It’s three in the morning and I don’t speak the
language. What’s worse – my lack of fluency isn’t
the main problem. Drizzle cutting the fog does
nothing to ease the anxiety-induced perspiration
soaking the Mexican truckers and farmers crowded
together on the narrow, serpentine road. Not a
woman or child is to be seen. They’re huddled
helplessly in truck cabs. Giant rocks echo, each
cracking like individual lightning strikes across the
shrouded mountains. Every man strains to see
upward. Clack –clack – then more clacks in the
distant night signaling huge stones coalescing into a
cascade of gigantic rocks rumbling down
mountainsides. The pungency of my fright-induced
sweat might overwhelm their odors, but no one
cares. We glance at the two thousand-foot drop-off,
then up and down the road, before darting behind
the nearest big rig once again.
I’ve traveled in Mexico almost every year since
that first avalanche adventure. I discovered Poza
Rica, near Papantala and the mysterious ruins of El
Tajin are about three hours north of Veracruz City. It
took a day to make that distance forty-four years
ago. During subsequent trips, I never needed to take
that route from the Gulf coast to Mexico City and it
became a dim memory. Fifteen years ago I started
taking that highway more often. It wasn’t the same
primitive road. I figured the Mexican highway
department used some of the old route and with
better equipment just made a newer road. (They are
now building a toll road that will cut between Poza
Rica and Arco Norte going to Mexico City and the
western cities.)
Five years ago I drove from Poza Rica to Arco
Norte when in the middle of the mountain range all
traffic was stopped. Highway workers were repairing
The horrific sounds stop and a tangible stillness a bridge ahead. Such stops are fairly common in
fills the night. We wait for our hearts to slow and our Mexico and last a long time. Drivers exit their cars
breathing to become normal. Then it’s relieved grins and talk with other folks stuck in line. While meeting
all around. Laughter and slaps on the back from my
people one guy said he knew the old road around
new buddies precede a great deal of rapid
the blockage and did anyone want to follow him. I
explanation. I don’t understand a single word, but
was the only one who decided to follow.
the tenor carries the meaning. It’ll be ten or fifteen
minutes--twenty if we’re lucky--before the next
We backtracked about fifteen miles to an Indian
avalanche and we repeat our futile retreat. Each
town and turned off the highway riding through the
time, I laugh at myself for seeking safety behind a
pueblo. The road was primitive, without guardrails.
semi. There would be as much hope of damming the In some places half a lane had crumbled and fallen
Mississippi with the rig as using it to stop those
thousands of feet below. We passed rushing
huge tumbling boulders.
waterfall after waterfall and climbed ever higher. I
was back on the original 1971 road, perhaps 9,000
We made five or six attempts at running to the
feet above sea level at times. The views were
bulldozers but never got halfway before giant
spectacular and beat anything I’ve enjoyed in the
stones began tumbling again. Hearing the giant
Sierra Madres or Rockies. I split from my companion
rocks striking and the crashing of huge trees ripped and the roads became confusing. Signs indicated
from the earth weakens the legs. After our last
pueblos I’d never heard of down steep exit roads. At
attempt the road suddenly opened. My new friends
each choice I took the road that seemed most likely
tugged my arm, pointed at the bike and with sign
to go northwest. After half an hour of worried travel I
language and urgent Spanish made me know we had reached the main road.
to move quick before the road closed again. They
insisted I couldn’t make it through the mud on the
The sudden side trip was a great and unexpected
motorcycle. They carried cement blocks and we
present. I’ll return to that old forgotten road in the
quickly hoisted the bike on top, covered it with
near future. For most it would be just an exciting and
canvas and tied it down. Four of us fit snuggly in the beautiful ride. However, I’ll need a day or two. I
cab. I don’t know when I dropped off to sleep but at want to photograph the vistas and the villages that
first light my companions woke me.
remain undisturbed by the modern world and take
me back to the primitive Mexico I first knew from the
We were in the small oil town of Poza Rica. I’d never back of a motorcycle.
heard of Poza Rica but the sun was bright and there
was no rain. They pointed and I headed in the
direction they sent me wondering where in heck I
was.
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