Mexico 2.0 Part 3: Merry Christmas in La Pesca! (12.25.2021)

Gifts to Ourselves

Waking up in our tent on Christmas morning was glorious. We had already decided to take the day off, it was Christmas after all - no driving, no worrying, no errands. We had a campground to explore, enough snacks in the pantry and food in the fridge to last for a few days, and Chelsea’s camera wasn’t going to run out of film any time soon.

We had driven in the night before at dusk - there was still a golden glow coming from the West, and we were given a few minutes to see the majority of the property before we were bathed in darkness, but we really hadn’t gotten a feel for the place, so the first order of business after some instant coffee was to explore. The property was called “Tropicana Resort” and we found it using iOverlander, but it is also listed as “Topicana Bungalows” on Google. The Tropicana Resort was one of thee reviews for the La Pesca area on iOverlander, and it specifically mentioned camping and seems to have become an overlanding favorite as it offers simple amenities at an inexpensive price, like bathrooms, limited shore power opportunities, basic WiFi near the owner’s house, and very safe parking. The greater community of La Pesca looks to have many hotel opportunities, and I am sure most of the properties would welcome campers, especially self contained overland rigs. We were warned, however, that spring break season in the area can bring tens of thousands of tourists, so the sleepy community we found on Christmas day may not be indicative of its status year-round. You’ve been warned.

The resort was “gaurded” by two homes that looked lived in full time - one was the owners and the other I assume belonged to family member or a laborer, as there was evidence of recent and ongoing construction. The owners house contained the bathrooms, maybe a few toilet stalls and showers stalls, out of which there was an obvious favored one of each, and the WiFi, so communication had to be done in the shade of a palm tree maybe 20 meters away, as the signal didn’t reach the camp sites. Extending down the property from the owners house were two grassy fields, one on each side of the resorts drive way, maybe 100 meters long, with plenty of room to fit a dozen campsites.

At the end of the grassy fields were five beautiful, thatched roofed casitas, painted in breathtaking off-shades of primary colors, giving the property a very tropical kindergarten vibe. Two large communal palapas and a shallow swimming pool bordered the shoreline of the Rio Soto La Marina, an estuary that reaches all the way to the town Soto Marina on Mex180, which was our turn off the highway and towards the coast.

Exploring the property and letting Gracie get used to her first of many encounters with free-roaming Mexican dogs.

Casitas to the right…new pool under construction to the left.

We’ve officially entered the land of coconuts!

Stretching Our Legs

Even though we had told ourselves we were going to take the day off and do nothing, I eventually got antsy and couldn’t keep myself from unloading our two motorcycles for a short ride to the beach. The entire build of the truck was based on hauling our TW200s, and we had compromised on a lot to have motorcycle freedom, so I felt we needed get our money’s worth out of the hassle.

We locked Gracie in the truck, strapped on our retro helmets and carefully buzzed down to the beach, only a few kilometers away. It was gorgeously empty - no cars on the road and only a few in the parking areas. There was a healthy breeze, and the Gulf was gently crashing on the shore, and it all felt alien and beautiful and perfect. We had no desire to stay, only the desire to experience and enjoy and move on, the essence of travel.

We rode the sand tracks back as far as we could, as they paralleled the road and offered access to palapas and private family campsites set just far enough off the sand to be considered privada and not publica. The sand dual tracks were flowy and firm and fun and we are terrible motorcyclists so it felt like a real adventure to be driving 10MPH next to the Gulf on something that wasn’t asphalt. Eventually we were flagged down by a passing motorist in a nice sedan, maybe a Lexus or something like that. Out stepped a man in his mid-70s who wanted to know what were we doing, what we were riding, and what we thought of his stories of his old Yamaha road bike that he used to tour around on. It made me a little disappointed that we weren’t doing the entire trip on the TW-200s, as I don’t think he would have waved us down if we were driving the truck.

We didn’t stay long, as we knew we had a needy little cattle dog waiting in cab of the truck, so we turned tail and rode to the campground. Back at the site Chels released the hound and we gave her a quick tour on the back of my bike - Gracie loves being with us on any vehicle, in any craft, and doesn’t want to miss a single adventure.

Camp Life

The best part of overland travel is having genuine, cross-cultural interactions with local residents in foreign communities. The second best part of overland travel is meeting other travelers. Thankfully, there were a few other travelers at La Pesca, and we had a fantastic time spending the Holiday with them.

First we met a Belgian family of four (plus dog) traveling from Canada to Panama in their late 80’s full size class A motor home. They are touring and posting under the name “Fata Tropicana” and they are worth a follow on Instagram, especially for anyone with little kids that was to do the long distance, long(ish) term traveling thing. I was mostly a fan of their stories of crossing the Mexican border, as it took them three days ( I thought my 3 hour “ordeal” was bad!) and included some light forgery using Photoshop.

In addition we met Luis and his girlfriend, traveling in retirement from Quebec through the United States and in to Mexico in their crossover SUV towing a hard-sided pop-up trailer. He had been planning the trip for years, including a once-in-a-lifetime stop in his dream destination of New Orleans, Louisiana. His family had begged him not to go, he said, warning him of the dangers of traveling in Mexico, promising he would lose his life south of the border. Instead, he had so far spent a few weeks scuba diving in the Gulf and eating seafood tacos. I suppose danger comes in all forms?

It was a great two nights, with one full Christmas Day of doing not much and loving it. We had a little camp fire with our traveller friends, met the property’s parrot, hung out with local Mexican-Americans visiting family, and slept in the tent for the first two nights on the journey. It was exactly the present we had been wishing for.

An informal gathering of the travelers in the ‘wifi zone’ of the campground.

Our Christmas selfie!

Our camp spot turned adventure-staging area with the bikes out.

Gracie has fully adopted the truck as her safe space, opting to lounge in the back seat or in the truck bed when she’s tired.

Finally using the roof top tent - AKA ‘Sky Cabin’!

Mexico 2.0 Part 2: Border Crossing Drama and Christmas Eve in La Pesca (12.24.2022)

Nearing the Border

We had hustled through the US, making miles and pushing hard, spending too much money on uncomfortable motel rooms, all to get within striking distance of the border before Christmas. The plan was to wake up very early, get to the border ASAP on Christmas eve, hopefully cross with no troubles, and then drive for ~three hours down to a La Pesca, a fishing and resort community on the gulf. We harbor fears of border towns in any country, so our plan was to cross and drive as far as possible during the daylight hours to minimize risk. That was the plan…but nothing goes to plan.

We woke up later than we wanted, maybe 7:30 instead of 6AM, and from there on it felt like our feet were stuck in the mud, each stride forward taking an absurd amount of time, probably because we were nervous, apprehensive, like a swimmer standing on the pool deck next to an empty lap pool early in the morning, knowing they have to train for their race but not wanting to leave the security of their dry, warm towel.

Packing the truck was a process, even though we took almost nothing out the night before. The pre-drive check seemed like it took forever, making sure fluids were topped and paperwork was hidden and decoy paperwork was visible. Navigating McAllen wasn’t easy, and a last-chance supply mission to Walmart dragged on and on, only for us to forget to purchase most of what we’d deemed necessary when we stopped there. By the time we were approaching the border it was after 11AM, and we hadn’t eaten anything, so we stopped at a bakery whose hand painted sign proclaiming Abierto welcomed us to next step of the adventure. We were close, and Mexico was reaching for us.

Waiting in the Walmart parking lot, full of anxious energy

Christian loves taking photos of me when I’m not looking or ready.

Crossing the Border

We have very, very few images of the border crossing because recording or photographing borders is usually a bad idea. We even disabled and stowed away our dash cam because less trouble is less trouble. Crossing the bridge headed south for us was quick, with essentially no wait, and the only thing slowing us down being an inexpensive toll and a serpentine route through some jersey barriers masquerading as tank traps. The bridge itself isn’t very long, and before we knew it we were there, in Mexico.

We pulled over immediately, still in the world of the border crossing, before the lanes of traffic left the bureaucratic zone and morphed into the cacophony of downtown Reynosa. We had learned in Baja that traffic laws loosen slightly at the border, because everyone is moving at a snails pace over the aggressive speed bumps, and the lanes aren’t really lanes, but just suggestions. We asked for directions to the Banjercito, executed a super professional 8-point turn in traffic to navigate some turns much too tight for a 1996 crew cab long bed F-350, drove past some heavily armored and lightly caring Mexican Marines, and got to a shaded, secured parking spot to start the import process for our rig.

I left Chelsea in the truck with Gracie and approached the import hall with little idea of what I needed to do. The states of Baja Norte and Baja Sur are in a special administrative zone that doesn’t require temporary vehicle imports (one of many reasons why we refer to Baja as Mexico lite), so this was an aspect of Mexican bureaucracy we hadn’t encountered in our last trip. Luckily, there were two young employees at the door of the office ready to receive non-Spanish speakers and assist with the process. This was an absolute lifesaver, a blessing straight from the hand of God, as we would not have been able to enter the country without the help of our translator and guide Mariana. I think she was an employee of the Banjercito, or maybe part of a program from the Secretariat of Tourism, but whoever is funding that program should keep it up. Mariana was enormously helpful.

Once inside the office, things started off well. There was essentially no one in line, no crowd, the A/C was pumping, people were in masks, there was a discernible flow to the operation - all good things. Mariana and I waited in line for a few minutes, a stack of paperwork I assumed I would need clutched in my hands, everything from vehicle titles to rabies vaccination paperwork. We got to the front of the queue and I handed my papers to Mariana who handed them to the uninterested guard at the desk, who then handed them back to Mariana who then handed them back to me with a matter-of-fact, “Your truck is too heavy. You can’t go to Mexico.”

I had failed to imagine there would be a weight limit to the temporary import permit.

Mariana argued my case, I stood silently, she told me I had to go home, I asked about big RVs crossing the border, she argued my case again to another man at another desk, the man told her to tell me I had to go home. This went on for a while, until Mariana shrugged and said “Let’s try to get the paperwork for your motorcycles.”

We went back to the front of the queue and I handed my papers to Mariana who handed them to the even more uninterested guard at the desk, who then handed them back to Mariana who then handed them back to me with a matter-of-fact, “You have too many street-legal vehicles. Your wife can bring a motorcycle but you can’t. You are bringing the truck. One of your bikes can’t go to Mexico.”

Somehow, through the silence of bureaucracy and without any monetary lubrication, our truck was now allowed to enter, but only one bike could accompany it, because we had fully registered the motorcycles and paid an Idaho roads and highways tax. The registrations has too much information on them - if the bikes weren’t street-legal we would be home free. I tired to press my luck but Mariana and the guard now showed a level of denial that they hadn’t shown before, so I inhaled, thanked them for their time, and walked out to Chelsea, the anxiety in my chest growing stronger by the moment.

I explained everything to Chelsea, I explained what I could to Gracie, and we brainstormed.
Go back to Idaho? “Absolutely not,” said Chelsea.
Drive all the way to Baja? “Absolutely not,” said Gracie.
Put one of the bikes in storage? “Absolutely not,” said I, “Let’s give it another try.”

I composed what constitution I had, and tried to imagine what my travel mentor Pablo would do in this situation. Well, he probably wouldn’t have brought a giant unnecessary truck and two motorbikes on an overland journey, but if he had he would calmly walk back into the office and ask “What should I do?” And that’s exactly what I did.

Mariana met me, and offered advice, “Let’s try again.” so we bypassed all the guards and desks at the front of the office and went straight for the banking area of the Banjercito, the area where the papers got signed and the fees got paid. Mariana said to me quietly and clearly, “Do not say anything,” and that is exactly what I did.

Over the next half hour our truck papers got signed and issued without a problem. One motorbike got imported even quicker, and for free because it was being transported by the truck. Lastly, the paperwork for the second motorbike was slid across the desk, and Mariana explained that it was a dirt bike, even though it had license plates and turn signals. At this point, Chelsea was also involved, having needed to come inside for her tourist visa. She offered up a few photos of the motorbikes on dirt roads with Gracie riding on the back. The officer shook his head and walked out to look at the bike, only to see the comically enormous rear tires of our TW200s, tires so big they ought not to be allowed on paved roads anywhere. Seeing our point, the officer walked back in, gathered even more officials above him and went back out to have a quorum around the tailgate of the truck. Eventually, he came back in with a stoic look, grabbed the paperwork and wrote “OFF ROAD” on our bike’s titles, and walked away. And just like that, we were in.

The one “stealthy” photo we grabbed of the entrance gate at the border.

The truck, parked and waiting for permission to continue.

Gracie was amazingly patient throughout the banjercito debacle.

Scammed!

Leaving the Banjercito felt like a giant breath of fresh air. We had our paperwork, we had our permits, we paid our fees, we had all legal and necessary documents to do what we wanted to do where we wanted to do it - success! We tossed the paperwork in the center console, and drove off…

… only to be stopped maybe a kilometer later by the flashing blues and reds of a police car. We were on a three lane divided road, essentially a highway, complete with a separate frontage road for residential and business traffic, doing 60kph (37mph) confirmed later by our dash cam footage, and there was a blue and white sedan behind us, tight on our tail, lights flashing, pulling us over. I immediately assumed it was a secondary component of the border crossing - perhaps the registration was checked and enforced once we left the border area, as there was no mandatory stop in the border, only optional places to apply for paperwork.

Still totally discombobulated from the permit ordeal only minutes before, Chelsea and I put on our N95 masks, locked our doors, and rolled down the window. A man wearing a white polo, blue slacks, and what looked to be a radio walked up, and as we explained we understood very little Spanish, he shoved a radar gun in our window that read 89 KPH and asked for my license and registration. Complying while playing dumb, I gave him my real license (I keep a voided copy for this EXACT reason, but I was so stressed out from the Banjercito I hadn’t sorted my things out yet in the center console), and he asked me to step out of the truck.

Outside the truck, I think he explained I had to go with him to the police station, to which I said I didn’t understand. We kept at this, he would try to explain, and I would say I didn’t understand. He lured me back to his “cop car” because he had my license, and he kept showing me the very simple looking radar gun that had a display that only showed “89 KPH”. He got in his car, rolled down the windows, and told me (I think) to get in the front seat because we were going (I think) to the police station. Thankfully, at this point I knew enough not to get in the car. The “cop” kept showing me the radar gun, kept pointing to the unchanging display, and then eventually handed me a ticket, which I have no doubt was a real ticket for speeding. Except that this ticket was for the day before. And the registration on it was for a Honda Ridgeline.

At this point, I started to realize what was going on. I was being shaken down. Not robbed, but scammed. The panic mostly dissipated, frustration and annoyance taking its place and offering a a moderate helping of indignant courage. The cop was going on about “100 US Dollars” after I muttered “Dinero? Dinero?”, but that was before I saw the ticket. I told him, in my broken Spanish, “Look, look, I have a dash camera, it shows my speed,” only for him to say “No, no, dinero, 100 dollars.” I reached into the cop car, which I then realized looked suspiciously like a normal sedan on the inside, devoid of a camera, or a cage, or a radio, or anything, grabbed my license and registration, threw the ticket back in his center console, and gave the man a twenty dollar bill. He waved at it sheepishly, I yelled “FELIZ NAVIDAD, SEÑOR,” and walked off. We drove away, and he whipped a U-turn, lights still flashing, looking for his next victim.

The “cop” checking our license plate before showing us how fast we weren’t going.

Driving to La Pesca

We were overcome by waves of relief, anger, gratitude, and resilience as we drove away from our run-in with the “law.” We were a little jittery, but as we made miles and escaped the clutches of stop and go traffic, we settled down and eventually were quite thankful for whatever lesson we had just learned for the low price of $20 USD.

We were sticking to our plan, as it was really the only plan we had - keep driving until we hit the Gulf. We had fuel, food, and water, but we didn’t know if we had enough daylight to make it to La Pesca - our ETA put us a few minutes past last light, according to Google. We were roughly 330km from our goal, but it was 1:30PM, so things would be tight. Reynosa traffic turned into the open road, and we were thrust back onto a highway cutting a black ribbon through emerald fields of agriculture.

I had to quickly adapt to the rules of the road in Mexico: straddle the broken white line on the far right whenever possible, essentially keeping two wheels on the shoulder, allowing for traffic headed the same direction to use most of the actual lane, and some of the oncoming lane, which hopefully wasn’t occupied. Chelsea kept reminding me of the rule she learned while living and driving in Greece - just follow the car in front of you, and don’t get hit.

We lost very little time on the drive, with my eyes glued to the road, and Chels focused on the navigation and the ETA. Finally, we got to our turn off the Mex 180 highway, and onto a coastal access road and the final 50km. The speed limit dropped, the sun was at our backs, and the road was filled with unmarked, unpainted topes, speed bumps, harsh enough to damage the stalwart suspension of our built-Ford-tough truck if we weren’t careful. We were close, and we started to relax - as long as La Pesca was a real place, we’d be there near enough to sundown to be ok.

Some of the city traffic as we made our way south through Reynosa.

Some examples of the traffic flow on the highways

Finally, a sign for our destination.

A particularly angry tope that we barely slowed down in time for (see our current speed from the dash cam!) when we saw it jump out from the shadows.

The beautifully colorful town of La Pesca…a welcome sight on Christmas Eve.

Our Room at the Inn

It was Christmas eve, the sun was setting over a calm, Gulf-coast estuary, and all was right in the world. As we neared the GPS coordinates marked on iOverlander, we saw what we were looking for: a large grassy field behind a fence, a small family sitting by their house near the gate, and a few very obvious RVs tacitly heralding the acceptance of campers on the property. What a relief.

With little fanfare we asked if we could camp and wished the caretaker a merry Christmas, dumped the dog out of the truck, and found a parking spot. The sun dropped behind the horizon, as if it had been waiting for us to arrive before turning off the lights. We got to setting up the roof top tent for our first night of camping for the trip, over 2000 miles from Donnelly Idaho, but feeling more at home than we had in years.

Christmas Eve dinner - tortillas, avocado, cheese and a freeze dried camp meal.

Mexico 2.0 Part 1: Breaking Free, Thawing Out (12.20.2021 - 12.23.2021)

Departing Idaho

What had started as a fever dream spawned by a certainly chronic and likely terminal case of fernweh¹ had metastasized into full blown reality. The truck² was packed to the gills - three rafts, two motorbikes, a roof top tent, and all their necessary accoutrements. The house was ready for renters - clothes and sundries unnecessary in tropical climates stowed away until our return. The road was freshly plowed - we had just survived the second week of record breaking December snowfall. All that was left was for Chelsea, Gracie, and I to jump into the literal truck and off the metaphoric ledge, to make the plunge, to start the trip - and Gracie was already in the truck.

Day one was a quick escape out the West Central mountains of Idaho. Snow drifts and berms that held us on our property receded quickly as we drove south through the canyons. Inside two hours we were surrounded by dry hillsides, the lower elevations of Boise reminding us that the whole world was not, in fact, a snow-globe. We plodded on, the engine humming, the wheels spinning, the dog sleeping, with our eyes set on Salt Lake City. It was the day before solstice and we were at the northern terminus of our route, meaning our hours of daylight driving would be the shortest of the entire trip. We had resigned ourselves, not to the possibility, but to the promise of driving at night, knowing that we would have to get a hotel to beat the cold and extend our ability to make miles. We stayed in the urbanity of suburban SLC on night one, a pedestrian start to the adventure. One united state down, four to go.

Fresh snow, fresh start? It was a record breaking December in the valley.

“I don’t care where you are going, I want to go with you.” - Gracie O’Malley Tuttle

Starting the Slog

Night one went well, which was a relief, because it was really the start of the trip, the departure from the norm. A seven hour drive to SLC isn’t out of the ordinary for us, it happens a couple times a year, and we’ve stayed in hotels and motels with Gracie the needy, energetic, too-smart-for-her-own-good cow dog before, but that night in the hotel was the first of the trip, and its general success gave us some confidence. Maybe we could do this? Maybe we could find independence? Maybe we still are the kind of people who drove a Pinzgauer through Baja, and converted a school bus, and lived in an ambulance? Maybe, just maybe, we actually are the Traveling Tuttles?

If we actually were the Traveling Tuttles, we would need some proof, and someday we would need some prints to hang on the walls of whatever old-folks home we eventually inhabit, so we stopped in Moab for some family photos. Chelsea packed a lot of her camera equipment, including her drone “Olsen”³ (named such by Chels’ newspaper editor, which I think makes me Superman?) for reasons such as this. If you’re going out to hunt for travel magic, it’s worth documenting.

We drove around some backroads just outside Moab looking for a minimally trafficked spot to fly and land the drone and get some good views of the area’s iconic red slick rock. Even in moments like this, with all the freedom in the world, we felt rushed to get the photos and get moving, as each moment spent taking photos meant less daylight drive time. The time spent on the dirt road was worth it though, and I think the family portraits came out great.

The Wintery grip of the Intermountain West was noticeably weaker on day 2 - we were escaping.

We made sure that getting to Chels’ photo kit wasn’t too arduous. Cameras that can’t be accessed can’t be used.

Family photo time! Batsquatch the truck has a real Harlequin vibe going on.

Slogging

From the start, which is a moment in time that neither Chelsea nor I can pinpoint, this trip was going to be divided into two halves - the slog north of the border, and then everything after. Day two, three, and four slipped by as the miles disappeared in the rearview mirror and the diesel drained out of the tanks. Our existence was the monotonous staccato of a long distance road trip: drive, food break, drive, bathroom break, drive, fuel stop, drive, play disc with your dog so she stops considering armed mutiny, drive, get a motel.

We found some travel magic along the way, but not much of it was documented. We stopped for a broken down 1969 VW bus on the side of the highway, inhabited by two young Utahans and their two dogs. They had been there all night, listing perilously and perched on three wheels and a jack stand as their wheel bearings had decided to weld themselves together under the strain of a load never imagined by engineers during the Summer of Love. We stopped for some of New Mexico’s best fried chicken and barbecue shortly after, where we were welcomed to New Mexico by a friendly local who commented that we were a long way from home when he saw our Idaho plates. We found kolaches in Texas after a heartbreaking five-plus year hiatus from the regional delicacy (selling Christmas trees in San Antonio got us properly hooked on the breakfast item in 2015).

The slog continued, and continued. We drove through New Mexican towns sleeping the winter away. We drove through the oil fields of West Texas at night, with the fires casting eerie, unnatural shadows across the landscape and the cab filling with the rotten-eggs-stench of hydrogen sulfide, as if the Earth was asking, “Are you sure you want to be taking this stuff out of the ground?” only to have my truck answer, “Yes, and please don’t stop, I’m thirsty.”

We drove until we were hungry, ate until we were uncomfortable, and kept going, until the hill country of Texas slowly gave way to palm trees and grass unusually lush for January. We were closer to the border than we were to home, by a long shot, and we were probably closer to the tropics than we were to the mountains. We picked our way through a heavy stream of traffic down through San Antonio and on, to McAllen, driving on a highway two sizes too small for the volume of traffic, surrounded by signs proclaiming the arrival of an interstate route to the border, someday soon. As night fell on us for the last time in the US, we pulled in to a motel in McAllen, an easy 8 miles from the border. It felt like we had made it all the way to the edge of the cliff - now all we had to do was jump off.

If you find yourself in Cuba, New Mexico, do yourself a favor and stop at Mel’s Drive Thru Chicken and BBQ - it was well worth it

Even Gracie got a few morsels of chicken and bbq goodness at Mel’s.

Slogging.

one quick wash on the road to get that pesky road salt off.

Kolaches!

KOLACHES!!!

Slogging, slogging, slogging.

Slogging, slogging, slogging to success!

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¹ “Fernweh” is a German word for “farsickness,” the opposite of homesickness.

² “Batsquatch”, a 1996 Ford F-350 XLT

³ Jimmy Olsen is a fictional character appearing in American Superman comic books published by DC Comics. Olsen is most often portrayed as a young photojournalist working for the Daily Planet.