Memoirs of Mexico and Motorcycling

Memoirs of Mexico and Motorcycling

Clifton Melby

Copyright © 2024 Clifton Melby

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2024

This is entirely a work of nonfiction. The writing is based on entries in my journal that were recorded the evening of their happening.

Many of the memories in the book of earlier rides into Mexico are also based on journal entries.

The events of traveling with my family when I was young are all recalled from memories in many cases with the aid of pictures.

ISBN 979-8-89157-371-0 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-89157-388-8 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Overnight Stops

Foreword

Chapter 1

Prologue

The Jungles of Guatemala

Chapter 2

On the Road

A 2003 Motorcycle Ride through Mexico, Belize, and Guatemala

Chapter 3

Off to San Antonio and the River Walk

Chapter 4

Knock, Knock, Knocking on Mexico's Door

Chapter 5

Time to Get Our Spurs On

Chapter 6

Life Is but a Half a Goat

Chapter 7

Oh, Mexico, Take Me Away

Chapter 8

We Have Found the Lost Treasures of the Sierra Madre

Chapter 9

We Visit an Old Friend, the Hotel Mocambo

Chapter 10

Chaos and Comfort in the Same Spot

Chapter 11

An Education in Liberation

Chapter 12

Ride the Spirit of the Maya

Ride the Timeless Yucatán

Chapter 13

Belize, the Border, and the Bite

Chapter 14

Our First Day in Guatemala Was Magical

Chapter 15

Tikal, a Haunting Past, a Great City

Chapter 16

The Well-Armed Jungle

Chapter 17

We Earned the Peace and Beauty of Lago De Atitlan

Chapter 18

We Must Leave Paradise

Chapter 19

The Fun Curvy Ride along the Pacific Capes

Chapter 20

Zigging and Zagging in the Land of the Zapatista

Chapter 21

An Easy and Restorative Travel Day

Chapter 22

Sweet Old Memories in the Arms of Mexico

Chapter 23

Riding through the Clouds for a Drink with a Couple Old Friends

Chapter 24

Vaya Con Dios, My Sweet México

Overnight Stops

Ciudad Victoria, MX

Tampico, MX

Nautla, MX

Villa Hermosa, MX

Ciudad Del Carmen, MX

Chetumal, MX

Belize City, Belize

Santa Elena, Guatemala

Rio Hondo, Guatemala

Panajachel, Guatemala

Tapachula, MX

Huatulco, MX

Oaxaca, MX

Orizaba, MX

Ixtlahuaca, MX

Ciudad Valles, MX

Foreword

I was born in February of 1949. I have been riding motorcycles for just over 60 years. Now I enjoy the company of the motorcycles in my shop as I am no longer able to go on rides. But in a vicarious sense, I still ride all three of them.

So it is that I am recounting the good times on a ride in 2003 with a very good old riding compadre, Dave, who I thank for helping me with memories and pictures of our trip. We had a wonderful time, and it seems I am still able to taste it today, twenty years later. Also, to my very good friend, Tim, for all his memories & pictures.

There are others who I want to give credit to, also. Particularly to my daughter Erin and my granddaughter Sydney for their patience and help with all the changes I had to make in Google Docs! And, especially, to my loving wife Barb for being there for me both on my departure and return.

A Big Thanks!

Chapter 1

Prologue

The Jungles of Guatemala

We were riding south in Guatemala on Central America 13, just out of the great ruins of Tikal. Steep mountains on our flanks squeezed us along our way through the heavy jungle. The sun was filtering through a light low fog that was giving way to a new day as we rode by some weird though official-looking road signs. Caution" Giraffe Crossing. Caution: Hippo Crossing. Caution: Elephant Crossing. Well, you get the idea. Official-looking or not, it was fun to see some lighthearted signs along the way.

As for all the weapons, I was beginning to see I was much more at ease that they were most often displayed openly and not concealed. They tended to give a message more than a scare. We were riding through a very highly active geological area, so road construction was a very common occurrence. We were in the locality of Modesto Mendez and just entering the town of Rio Dulce (Sweet River). Here we would look for a sandwich and some cold cerveza.

We lucked out on our pick and sat with our lunch out on a dock with table and chairs and an awesome view of the big bridge taking one giant stride from the north bank to the south bank of the Rio Dulce. It was a graceful arch that begged welcome. We finished our lunch. We enjoyed standing at the rail of the dock, feeding the fish some ten feet below us in the clear aquamarine water.

Time to move on. Where? Simply time to move on. The urge was irresistible. We weaved our way back to the northern base of the bridge, and once again, one of my great loves was about to happen. I love bridges, simple as that. The view was simply grand. It was as though this was built just for me. How nice. After a short ride, we entered a town that told us we were nearing the intersection of Central America 9. As we rode out through La Ruidosa, the traffic started to get heavier. Not the least bit surprising as this intersection CA 15 ending its south ran into the east/west. CA 9 was a major intersection hereabouts. Anything in this area bound north or south would pass through this intersection, as well as many cars. This convergence had a good bit of commerce on it as well. So lots of long-haul semi-rigs were mixed in the fray.

However, as we got closer, we could tell something seemed wrong. There didn't seem to be any movement with the cars and trucks and tractors. On a closer look, I could tell that some of these vehicles were not straight but rather misaligned, as though stopped right in the process of lane changing. The vehicles seemed jammed too tight together. Hopefully just a fender bender and no one was hurt. As we crested a slight rise, it seemed to go on ahead of us for as far as I could see. Most disconcerting, but it was much too early to find a room and call it a day. So we just kept on riding forward. I looked back at Dave, and he gave me a shrug, code for no clue. Again, we pressed on, and things got tighter and tighter as we squeezed our way through this jumbled mess.

I was dripping with sweat, but I would stay with my vest and all of its pockets. You just never know why or when you might need some documents or money. We lane split until it was just too tight. We shut the bikes down as they were getting toward the red zone on temperature and continued along duckwalking them. Now and then, we had to cut ninety degrees to find another lane. Sometimes, we would stop, survey, and find the only option was to put a car in neutral and roll it a head ever so slightly to cut to a new path and go on. We were always pressing south to Int. CA 9.

I admired these people as they exuded calmness and most definitely had much more patience than I did. Patience has never been one of my virtues, so this was yet another lesson for me. If there were any evitable way around or through this, we could not find it. We were to find out there simply wasn't. Sometimes, we had room to push our vehicles walking beside them, but all too often, it got too tight, and we were back to the duckwalking. It did offer taking an occasional sit-=down break though. We walked past a good number of the long-haul rigs, and almost all of them had their drivers enjoying the comfort of a hammock slung to the bottom of the trailer. One foot on the ground for some gentle rocking, at least one eye open, and at least one hand on the sawed-off shotgun lying across their lap. The message was clear: Do not disturb, and leave my rig alone!

There were no signs of any authority anywhere. The guns I saw were almost all Glock pistols or sawed-off shotguns. Hardly for hunting. This was a tedious and sweaty place, yet somehow, peace and some type of orderless order did remain. I still did not know what was going on, but I was hoping it was not a bad accident with severe injuries and fatalities. After only a quick dip into Guatemalan culture and its people, I had a warm feeling toward them. Many times already, I had seen their humble strength. The Mayan people were very common here. They were a people who knew persecution and slave work. Worse, under the Rios Montt administration, there were acts of genocide, and later, mass burial sites were revealed, exposing the remains of hundreds of the Mayan people. I think guns would be a commonsense thing. A later administration guaranteeing peace offered a swap—bring in a gun and get a bicycle or a sewing machine. I would be inclined to hold onto the gun for a good bit longer.

As we continued wiggling through this hot and sweaty struggle, the guns were on my mind. Calm or not, I think even one gunshot could really light this place up. We had basically led ourselves into a trap. Any thought of a retreat was an impossibility. But going forward seemed to be just about as hopeless and had an even bleaker look. Still, we had to move, so we went on. Here and there, groups huddled together, involved in what looked to be some very focused conversation. We were paid no noticeable attention. At six three, I felt like a giant among all these shorter people. The last thing I wanted was to be conspicuous or imposing, so whenever I made any eye contact, I gave my most reassuring nod and quickly moved my focus back to the mess ahead of me.

I really had no business in any of this. At one more hopeless impasse, we stopped. Time for a short gringo conference. Nothing in the way of options seemed to present any hope. With our helmets off, we noticed the steady buzz of people talking as well as the sound of engines at idle. It was all around us. A constant sound that seemed caught in the melee as well. Then from somewhere ahead of us, we could hear the occasional sound of a voice on some type of speaker. We couldn't discern its message, but it became clear we were victims of a major protest.

I told Dave I might be able to move forward on foot far enough to get a peek. It was decided he would stay with the bikes with all our possessions on them and keep an eye on things. Moving forward on foot was very workable but didn't provide a solution for our conveyances as well as our lifeline of supplies on them. It seemed like I felt some type of guidance. From where? It was reassuring and made me feel that I was among good people and in no danger and that I should proceed. Weird.

I sort of fuzzed out. To where? I gave myself up to the feeling. I was taken away by flashing slides of time. Where? To another place. In my mind's eye, I could vaguely see three faces as the slides began to slow. The image was stronger than the image my eyes could break out. They broke out into frames and became one separate frame with three separate images. I saw my mother, my father, and my brother all looking at me. They were now vivid images, and I could tell this picture was from years ago. Looking at Tommy, I would think this might be from the early 1960s. I swept their images from left to right and then back. Their expressions were all kind, but looking into their faces, there was more. The subtle images showed concern and some type of affirmation as well. It's like We got your back.

My eyes started to moisten, and at the same time, the reel started to roll again. And just like that, I was right back in the moment. It seemed as though I was in the very same time and place as I was before all this started. I found myself looking at the same sight as I did before I somehow left. Two things became very clear. I must use some caution and common sense so that I could return home to the faces of those I love. At the same time, I felt I must live in this time and place as deeply as I was able. I now knew I was riding with my own guardian angels. I was deeply fortified. It just did not seem to be as bad as it was before I left. I found comfort in just casting my glance off into the steaming mountainous jungle. It gave me a vague feeling of unity in that we were all together, caught in a much bigger picture and surrounded by the living jungle. It cooled my nerves somewhat.

After more cleaning of the sides of vehicles with my butt or knees, I came upon a good-sized group with a good number of people, and right in the middle was a young man astride a step-through scooter. He was facing the opposite direction. My wheels started turning. If he could get here from where we needed to go, I might try to get some advice or, better yet, use him as a guide, for which I would only be too happy to pay him. I worked through the crowd while planning what I might say to him. He looked at me like What? No greetings, right to the point, now.

With my best Español and some gestures I still remembered from watching Tonto on the old Lone Ranger episodes, I was able to convey my message to him. My friend and I on cycles needed to get to CA 9 heading west, and could he help us? He got it right away and replied with no prejudice, No. He followed by dragging his thumb across his neck. I gave him a puzzled and disappointed look. His face was unchanged.

I turned away, saying, Damn, followed by a litany of unsavory slang words. We were in for a long slow meltdown and without the prospect of securing any kind of room. With these numbers, we would likely be looking at a ride through the dark to some place to spend the night. Still, that was it, so deal with it. I had barely started walking away when I felt a firm grasp on my left arm. I just wasn't in the mood, so I swung around quickly. I saw his face committed as if in stone, looking at me. He conveyed a message to me that if my amigo and I could get to where he was in the crowd, he would try to get us through to the junction to the south. I felt a big smile take over my disgruntled face and gave him a thumbs up.

Once I was back to Dave and the bikes, I gave him the short version of hope. With hope, we both felt renewed. Off we went duckwalking and occasionally even using both our arms to press the cars on their roof line on either side of us into a slight lean to allow for our handlebars. We did not want to get into a you scratched my car thing. Also, we could turn our handlebars sharply one way and, in inches, snap them back the other way temporarily, narrowing our profile. If the bars cleared, so would the rest of the bike. We were both soaked in sweat but strapped our helmets on rather than waste time securing them. My helmet was soaked, but evaporation felt cool for a short time.

Even though we were often dealing with fractions instead of inches, we had the power of motivation with us. The thought of getting the hell out of here was like Wow. Liberacion!

Finally, we arrived at the grouping, and there sat the young man on his scooter. He showed a kind of a military bearing as he gestured for us to join him within the crowd. The people couldn't have been any nicer and, with baby steps, opened a small corridor for us. Then the same firm nod as we dropped in behind him. He must have researched a potential route after I left him. He started cutting lanes, heading toward the ditch whenever he could find an opening. It was obvious to us that he had a plan. As to what the plan might be, we had no idea. I stayed right on his taillights, as did Dave on mine.

We pecked our way along, always pressing both south and east. We eventually got out of the line and rolled down a ditch into a farmyard setting. We tried to move slowly so as not to scare the poor farmer's chickens all over. Now we swung due south, dodging some stinky pools of rotting grass and manure. We bounced over an old two-lane track, and there, to my right, I could get a quick view of the holdup. There were rough planks with nails driven through them facing up all the way across the lanes and both shoulders. Also, a number of fires were burning, and at least a few were billowing black smoke as they fed tires into them. A group of young men and women chanted a slogan. When I use the word young, I mean as somewhat idealistic and with a hope burning in them. They were involved in making the point that the current administration must be held to some of its campaign accords. School funding, voting reforms, more rural voting precincts, etc. We also learned that these protests were going on in other key locations in a number of places throughout Guatemala and would be going on for a number of days. Suddenly, our problems seemed almost petty.

Two young men held loudspeakers and sent their messages in opposite directions. Mingling about with them were some uniformed police, but as I said before, it was peaceful, so they allowed it to run its course. I really had to think that short of being on the dole, they would hold the same sentiments very important. We kept going in the ditch as the cars were just as tight on the other side of the protest. We were riding up and down both sides of the ditch to avoid protruding rock, trash, and the occasional dead animals, likely highway casualties. Our route became blocked by some huge rock outcroppings all the way to the shoulder of the highway, but fortunately, traffic had thinned enough for us to enter. Then just like that, I saw freedom and some open highway. He slowed down and pulled up next to me, pointing down the road. Now he wore a nice smile. I clutched my bike at once, allowing me a free hand while standing on my pegs. I pointed at myself, slapped my right rear pocket, then pointed to him. I felt we definitely owed him something. Gone was the smile and back was the head shaking. Then he pointed to his heart. This act could not be repaid with money. I felt bad for even offering. He gave us a wave and returned to where we had come from.

As for us, we gave the bikes their reins and, standing on the pegs, collected all the fresh air we could get. The bike's engine temperatures left the red zone quicker than we dried out. Down the road a short distance, I saw a nice rock outcropping and pulled over. There we counted fingers and toes and refilled our adventurous hopes while browsing a map. Not knowing where we might find evening quarters, dining, or much else was a perfect match for our sense of freedom. We were off again, flying down the road.

Chapter 2

On the Road

A 2003 Motorcycle Ride through Mexico, Belize, and Guatemala

Day 1, February 10, 2003

Monday, Oklee, Minnesota

At last, the day had arrived. It was time to take action. There had been much planning, a good bit of preparation, and, I'll admit, a fair amount of daydreaming by me as well. My good friend Dave and I had many beers and burgers at various rendezvous while planning the ride. He was six years my senior, but at this time of our lives, age was just not a factor. We both grew up in Oklee, but our big tie was without a doubt motorcycles. Over the years, we had been on dozens of rides together. Speaking for myself, I really didn't know who I might ride with who I knew any better than him. Of course, it got me wired up. I reminded myself of a young hunting dog about to go on his very first hunt. Well, I didn't do the lifting the leg thing. At least not yet.

I was excited, but I still felt somewhat uncertain. It was hard to keep my thoughts in the here and now. I was most anxious to go even though I could feel the gaining weight of actually leaving. It hung on me, my sweet wife, and my kids. So much to think about. There was my business and all the chores I did at home, starting with snowplowing. Then I thought, They'll all be fine without me, and maybe it's a good thing from time to time for all of us. I knew there was truth to that, but it really didn't change my present sentiment. A little guilt was just my way of trying to balance the books. At any rate, this was all my own doing, so no one else had to bear it. Of course, this trip was completely unnecessary, foolish, selfish, and had an element of danger to it. So why then? The answer lies somewhere in the adventure yet to be found. The search would reveal the real answer. The one I felt in my heart. It was an amazing chance that I simply must take. There was no other choice. It had all been decided.

It had been a long fitful night. I did get some rest, at least in a physical sense, but not much sleep. I was out of bed a little after 4:00 a.m. It was on the early side for my plans, and I was fine with it. I just needed to move a little so my mind and my body might get closer to being in sync. I thought I finished all my packing last night. Still, the lights were flashing in my brain for a good part of the night. I'd give my list one last look, and that'd be it.

I told myself, C'mon, man, like you don't think they sell socks and shorts in Mexico. And after all of this, I usually did manage to forget something of consequence. I was just going to wing it. If a nuclear war broke out, I just wouldn't have my roentgen meter with me. Oh well.

I was trying to be quiet so as not to wake up my wife. I wanted a short and sweet goodbye as I found lingering at it saddening. The fresh hot coffee from the kitchen smelled good. I brought all my stuff to a pile next to the door and had taken out two loads already. Just a couple of small items left and my coffee thermos. Well, this was it. It was goodbye time. I crowded my mind full of thoughts so as to have no space left for any guilt. I sneaked quietly into the bedroom, bent over, and gave Barb my nicest, warmest kiss on the cheek.

Straightening up, I said softly, Goodbye. I love you, babe.

Love you too. Please try to call me once every day.

I will do my very best, but please don't let it be a cause of worry.

Back in 2003, despite the fact that cell phones had arrived, I did not have one. When it came to anything even remotely close to new technology, I was in close competition for last place in the human race. So nightly calls, especially in 2003, and well south of the border, could be trying.

Just as I was turning to leave, she asked me, How long will you be gone?

Don't know for sure. I'd guess a month or so.

The bedroom felt empty. The quiet darkness from the room seeped into me. This was a long time apart for us. I turned and walked out. There was a feeling welling up inside of me. Maybe I could, no, I'm leaving now. That was it. So I disappeared down the hallway. It was the day before my birthday, and I was leaving the one who found so much joy in giving a celebration for almost anything on any occasion.

Well, if you have a little guilt, you should. You're just walking out on everyone to live your own personal dreams. Simply put, it is what it is, and it's heavy.

Once I was out in the morning air, my mood started to lift. I was beginning to separate myself from the very act of leaving. There was an abundance of brilliant stars in the dark heavens. It was completely still, and the quiet was stark. Both my thermometers were showing twenty-seven below zero. The air was clean, fresh, and pristine. What a great day to start an adventure.

I was a little edgy as I hadn't had a cigarette in fourteen days. The caffeine from the strong coffee helped, but my body kept asking, Where's the nicotine? I struggled with this stupid habit far too long. I quit a number of times, only to start again. So I decided if I could not quit and I didn't want to keep smoking a pack a day, the answer must be to moderate. I took some heavy elk hide and clamped it into my desired shape then sewed it into a 3-Pak. Simple. Three cigarettes per day. Not two one day and four the next. Just three or less or none at all.

I managed to stay with it for around nine months, and it did have some merit. The bad thing about it for me was that I was living in a world