Planning THE Trip
I just got back today from a walk with my dog and and my blind neighbor, David. He inspired me to write more, and with "picture" words. I promise no self pity, though that isn't much in my nature anyway. He was a painter - an artist gone blind at age 26. I dedicate the rest of this to him.
Much of my life after recovering is lost in memory haze. I did go back to school at Portland State University. I was so moved by my experiences with orphans and the poor that I chose Social Work as my major. I had no idea what I was gonna do, but it was the direction I went. After classes I worked at "The Oregonian" newspaper. With little life outside of work and school, I got great grades and saved money. And when I save money, it's only with something in mind. And at that time it was another trip. The same friend who told me about Mexico returned from South America, telling more and better tales. That was enough to convince me. So one day at PSU I ran into John Ragni, a guy who played on a rival high school tennis team. We started to catch up on what we were doing, and I told him both about my Mexican trip and my planned South American journey. I can still see the excitement in his face as we sat in his tiny apartment. By the time I left I had a traveling companion.
We finished up our year at school. My sophomore and Ragni's senior year. I continued working at the newspaper, saving all I could. I also researched and bought everything to make the perfect backpack. Maps of the countries and the southern heavens, water purification tablets, tiny sewing kit - in short, whatever I thought we might need for many months' travel. Finally, as summer turned to fall, we put on our packs and hit the road.
At Long Last - THE Trip
October 1973. We caught a ride with John Curtis to Roseburg, in southern Oregon. A few rides later we got as far as Ashland. We walked a few miles through town. As night came on, we climbed a fence and got into our sleeping bags. A few minutes later we heard some rustling near us. It was so dark we hadn't noticed we were sharing the field with some cows. Rather than have them bugging us all night, we hopped back over the fence and slept in ditch next to the road. It got down to 35 degrees that night, but we slept well. In the morning we walked another 3 miles to Interstate-5. Our next ride took us just south of the Oregon border. We knew it was illegal to hitchhike on I-5 in California, but at the remote rest stop we were stuck we knew we had to risk it. So John went up on the freeway and I stood below on the on-ramp. We figured whoever got the ride would yell for the other. After a while a guy stopped for John in a little pickup. He was a little skeptical of our ploy, thinking he'd have just one rider. After a short interview, we got our ride. He told us he was going to Reno. We were nervous, fearing cold waits in the mountains. But when does fear or common sense mean anything us? OK, let's see Reno. At this point, I'd only been to three states -Washington, Oregon and California. Hitchhike and see the world. After driving for a while, our driver told us he was ultimately going to San Diego. He had finally decided we were alright and could go the distance with him.
We got to Reno in the evening. I was carrying about $600 in traveler's checks. I had never seen casino gambling, and I watched a guy lay down hundred dollar bills on the craps table. In five minutes he lost more than I planned to spend for a few months. Struck me weird. Our driver, Tim Hanson, finished his playing and we drove out near 10 or 11:00. For some reason, and to this day I deny it was my idea, we decided to pull over and sleep at Donner's Pass. This was the place where so many died and froze and, well... in the 1800's. I was interested in going through here and somehow Tim and John thought I wanted to spend the night there. John and I put our bags in the pickup bed while Tim slept in the cab. Snow was on the ground, and the night was cold and clear. Occasionally I woke up as Tim started the truck and turned on the heat. Those two couldn't understand why I wanted to sleep there....
Then next morning it was back to sea level and warmer weather. Tim had to pick up a paycheck in Treasure Island, near San Francisco. From there we went over to Pebble Beach. My mom's cousin Madeleine lived there with her wealthy rancher husband. Their house on 17 Mile Drive was a nice change from the bed of a Ford Courier. They fed us a delicious meal. I remember Charlie not quite understanding our plans just to vagabond through Latin America. The next day we headed down Highway 1, one of the world's most spectacular drives.
Before long we found
ourselves in San Diego. We stopped
at this Info Center right by the bay. Mission
Bay. We slept on the lawn, about 100
ft from the water.
We woke up early and sat around for awhile before we finally got something to eat. We ate breakfast at Oscar’s and then went downtown to get some things. A parade commemorating the Navy’s 198th B-day was going on at the same time so we watched that for awhile. Then Tim took us to the border and we said goodbye. We didn’t have very much trouble at Tijuana and they gave us Tourist Cards for 180 days. Soon after we got a ride with this Mexican driving a Le Mans. He said he was going to Tecate, about 32 km, and along the way he got thirsty and stopped for a beer. When we got back in, the car wouldn’t start, so we stayed there for 2 hrs. before some guy started his car. Before this, about 3 other guys showed up with jumper cables but the car didn’t start. Apparently the last guy knew what the problem was. We got out ride to Tecate and we tried to hitchhike out of town without luck so we took a bus to Mexicali. We had to stand the whole 87 km, about 2 hrs. When we got to Mexicali we sat in the park and talked with these young boys. We needed a place to stay outside town, so we got on a bus and went somewhere – we didn’t even know where we were headed. We walked into this recently disced field of dirt clods and went to sleep. Sort of. We woke up to find a huge assortment of bug bites.
Then we got a ride almost to San Luis. About 6 miles outside of town. We stopped to talk to this family whose car had a flat tire. They were very nice and they gave us a ride to San Luis. After hitchhiking for over an hour we got picked up by the authorities who wanted to check our papers. They told us to stop hitchhiking and that we were to take a bus pronto. So we inquired about a bus ride to Guaymas, but the ticket seller said we had to wait until an hour before the bus was scheduled to leave. So we hacked around town for a few hours talking with the people and getting mosquito bites. Finally we tried to get a ticket but the man kept saying “un poquito mas (just a little longer).” I learned an interesting thing from that wait. Most Mexicans don't wear watches, so a few minutes could be an hour. We had been talking to a friendly Mexican, so he came over and helped us get our tickets. When we got on the bus we had to sit in folding chairs in the aisle.
I was reading through my journal from this trip, and realized how much I'd forgotten. I couldn't remember some people I'd spent days with. So I figure I can maybe remember 2% of everything. That's a prelude to saying I don't recall much else until John and I got down to the beach near Guaymas. I'm guessing we were about 300 miles down the coast of mainland Mexico. Here the desert runs right up to the Gulf of California. Cactus and tan rocks run up to the blue water. John, who had become Juan, and I snorkeled and swam. I was surprised by a rock that was actually a fish, and darted off below me. Later, a couple came in their Volkswagen van and camped with us. Juan and I had no tent, so we slept under the bowl of stars.
In the morning, we got up slowly and soaked up the sun. Juan wrote a letter, and I took out a needle and thread to sew something. We sat on our sleeping bags when I looked at the foot of mine when I saw something crawling. "Juan! Is that a scorpion?" It was. Now I was nervous. No more than five minutes later, a tarantula crawled by. That was enough. We packed our bags. The couple was out snorkeling, so we left our packs next to their van and hiked into town to get train tickets. I still remember walking back from town and I was singing Beatles' songs. We got back to our campsite and asked the couple where they'd put our packs. "Your packs?" They hadn't seen them! While they were out swimming, someone had come by and stolen them! Mr. Trust Everyone (me) had left his passport and traveler's checks in the pack. Juan was smarter, and had those two things with him. Everything but what we wore and carried was gone. We were devastated. All the months of planning and equipping, all the maps, books, clothes gone in an afternoon.
We went back into town, found a policeman. What was strange, but true, was we asked a guy on the street where the police station was and this same man led us to it, took us inside and wrote the report. He gave us little hope, but we needed to stick around a couple days and check back. This meant we had to go back to the same beach and spend two more nights. The couple there let us borrow a pair of sleeping bags so we could at least cover up and hope the scorpions, tarantulas, and the hundreds of cockroaches kept their distance. I recall so clearly that night looking up at the beautiful night sky and crying. We were determined to go on with the trip. Sadder, but wiser huh? Of course, we never got back a thing.
A couple days later we caught the train to Guadalajara. We needed to get to a U.S. Embassy to replace my passport, and to an American Express office to replace my travelers' checks. On the train a Mexican lady came up and gave us a grocery bag filled with food - cheese, bread, apricots, ham, and fig newtons. She told us we looked so pitiful she felt compelled to help. This was one of many times that people who had so little shared what they had. We felt bad taking the food, but she insisted. Thank you dear stranger.
We pulled into Guadalajara during a rainstorm. The streets ran like rivers. I had to cross with the water reaching my knees. Unlike any rain I'd known, this was warm. Guadalajara is a great city. Big enough to be free from tourist' influence. Historic too. We stayed a while in an orphanage. This sounds odd, and is. Our friends in Guaymas gave us addresses in both Guadalajara and Mexico City of orphanages where we could stay. So hospitable. I got my temporary passport, and after an interrogation by the Amex guy, who wanted to be sure I hadn't just sold my travelers' checks, got replacements for them.
We slowly found our way down to Mexico City (and our next orphanage). It was here that we tried to replace some of our supplies. We soon learned that camping is not too popular, and backpacks and sleeping bags weren't to be found. We did get a couple canvas packs like some Cub scout might carry, but little else. We decided to have my parents mail us a tent I had. That should have been simple, huh? After a week or two we started going to the post office to see if it had come in. No. No. Not yet. Finally after a couple weeks of nearly daily checks I SAW the tent on the shelf behind the counter. The clerk still said it wasn't there! I'm not especially patient now, but was much less so then. I pointed it out and finally got him to get it. He pulls up a customs slip on it and wanted to charge us something like $20 customs. One thing that's both bad and good about Mexican bureaucracy is that it's flexible. After a bunch of arguing, I got the price down to a couple bucks.
Mexico City was a month like no other. Each day we wandered around the city exploring. Hopping buses and the subway and walking. We stayed near the Russian embassy. Talk about secrecy. Up the street from that was a department store called Gigante. We discovered a little hamburger stand there. Manna from heaven. It was pretty much a cheeseburger every day after that. Good and 15 cents or so. We ate a lot of street food. Tortas (sandwiches) and taquitos and such. We tried not to strain the food budget at the orphanage, so we conveniently avoided meal times.
One of the nuns had a brother who came to visit us and show us around. Miguel was a single father with a couple of adorable kids. He insisted we call him Mike. He seemed to show pride in being with his American friends, and insisted on paying for everything we did or ate. And this was a guy who made $30 a paycheck at a soap factory. His extended family lived in a poor barrio in the city.
I'm going to digress a bit here, then get back to Mike. When we walked around, I'd see a lot of Mexican guys about our age dressed in white shirts and black slacks, with hair slicked back. I had one pair of pants, and they were army surplus with the extra side pockets. I mostly had one t-shirt. My suburban background mixed with my hippie friends (I'll never admit to being a hippie exactly, just looked and acted a bit that way) led me to be disdainful of people I thought were dressing to impress. So, our de rigueur dress was old jeans with holes in the knees. Now back to Mike.
Miguel y sus hijos (Mike and his kids) at Teotihuacan
There was a week when the nuns needed to use our room for prospective parents, so we went to stay with Mike and his family. They had a little store where they sold pop, candles, a few staples and things. Behind the storefront was a courtyard surrounded by maybe eight rooms. The grandparents had a couple rooms - bedroom and kitchen. Then the parents, kids and grandkids had the other rooms. They gave us a room to ourselves, displacing about 6 kids. There was one bathroom, a sort of stucco outhouse. The only running water was a single faucet in the middle of the courtyard. One morning one of the family, who was about our age came into the courtyard dressed in WHITE DRESS SHIRT AND BLACK SLACKS. He went to the faucet, stuck his head under it and washed his hair, then combed it back, and left. I asked Miguel what he was doing. "He's going out to look for work" he said. I never looked at young well-dressed Mexicans the same. I did look long and hard at myself. I later saw an old lady and mangy dogs rummaging through a dump, all looking for food. I knew what real poverty was then.
One afternoon, the matriarch of the family invited us in for lunch. In the other room we could hear her husband coughing, I think dying with tuberculosis. By this time, my Spanish allowed me to converse pretty well. At first I told the woman she didn't have to feed us. Of course, she insisted. She made some of the best food I've ever eaten. I'm sure the best she could find. As we ate, I asked her what she thought of a couple of young people like us, with probably a year's wages in our pockets, able to travel all over her country and farther. As sweet as anything I ever heard, she told me if they had money they'd probably do the same. Then she said, it didn't bother her because they had their family. I'm not sure I didn't cry when I spoke with her. I know I cry still when I think of her.
Mike had a bicycle with a large basket on the side. He used it to pick up groceries, and make deliveries. He would have Juan and me sit in it while he pedaled us around the neighborhood. We insisted that he let us pedal so he could ride. So Juan got in and started pedaling down the dirt street. I ran along and hopped in the basket. This caused him to swerve and run into a parked car! It was clean, classic '57 Chevy. Oh no, I thought. We're in trouble big time. Some guys come running out of a shop and see that we put a 6 inch scratch down its side. Mike comes right up and says he'll take care of it. I'm thinking this guys gonna soak Mike for a couple week's pay, and we'll really owe him. So, we let them discuss the accident. After a few minutes we see Mike pull out his money and give the guy ------ four dollars! He did relent on this one, and Juan and I split the cost.
Juan and I were again feeling the need for some comfort food. Something without chile, maybe steak and mashed potatoes. Then we got an answer to our prayers. We were to meet a wealthy priest who was going to take us to a restaurant and treat us to whatever we wanted. We could barely contain our excitement. That day, Mike again took us to eat. We went to the market where he wanted us to try a traditional soup called pozole. It was a watery broth with hominy. Though I appreciated it so much, I didn't like it so much. But knowing that in a few hours we'd meet the priest and get our fill, well that helped.
That evening we went to the priest's apartment. He was so gracious. He worked with college kids, and in fact, had invited some over to meet us. He also showed us a bottle of original Napoleon brandy. 170 years old. Anyway, pretty soon about 5 or 6 kids our age showed up. They had a special surprise for Father and us. They decided to cook us a "traditional" Mexican meal right there. We were starving by the time they finally finished cooking their specialty. Can you guess? Pozole. POZOLE! No steak, no mashed potatoes. Pozole. It tasted just like lunch. Thank God for the delicious cocoa they made. They mixed a mild soft cheese into it. Now that I DID like. A cosmic lesson about coveting I guess. Life has some really amazing coincidences. This was one.
Speaking of coincidences...we were, weren't we? Juan and I decided to go have pizza at the Mexico City Pizza Hut. I promise not all stories revolve around food. Pizza Hut was right along the Reforma, something like Central Park in NYC. Upscale area. At the entrance we bumped into an American traveler, Benita, who had really been around. She had traveled alone through the Orient and other exotic locales. She joined us for lunch. Familiar foods like pizza often tasted totally different. In this case I think it was the flour in the dough. So the pizza wasn't great, but we enjoyed getting to know another gringa (female gringo). By the way, "gringo" was sometimes used as an insult by Mexicans, but it's what we called ourselves. Usually got a laugh out of the locals. I bring up Benita here because it leads to a couple coincidental meetings later. Rather than wait till I get to that part of the story, let me say that I later ran into her in Costa Rica walking down a street. I think it was in Peru where we met again, all with great surprise.
As I said earlier, when I first got to Mexico in '71 I was a bit scared. No problems. So I wasn't afraid by this time to go anywhere. We weren't foolish, but we weren't nervous. Late one night we were riding a bus back to our temporary home in the slums. We were near the rear door when we heard some scuffling up the aisle. A couple guys were struggling, and then we saw the shiny blade of a large knife. I had thought that if I ever saw violence I'd do what I could to help. Let me admit now, I was frozen! Very weird. What was happening just didn't sink in. The fight ended quickly. Some young Mexican males disarmed the attacker, administered a little street justice, and tossed him out the door. I learned something about myself, and in some way I also learned to respect they guys who jumped right in and took care of things. I fear that here at home there would have been one dead and one killer on the loose. Where Americans hesitate to get involved, Mexicans will, say, yell at a bus driver if he drives recklessly, for example. I'm not saying their system is better necessarily, but sometimes that instant justice makes you feel a lot safer than our "innocent until proven guilty in a court of law" mantra. You see a guy assaulting someone, he's guilty on the spot. And the "judge and jury" might just deliver the immediate punishment. One more thought, if you can excuse me, is that you're guilty or innocent before the court ever hears the evidence. And as too many cases prove, courts don't always get it right.
Mexico City is one of the world's largest cities. I think it was 10 million or so at that time. The sky was often an ugly brown, and no fun to breathe. We spent a lot of time riding the subway and getting off at random stops to explore. I never traveled with a camera so I have just the images in my mind. Movies, really. I remember Juan playing soccer with kids in the dirt streets. And if I haven't painted a good picture of what third world poverty is, I'll never forget the old woman walking through the dump competing with mongrel dogs for anything worth eating. I've never thought of myself as poor after that.