Along the Trans-Mexico Trail
Oaxaca to Raudales Malpaso, February 11 — 25, 2025 (Con. Page 2)
Day Eight– Rio El Chapuzon to San Juan Guichicovi February 19, 2025
¡Órale! Woke up to the soothing serenade of a downpour. My “idyllic” riverside campsite just outside the sleepy burg of Loma was suddenly less “idyllic” and more “aquatic.” Played the waiting game with the rain, finally hit the road around ten in the mañana. ¡Qué flojera!
The “road” from Loma to Platanillo? ¡Ay, Dios mío! More like a goat path that had lost a fight with the jungle. Seriously overgrown, and rougher than a badger’s backside. There was this one washout that said a big “NOPE” to anything with more than two wheels and pedals. It’s still blowing my mind how little traffic there is between these super-remote mountain pueblos. Not even a beat-up truck hauling supplies, let alone folks zipping between villages. Looks like everyone’s pretty self-sufficient and keeps to themselves. ¡Qué tranqui!
Rolled into Platanillo around noon, found this “tienda” that was about as well-stocked as my brain before coffee. Mostly crackers. Seriously, where’s the actual food in these places? Makes you wonder what folks eat. Guess they’re all rockin’ their own veggie gardens and chasing chickens around for Sunday dinner. ¡Quién sabe!
Asked about a comedor (you know, a place where a hungry cyclist can inhale some grub), and this dude on a moto goes “¡Sígame!” (Follow me!). Easy peasy on the downhill. But then the hill went up, and puf! He was gone faster than free tacos. Finally caught up to him parked in front of this joint where a bunch of Mexican army dudes (and dudettes!) were chowing down on chicken noodle soup. The lady running the place slapped a bowl in front of me, and I joined the military chow line. Told ’em I did 24 years in the US Air Force, and one of ’em goes, “¡Esa es toda mi vida!” (That’s my whole life!). ¡Órale, güey! Makes you feel old.
Didn’t get much intel on this supposed Zapotec-government beef. Asked some guy at another table if the road was still closed. “¡No!” he says. “Estaba cerrado, pero ahora está abierto!” (It was closed, but now it’s open!). ¡Aleluya! Road trip saved!
As I was rollin’ outta town, there were un montón (a ton) of policía and army guys, but nobody tried to stop me. Except, almost at the very end, I heard this kid yelling something that sounded like “¡Para!” (Stop!). Figured, “Eh, probably just stoked to see a sweaty gringo on a bike,” and kept pedaling. No delays, no roadblocks all the way to San Juan Guichicovi! Scored a hotel (Hotel Jardin) that was totally cool with a bike-packing dirtbag like myself. Went out for dinner a couple of blocks away and demolished some tlayudas (Oaxacan pizza!) and two plátano malteados (banana milkshakes!). ¡Qué rico! Day officially salvaged.
Day Nine San Juan Guichicovi to Plan de Arroyo
February 20, 2025
¡Órale! My laundry
showed up faster than a hungry coyote at a carne asada, so I hopped to it and got my ropa limpia on. Said “adiós” to Anna, her daughter Juanita, and her son Billy – those folks at Hotel Jardin in San Juan Guichicovi were cooler than a cucumber in a margarita. ¡Qué buena gente!
Made a quick pit stop at a farmacia for some contact lens juice, just in time to catch an indigenous parade rollin’ by. Whipped out the phone and snagged some pics and vids – gotta document the local flavor, ¿sabes?
The bike ride today? Mostly downhill, which my trasero greatly appreciated. Sprinkled in a few uphill surprises just to keep things spicy. About half the ride was on dirt roads that were messier than a toddler with a chocolate milkshake thanks to the rain. It rained on and off all freakin’ day. ¡Qué aguacero!
Stopped to fire off a text when this dude named Ricardo, rockin’ a “911 Emergency” shirt, started grillin’ me. “Necesitas ayuda?” (You need help?), he asks. “¡Sí!” I blurted out. “Don’t think my gringo legs can make it all the way to La Chinantla for a hotel. Could definitely use a place to crash.” ¡Gracias, destino!
Ricardo got on his teléfono faster than Speedy Gonzalez and arranged a room in Plan de Arroyo, about eight more miles down the soggy road. Rolled in around five in the tarde, just as I was about to wave the white flag and sleep under a mango tree. Another Ricardo shows up on his moto like my personal knight in slightly muddy armor.
Showed me my digs: a room so basic, it was practically air. Empty as a politician’s promises. Ricardo, being the awesome anfitrión that he is, went and wrestled another mattress from some other vacant cuarto. ¡Qué amable! Looks like this noche will be slightly less like sleeping on a tortilla. ¡Gracias, Ricardos! You guys are la onda!
Day Ten Plan de Arroyo to Nueva Esperanza
February 21, 2025
¡Qué onda! This morning started with a cafecito and some good plática with Ricardo Bonilla, the awesome dude who put a roof over my head last night. He whipped out the photo album – ¡una familia enorme! – and gave me the lowdown on Plan de Arroyo. Turns out, his papá was one of the OG founders back in nineteen-seventy. Then he drops this bombshell: deported from the US once? Nope. Once? ¡Ja! Try once times eleven! One time, he said they even put him on a plane, tied up like a burrito, and gave him a tiny water bottle to try and sip with his hands all bound up. ¡Qué gacho!
So, the backstory on how I ended up in Ricardo’s humble abode: yesterday, when the sun started playing hide-and-seek way too early for my liking and La Chinantla’s hotel seemed light-years away, I pulled over to text the digital world ’cause, ¡milagro!, I had a sliver of reception. This shiny new truck pulls up, and out pops a dude with “911 Emergency” plastered on his sleeve. Talk about convenient! Asked if he could lend a mano. Told him a basic cuarto would be my kingdom for the night – too many people around to play Daniel Boone with my tent, and the ground was soggier than a torta in a hurricane. He worked his phone magic, and ¡voilà! Plan de Arroyo became my unexpected oasis.
Hit the muddy road outta there around eight-fifteen this morning. Fifty-two miles later, mostly flat but definitely a splashy affair, I rolled into Nueva Esperanza and snagged a hotel for the night. “Hotel”? Well, let’s just say “very básico” is an understatement. Three hundred pesos (fifteen bucks!) for a bed. ¡Baratísimo!
Dinner took a couple of tries. First place? Just bistek and… tripa. Nope, my stomach politely declined that adventure. Second joint was the charm: pollo and a whole fiesta of lively locals who seemed thoroughly amused by the gringo with the questionable Spanish and the even more questionable jokes. Good times all around! They were definitely diggin’ the comedic relief. ¡Me cae bien esta gente!
Day 11 Nueva Esperanza to Primitivo R. Valencia
¡Ay, caramba! Yesterday was a full-blown fiesta of misfortune, and guess what? The party’s still raging!
Left Nueva Esperanza bright and early at 7:40 AM, hopin’ to make it to Raudales Malpaso, the promised land of hotels. But my spidey-sense (and lack of daylight) told me that was about as likely as finding a decent cup of coffee at a gas station. So, Plan B: pedal ’til I can’t pedal no more, then embrace the great outdoors (and hopefully avoid any nocturnal critters).
Even though the sky wasn’t cryin’ (yet), the dirt roads were mud wrestling with my tires. My bike was lookin’ like it had gone mud-boggin’ with a monster truck.
Breakfast of champions? Five puny bananas, two apples, some crackers that tasted like sadness, and a handful of nuts. Definitely not fuelin’ the engine of this magnificent machine (that was currently accumulating half its weight in mud).
About thirty miles in, snap crackle pop – my chain decided to stage a dramatic walkout. Again! Luckily, a super nice couple in a ginormous, shiny truck played the good Samaritans and hauled my sorry self and my crippled steed to a motorcycle mechanic in this tiny pueblo called Primitivo R. Valencia.
Now, Felipe, bless his resourceful heart, didn’t exactly have the Tour de France toolkit. But in true “we can fix anything with duct tape and sheer willpower” spirit, he gave it his best shot.
First try? He had the chain lookin’ like a drunken spaghetti monster in my derailleur. My bad, partly. Luckily, I’m a chronic over-preparer and had snapped a pic of the correct configuration before I crammed the bike into its travel coffin. Had to break the chain again to untangle his masterpiece. Good times.
Finally, after a wrestling match that would make John Cena proud, he got it back together and (mostly) where it should be. Felipe asked only for a paltry 200 pesos. Tried to slip him a twenty-dollar bill too, but he was all “¡No, gracias!” So, I tossed another fifty his way, which he promptly gave to his kid, who’d been his shadow mechanic.
Pedaled off, feelin’ like a champ for all of maybe one kilometer. Then snap crackle pop – the sequel! Chain decided to go on strike again. Managed to coast most of the way back ’cause, thankfully, gravity was on my side. For a hot second, I considered just hoofing it the thirty miles to Raudales Malpaso, but my feet vetoed that idea faster than you can say “blisters.” Back to Felipe’s it was.
As night started creepin’ in, Felipe got the chain semi-functional again. Took it for a celebratory test ride, and wham! Locked up tighter than Fort Knox. Turns out, the little geary bit on my derailleur had bailed. Cue a flashlight safari in the roadside weeds, led by Felipe’s kid, who has the hawk eyes of a seasoned treasure hunter. Found it!
Felipe scratched his head like he was solving a Rubik’s Cube blindfolded. I figured, “Hey, mind if I pitch my tent?” He offered me a hammock instead. Hammock it was!
Slept kinda sideways under a lean-to next to his kitchen, the heart of their humble abode shared with his esposa and tres niños. While I was tryin’ to find a comfy hammock position, his wife whipped up coffee, toast, and compote. The whole family sat nearby, chowing down. Felipe and I had a surprisingly deep convo about cars and global manufacturing (who knew?), he pointed me to the outhouse (always a highlight), and I tried to read for a bit before the sandman paid a visit. My dreams were mostly about Elon Musk taking over the government and causing all sorts of digital mayhem. Which, let’s be honest, feels a little too real these days. ¡Qué pesadilla!
Last night, I pitched the crazy idea to Felipe: just ditch the whole fancy derailleur nonsense and make my bike a single-speed. That way, I could at least limp along until I found a real bike shop to sort out this mechanical comedy of errors. Seems like the sanest plan right now. The other option – bribing someone to truck me and the bike to a city with buses to Antigua – sounds like a logistical nightmare worthy of its own sitcom.
Meanwhile, the rain’s tappin’ a little drum solo on the roof. This morning, Felipe’s workin’ his single-speed magic. Just handed me the extra chain links – souvenirs from yesterday’s chain-breaking extravaganza. The adventure continues, folks, just slightly less geared up than planned. Literally.
Day 12 Primitivo R. Valencia to Raudales Malpaso
¡Ay, caramba! Left Primitivo with my heart doin’ the cha-cha, all jittery about this new single-speed Frankenstein setup Felipe whipped up. No more fancy desviador (derailleur) – just one gear, baby! Talk about going back to basics.
The early miles were mostly flat, so it wasn’t too bad. Villages were scarcer than a polite mosquito, and houses were sprinkled around like confetti after the party. Stopped in Xochitlan for some agua, but all the señora had was “Electrolita.” Eh, close enough, gotta keep those electrolytes happy.
