Empalme, SON

The hotel in Benjami’n Hill has a gated entrance that gets closed at night.  I look around the courtyard to find the owner.  I ask him if he could please open the gate, as I’d like to run to the corner store.  ”Well” he says, “I don’t know what _ustedes_ usually eat (you guys? cyclists? gringos? bearded freckled gringo cyclists? I dare not ask him for clarification).  You can only get soda and chips there, why don’t you head into a town, go to a restaurant and buy yourself a _carne asada_, it will only cost you 40 pesos”.  I tell him “that sounds like a great idea for lunch or supper, but right now I’m just going to go buy some milk to go with the oatmeal I have back in the room”.  He shrugs his shoulders, “as you wish”, and opens the gate for me.
I’m back in one minute, the store is closed this early in the morning. I sit outside my room and eat my oatmeal.  The owner comes by and I ask him if I can take some fruit from one of the trees in the courtyard.  Apparently I’ve asked incorrectly, and he begins to lecture on how I should have asked if I could take some fruit.  He isn’t grumpy or nasty about it, but for some reason feels the need to correct me.  I don’t even get his explanation.  I guess I’m still thinking in English and translating into Spanish.
Between Benjmin Hill and Hermosillo the road is made up of many stretches that are perfectly straight for a dozen miles at a time.  I’m accustomed to riding in the mountains of the West and have come to understand the language of valleys, washes, basins, rims and passes.  This flat desert of Sonora seems monotonous and uninspired, and I have not yet learned how to appreciate biking through it.  Today I can only focus on riding in a straight line, constantly looking back in my mirror, rarely stopping for pictures.
An hour into my riding, I pass a military checkpoint for northbound traffic.  I can see trucks lined up, and begin counting them.  I give up at 100.  The truck drivers are standing around talking while their engines idle, vendors with coolers walk along selling drinks.  The line is over 3 miles long and only budges once in the time it takes me to bike by it.
I stop at a run down restaurant for quesadillas for lunch.  Later I stop at an OXXO for some junk food.  I diligently put the wrapper in an uncovered garbage can, and right then a gust of wind blows it out of the can and across the parrking lot.  There is no way I can chase it down.  I look around, trash everywhere, and feel just a little less guilty about littering.  At the next gas station there are a bunch of police that start talking to me.  One of them points to another and says, A este le gusta ir a Alaska, this guy likes to visit Alaska.  Oh, yeah it is so pretty I say, and then the punch line to the joke I didn’t realize was being set up.  A las kaguamas.
I arrive in the outskirts of Hermosillo just as the sun is setting.  This city is huge and no one uses their turn signals.  I keep on pedalling, knowing that I’ve got a CouchSurfing host waiting for me.  I make it to the McDonalds, an easy landmark, and give him a call.  A few minutes later Rodolfo shows up and we walk back to the apartment.  He just came back from a summer of working in Canada and lives with his mom and brother.  We talk for a while about our travels and whatnot.  He is getting used to being back in a huge city after months in small Canadian towns.  I can sympathize with this.  At about 8pm, he leaves to meet up with other Hermosillo Couchsurfing hosts.  I’m already yawning and get to bed early.
I’m awake at 7:30 and hang around the apartment for a while, then go to buy groceries and eat some lunch with Rodolfo.  I don’t get going until 1pm, but I know today is shorter than yesterday.  It is about 100 miles to Guaymas, the next city, too much for one day, but I know there is a gas station at a junction 55 miles away.  I have no idea what it will be like, but decide I can’t worry in the least about it.  I can’t spend my whole time in Mexico in hotels and with Couchsurfing hosts, so I might as well get used to camping once in a while.  I’ve decided that the gas station will be a safer option than pulling off the side of the busy highway.  Up until now there have been few places ideal for camping.
There is a small ridge to get over, and when I do, the air immediately feels different.  It is denser, warmer, and I think it smells like the sea.  I’m only 30 miles from the Gulf of California at this point.  I make it to the truck stop and amble around a little, trying to figure out who is in charge.  I ask one of the gas station attendants if I can camp behind the building, he says, sure.  I’m not convinced though yet.  I look around the back and see which uneven patch of littered gravel I’d rather set my tent up on.
Abraham comes by and starts talking to me.  He works in the mechanic’s garage, and says I can set up  my tent on the concrete.  He is from the area, tells me about his family and his work at the truck stop, and makes me feel welcome an unconcerned about spending the night there.  The lights stay on all night and he sleeps in a little room nearby in case trucks come by needing to get cleaned.
He sits down with me while I make dinner and eat.  I say sorry, I don’t have enough to share but that I’d be happy to treat him to a Coke, and he accepts.  His family brings him dinner later anyway.  I ask him about the road ahead and where I should try to make it to the next night.  I’ve picked a little town halfway between here and the next big city so that the mileages would work out nicely, but he says that isn’t such a good idea.  I run the names of some other towns on the map by  him, and he tells me about the varying degree of “indian-ness” of the towns.  He tells me that he is Yaqui, and that there are Mayos and Huicholes down the coast.  His grandpa speaks Yaqui fluently, his dad just sometimes, but Abraham only knows a few phrases.  I ask if he wants to learn to speak, he tells me that since he grew up in the city there isn’t any point.
I get in my tent and am falling asleep when a truck pulls in to get sprayed off.  Abraham is hard at work with the high pressure hose for several hours.  Somehow I sleep well despite the idling trucks and the engine brakes throughout the night.
I eat breakfast while talking to Abraham, and leave the gas station by 9.  I make it to Guaymas late morning and end up taking a dead end to a hotel on a beach.  They have RV spots for US$19, but it is still so early in the day and there isn’t much to do near the hotel.  I find my way into downtown.  It is Friday and things are very busy, and the hotels are all US$30 and up.  I consider splurging to celebrate my arrival back to sea level, but don’t want to stop so soon.  At the very least I’ll get lunchh in Guaymas, _ceviche_ tostadas.  I fill my water bottles up at a water purifying storefront for 2 pesos, good deal.
On to Empalme, just 5 miles away, where I hope to find a cheaper hotel.  I do but it is full for the night and the owner tells me of a guest house.  I ask if there is a sign on the building, he says yes.  I get lost trying to find it and miss Chicago where everything is X blocks north, south, east or west, and where you can use the address to navigate.  After asking several people, I end up talking to a cop who tells me I’m almost there.  He is enthusiastic that I am in Empalme, and tells me that this is the place Charlie Chaplin got married.  We’ve got his marriage certificate.  Sweet!  I’m happy to have ended up here for the night.
I make it to the guesthouse, there is no sign outside.  It is a long narrow courtyard with a single story row of rooms on each side.  I look around, it is an odd place.  One of the guests has a fridge in his room, you can tell that some of the folks probably live here.  The owner comes be and shows me a room.  It probably saw its prime when Chaplin came through town.  But it is safe, is full of character, and for US$8 a hard deal to beat.  I ask where to get some food, and am told of Don Tamale just a block away.  For 2nd lunch, 3 tamales.  Exquisito!

The hotel in Benjamín Hill has a gated entrance that gets closed at night.  I look around the courtyard to find the owner.  I ask him if he could please open the gate, as I’d like to run to the corner store.  ”Well” he says, “I don’t know what ustedes usually eat (you guys? cyclists? gringos? bearded freckled gringo cyclists? I dare not ask him for clarification).  You can only get soda and chips there, why don’t you head into a town, go to a restaurant and buy yourself a carne asada, it will only cost you 40 pesos”.  I tell him “that sounds like a great idea for lunch or supper, but right now I’m just going to go buy some milk to go with the oatmeal I have back in the room”.  He shrugs his shoulders, “as you wish”, and opens the gate for me.

I’m back in one minute, the store is closed this early in the morning. I sit outside my room and eat my oatmeal.  The owner comes by and I ask him if I can take some fruit from one of the trees in the courtyard.  Apparently I’ve asked incorrectly, whether it be poor grammar or improper sentence structure, and he begins to lecture me.  He isn’t grumpy or nasty about it, but for some reason feels the need to correct me.  I don’t even get his explanation.  I guess I’m still thinking in English and translating into Spanish.

Between Benjmin Hill and Hermosillo the road is made up of many stretches that are perfectly straight for a dozen miles at a time.  I’m accustomed to riding in the mountains of the West and have come to understand the language of valleys, washes, basins, rims and passes.  This flat desert of Sonora seems monotonous and uninspired, and I have not yet learned how to appreciate biking through it.  Today I can only focus on riding in a straight line, constantly looking back in my mirror, rarely stopping for pictures.

An hour into my riding, I pass a military checkpoint for northbound traffic.  I can see trucks lined up, and begin counting them.  I give up at 100.  The truck drivers are standing around talking while their engines idle, vendors with coolers walk along selling drinks.  The line is over 3 miles long and only budges once in the time it takes me to bike by it.

I stop at a run down restaurant for quesadillas for lunch.  Later I stop at an OXXO for some junk food.  I diligently put the wrapper in an uncovered garbage can, and right then a gust of wind blows it out of the can and across the parking lot.  There is no way I can chase it down.  I look around, trash everywhere, and feel just a little less guilty about littering.  At the next gas station there are a bunch of police that start talking to me and asking questions about my trip.  One of them points to another and says, A este le gusta ir a Alaska, this guy likes to visit Alaska.  ”Oh, yeah it is so pretty” I say, and then the punch line to the joke I didn’t realize was being set up.  A las kaguamas.  Hilarious guys.

I arrive in the outskirts of Hermosillo just as the sun is setting.  This city is huge and no one uses their turn signals.  I keep on pedalling, knowing that I’ve got a CouchSurfing host waiting for me.  I make it to the McDonalds, an easy landmark, and give him a call.  A few minutes later Rodolfo shows up and we walk back to the apartment.  He just came back from a summer of working in Canada and lives with his mom and brother.  We talk for a while about our travels and whatnot.  He is getting used to being back in a huge city after months in small Canadian towns.  I can sympathize with this.  At about 8pm, he leaves to meet up at a get together with other Hermosillo Couchsurfing hosts.  I’m already yawning and get to bed early.

I’m awake at 7:30 and hang around the apartment for a while, then go to buy groceries and eat some lunch with Rodolfo.  I don’t get going until 1pm, but I know today is shorter than yesterday.  It is about 100 miles to Guaymas, the next city, too much for one day, but I know there is a gas station at a junction 55 miles away.  I have no idea what it will be like, but decide I can’t worry in the least about it.  I can’t spend my whole time in Mexico in hotels and with CouchSurfing hosts, so I might as well get used to camping once in a while.  I’ve decided that the gas station will be a safer option than pulling off the side of the busy highway.  Up until now there have been few places ideal for camping.

There is a small ridge to get over, and when I do, the air immediately feels different.  It is denser, warmer, and I think it smells like the sea.  I’m only 30 miles from the Gulf of California at this point.  I make it to the truck stop and amble around a little, trying to figure out who is in charge.  I ask one of the gas station attendants if I can camp behind the building, he says, sure.  I’m not convinced though yet.  I look around the back and see which uneven patch of littered gravel I’d rather set my tent up on.

Abraham comes by and starts talking to me.  He works in the mechanic’s garage, and says I can set up  my tent on the concrete.  He is from the area, tells me about his family and his work at the truck stop, and makes me feel welcome and unconcerned about spending the night there.  The lights stay on all night and he sleeps in a little room nearby in case trucks come by needing to get cleaned.

He sits down with me while I make dinner and eat.  I say sorry, I don’t have enough to share but that I’d be happy to treat him to a Coke, and he accepts.  His family brings him dinner later anyway.  I ask him about the road ahead and where I should try to make it to the next night.  I’ve picked a little town halfway between here and the next big city so that the mileages would work out nicely, but he says that isn’t such a good idea.  I run the names of some other towns on the map by  him, and he tells me about the varying degree of “indian-ness” of the towns.  He tells me that he is Yaqui, and that there are Mayos and Huicholes down the coast.  His grandpa speaks Yaqui fluently, his dad just sometimes, but Abraham only knows a few phrases.  I ask if he wants to learn to speak, he tells me that since he grew up in the city there isn’t any point.

I get in my tent and am falling asleep when a truck pulls in to get sprayed off.  Abraham is hard at work with the high pressure hose for several hours.  Somehow I sleep well despite the idling trucks and the engine brakes throughout the night.

I eat breakfast while talking to Abraham, and leave the gas station by 9.  I make it to Guaymas late morning and end up taking a dead end to a hotel on a beach.  They have RV spots for US$19, but it is still so early in the day and there isn’t much to do near the hotel.  I find my way into downtown.  It is Friday and things are very busy, and the hotels are all US$30 and up.  I consider splurging to celebrate my arrival back to sea level, but don’t want to stop so soon.  At the very least I’ll get lunch in Guaymas, tostadas de ceviche.  I fill my water bottles up at a water purifying storefront for 2 pesos, good deal.

On to Empalme, just 5 miles away, where I hope to find a cheaper hotel.  I do, but it is full for the night and the owner tells me of a guest house.  I ask if there is a sign on the building, he says yes.  I get lost trying to find it and miss Chicago where everything is X blocks north, south, east or west, and where you can use the address to navigate.  After asking several people, I end up talking to a cop who tells me I’m almost there.  He is enthusiastic that I am in Empalme, and tells me that in this is the town Charlie Chaplin got married.  He was coming through on the railroad at the time.  We’ve got his marriage certificate.  Sweet!  I’m happy to have ended up here for the night, for this alone is reason enough.

[This comic strip, which is narrated by the town's historic water tower built in the middle of the town square (very picturesque!), tells of the story of Chaplin's visit to Empalme]

I make it to the guest house, there is no sign outside.  It is a long narrow courtyard with a single story row of rooms on each side.  I look around, it is an odd place.  Painted assorted shades of pale green.  One of the guests has a fridge in his room, and he sits in front of a TV, you can tell that some of the folks probably live here.  The owner comes be and shows me a room.  It probably saw its prime when Chaplin came through town.  But it is safe, is full of character, and for US$8 a deal hard to beat.

I ask where to get some food, and am told of Don Tamale just a block away.  For 2nd lunch, 3 tamales with beans and a Coke for US$4.  ¡Exquisito! I feel right at home talking to the owner, a retired school teacher.  I ask her why the 20th was celebrated on the 16th and not the 20th (I’ve been asking folks along the way).  We all agree it makes no sense, after all, it is the politicians in Mexico City who write the laws.  She says they are open until 8 if I want to come back for dinner.

A walk around the town square, and find a refreshing glass of horchata.  Then back to the guest house to look at my map of Mexico (so many possibilities) and work on this blog entry.  Then back to Don Tamale for a plateful of beans, mashed potatoes and shredded marlin with a cup of beef broth and bottomless corn tortillas, US$3.20.  On my way out, the owner says see you tomorrow.  I guess I’m a regular already.

With a cheap place to stay and with so much unknown down the road, I’m tempted to take a day off here in Empalme tomorrow.  Doesn’t seem to be much to do around here, so I may just eat myself to death out of boredom, but that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

11 comments to Empalme, SON

  • Jay Nordstrom

    Your stories are very entertaining Matt–Keep them coming

  • Aunt Karen J

    Love, love, love your last couple of posts! I’m enjoying your trip.

    Thanks for the postcard.

  • Linder

    matto, i’ll trade you a kebab pizza and a yoggi for 3 tamales and a coke.

  • Courtney

    Hey Matt!
    I loved reading your stories on the blog, very interesting.
    I can’t believe you are in Mexico already, that is amazing. Well, have a safe travel and I look forward to reading more of your blog posts.

  • Natalie

    That is a great comic. Funny sometimes, the things that we think are significant about ourselves. It’s very close to Charlie and Lita’s anniversary! Fascinating posts.

  • Cris Ruiz

    Hola Mateo, como estas?
    Soy Cris de la Iglesia del Pacto en Velle Dorado. Una de las que tocaban la marimba.
    Me da mucho gusto saber de ti y de tus “chocoaventuras”. Tus papas nos han platicado de tu viaje y ellos tambien estan viviendo tus experiencias.
    Se que este es un sueno que estas haciendo realidad. Te deseamos lo mejor y que Dios te guarde y te cuide a cada paso que des.
    Tienes las oraciones de muchos amigos y esperamos que pronto llegues a tu meta con salud y mucha felicidad.
    Un beso
    Cris, Ruben y Andrea.

  • Cousin Erik

    I’ve had some catching up to do on your trip, but love the stories and the pics. I look forward to more of Latin America. Happy Thanksgiving!

  • So I haven’t told many people yet, but I’ve decided not to accept my friend’s loan to continue my trip. I’ll now be living vicariously through you. It would have been good to see you man. I’ll have to catch up with you in Chicago when you’re back here in a year or so. I’ll be watching you, and if you don’t mind, I’m going to forward anyone interested in my site to your site. peace and love.

    • admin

      Sorry to hear you won’t be continuing southward! November has been the first month that I don’t have a cycling companion. I was hoping to see you in Mexico somewhere. Our paths will cross eventually.

  • Matt,

    We will be in Puerto Vallarta from 12-6 to 12-13 hit me with an email if you are close. Cheers Seth

  • Ingrid Forsberg Kenron

    Dear Matt,
    i was so happy to read about you in the Narthex. You are one brave fellow! I will now be able to ready your blog. I am sending the narthex article to Daniel but perhaps he knows all this already. I would like to send you something like money, cookies (or some other favorite non-parisable foods)or clothes. Or anything else you need? What would you like and how do I get it to you?
    How do you find a computer to answer e-mails and write the blogs? do you carry a laptop with you?
    Blessing on your Journey
    and a hug to you
    Ingrid

Leave a Reply to Seth

 

 

 

You can use these HTML tags

<a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>