Monday, November 19, 2007
October 9, 2003 Ann Arbor to Eagle Pass, Texas
Dear Friends and Family,
We spent the night in a luxurious motel room (a suite, really) here in Eagle Pass Texas, ready to cross over into Piedras Negras, Mexico. What a change this king size bed and the extra room with couch, desk and refrigerator, from Howie, who has little more than a bed and storage space, and where we have to be careful not to bump our heads when we turn over in middle of the night. Not to downgrade Howie! She is serving us well, and we are growing very fond of her.
For those of you who haven’t met Howie, she is the full size 1990 Ford Econoline cargo van that we bought from Howard Bond. We had been talking for years about getting a used van, outfitting it for camping, and making a trip like this, so when Howard, in one of his newsletters, offered the van that he had been using for his workshops in Colorado and the UP, we jumped at it. Howard had already outfitted her to suit a photographer, with secure storage for cameras and tripods and other valuables, a platform for setting up a tripods on the roof, and bunks for himself and Margaret, and even a pot to pee in. She was even white, to be cooler in hot climates! She had 100,000 miles on her, but almost all highway miles, and Howard had taken such meticulous care of her that she only looks and acts half her age. About all we had to do to make her suit us was (since we are both a little larger than Howard and Margaret) was to make Howard’s bunk extendable into a double bed and take out a partition between the driver/passenger compartment and the rest of the van so that we could push the seats back a bit further. We also went down to Elkhart, Indiana (RV heaven) and bought a super captain’s chair for the passenger side (the driver’s side already had a pretty good one). You can guess who sits in that one most of the time!
We’ve been taking a lot of back roads and “blue highways” and so getting a good look at the midsection of our country in a way that you don’t see it from the expressway. . . . From St. Louis we headed down route 67 toward Memphis, which took us through the Ozarks. We were enjoying the scenery, which reminded us a little of western North Carolina, when we realized there was something very different about this place. There were no billboards! How nice not to be bombarded with blaring announcements of auto dealerships and flea markets every 500 feet. We wondered if Missouri had a law banning billboards in this region. In Arkansas the green hills gave way to rice paddies and cotton fields (and interesting junkyards!) and we realized we were in “the South.”
One of the best things about traveling the way we do is that you meet such interesting people. Mary Beth was one of those. As soon as we drove across the Mississippi into Memphis, we stopped at the visitor’s center. Mary Beth was standing behind the counter looking like she wanted something to do, so Jim walked up and said, “You look like you’re just waiting to talk to us.”
“I am,” she said. “I’ve been waiting all morning.” She turned out to be a kindred spirit, down to sharing a love for the comic strip “Arlo and Janis.” In fact, she had just bought her “ex-hippie” husband, who dreamed of going off sailing, a little sailboat. She told us all of the best things to see on a short stop in Memphis, excluding some saying “You won’t like that--it’s too touristy!” We didn’t get to them all, thinking that we would come back to Memphis sometime, but we ate the best BBQ’d ribs we’ve ever tasted on Beale Street, and listened to some great blues played by some old guys in a public park. One of my most moving experiences was standing in front of the Lorraine Motel looking at the balcony where Martin Luther King was shot. I couldn’t help thinking how our country might be different if our best leaders hadn’t been assassinated in the 60’s. The entire motel is now the centerpiece for the Civil Rights Museum. A local panhandler pointed out the windows in the building across the street, now abandoned, where the shots that killed King came from.
We wondered what new scenes of Southern life we’d see when left Memphis on Highway 61 and crossed the line into Mississippi. What we saw was traffic--tons of it--and billboard after billboard advertising casinos. They proclaimed “loose slots” --illustrated by seductive images of women--and shows by lots of stars we remembered from decades ago plus some contemporary ones: Alice Cooper, The Moody Blues, Lisa Marie Presley . . . The traffic was so crazy with cars weaving wildly in and out that we thought we were on I-94 to Detroit.
Then we saw a stretch limo pull into the median pull out to make a u-turn, and about 20 cars followed it. Undoubtedly one of the celebrities with his or her entourage of paparazzi.
When we left Tunica County, the billboards disappeared, replaced by mile after mile after mile of perfectly flat river delta land blanketed with cotton fields. As we drove through them, we pictured another era when we might have seen men and women and children dragging their heavy bags through the fields picking the cotton. Later we saw how it is done now, with giant machines stripping the white puffy balls from the plants and delivering them to a compacter that produced huge bales the size of semi trailers. The names of the towns we drove through make a kind of poetry--Alligator, Hushpuckena, Arcola, Percy, Panther Burn, Nitta Yuma, Anguila, Blanton, and Onward.
We left Hwy 61 in St. Francisville, Louisiana, to take the ferry across the Mississippi to New Roads, from where we wound through cypress groves and bayous , across the bed of the Atchafalaya--which would be the Mississippi today if nature had her way. After crossing the longest bridge we’ve ever seen (it is at least 15 miles long) across the bayous, we arrived in Lafayette (Laff-yet) LA, center of Cajun country. We were a little disappointed in the town of Lafayette itself, but we were struck by the number of French speaking tourists we saw. We enjoyed the tongue in cheek bilingualism of the town, especially the sign over the university stadium urging “Geaux Cajuns!”
Our interest picked up when we headed down to New Iberia (where the legendary jazz trumpeter Bunk Johnson was rediscovered, given a new set of teeth, and put on the comeback road) and headed across the marshland of the Louisiana Gulf coast. Another woman in a tourist information office gave us a serendipitous suggestion, which sent us to the perfect campsite. But before we got there we stopped to visit the Rockefeller Nature Refuge. We had stopped where we saw some interesting scenery by a boat access area to the marshland. Angie was getting an egret to pose for her when a local pulled his car over and said, ‘You’re pissing into the wind here. If you want to see some great scenery, go up past the ranger station to Place Lake Road, turn left and take it up to the end.” We followed his directions and found ourselves on a one-lane road that went right out into the marshes with water on both sides. As Jim squeezed past a pickup that belonged to a couple of old guys that had stopped to fish, he rolled down the window and asked, “How far does this road go?” The old fisherman grinned and replied “All the way to the end.”
We camped on Holly Beach, near the Texas border, and as I mentioned, it was the perfect campsite. Beach as far as you could see in either direction, hard white sand to park the van on. Nobody else on the whole beach (well, a couple of temporary visitors). And our private drama when the police came in to arrest three drunks who had driven onto the beach to do wheelies. The rest of the time, though, it was perfectly serene. We set up our mosquito cabana, lit a bonfire, and spent the evening watching the gentle waves roll in from the Gulf under the full moon. Of course, every paradise has its flaw, as we were reminded when we ended up sharing our bed with millions of mosquitoes which some how got into our van in spite of the screens. We got up in the morning looking like we had the chicken pox,
Jim had been warning Angie for days about the boredom of driving across Texas. “We’ll get back on I-10 and just gut it out and try to make it in one day,” he said. But once we got past the truly amazing oil fields and refineries between Port Arthur and Houston we were pleasantly surprised by the lush rolling country we passed through. They call it the Hill Country of Texas, although is more like the rolling plains of Iowa than real hills. Only during the last hundred miles, when we left the expressway to head for Eagle Pass did we drive through the miles of chaparral and mesquite that we had been expecting.
Love to you all!
Jim and Angie
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Maruata, Michoacan 25 Febrero 2006
“Hace mucho frio,” the lady in the little food tienda said to us. “It’s cold!” Yeah, we thought, it must have gotten down to 65 last night. We were glad to have a blanket on the bed, and when we got up at about an hour before sunup to go look for sea turtles on the beach, we wore sweatshirts—at least until the sun came up. Of course by 2 p.m. it was 90 again. Nothing to do but read, take a siesta, then go for a swim in the ocean to take up the time until 4 or so, when it begins to feel like spring time again.
Maruata hasn’t changed since we were here last year, when we decided it was as close to paradise as we were ever likely to see. We are afraid that some day the developers will get to it, but Warren and Sherry, who spend five months here every year living out of their stubby old blue school bus, think it won’t, since the village is communally owned by the tribe of Nahuatl Indians who live here. They originally lived where Mexico City is today, but were driven off their lands by the descendants of the Spaniards and had to make a new life for themselves by the sea. Poor things! Now they live by fishing, and, since the highway came by here about 20 years ago, by catering to tourists. You have to be a special kind of tourist to come here, though. There are few gringos. Most are Mexicans, or alternative types from all over the world, Greece, Russia, France, Canada, Czechoslovakia. You either throw up your tent under a palm thatched ramada, or park your van or camper on the beach. Or you do as we do and pay Elodio and Martina a few bucks to park inside their wooden fenced compound where you have the luxury of shady palm trees, a place to hang your hammock, restrooms with flush toilets and (cold) showers, and best of all, the pila, or cement reservoir, where you can wash up or do your laundry. Since the lavanderia in Puerto Angel was out of water the day we laid over there to have ours done, we spent two days at the pila catching up.
Elodio is 87 years old. Nearly every day he saddles up his horse, attaches his lariat and machete to the saddle, mounts and goes off to work on his property. His only concession to his age is that he mounts the horse from a stump. Elodio gets a kick out of Jim playing the guitar, and keeps telling him to sing. It’s best that Jim just play the guitar! Warren and Sherry are semi-permanent residents. Warren spent many years on the fishing boats out of New Bedford. Now, at 60, he goes swimming everyday with wetsuit, weights, and spear gun, and he always comes home with fish. He gives many of them to the villagers, who all love him, and to other campers if he likes them. Our first day here we invited them for dinner and Angie made pasta with the shrimp we had bought in a little port on the way here. In return, we got fish for dinner the next night, and we have more in our cooler for tonight. Sherry sometimes teaches belly dancing, in Colorado, where they live the rest of the year, and here to anyone who is interested. Angie spent an hour with her yesterday, and was exhausted afterward! She didn’t know that so many parts of her body could move independently.
The locals here are mostly very friendly towards us. Sherry told us about Anselma, who makes clothes from manta, which is like unbleached muslin, so we visited her, and Jim bought a pair of long pantaloons, and she altered a skirt for Angie and made her a pair of pantalons to measure. She put ties around the bottoms of the legs to help us keep the mosquitoes and sand fleas out. Lupita bakes almost every day, loaves of bread with cheese in the middle, empanadas, and on special occasions pizza.
Angie is sitting under a palapa writng, There’s a great breeze and she is listening to the waves crashing on shore on one of the three beaches here, the one with all of the rocks, and the holes where the water comes crashing through. Jim is out swimming off the quiet beach. Warren just came back from diving with several large fish hanging from his speargun. We’ll have fresh fish for dinner tonight, under stars so bright they almost hurt. What more could anyone ask for!
It’s very hard to leave here, and we keep putting of our departure date, but by the time you get this, we’ll have left and be sadly making our way back toward the states.
Look forward to seeing you all soon!
Besos y abrazos from
Saturday, November 17, 2007
November 17, 2007
We're busy getting ready for our big trip to the Southwest and Mexico in our new van La Gitana, the successor to Howie. Our shakedown cruise was to the maritime provinces of Canada--Quebec, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia (Newfoundland will have to wait till next year). We were lucky to get some great images, which you can see in the new gallery Down East on our website www.fotogypsies.com Angie took this one at Blue Rocks, Nova Scotia, near Lunenberg. (Click on the image to see a larger version.)