At the end of a days ride from San Ignacio across coastal playas, I arrived at a village on the pacific coast far removed from anything. I had a false start the day prior, it was too soon. There had been about 3 days of rain, the winter storms coming in procession across the Pacific to spread across the peninsula on a seemingly weekly basis making riding a dicey proposition. I headed down to the Pacific from San Ignacio. It was pavement for the first 20+ miles and once the pavement ended, the mud began and my stomach dropped in dread. I wandered out onto the muddy playas a bit, and determined continuing wasn’t such a good idea. I had been trapped by the mud further north in days prior, so I wasn’t excited to get into more, so I turned around. At that exact point a drifter couple in a 4X4 converted earthroamer stopped at the junction of pavement at the end of the road. I got in, and they hauled me back up the hill to San Ignacio. I would wait there at the La Posada inn hidden in the local neighborhood. In the following days, I would again drop down to the Pacific and survey the mud. It was dry enough, and so I continued on.
The riding after the pavement ended was sublime, a taiwind and seemingly endless pan-flat playas were in view. I spun up the cranks, got the bike really moving and set a motivated pace across the flats. In sum, the day wrapped up with 84 miles covered, and El Datíl coming into view. I was excited to see another village.
I pedaled softly into the village and slowly surveyed the experience. It seemed so quiet, yet people were about the place, doing the things of life. It is impoverished, comparatively however I can not detect any downtrodden living. Children play outside, ride weathered bicycles, play with Christmas gifts in the days after, spend change on treats in tiendas. Everything is powered by solar, or generator. Everything is fixed or built from what seems to be nothing. Everything decays from rust and sun.
The village spans a long crescent shore lined with pangas and fishing equipment, cages, buoys, rope, tackle and men. Wrapping the shoreline at each end are mangroves that spread out to the near horizon creating a isolated tranquil lagoon with a labyrinth entrance. The village is secluded, and remote, and pleasant. Beyond, the great Pacific extends forever. The sun bears down in January and shade is rare.
It is a quiet place with a tight community, perhaps all family. Personal business stays the bounds of local doctrine and Catholicism runs to the core. The tiendas are quiet with the shuffle of feet, and occasional transaction. Guadelupe is here as she is everywhere along the peninsula. There are three tiendas. There are no fresh vegetables. One refrigerator keeps sodas tepid. There are dried chilis, potatoes, tortillas, an assortment of ever-ready junk food in shiny bags, limited toiletries, and instant coffee. Flies own the domain. Through a variable exchange of words, I ask if any comida can be had – hot prepared food, a treat and an inspection I perform at all the pueblitas. Victor, 43, the son of the tiendas proprietor, offers, then insists, I come into his home where he fixes a plate at the stove.
The home is on half dirt half and crumbled sea shell chelate soil. A banquet table strewn with kitchen necessities lines one wall, insulin needles in a container atop a splattered microwave, water is not used for cleaning. The osb walls are unpainted and grayed with age. The one window holds as much dust on both sides of its pane. Batteries, solar charge controller and mangled wiring line another of the walls, the tienda can be seen back through the doorway we entered Victor’s home from. The gas stove smokes hot with pans of lard. I sit to eat. Eggs, queso fresco, beans, tortillas, hot dogs and picante. The best of what Victor and his father had.
I see the other rooms from where I sit – bedrooms, barren, survivalist or transient in appearance, two beloved Chihuahuas in sweaters roam about. This is a home few can realize but after being on the trail, I’ve grown to understand what contemporary means in different lands with different languages. As I become aware, this is community, as I have seen time and again here. Barely any resource surrounds this fishing village. Fishermen spend their earn on true investment like fiberglass repair, truck repair, outboard motors and tackle. The rest is left to rummage. But the beds are warm and sheltered from the wind and there is a place to cook. Everyone sleeps well but the oldest dogs gimped in the hips, manifest by nature. The only insurance here is work and optimism. Ive yet to see a disintegrating soul in need of pills and therapy to comply. It just isn’t that kind of environment. There is no room for that.
