Riding the freeway across a flat desolate industrial area of Vera Cruz, I wrestle with the fundamental existential dilemma: Is enjoying yourself essentially the same as not enjoying yourself? Somewhat reluctantly I reach the conclusion that it is probably so.
So I wonder why I only wish to record the pleasing and the beautiful here – days spent slogging through 40 degree heat on unappealing blacktop don’t, generally, make the blog.
This stretch of road provokes something of an existential crisis in me.
Or the bug bite episode – which resulted in hundreds of inflamed red engorged welts, swollen legs and puffy ankles – the phenomenon entertained me for three solid days, or at least had my pretty much undivided attention.
The aftermath of a vicious insect attack.
Or the cheapest hotel room in the cheapest hotel in Coatzacoalcas, a windowless concrete box, not wholly unattractive by undeniably sordid, cockroaches the size of mice manically circling the floor. The bathroom spotty with mildew, toilet lacking a seat and backing up threateningly.
However, on the plus side, a high ceiling and a fan that works sufficiently well to circulate air. The bed is large, appears clean (although I choose to sleep on my silk sleeping bag liner) and the mattress passably comfortable. Wide double doors allow me to bring my bike inside the room.
The place in full of Mexican men hanging about in the hallways and the foyer, flaccid bellies displayed under grubby white singlets. A man at the drinking water supply literally jumps when I walk past, emerging from the dark damp courtyard.
The better rooms are, no doubt, all upstairs but I am glad I don’t have to ascend them to run whatever kind of gauntlet of stares might greet me up there. I don’t think Coatzacoatcas, an unattractive oil refinery town, sees a lot of foreign tourists and those that do somehow make their way here probably don’t end up staying at this particular establishment.
I sit in the foyer with my computer, under a TV showing some strange game show that seems to contain elements of “This is Your Life!” “Wheel of Fortune” and a sad talent quest although it is possible the guy at reception is channel surfing and I am simply not paying enough attention to notice. However, we sit a while companionably – the man watching TV, while I waste time on the internet – both of us slapping at the odd opportunistic mosquito circling the foyer, before I return to the dark damp room under the stairs.
On the road, I have stopped greeting men. I still smile and wave at women and children but I ride past men, especially groups of them, as though they weren’t even there. And if a car pulls up alongside and the occupants try to initiate a conversation in English – “Lady, where are you going?” – I look at them blankly and apologise. I explain, in Spanish, that since I am Polish I have no idea of what they are trying to communicate. Few seem to the have the desire to persist with the conversation in broken Spanish.
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