mexico, que bonita

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Mexico, que bonita. The first thing you notice when crossing the border from Brownsville Texas to Matamoros, is the dust. It is as if thereis an invisible veil seperating the two countries, containing the dust south of the Rio Grande: but for the Mexicans, this dusty veil is an economic reality.
The second thing you notice is the people. Walking, hawking fruit, vegetablesand anything remotely of value, pushing things (cars, carts & prams) and working, all of it done out of doors. Life is outsideand nothing seems to be hidden from view.
Neither Brownsville nor Matamoros have much going for them besides being border towns, one full of shopping malls and Mexican run Chinese restaurants and the other just dusty, with long lines in the only visible bank.
We rode across the International Bridge, flashing our documents when only a toll was required and entered into Mexico. We flashed nothing and kept on going, and going until we were stopped at the first of hundreds of checkpoints. "Permit"? We had no ppermit and had to turn back to Matamoros, twenty dusty ks north. Getting a permiot and a visa is a fairly painless process that requires an hour or so and some cash: US$20 per person for up to 6 months, and approximately US$60 for said motorbike. We turned around and went back the way we'd just been. The lines at the bank stagnant. After the 'permit' cop waved us through we we're on our way-the traffic very light and the Mexican roads not as bad as reporets suggest.
San Fernando was our first stop; a town like many in Mexico, small place with a central square dominated by the church; a few hotels of varying rates and dust degrees, and a not so common hair design show on the main square that night.
The shops mainly catered for the farming community, selling saddles, bridles, ropes, cowboy hats and general digging implements. These shops are ubiquitous (along with myriad shoe shops), always well stocked and devoid of customers. The amin square is usually lined with taco stands or corn on the cob vendors, or corn smothered and covered and splattered in mayo and chilli and dusted with grated cheese. There is always an OXXO shop. OXXO beiong the Mexican version of a 7-11, looking like a petrol station and selling staples like beer, water and more choices of beer. And ice.
In San Fernando we stayed in a decent hotel for Pesos $300 (Euro 17) which has been the average we found, more or less. There are no bars in these towns, cantinas yes, but a bar where you can hang out and have a beer and not have to sing ridiculous folk songs all night with the locals do not exist outside of the bigger cities. A restaurant where you can have a beer is aways available, but in general, Mexico is very conservative and religious, quiet and shy and full of children playing on the dusty, beer free streets. These towns and villages apparently close around ten when the children fall asleep.
Our first beach was a little further south, La Pesca, which came highly recommended from guides who havce passed through many times. The quintessential Maxican beach town we were told. La Pesca is a mucho very extremely dusty pot-holed village with one street and a long stretch of clean, absolutely empty beach facing the Gulf of Mexico. The beach itself might be considered quintessential in that it is clean, not too busy and this is a fair reprensentation of beachlife here; Mexican beaches come in all shapes and sizes, curved bays, long stretches of open sand, crescent shaped inlets, hidden bays, rocky and fluffy white sand to golden grains the size of gold dust. But the village itself has nothing to recommend it other than overpriced hotels outside of town.
Life here is tranquil, lazy and rejuvenating after a day spent riding the bike. The sea is cleansing and salt stinging in my numerous road induced cuts. The hotel showers are weak and tepid if you're lucky. The food in these places is street food or bust; corn on the cob, burgers, tacos and quesidillias.

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Photos

flying native
slowly twirling down the native pole from around 30 metres. These flying native drummers twirl down in sync representing their traditional calander cycle.

flying man
flying native
slowly twirling down the native pole from around 30 metres. These flying native drummers twirl down in sync representing their traditional calander cycle.