framing was creaking to the point that I headed for the door.

I remember that in the wake of the quake of July, 1999 I wrote:

It has been a disappointment to me, over the years, that I had never yet experienced an earthquake. Having not yet been born, I had missed the, 7.1 magnitude, 1949 Puget Sound earthquake that cracked the state capitol dome and the streets in the Olympia neighborhood of my youth; and I had left for the East coast a few years before the 6.5 earthquake in 1965.

Believe me, there is nothing like three earthquakes in two years to assuage such a disappointment.

During the bus ride return from Oaxaca I snapped this photos through the bus window with my phone and now that I have received my new laptop I have been able to download them.

The bus passed miles upon miles of hills covered only in forests of these cacti, which I think is Organo Cephalocereus columna-trajani, and a variety of ground hugging shrubs. I have since read that this variety of columnar cactus grows to 33 feet in height and 16″ in diameter.

So as to provide a contrast below is a photo of the richly vegetated hills of Veracruz stare not too far across the Qaxaca state border.

Sorry about the lousy photo quality.

I walked the couple of blocks to the Tavola Trattoria last evening to enjoy one of their excellent pizzas.   As is usually the case, since I generally eat earlier than do folks here, I was the only patron.   A fellow walked in, asked the waitress if the owner was available, and struck up a conversation with me while the waitress  went looking for the owner.  He explained that he was there to confirm arrangements for his musical performance at Tavola later this month.

The fellow, René Hernández, and his wife, Angélica Almanza, compose, arrange and perform original music as Radio Berenjena here in Xalapa.  You may read about them and listen to samples of their music at their My Space page.

I don’t think I’ve ever reported that here in Mexico, at least here in Xalapa, in Merida, and in Oaxaca, when folks enter a restaurant it is customary that they bid the other diners  a “buenos dias, buenas tardes, or buenas noches, as appropriate, and a buen provecho”.

Perhaps my readers who enjoyed the story of my 1977 freight train trip will enjoy the story of my 1974 break-neck, cross-country drive in a Super Beetle.

I had been working for a few years as a mechanic at an independent VW/Porsche garage in Falls Church, Virginia, when in 1974 I had decided to return to Washington State. A client of the shop, an airline stewardess, had mentioned that she wanted her Super Beetle driven to Los Angles, as she had transferred from D. C. to L. A. Having a week of paid vacation coming, which I didn’t want to lose, and always up for an adventure I jumped at the chance.

The stewardess provided me with gas money, a letter authorizing me to drive her car in case of an encounter with the police, and an airline ticket for the return trip from L. A.

I had been living in a home (a commune as we called back then) in Clarendon, Virginia with a group of folks, the number of which varied from three when I moved in to fifteen folks and nine dogs a year later. There was a dog fight everyday. There were all sorts of other exciting things that occurred there, but I will save those stories for another time.

I talked one of my roommates into accompanying me on the trip and we agreed to drive round-the-clock.

So on the appointed morning, a Saturday at 9:00 AM, we left Falls Church and off we went. That evening we had dinner in Nashville; the next morning we had breakfast in Oklahoma City; that evening we dined in Tucumcari, New Mexico; and early the next morning we arrived at Zion Canyon National Park in Utah, where we had decided to stop for a rest. So far the trip had consumed just short of 48 hours.

Rather than resting, we hiked around the hills during the day and joined a party at the next camp site that evening, consuming “white lightening”, amongst other substances, until rather late that night. Eventually we did manage to get a bit of sleep.

The next morning, early, we again hit the road and twelve hours later arrived in San Francisco, where we spent the next few days visiting with a couple of former roommates of the Clarendon comune. So, in terms of actual driving time, we had gone cross-country in about sixty hours.

The day before our scheduled departure from the L.A. airport for the return home, we cranked up the Super Beetle and off we went. By this point we had just about driven the tires off the poor Super Beetle.

Somewhere between San Francisco and L.A. we were pulled over by a California Highway Patrolman who had noticed the extreme shimmying of the from wheels of the car. I dug into my backpack in the backseat for the paperwork the stewardess had provided, exposing the pile of Coors beer cans behind the driver’s seat. Coors was at the time unavailable in the East, so we had consumed it with gusto; and, not being the littering types, we accumulated the empties behind the driver’s seat.

As it turned out, the Trooper said nothing of the beer cans, as we were at the time quite sober; looked over the paperwork; encouraged us to drive carefully; bid us adieu; and off we went.

The next morning we arrived at the L. A. airport, parked the Super Beetle at the appointed station, and checked in for the flight home. We did clean the car, but I’m sure it was never again the same after its cross-country tear.

Just a couple of weeks ago, in fact, I contacted the fellow with whom I shared the adventure and had a few laughs at the recollections.

This morning at 2:15 I departed the CAXA bus station here, aboard an ADO GL bus, for the five hour trip to Mexico City, where I visited the USA embassy to apply for a new passport.

I arrived in D. F. about 7:20 and caught a cab for the half hour trip across the city to the embassy, arriving just a few minutes before the passport office opening at 8:00 (it closes at 10:30 AM, by the way.)  I explained my business to a friendly member of the Mexican embassy protection police, who directed me where to wait.  It was considerably chillier there than here, owing, I suppose, to the higher altitude.

Within ten minutes the guard indicated I should enter the building.  The security was a hassle but everyone I dealt with,  except for two they were all Mexicans.

I had visited the State Dept. web site, downloaded and completed the applications, and confirmed which documents and photos I must submit with the application.

All was in good order and by 9:30 I was done.  Not wishing to do the D. F. tourist thing, I caught a taxi out front and was back at the TAPO bus station a bit before 10:00.  Being hungry I chose to buy a ticket for the 11:00 AM bus so I could have breakfast.

The TAPO station, through which I traveled on my way to Guanajuato, is constructed in a circle with the various ticket counters arrayed around the inside of the circle, corresponding to each line’s departure platforms along the outside of the circle.  At the center of the station is a circular array of food vendors with an internet cafe at the center.

I arrived back home by 3:30 and expect to receive my passport through a courier service within three weeks.   Mexico City is huge and there is lots of traffic.  Maybe one day I’ll work up the courage to visit for a couple of days.

Dan, in a comment to My Trip To Ayutla report, has asked for the story of my 1977 cross-country freight train adventure. Here you go Dan, this is for you.

The story actually begins in 1974 when in April, imbued with my back-to-the-land hippie dream, I left Washington D. C., where I had lived with my family since 1962, on a drive across the Northern USA and Southern Canada, with my female companion of the time, for my home state of Washington, where we would look for land to buy.

Arriving in Olympia in July, I was serendipitously introduced by my uncle to a realtor of his acquaintance, who, after showing us a few properties, took us to the acreage along the Satsop River, on the Southern Olympic Peninsula, which completely satisfied all of our criteria and which we ultimately bought.

Having purchased the property through a real estate contract with the owner, in October, we moved to Portland, Oregon where we both had previous connections, to work while we paid off the contract. I worked as a VW/Porsche mechanic, my companion worked as a carpenter, and on the weekends we would travel to the property to work at constructing, what I called, our hippie shack.

Two and a half years later, having fulfilled the contract by making double, sometimes triple, monthly payments, I had decided to move to the property. I resigned my job and made plans for a cross country trip before moving North. I had decided to make the trip by “hopping” freight trains, though there was very little of actually hopping on moving trains, which is quite dangerous. Ultimately three friends decided to accompany me for the first few days of the adventure.

Preparing for the departure I went on an intelligence gathering mission to the Portland rail yards to ask the yard workers when trains heading South leave. I was told that a “piggy back” train, with truck trailers lashed aboard the flat cars, left each evening about eight. I was also told that, other than passenger trains, the “piggy back” and container trains were given the highest priority, and, thus, were fastest.

Having set a departure date in mid-April, off we went on the appointed day with our backpacks. We located the piggy back train heading South, crawled up under the dual rear axles of the trailers, laid out a ground cloth, unrolled our pads and sleeping bags, secured our shoes to our backpacks, and crawled into our bags to await departure. Before long the train pulled out.

The next morning, not long after sunup, the train pulled into Klamath Falls, in Southern Oregon, and stopped. We disembarked and headed for a café at the edge of the rail yard. During my journey I found cafes to be fixtures in all of the rail yards I visited.

We finished are typical greasy spoon café breakfasts and shouldered our backpacks. Just as we left the café we saw an empty, double decked, automobile carrying train just pulling out. We ran to the train, each grabbed on to one of the ladders located at each end of each car, and pulled ourselves aboard. We spent the bright, warm day on the upper deck of the train enjoying the spectacular scenery as we snaked through the California mountains, often seeing the front of the train crawling along the other side of a switchback turn.

As darkness fell we again crawled into our sleeping bags, intending to depart in Sacramento, where we planned to head East through Roseville, and then to Reno. Unfortunately we slept through our intended stop and ended up in Oakland the next morning. Oakland, as it turned out, was a little used yard; and, after asking yard workers for departure information, we waited the morning lounging around the yard, experiencing a minor brush with railroad police while we awaited our train

I should explain the rail yard workers were without exception eager to help with directions, suggestions, and scheduling information.

When finally, at mid-day, a train was to depart for Roseville, a huge rail yard East of Sacramento, one of the rail yard fellows approached with our instructions. Once again we crawled up under the axles of the trailers on a piggy back and enjoyed the scenery, arriving in Roseville that evening. We had been told in Oakland that the train would continue from Roseville on into Reno, so we stayed aboard and waited as more engines were added to the train for the pull up the mountains to, and over, the infamous Donner Pass.

As the sun rose we crossed Donner Pass and began our winding descent to Reno, where we arrived during the late morning. The sun rise over the snow covered mountain scenery was stunning. We pulled into Reno, actually Sparks, about mid-morning and headed out in search of a motel for a bath, a meal, and, later, a bit of Reno fun. We found cheap rooms near the rail yards, cleaned up (riding the rails is a really grimy business), and off we headed for a night on the town. I had left Portland with about two hundred bucks, so when I lost twenty bucks playing blackjack I began looking for a building to jump from.

The next morning we headed out for the Sparks rail yard, were informed by a yard worker from where we could catch a train to Ogden, Utah and where to wait, and we settled into our appointed station for a short wait. Eventually our train arrived, again of the piggy back variety, and we mounted up and settled in, arriving in Ogden early the next morning. The trains we rode upon often would stop on a siding, sometimes for an extended period, to await the passage of another train.

Again, in Ogden we sought out the yard café for breakfast. We settled into a booth abutting a booth occupied by a rather grisly, one armed fellow who almost immediately struck up a conversation. He told us that if we are going to ride the rails that we should ride in one of the engines, only the front one of which is occupied by engineers.

Following breakfast I bid adieu to my companions who headed home to Portland, while I continued on to Denver. Again, I received instructions from a rail yard worker, waited for my train, and upon its arrival climbed up into the fourth engine, being the final engine from the front, and settled into the seat opposite the control panel.

About a half hour out of Ogden an alarm bell in the engine in which I was riding began to ring, and it rang, and rang, and rang. The ringing of the bell, in the control panel in front of which the engineer would normally sit, was irritating. Eventually I removed the back of the control panel and stuffed paper towels, from the handy bathroom dispenser, into the bell to mute the ringing.

Just as I had finished the muting operation, the door of the engine opened and in walked a rather portly, older fellow wearing typical railroad overalls. I was of course startled and thought “man, am I ever screwed”. The fellow pulled a switch to turn off the alarm and, while removing the paper towels from the bell and reinstalling the control panel cover, explained that they were having a bit of an over heating problem. The alarm extinguished, towels removed, and control panel back together, he departed without another word. Whew, I felt, while I wondered at the kindness shown by the old fellow to this young, dirty, long-haired hipped riding the rails.

I went back to my comfortable seat and continued reading “I Will Fight No More Forever: Chief Joseph and the Nez Perce War” and enjoying the desert scenery flying by the window next to which I sat. About twenty minutes later the door again opened and in walked the same fellow with a paper bag, which he handed me while remarking that perhaps I was hungry. I thanked the older fellow profusely as he left. The bag contained one of those small cartons of milk and a Hostess pie. Damned, I thought; here I should probably be prosecuted for illegally riding the train, not to mention tampering with the equipment, and this kindly gentleman is feeding me. This is the kind of weird travel experience I have very often experienced in my travels since, and for which I have no explanation.

The train pulled into Denver that night about 8:00. Bearing a two day accumulation of rail riding grime, since a bath in Reno, I struck out from the rail yard in search of a room. Across the street from the rail yards I found a tavern which I entered, ordered a beer, and asked where I might find an accommodation. The kindly bar tender asked about my travels, while I drank a couple of beers; and directed me to a flop house down the street.

I thanked the bar tender heartily for his help and friendliness and headed to the flop house. I knocked on the door of the manager and inquired as to the availability of a room, to which she kindly showed me. I paid the five dollar nightly fee, checked into my tidy room, went down the hall for a leisurely bath in the spotless bathroom, and headed down the street for a bite to eat. Sated, I returned to my room and settled in for the night.

Sometime later I answered a knock on my room door to encounter the manager. She explained that there was an unruly party down the hall and that I looked like I might be able to restore order. I politely declined the offer, explaining that I was only passing through and certainly was not looking for trouble.

The next morning I headed back to the nearby Denver rail yard, located the yard café, and settled in for a bit of breakfast. While eating, my inquiries as to the best way to find a train to Lincoln, Nebraska were eagerly satisfied by a number of other patrons. So, again, off I went.

Having located my train, another piggy back, I crawled up under the axles of a trailer on the first car behind the engines, planning to move into the engine as soon as prudent. Having just settled in, the door of the abutting engine swung open and a young fellow urged me to join him in the engine.

As it turned out the fellow was a Burlington Northern employee heading about sixty miles out of Denver where he would disembark and work another train back into Denver. The guy jumped rope almost the entire sixty miles, only interrupting his exercise to smoke an occasional cigarette, while talking non stop. I judged that he must have been under the influence of amphetamines. He gave me his copy of his union contract booklet which contained a complete Burlington Northern route map; and told me that if I was headed for D. C. that I would need to go through Lincoln to Chicago where I would need to change carriers. Eventually he departed, as I thanked him for his help. It was another of those serendipitous travel moments.

Eventually I arrived in Lincoln, disembarked, and had no trouble finding a yard worker to direct me to the next train to Chicago. Again I boarded an engine and away I went.

Being a major railroad hub, the train yards in Chicago are vast; but, none-the-less, again I had no trouble receiving directions on how I might transition from the Burlington Northern system to the Conrail system (at the time a USA government owned consortium of bankrupt carriers, including the Penn Central and others) which would carry me to D. C. Having received my directions I climbed up onto the cat walk of a tank car on a train that would carry me to the Conrail yard, adjoining the Burlington Northern yard into which I had arrived. Noticing the train was approaching a control building, I moved along the catwalk to the other side of the tank to avoid detection.

Once I arrived at the Conrail yard, and having learned which train would take me to D. C., I climbed up into a box car; secured the door in the open position with a piece of wire I carried for the purpose, though which I had theretofore had no need to use; and settled in.

In short order a rail yard worker approached the box car door and indicated that “you’d better get out of here, the gumshoe is after you”. I swear that he referred to the railroad cop as a gumshoe.

Having received the alert I departed the box car and headed out through a rather swampy area to the nearest street, down which I headed toward a restaurant I had spotted. When traveling and in need of information, I had learned sometime before, one should go to the nearest restaurant, café, or bar.

This particular café was a riot. The proprietors were two portly women, one a Caucasian and the other African-American, both of whom were preparing breakfast for a bunch of men, to whom they tended as if they were their children, even handing them brown bag launches as they headed off for work. The women very kindly inquired as to what the hell this grimy hippie, with a grimy backpack, was doing in their restaurant. I explained my situation and as how, having abandoned the rails, I needed a ride to D. C. They began surveying their customers about a ride to D. C. Finding none they directed me to the nearest interstate highway, a few blocks away.

Again, off I went. I hadn’t waited long before a rather nerdly fellow in a Chevy Chevette, outfitted with a CB radio, stopped and took me aboard. I explained that I was heading to D.C., so he got on the CB and began calling for truckers heading for D.C., explaining he had a passenger in need of a ride. Receiving no response to his pleas and approaching an intersecting interstate highway which I would need to take, he explained to me where I should head, and discharged me at the edge of the interstate.

Knowing it illegal to hitchhike on the interstate I was quite nervous as I sought a ride. Before very long a woman driving a Sunbeam Alpine pulled over. I explained where I was going. She looked over my backpack and expressed her doubt that I would be able to get it into her Alpine. Being anxious to get off the side of the interstate, I assured her that I would get it in. I did, and off we went.

The very fetching young woman explained to me that she lived in Oklahoma and was on her way to visit her family in Ohio, upon her husband’s suggestion. A ways down the road we pulled into a rest stop, a Howard Johnson’s I think, and bought a snack which we consumed while sitting at a picnic table and conversing. Being a bit shy and a bit short on funds, my thoughts of getting a motel room went unvocalized.

Alas, after a most pleasant encounter, we arrived near her destination, she discharged me at a Howard Johnson’s rest stop along the Ohio Turnpike, and went on her way.

I sat down on the curb at the parking area in front of the restaurant to repair my backpack strap with the wire I carried to secure box car doors. Completing the repair I looked up at the ’57 Chevy next to which I was sitting and noticed it carried Virginia plates. Heading for a Virginia suburb of D.C. I waited at the curb for the car’s driver, who eventually emerged from the restaurant.

I explained that I was in need of a ride to D.C. and that I would gladly contribute what little money I had remaining to pay for gas. He indicated that he was indeed heading for Virginia, invited me along, and took me all the way to the beltway which circumnavigates Washington D.C., discharging me, at about 1:00 am, at the exit nearest to my destination.

I thanked the fellow, shouldered my backpack, and began walking down the road which would eventually become Old Dominion Boulevard, and which would carry me to my destination of the family home in McLean, Virginia.

Not too many miles down the sparsely traveled road a patrolling sheriff’s deputy pulled over to inquiry just what the hell this grimy hippie was doing out walking so early in the morning. I gave him to whole story, boring him to tears I imagined; he wished me well; and along I went, arriving at the family home at about 4:00 AM. I scratched on the screen, announced my arrival, and enjoyed the ensuing reunion.

I spent about a week visiting, while scanning the want ads for a “drive away” opportunity. (For those who do not know, a “drive away” opportunity involves someone who wishes a car driven someplace.) I happened upon an ad for someone wanting their 1974 Turino driven to Seattle, made the necessary arrangements, and headed out on my return to the Northwest. Along the way I stopped for a tour of Wall Drugs in South Dakota; but otherwise pretty much drove straight through, stopping only for an occasional nap in the back seat. I stopped in Portland for a couple of days to rest and off load some stuff I had retrieved from the family home, delivered the car to Seattle, and returned to Portland on the bus.

It was indeed a grand adventure.

A couple of months later I moved to the hippie shack on the Satsop in which I resided for the next fifteen years until I had constructed more commodious accommodations into which I moved. I sold the place in 2005 and moved to Mexico.

You may remember that my report of my visit to La Casa de Mezcal included a report of my encounter with Christopher, 27, who plays trumpet in a “banda” and his buddy Marcos, 21, who is stationed with the Mexican military in Chihuahua. Both fellows are from the pueblo of San Pedro San Pablo Ayutla, about a four hour bus ride through the mountains, pretty much due East from Oaxaca, where they had invited me to visit.

So on the morning of Monday, January 21, I arose early; enjoyed a breakfast of a tamale Oaxaquenos, juice, coffee, and bread; and walked the eight or so blocks to, what the locals refer to, the “second class” bus station. And the place is a riot.

The station, from which locals depart for an amazing variety of destinations, is constructed in a huge semi-circle, with ticket booths arrayed along the outside of the arc corresponding to departure points arrayed along the inside of the arc. The bus yard, through which I walked to reach the station, is unpaved, quite rough, and dusty. There were a number of pretty rugged looking dogs foraging through the lot.

There are in the station a number of shops, food vendors, and even an internet cafe. There were a number of fellows at each gate hollering out the destinations served from their gate. Everyone was friendly and helpful.

Entering the station I made my way from ticket booth to ticket booth asking for directions to the one serving the Ayutla route, which I eventually encountered. I bought my ticket and went out onto the platform to await the bus to wait with others.

There was a very friendly fellow waiting next to me, with a new chainsaw, who was returning to his home pueblo, beyond Ayutla. He works in the forest and uses the chainsaw to cut boards from the log, he cuts, I discovered after striking up a conversation. There was also a fellow that drug a queen sized mattress onto the platform, which fortunately did not go into the bus which I eventually boarded. With the exception of one young fellow, none of the other waiting passengers reached my shoulder in their heights.

The bus arrived fifteen or so minutes late and within five minutes of frenzied action everyone had their bagged stowed and was seated in their assigned seats. Larger baggage items were loaded at the rear, through what you would probably know as the emergency exit of a school bus, with the largest items hoisted onto and lashed to a large luggage rack on top. It was a riot.

Those who know me, know that this is the type of authentic travel experience I particularly enjoy.

During the few minutes before the bus departed a fellow boarded to sell small plastic jars of cream he claimed would relieve pain and cure just about any other ailment. I asked if the cream would help chapped lips, to which he responded “claro” (of course). I bought a jar for $10 pesos and slathered a bit on my lips, chapped, I assumed, by the dry air. Only after the application did I read the list of ingredients, which included, amongst other constituents, coyote fat. The green hued cream was effective.

The bus traveled along the floor of the valley within which Oaxaca resides through Mitla and then began its winding climb into the mountains on a two lane, modern quite smooth roadway. The surrounding hillsides remained quite arid until perhaps a half hour out of Ayutla when Pine forest became increasingly dense. The hills surrounding Ayutla are entirely forested and the vistas from Ayutla are stunning.

A bit before Ayutla the bus pulled into a Pemex station and I saw my opportunity to use a bathroom. The driver and attendant assured me I had the time. While exiting the bathroom I heard the bus horn blast and saw the bus pulling out. I ran and jumped onto to the platform of the moving bus. When I arrived at my seat I encountered a very sweet looking girl, of about nine years I supposed, occupying my seat and looking up at me with a very sweet smile. I grabbed my bag, assured the girl’s father that there was no problem, and moved to the very back of the bus where there was an available seat next to the chainsaw owner.

To get there I had to climbed over five bags of something lined up in the aisle which had come aboard with an older gentlemen maybe twenty minutes earlier. I had been in the seat only a few minutes when the bus stopped again to disgorge a couple of passengers and to take on an older gentleman, and older woman and a younger woman. There being no seat for the older gentleman, I got up, crawled over the top of the bags in the aisle, gave up my seat to the older fellow, and spent the remaining fifteen of the trip standing in aisle.

Arriving in Ayutla the bus attendant and the chain saw fellow both informed me that I had arrived at my destination. I disembarked to encounter a couple fellows loading metal onto a pickup and asked where I might find a restaurant. They pointed to my immediate right to a bar. I ascended two stories to a bar with stunning views of the mountains, ordered a beer, and asked the young attendant where I might find accommodations. He directed me to “centro”.

I finished my beers and headed off toward “centro”, which consists of a few stores and a few cocinas, into one of which I stopped for three beef tacos and an orange soda. The friendly woman staffing the cocina directed me to the town’s three hotels, and that’s using the term “hotel” extremely loosely.

I rented a room at the hotel I judged had the nicest views. The room, with the bathrooms around the corner,was $80 pesos, which I can say is the cheapest room I’ve ever rented. I rented a room in a flop house in Denver in 1977, to take a break from my cross country freight train trip, for $5 USA, the story of which I will spare you; but adjusting for inflation I assume the price today would be equivalent to more than $80 pesos.

Later I walked back toward centro to a restaurant/bar I had seen on the way to the hotel. It was a wonderfully decorated place with very good food and great, friendly service. The menu included fresh, locally grown trout.

Unable to contact the fellows I’d met in Oaxaca, owing to a lack of cellular service in the area, I arose early the next morning, having learned the day before the “cooperativo” left for Oaxaca at 6:00 AM and 1:00 PM. I walked down the hill from the hotel and as soon as I hit the main road along came a cooperativo (a Dodge van). I hollered “Oaxaca”, the driver pulled over, confirmed that I wished to go to Oaxaca, loaded my bag in the back, and directed me to the one remaining seat in the very back. The van contained about ten sleeping folks. About four hours latter we arrived in Oaxaca.

Ayutla is a dusty little burg straddling the roadway snaking through the mountains; and other than the grand mountain vistas, and the great restaurant, and its friendly inhabitants, in my judgment, it has little to recommend itself. But traveling there and back was a grand adventure.

Yesterday morning I, rather sheepishly, visited the immigration office here to report the theft of my FM 3 visa and inquire as to what was necessary to obtain a new one. You may remember that just a bit more than two weeks ago I had renewed my visa. Consequently I was a bit embarrassed to return so soon.

I explained my situation to the woman who helped me and apologized for my carelessness. She told me “no te preocupes” (don’t worry) and asked if I had a police report relative to the theft in Oaxaca. I answered that I did not, as I assumed that my property would not be found. She told me that she must have such to reissue my visa. I asked if I must return to Oaxaca, the prospect of twelve hours on a bus just to retrieve a police report being not at all appealing. She directed me to the Agencia de Ministerio Público, in the San Jose area a few blocks from the immigration office.

So off I went to the Agencia, and upon my arrival I explained my situation to a very kind woman and asked with whom I must speak. She directed me to a young fellow who very kindly informed me that I must go to the Agencia Segunda off of Avenida 20 de Noviembre. I hailed a cab and for $20 pesos was dropped at the front door.

I again explained my situation and was told to return at 1:30 when the person who could provide me with the necessary document would arrive. Being a bit unsure if I understood correctly, I returned to the immigration office where a woman kindly wrote the name of the agency for me. Assured that the Agencia Segunda was the correct place I returned a bit before 1:30.

Soon the woman who would help me arrived and shortly I was asked to enter her office. I explained my situation and she assured me that she would help for a $100 peso fee; but to do so she would have to state in the required document that the theft had occurred in Xalapa, and assured me there would be no problem in doing so.

I thanked her profusely and within ten minutes she had prepared the document on her laptop. Midway through my wait she began speaking impeccable English. Curious as to what types of matters she and her compatriots tend to, I asked “what do you do here”. She responded “I work here”, and laughed heartily. I explained that I was using “you” in the sense of the agency and she explained what they do there.

Having the necessary document and very pleased that I needn’t return to Oaxaca for such, I began my walk back to Centro. I stopped for lunch at the La Capella Italian restaurant, which I had often passed but never entered. It was a very pleasant surprise.

The food was great, the service excellent, the decor beautiful, and the folks there very friendly. The walls of the restaurant are adorned with paintings of exaggeratedly fat, cartoonish subjects. I asked if I might take photos and was told of course. I also asked about the pantings and was informed that they are by a Columbian artist named Botero.  (Since my Dell has only a 10 gb hardrive there is not room to load the software necessary to download photos from my phone so I must wait until I have a new computer to post my La Capella report.)

On the walk home I stopped at a bank to pay the visa replacement fee and a photo studio for photos I knew the immigration office would need.

All and all it was a wonderful day.

This morning I returned to the immigration office, submitted the required documents and photos, again the woman helping me told me to not worry, completed the necessary paperwork, had me sign and apply my thumb print to a blank visa, and told me to return next Friday to pick my visa. I was in and out in twenty minutes.

I can also report that I have visited the USA State Dept. website where there are instructions as to how to report a stolen passport and the required form. I completed the form, printed it, scanned the printed form, and both express mailed it to the Wash. D. C. and emailed the scanned copy to the USA embassy in Mexico City, where I must present myself to apply for a new passport. This morning I received a very kind response from the passport consular at the embassy offering any help necessary. Once I receive my new credit card, which I am expecting within the next couple of days, I will bus to Mexico City to make the application.

It really has been all quite painless.