1000 WORDS

What I love about touring on a bike without a fixed plan is a life of constant contrast. Having started the day waking in my tent in the middle of field, I arrive in San Miguel de Allende in the afternoon of my birthday, with little idea of where I am – I am here largely in response to a casual internet offer of few nights hospitality if I happen to pass that way.

As it turns out San Miguel has a huge expatiate community and is more commonly known as Gringolandia. It is a town that was popular with the beatniks in the 60s – William Burroughs, Jack Kerouac and Ken Kesey all frequented its bars and Neal Cassady died on the railway tracks between here and Celaya after a party – but now it is home to a large quantity of well-heeled foreign retirees.

San Miguel de Allende is UNESCO listed and is very pretty and well preserved.

The door to nowhere.

San Miguel is the favoured winter home of all sorts of retirees. They line up to soak up the sun in the plaza and are known to the Mexican locals as "The Mummies." (The reference is to a popular museum that houses a collection of preserved bodies in the neighbouring town of Guanajuato.)

My gracious host is an ex-BBC presenter and veteran globe trotter who lives at the very top of the very steep hill overlooking the town. I haul my bike up the narrow cobbled streets, getting lost despite detailed directions, and finally arriving as the sun is setting.

When Ray learns it is my birthday he generously treats to a dinner at a much classier fish restaurant than I am accustomed to where I meet a few of the ‘locals’ – among them a buxom Texan blonde in a hot pink velour track suit and matching pink hair ribbon and a middle-aged pig-tailed Shambala Buddhist who act like I am a superstar when they hear of my bicycle wanderings. The restaurant staff come to the party with a complimentary desert complete with a candle and birthday wishes dubiously spelt out in chocolate sauce.

The next day I explore the town a bit. The influence of the expatriate community is evident in cafes and food shops, many of which wouldn’t be at all out place on the coast of California. I lunch with Ray at an organic cafe that serves an excellent hummous plate and stock up on organic coffee and herbs, feeling like I have slipped through a rent in the time/space continuum and found myself back in San Francisco.

An organic cafe and food store which wouldn't be at all out of place on the Californian coast somewhere...

Organic veggies... certainly not a bad thing but I don't think many locals are shopping here.

More gringolandia style.

Ray is a a knowledgeable traveller who has seen most of the world and so we pass the day happily chatting about various adventures. After a sunset walk in the local botanic garden – a cactus wonderland where we spot a grey fox ducking into the spiny thickets – Ray cooks me another fine meal.

Sunset in the botanic gardens on the hill above San Miguel.

The following day, I set off to Queretaro, the capital city of the neighbouring state where I need to buy some more SCT maps for the next stage of my trip into Michoacan and the state of Mexico.

Bidding goodbye to Ray - my extremely gracious host in San Miguel.

When I reach Villa de Reyes at dusk my aim is to get to the other side of town to search out a spot to camp but having lost faith in the reliability of my map I am not entirely certain how to proceed. I had plotted out a likely looking route and, in theory, I need to head out of Villa de Reyes on the road to San Felipe but my heart sinks when I see the queue of traffic, largely consisting of huge trucks, thundering out of town down a shoulderless two lane highway prominently signposted San Felipe. Without a likely looking alternative, I brace myself and set off when, suddenly, I catch sight of a road sign at the entrance of a quiet road heading off to one side informing me that it is not possible get to San Felipe that way. I immediately think to myself – that’s my road! I turn onto it and ride a couple of kilometres in the gathering gloom before pushing my bike across a field to set up camp under a the sheltering branches of a red pepper-corn tree.

In the morning, the first thing I am confronted with is a flat tyre but as soon as it is sorted I am on my way. Some enquires quickly reveal that it is, indeed, possible to head in the direction of San Felipe on the road I am following. According to the somewhat confusing logic of the Mexican road system the bitumen soon peters out and I ride for a a few kilometres on bumpy potholed gravel before the road suddenly transforms again into what appears to be a brand new highway clearly signposted San Felipe. This expanse of smooth tarmac is obstructed, however, by a mounds of earth piled up at either end of an overpass crossing nothing in particular. Ignoring this half hearted barrier, I ride over the bridge to find myself back on a nondescript paved road.

The uncertain state of the roads in Mexico.

All in all, it is a little perplexing but my hope is that this road is the one that is marked on my out-of-date map and, if so, I will be able to turn off it in around forty kilometres onto a dirt road that should take me all the way, first to Dolores Hidalgo, and then to San Miguel de Allende, my intended break point on route to the Monarch butterfly sanctuaries in Michoacan.

When I stop to restock my food pannier, I consult with the man in the shop about my proposed route. He is somewhat disapproving of my plan to ride on dirt roads, warning me specifically of the dangers of cows and cowboys amongst other, more amorphous, threats, but once he realises that I am committed to the idea he confirms that it is feasible and gives me the unexpected news that there are a number of archeological sites in the area that I will pass through. Fortified by this apparently reliable information, I hit the road again where my happiness is soon augmented by a quick snack of roadside gorditas.

One benefit to riding more trafficked roads is an abundance of excellent roadside snacks. Gorditas cooking on a wood-fired hotplate.

Before long I turn off the paved road and make my way to El Cubo, the first village, where I ask a women standing in her driveway for directions to the archeological sites. She immediately calls her son and her brother, instructs them to get on their bikes and show me the way, and we are soon riding across open fields towards the rocky hills bordering the valley.

A canyon leading up into the hills.

The two boys lead me to the entrance to a canyon where there is a small cave, the walls of which are covered with inscrutable marks.

One of several caves in the area which contain ancient rock carvings.

Inscrutable marks.

More carvings.

I really wish I knew what it all meant.

After I release my two slightly reluctant guides from their duties, I sit and eat lunch, looking out over the valley.

My guides - these two boys dropped whatever it was they were doing to accompany me to the cave which I wouldn't have had a hope of finding without them.

The valley stretching out into the distance - this sure beats the highway.

The road winds its way through rolling ranch country dotted with small settlements and for the most part I ride with only horses and cows for company but enough people make an appearance for me to clarify the occasional uncertain junction.

Lovely dirt road...

...leading into a sunny afternoon...

...on my bike.

Towards evening I meet an exuberant family group walking along the road. They question me at length about my journey and invite me to stay with them for the night. I am momentarily tempted but in the end because I am keen to cover some miles I rather ungraciously refuse in favour of another hour of riding before bedding down in a field for the night.

Antonia, with her daughter and son.

It finally stops raining and I leave Zacatecas.

I am armed with detailed maps, obtained from the Secrectaria de Comunicaciones y Transportes, of the states that I will pass through next. These maps are the only ones I’ve seen that detail secondary roads and dirt tracks with any degree of accuracy but acquiring them is a feat that requires some patience and persistence. First, you must be in a state capital and then you face the challenge of finding the appropriate SCT office amongst the many that perform various functions. Next you have to get there, paying attention to the idiosyncratric opening hours of government agencies. Once there, in the office, you can only hope they have the maps that you are after because their collection is by no means complete. Having selected the appropriate maps the staff are supposed to print a form which you then take to the bank to make the payment before returning to the office with the receipt in hand to collect the maps.

At the office in Guadalupe, near Zacatecas, the computer system was down when I visited and so it was impossible to print the form that I was supposed to take to the bank. Confusion ensued but, after much discussion, the women in the office decided it would be possible for me to give them cash which they would deposit at the bank themselves later when the computer system was functioning again. However, just as we were about to complete this transaction, a superior appeared and when he was appraised of the situation he looked looked very stern.

The man sat me down and explained that government offices were not allowed to accept cash because of the temptation to corruption that cash poses and, for a second, I thought I would have to walk away empty handed. I pleaded my case to him, explaining that I was travelling on my bike and that these maps were essential to my well-being, and finally he relented on the condition that I provided him with an address to which he could send the receipt which would prove the honesty and transparency of the deal. I dutifully wrote down an address in London which I haven’t lived at in over three years, handed over my 160 pesos (approximately $12) and left, gratefully, with my maps.

Maps notwithstanding, getting out of Zacatecas/Guadelupe proves something of a challenge and it isn’t until around 4.30pm that I find myself turning off the highway leading out of Guadelupe towards Aguascalientes onto a dirt road, south, in the direction of San Luis Potosi. I ride in the afternoon sun through rolling hills dotted with joshua trees and prickly pear on a viciously corrugated gravel track, glad to be back on the road.

Leaving Zacatecas in the afternoon sun.

I only ride about 20 kilometres before setting up camp in a field amongst the cactus and thorn trees.

Dawn.

Camp.

In the morning I set off again, on the road which winds through a series of small villages until it emerges in a sizeable town.

Back on pavement for a while. My route is cobbled together, on the basis of the information provided by the SCT maps, with the aim of riding on as little pavement as possible. Two curious girls on their way to school on a scooter stop to ask me where I am going.

The terrain and the climate is much milder than the more mountainous northern states I have ridden through in Mexico so far. Spring is in the air and as I ride, I note that some of the joshua trees are flowering.

A flowering joshua tree.

Back on dirt, passing through a village. A little girl with a big bike.

Travelling alone again, I find that the kind of attention I attract and the people who speak to me when I pass through villages are very different. Suddenly the world seems full of women and children, all of whom smile and wave at me and stop me to ask where I am going, offer me food, and invite me into their houses.

I spend my time in Zacatecas sampling the various culinary delights available on the streets and in the markets and admiring their sheer beauty.

Strange fruit.

Freshly squeezed juices...

... in a range of vibrant colours.

Gorditas...

... and tamales, hot off the grill.

'Nopales', prickly pear cactus, sold as whole 'paddles',...

...or diced,...

... alongside red mystery balls.

Fresh baked breads, both sweet and savoury.

Fish in abundant supply on Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent,...

... in all shapes and sizes.

I enjoy cheap meals which can be found in a range of restaurants, specialising in different regional delights.

Red pozole, served with a range of condiments,...

...which I make short work of.

Fish, a constant favourite,...

... also disappears fast.

The hostel boasts a modest kitchen, which I make the most of, to cook yet more fish. I can’t get enough of it.

A mackerel, marinated in coriander/cilantro, lime, chilli, garlic and olive oil...

...served with the smallest of baby potatoes and zucchinis. Yummy!

We arrive in Zacatecas after dark and make our way through the bustling town to find Victor, our couch-surfing host, in his student digs.

Zacatecas - a bustling lively town, with great markets.

Victor lives near the centre of town in a tiny semi-derelict house. Amazingly, the limited space Victor has at his disposal doesn’t prevent him from unquestioningly offering four cyclists accommodation. Victor is a member of one of Mexico’s only reggae bands and his house appears to be something of a hub of alternative social activity in Zacatecas. The main room downstairs houses a drum kit and equipment for band practice.

Once our four bikes and all our gear are also installed there is little room for anything or anyone else. Victor gives up his tiny bedroom to accommodate us and goes to sleep at a friend’s house while the four of us squeeze in where we can, spreading out our sleeping maps on the bare concrete floor. I opt for bedding down in the closet. When the morning reveals that the bathroom doesn’t boast running water, Cass is the first to crack and flees for a hostel.

Victor, our first couch surfing host, in his student digs.

Jeff, Jason and I spend a day exploring the bustling markets around the centre and then wander up to La Bufa, the hill overlooking town, to investigate a museum on the history of the Mexican Revolution. The photos are fascinating but I leave without feeling I understand much more of this confusing episode in Mexican history.

Pancho Villa: Viva la Revolucion!

A girl in the market attracts Jeff's attention. She is selling an intriguing array of products to address any number of ailments and problems...

... including an odd collection of herbal teas.

After another night with Victor, Jeff and I opt to move in with another couch surfer for a few days, in the suburbs between Zacatecas and Guadalupe. Monica, and her daugher Andrea, generously put us up in their very comfortable home, where there is ample outdoor space for us to do some much needed maintenance work on our bikes and repair various items camping gear. There is also a sewing machine that Monica kindly has repaired and  Jeff dedicates a couple of days to finishing his frame bags – a ongoing series of sewing projects that started back in Silver City.

The days at Monica’s are very well spent but after a short time in the suburbs we are keen to meet up with Jason and Cass in Zacatecas again.

The aspirations of the middle-class in Mexico.

The dirtbag gang is reunited at Hostel Villa Colonial, a relaxed hostel overlooking the cathedral, but Zacatecas marks the end of an era – my way diverges here from that of the rest of the gang; the boys are keen to strike out for the coast and I am heading towards Puebla.

The view of the cathedral from the roof of the hostel...

... and a detail of the hectic facade.

Cowboys in town - Zacatecas is still cowboy country but it is, apparently, something of a border zone and further south the culture starts to change.

Zacatecas is a town of curiosities.

So, after another day or so organising themselves, Jeff, Jason and Cass head off toward Guadalajara and I am left alone in the hostel dormitory. The next day heavy rains fall and I stay a few extra days in Zacatecas, contemplating my future as a solo traveller again.