Jeremy's Bike Blog

I spend the day in San Blas, eating from 5 different places and taking a surf lesson from Stoner’s surf school.  My instructor is not the longboard champion that is advertised (and runs the place and speaks english fairly fluently), but a young guy that speaks little english.  All the same, the lesson is well worth it, and I’m getting up on the board for some short runs by the time our hour is up.  Back at the hostel, Chris, the owner tells me about the hurricane and flood of 2002 that nearly wiped the town off the map, of his theory that the US government overstates the dangers of Mexico to prevent baby boomers from spending their retirement savings here, and several other interesting things.  All in all, it’s a chill, if uneventful, day off the bike.

The next morning it’s time to be on my way again.  After a lot of waffling, I decide that I’ll at least continue on to Puerto Vallarta and if I am to double back to Mazatlan, I’ll take the bus from there.

A couple of Mexicans stop in to the hostel for a chat and to smoke a joint as I’m making my final preparations.  The hostel’s only other guest, a long-term one, offers me a handful of marijuana as a parting gift.   Apparently Nayarit has decriminalized amounts less than 28 grams.  This is definitely that, but I’m still inclined to err on the side of caution with respect to possession.  I’m also coming to realize that it’s not hard to find examples of people that have become long-term inhabitants of hostels, at least not in places sunny and beachy, like these.

I get back on the road and I’m decidedly out of the desert and into jungle, at least when not on beach front.

I spot some light posts down a beach access road as I’m cruising down the highway.  They suggest the presence of an esplanade, so I go to check it out and indeed, there’s a concrete one, with dedicated bicycle lanes for long stretches.  It’s all but abandoned, and partially under construction.

And there are abandoned tidal cabanas.

I see a single, other cyclist that I chat with briefly before parting ways when I stop at a path-side outdoor gym for a little upper body stretch and exertion.

The esplanade ends, and shortly after I’m back on road my route takes me on an unpaved shortcut of a gravel road that seems a bit ill-considered being as it’s at the base of a sheer cliff which the adjoining sea must butt up against with some regularity.  There is a flock of birds with massive wingspans circling above.  It’s my first encounter with them, and as such I’m awe stricken enough to stop and marvel for a bit, but I’ll come to find that they’re fairly common along this stretch of coast.

The guy who I saw cycling on the esplanade catches up with me again.  Perhaps he didn’t take the shortcut?  In any case, I go for a fist bump and nearly swerve into him.  His name is Nacho, short for Ignacio.  We share a chuckle at our near collision and after chatting for a bit, he invites me to his place up the road.  I’m welcome to crash for the evening, but it’s barely after noon, and I want to cover more ground, so I gratefully decline.  I am, however, interested in partaking of his mango tree, which I learn of after telling him that I’m on the lookout for roadside mango bounties.  At his place he introduces me to his mom, a niece, and a marijuana plant of which he’s fairly proud.  Then he shows me how to select the freshest of the mangos that have fallen onto a soft ground cover of leaves, based on the viscosity of the nectar that oozes from the stem nub.  I end up staying for the better part of an hour eating two of the five mangos I take, discussing his recent trip to Tiajuna to see an ex-girlfriend and her folks, his work as a surfing instructor during the tourist season, and project plans such as the bamboo being cultivated for a future back-yard cabana, and some bicycles being collected in the shed to have parts salvaged for a rig he can use to do a multi-day ride and camp with some friends.  If I were a bicycle-tour-lifer I would probably accept the invitation that was mentioned in passing and make it my mission to get his bike suitable for touring, and then see how far I could get him to ride with me.  But I’m not, at  least not yet.

I’m back on the road another hour when I spot a truck full of no less than 20 people standing in the bed.  It’s not uncommon to see smaller groups of people standing in the beds of such trucks, which are like pick-ups, but with bed walls that are enforced by welded steel beams and are about 4.5 feet tall instead of the standard 1.5.  But I find this one somewhat intriguing based on the sheer volume of people.  About 5 minutes earlier, I’d had my external battery slide 50 feet down the road when it popped out of my handlebar bag after I took a particularly big jump over a speed bump.  So when I encounter a speed bump as I gape at this large group of people gaping back at me, I decide to go around it instead.  As I try to cut back onto the road from the dirt and gravel shoulder, my angle is apparently too slight and my bike slides out from under me, not unlike it had done at a considerably higher speed a couple days earlier.  Again, I crash.  This time, I kinda just land on my butt and roll onto my back.  I sit up to see the large audience in the truck that is still pulling away from me.  Some are already laughing and/or cheering, probably at my expense (as in, not necessarily for support), but this increases by at least a factor of two as I raise my arms and clasp my hands in faux triumph.  I have a couple of minor abrasions, but I’m not hurt at all or even that shaken up, and the enthusiasm of my fleeting audience gives me the best laugh I’ve had so far this day.  In a mental triage I quickly conclude that this crash was just another bout of laziness, with perhaps just enough premeditation that when it went bad, there weren’t any consequences.

I stop in a town at the place I think the people in town are telling me is the only place to get food in that town at that hour.  I think the only thing I manage to convey to the woman in the dusty kitchen is “carne, por favor”.  I sit outside, alongside a row of old men, as instructed, and a short time later receive a good sized plate of diced and sauteed beef with a side of refried beans and a pile of freshly made tortillas.  Per some advice about travelling the region that I’ve recently read, I ask how much it was before eating it, lest I be extorted some outlandish amount with no basis to negotiate.  It would be 40 pesos ($2.30).  A few of the several old men that were hanging out there when I arrived have something served to them a short time later for which they hadn’t made any discernable request, that they tuck into eagerly.  Did I just subsidize an afternoon snack?  I’m not sure, but I’m happy for it if I have, especially for such a modest amount.  I also get a horchata, in a second lesson that “agua” is often short for “agua fresca” which means horchata or sometimes a tamarind flavored sweet drink, after being quoted the 40 pesos.  I give the woman 50 pesos, figuring the extra 10 should cover the additional drink, but a short time later she comes out with change.  I thank her and tell and gesture to her to keep it.  Tipping in Mexico is not institutionalized like it is in the US, but modest expressions of gratitude and generosity are appreciated, and it seems to be basic good form to ensure I’m giving at least as much as I’m receiving, w.r.t. random acts of generosity.

Not that I’m not full, but in the next town I succumb to a craving for something sweet with a package of cookies and two bananas.  I eat them in the town plaza, surrounded by men in rancher hats sleeping on benches at the apparent height of the day’s siesta.

I’m no longer on track to meet my goal of making it to Sayulita that day, so I decide to look for accommodations in the next beach front town on my route, La Penita de Jaltemba.  I spot a hotel a few kilometers before town and stop in to find out the rate, mostly for a baseline of what to expect as I’m hoping to find something closer to the actual beach.  The initial quote of 500 pesos drops to 300 as I try to explain that I’m going to look at other options and then possibly return.  They’re a sweet family, and the hotel seems relatively upscale, with a pool and AC in the rooms, so I’m not deliberately bargaining…I’m really just interested in seeing what else, lower scale, might be out there.

Sure enough, in town, a hotel one block from the beach quotes me 200 pesos, and after quickly checking out the room, I agree to take it.  The older woman that’s running the place is absolutely adorable, and when I try to convey that I’m eager to take a shower, she responds by letting me know that yes, one of the men hanging out in the lobby would be able to cut my hair for me.  She gives me a quizzical look as this sends me to a fit of laughter before joining me, in her much lower key way, in said laughter.  She’s slight of build, but has an air to her that lets you know that she’s tough as nails.  This, along with her warm but undeniably wry smile, channels fond reminiscences of my recently deceased grandmother.

I take my shower and then stroll around town.  I stop to enjoy a sunset along with several dozen of the town’s residents.

Then my now customary concerted comestible consumption commences.  There’s to hoping you can forgive and deal with the occasional and somwhat forced alliteration.  Back in my room I doze off as I try to finish my daily duolingo spanish lesson and awake a short time later to the sound of heavy rainfall.  I leave my hotel, go to a restaurant across the street and have a final dinner.  About an hour later, back in my room, the power starts to flicker.  Then it goes out.  It comes back on in spurts, the last of which is accompanied by an incredibly bright arc of electricity outside my room in an alleyway.  This may or may not be the short circuit responsible for the power remaining off for the remainder of the night and well into the morning.  The rain continues for a couple of hours, but does little to cool the air.  Without the ceiling fan to keep cool, and resigned to being damp from the incredible humidity, I resort to going from cool shower straight to towel laid out on bed.  At least theres no bugs to contend with.

Come morning, I can’t find the room key, then vaguely remember a light knock on my door from the night before, so my best bet is that I left it in the door.  Indeed, the endearing matron smiles and kindly rolls her eyes at me when I tell her I can’t find it, then retrieves and gives it back to me.   Going out, one would have to notice the thawing of the ice boxes throughout town and the absence of usually superfluous shop lighting to realize there’s still no power, as restaurants bustle and business otherwise proceeds as usual.  I grab a breakfast and make a little friend at the
table across from mine.

Riding out of town is pleasant, but with the previous night’s rain cooking off, the day is incredibly steamy.  From vistas you can literally watch the steam rise from the lower hills.  My phone, a source of a near constant stream of audio while riding, is clearly not adjusting to this climate very well, and my headphone jack starts shorting out with increasing frequency.

At the top of a long climb, I pull into the shade of a large tree in a turn-out and peel off my sopping wet button-up long sleeve shirt, my equally wet balaklava, biking gloves and hat and hang them all on a sunny stretch of barbwire fence to dry out while I eat the 3 remaining mangos from Nacho’s tree.

This turns out to be my last climb before the turn off to Sayulita.  It’s 3km from the turn off into the town, according to a highway sign, and for a moment I contemplate skipping it and going for Puerto Vallarta by nightfall.  But then I recall Nick’s (from the hostel in Mazatlan) praise for the place, and besides, what’s the rush?  As I enter town I’m surprised to find it crawling with gringos.  I easily see more white people in my first 3 minutes bumping down the river rock cobble streets than I have in the 3 weeks since I crossed the US/Mexican border at Nogales.  The streets and town plaza are litter free, and packed with colorful shops.  It is clearly a tourist town, thankfully devoid of any big american franchises, that’s nice and enough of a change of pace that it’s an easy decision to stay for at least a night.  I find a hostel on my phone, walk my bike the block and a half to it, then get a enthusiastic and warm greeting from the guy at the counter.  I assume he’s american based on his fluent english, but later learn that he grew up in Mexico, close to the border and natively bilingual.  I get the impression that, for this guy, and people in general that have clients that are backpackers travelling by vehicle and so are on some level obligated to express some interest in their story, mine is a refreshing change of pace.  Either that, or hospitality folks are just that good at making everybody feel like their particular story is actually interesting, mine included.

I get the tour, settle in, shower up, and head out.  I hit the beach which has tents set up for massage and surf board rental, the latter of which I inquire about rates.  I go to a beach front restaurant and have a late and probably ill-fated lunch of shrimp fajitas, then tool around eating, reading and napping until I grab a dinner and watch some of the US vs Ecuador soccer match.  A few minutes into the second half I determine that something is very amiss in my gut, and that I need a bathroom immediately.  I use the restaurant’s, but when I need it again a few minutes later, I decide to settle up and head back to the hostel where I can use a toilet with whatever frequency is required, and less self consciously.  Getting change for my bill takes long enough that I do require a second use of the restaurant’s toilet, which holds me over just enough to get back to the hostel less than a block away.

It’s not an unfamiliar bug for me, though it’s my first stroke of bad digestive luck I’ve had on the trip.  There’s a slightly sharp pain in my gut that feels as if I have a cubical turd stuck in it.  It triggers the biological urge to defecate, but then only liquid comes out.  It sucks that it happens, but I’ve been through it enough to have some confidence that my body is capable of recovering enough to not be toilet tethered within 12 hours, and completely recovered within a few days.  Thankfully, it’s not a busy night at the hostel.  There’s only one other guest in the 8 bed dorm, a friendly guy named Hector from Monterey (MX, not CA) I’d met earlier that evening, and he’s not back until at least 4am, and even then, my then 30 minute spaced toilet trips are not seeming to interrupt his sleep.

By sunrise, I’m feeling a bit better, and while I picked this particular hostel because it did not have a 2 night minimum stay, I’m not inclined to get on the bicycle and take my chances finding places to relieve myself roadside on very short notice.  I take 1/2 an imodium and some some ibuprofen with a liter of water and then go downstairs for a breakfast of toast, cereal with regretfully, partially soured milk (which is served again the next morning, fully soured), and coffee…the last of which I both want and do not need to be drinking at the moment.  After waiting for an hour for my gut to give me a miraculous and unmistakable go-ahead for leaving town, and not receiving it, I pay for a second night.  Hector has gotten up, and he’s smoking some pot at the front desk that doubles as a dry bar, which strikes me as a bit brazen given the posted rules clearly state drugs are prohibited, but the staff on the other side of the bar don’t seem to care or even really notice.  We strike up a conversation, and quickly determine that it would be fun to hang out for the day.  He appreciates the fact that I’m doing my trip solo and recounts his friends saying that they think he’s crazy for doing even weekend excursions, like the one he’s currently doing, on his own.

We head to the beach and find a wholesome looking Mexican family to ask to watch our phones and wallets as we go for a swim.  Then we go and rent a board for the day.  Hector hasn’t surfed before, so I give him a 30 second version of the 1 hour lesson I’d gotten in San Blas a few days earlier: how to position yourself on the board when you’re lying on it and how to position your hands and feet as you hop up.  He’s a quick learn and standing up on it in his first attempt following my abbreviated lesson.  Meanwhile I’ve discovered that the ripping sound coming from the crotch of my only pair of shorts as I was straddling the board during my first session was, as I feared, the seam which has long had a minor hole giving way so that it was open well up my backside.  Thankfully, unlike many in these parts, I prefer wearing underwear under board shorts.  I leave Hector with the board and head back to the hostel for my needle and thread to repair my shorts, bringing back our stowed valuables in the process.

This takes a bit longer than I’d hoped, and I’m finishing when Hector shows up.  He’s left the board with the rental place and suggests grabbing some lunch.  We do, and I notice that it’s pretty great hanging out with both a fluent english, and a native spanish speaker, and with Hector in particular, conversation is relaxed and easy.

The hostel and the beach are about a block apart, so we spend the rest of the day bouncing back and forth.  I finish our time with the board while Hector is back at the hostel.  Most of my time in the water is spent bobbing up and down on waves, waiting for one worth going for which is incredibly meditative.  I’m wearing the long-sleeve button up shirt that is my every-day bicycling shirt, because as my only long-sleeve synthetic shirt it’s my best sun protection.  It also results in a good deal of attention.  As I’m walking down to the beach, some crafts merchants shout laughingly that I can buy a tie to go with it in the shop across the street.  Historically, this sort of attention is not something I’ve enjoyed.  It tends to make me feel self-conscious concern that I’m the butt of a joke for which I should be embarrassed.  But I’ve been the focus of so much consistent attention on the bicycle, and seen so much first-hand evidence that such jokes are good natured, that I’m not only enjoying it, but I realize that I’m inviting it.  I feel an unmistakable element of pride in standing out from the many other gringos, strutting down the cobblestones in my somewhat flamboyant, peacock patterned dress shirt, crudely stitched board shorts, big hair, and bare feet.  There’s times when it’s better to be lower key, but beach bumming in Sayulita is not one of them.

In the water I’m approached by a number of people based on my choice of shirt.  One group, from California, is particularly interested in my story, and we chat for a bit.

I return the board to the rental tent for the day, and head back to the hostel.  There, Hector and I share a couple of beers.  Then a group of Mexicans join us and the conversation quickly transitions to Spanish.  The group from the water shows up out front, loading up a station wagon, and notices me in the courtyard.  Even though I’m kinda implicated by the piles of marijuana on the makeshift coffee table (that keeps getting knocked over resulting in non-trivial losses), I go out and we snap some photos, exchange some info, and say goodbyes.  Back in the hostel courtyard, one of Mexicans wants to know what that was all about, to which I explain, with Hector’s help, that I’d just met them in the ocean…that they’re my new “sea friends”.  Likewise, I’m finding myself tempted to keep asking for help in getting caught up in their highly animated conversation when I realize that it’s asking a lot of Hector to be my personal translator while he’s getting to know these guys.  They work at El Cameron, the beach bar where THE party is going down later that night, and if I were Hector I’d be happier to be able to focus on the conversation at hand.  So I amble off and do some duolingo on my phone and give him some space.  For a bit at least, but then I don’t want to seem anti-social, so I head back over and strike up side a side conversation with the guy that wanted to know about the Americans out front.

After the other Mexicans take off, Hector is contemplating looking for a woman that he chatted with the night before, and I encourage him to.  I hang out in the courtyard on my own for a bit, jotting some notes.  There’s an Australian couple hanging out in the bar area that seem friendly enough.  There’s also an American hostel worker making out very unsubtly with a Mexican hostel worker at the front desk.  I’m happy having some alone time in the courtyard.

A few minutes later, a guy that turns out to be a Swiss citizen of Sri Lankan and Tamil descent comes back to the hostel with a couple of beers and joins me in the courtyard.  I call out, jokingly “hey there, what did you get?” to two women guests with shopping bags coming back to the hostel.  It’s makings for a dinner salad, which when they’re done with, they come over and join us.  One of them is from Buenos Aires, and the other is from Spain (sadly I forget where specifically).  All 3 of my new companions have just finished exchange programs at universities around the country and are doing a bit of travelling before heading home.  The women are keen to go out dancing, and are happy to hear that I know where the party is going down.  It’s just about midnight, which I’d learned earlier that evening is the best time to show up, when we decide to get going.  Happily and coincidentally, Hector comes back to the hostel just then to check in, and now 5 of us are headed to the party.  None of us actually knows exactly where it is, but we manage to get there.  It’s a safe bet that I’m not the only one whose developing a bit of a crush in the process, that 5 node directional bipartite graph is highly connected, but I’m easily the most self-conscious about it, knowing that my new companions are barely (if even) half my age, even if they wouldn’t guess as much.  But it’s all just harmless flirting with the additional energy bourne by such attractions, and we have a fantastic time.  The music is a modern take on a traditional genre (again, name sadly forgotten).  There’s a break in the beat that’s so small and seldom that initially it strikes me as a defect in the recording medium, like a section of stretched cassette tape.  But it happens regularly, and it’s also 2016.  Eventually my brain adjusts, and then latches on to it, and dancing to it is delightful.  Some random guy asks the Spanish woman to dance, and they break into a coordinated, semi-traditional dance that to my eyes, is kind of like the inverse of Salsa.  Instead of 1,2,3 with a foot thrust forward on the 1, it’s a foot pulled back on the 1.  There’s impromptu hula hoop LED light shows and fire dancing on the beach, which I confide to the Spaniard that I think they’re cool, though not as cool as watching her dance earlier.

By about 2:30, the Swiss guy has taken off about 30 minutes earlier and I’m myself at the point where I could keep going and probably regret having done so in the morning, or let my better judgement prevail and call it a night.  After some internal struggle I go the latter route and wish Hector and the two women good night.  I haven’t had much of an appetite all day, so I indulge some munchies that reveal themselves as I pass a 24 hour convenience store and get some digestive biscuits, yogurt and banana which I eat back at the front desk/bar of the hostel where the American and Mexican workers are still making out, seemingly bound by a sense of duty to not abandon their post, but unbound by any sense of discretion.

The next morning I’m feeling well enough that I know I’ll be going on my way.  The swiss guy is heading to Puerto Vallarta as well, but to catch a flight that departs before I’ll get there.  Hector believes he has a reservation for an AirBnB in PV that night, but will figure out later that it’s actually the following night.  He ended up sleeping on the beach some time after the two women headed back to the hostel.  The women are headed North somewhere and keeping to themselves in their dorm where I go to wish them farewell when I’m actually leaving.

It’s a scant 50K to the hostel I’ve scoped out in PV, so I take my time, stopping at stands to get coconut water from the source, and then scraping out the young meat.  I stop at a bicycle shop that is, puzzlingly, closing in the middle of the day on a Saturday, but there’s an employee leaving as I roll up so I ask for a screw to replace one that has fallen out from one of my pedal clips.  He’s happy to oblige and his woman friend seems genuinely happy to stand by as he provides me unsolicited and unneeded but genuinely sweet and appreciated assistance with the repair.  We say farewell and shake hands as if we had just spent the day together, and I’m all but overwhelmed by their warmth.

I get to the Chanclas (spanish for flip-flop/thong, but also slang for raging/partying) Hostel in Puerto Vallarta, which turns out to be only 2 months old.  The owner comes downstairs from the second story establishment to meet me as I’m deciding where to lock up my bike, and escorts me up with the bike.  He’s a soccer fan, and after I stroll around the esplanade and take in the sights for a couple of hours, I watch the first half of the Mexico vs Chile Copa Cup quarter final with him.  It’s very “no bueno” for Mexico, and I’m a bit low on sleep  and pretty tired, so I turn in for the evening.