I wake up on the ferry movie theatre floor. In the next row is Erick, my new Mexican friend who had helped me get past security and onto the ship. It's about 6AM and the sun is starting to break through the overcast sky that hangs over the Gulf of California as waves continue to rock the ship.
Several babies are crying, a cough and a stretch here and there, people are scuffling about. Erik is still asleep, so I take advantage of my newfound energy and wander around a bit. I try to turn in my blanket to the authorities to get my Driver's License back, but they won't accept it until 7:30am. My license will be held hostage until they can accept the laundry. I scoff at the concept.
Breakfast is good, coffee is better, cool ocean air out on the deck is best. I take in the fact I'm still moving, I'm still getting closer to my next destination, I'm still heading South. Things are going well.
I get back to the theater and a movie is about to come on. Erick is slowly waking as we start to get into choppy cell service. Mazatlán must be just over the horizon. A pirated, Spanish-dubbed version of Interstellar comes onto the screen, watermark and French subtitles included.
We get outside and see the city coming into view. Mazatlán. The Mexican mainland. A trucker informs us of an earthquake in Tonga which puts us under a tsunami watch. He tells me that solar winds from the sun are giving us earthquakes. While we did have solar winds so powerful they made rare pink auroras over Scandinavia that week, I counter-argue and say no, there is no evidence that they cause earthquakes. I even source the USGS website, the same one he uses to look up earthquakes. He references some .com website, I tell him my source uses scientists, his uses ads.
We change the subject, he won't change his mind. The Tsunami alert ended up being precautionary, there thankfully wouldn't be one. I'd never been threatened with one before.
Before landing, Erick and I get to our motorcycles and many of the vehicles down in the loading bay are idling. Several semi trucks roar to life, not only assaulting our ears but also bellowing out black exhaust that fills our floating garage. The door-ramp to deboard is still shut, so we breathe in toxic fumes for 10-15 minutes before the doors even open. They're wasting gas and making it hard to breathe, why the fuck would they even do that?
Upon landing, Erick and I are the first ones off and the fresh, humid, tropical air hits us. I'm no longer in the desert, I'm far enough south in Mexico to be in tropical savannah. I gotta tell you, it feels good. Not all of you can read the last Team TWOC blog to see what happened to get onto that ferry, but believe me when I tell you it was a fiasco. The fact I'm here in Mazatlán at all is because of Erick.
Earlier, when Erick had heard I was looking for a hostel here in town, he offered to get in touch with his friend to see if he'd house me here. I of course jumped at the offer. We pull over as we deboard and he gets on his phone. He gets in touch with a biker contact here in Mazatlán, Paul (Pah-ool like Raul). This could be my ticket to a real native Mexican experience. Erick says we're all going to eat breakfast together so Paul can get to know me first.
When we arrive, we chat and I meet Paul. He's in his car, but he has a BMW GS at home and has gone on his fair share of trips across Mexico. I even saw some of his pictures in Belize. I plan on going there next after Mexico in a few month's time. After talking bikes for a bit, before we even get into a breakfast joint, he says the phrase both known in the US and Mexico alike: "Mi casa es tu casa."
I'm ecstatic. I have no idea what this could bring but it could only be good. I have a place to sleep tonight! After we get into a restaurant, we sit down and have Birria, a Mexican soup-dish with pulled pork, cilantro, and all the toppings you could want to add.
The soup is hot, so is the coffee, and so is the hot sauce. I'm doing it again just like I did when I lived in Costa Rica-- I'm not giving my body a fighting chance in this heat. I sweat profusely but it's way too good. A table of 3 teenage girls won't stop looking at me and even try to take a photo of me discretely.
I'm a gringo in Latin America again.
Paul is a detective here in the state of Sinaloa. Sinaloa is home to the Sinaloa cartel, home to El Chapo Guzmán, one of the most infamous cartel leaders of the 21st century. We chat a bit about his experience in Sinaloa, and he offers to even do an interview with me to discuss the situation on the ground here, which I have yet to do. We will soon. Paul also has other properties in another town, Guasave, north of here. He says we may have to visit after he shows me some images of his ranch.
Erick needs to change his motorcycle tires, so we go to a local tire shop and have them changed as Paul heads off to work. I'll be at Paul's apartment alone after Erick drops me off. I talk with the folks in the garage and a few of the passers by, then we get to Paul's apartment in town. I unload everything, but this is goodbye for Erick. I didn't know how I could properly thank him, so I dug in my things for something and found a surplus "Death Valley" sticker that I didn't have a place for. I hand it to him, thinking a unique souvenir from a faraway place may be an interesting thing to have. He's grateful and tells me he'll think of a spot to put it, maybe on his moto. He hands me the keys to Paul's apartment, we say our goodbyes, and he heads off toward The Capital.
I stand there in the middle of Paul's empty apartment and exhale. The individualistic American culture I come from has us really valuing our 'alone time'. When you're travelling like I am, you get used to being alone a lot. In fact, sometimes I'm relishing it and look forward to it, which is kind of sick, really. You SHOULD be wanting to get out there to meet people. I guess it was just a moment to breathe and take in everything that had been transpiring over the last 15+ hours. It was a lot of Spanish, a lot of bureaucracy, and a lot of movement.
I haven't had a roof over my head to sleep under in days, and I haven't had a shower in even longer.
I take one of the best showers of my life, and Paul even has hot water. That's quite a treat.
Paul arrives from work and he makes shrimp ceviche. Shrimp is one of the biggest resource commodities all along the Gulf of California. There's everything from wild shrimp caught in the gulf to farms just offshore, and much of the taco stands, even on the streets, sell high-quality shrimp at a very affordable price. I tell Paul that where I come from, in the middle of the North American continent, shrimp and other seafood is sold at a premium. We even get some seafood flown in daily on planes to maintain freshness because there are folks willing to pay.
I watch him meticulously add every ingredient to the dish and I take notes. After tasting it, I'm in heaven. This is the real stuff. I down the whole bowl until I'm full. There's still plenty left over for the 2 other roommates Paul has living in his apartment.
2 other roommates arrive, Felipe and Bruno. We all get to talking and I'm doing my best to keep up the Spanish talk. Paul finds it particularly hilarious to hear me speak Sinaloan super-slang, such as "what's up homie" and chants for the locality. He films me doing them and puts them on his TikTok to music. This will be relevant later.
It's Friday night, and the last time I slept was on a boat. I'm not feeling particularly brimming with energy so Paul asks me if I would want to go for a ride in his car downtown to see a few of the sights. I have the energy for it so I charge my phone and we're off. He pulls over at a liquor store and we get some Tecate beers then roll down main street to see the people out at the clubs and restaurants.
We climb up to a vista above the town to take some pictures, and he brings me to a local taco street vendor where everyone knows his name. Even cars passing by call out to Paul as they roll past.
Paul is also somewhat of an 'influencer' archetype, he understands the filming, pictures, and the narrating I'm doing for 2W1C. He knows the spots and he encourages the coverage. It's why I think he also agreed to an interview later as well.
We get back and have a few beers in the apartment and Paul offers to have me sleep in his room, he'll go to another house to sleep that night. I was okay with inflating the air mattress on the floor like I would in a tent but he refuses. Oh yeah, he also refused to have me pay for any bit of alcohol or food, including breakfast earlier when I got off of the ship. Erick helped with that. As a fun-employed traveler on a budget you can't complain one bit, but I'm still shocked at the hospitality. As a Minnesotan, my cultural background makes me feel like I seriously owe him. So I'll find a way in my own way.
Before we go to bed, Paul gives me another opportunity. Another one of those times you'll either say 'yes' or 'no' to adventure, just like Erik did on the boat to meet Paul. Paul offers me to ride up to his property in Guasave, on the north end of the state of Sinaloa. He has a ranch up there that he will one day rent out to tourists. It has a pool, hot tub, farm animals, party spaces, and cabins. It's still under construction, and he has a grand plan to have people stay there, have weddings, etc. once his designs come through.
If I take him up on the offer, I will be 1 day late to my new apartment. Guasave is a 2-day ride from Puerto Vallarta, so I'd be riding in the opposite direction by a whole day. I'd have to stay in Guasave tomorrow, Mazatlán in Paul's apartment again the next day, then arrive in Puerto Vallarta Monday. If I take Paul up on his offer to go to Guasave, I'll be 1 day late to my apartment.
So I think: I'm not going to be late to my apartment because I'll be sitting and waiting in some hostel for a ferry, I'm going to be late because I'll be partaking in a new and unique experience with locals in a foreign land.
As long as Paul is okay with me staying under his roof for 3 nights total, I say okay-- of which he is completely okay with. In fact, he offered it and is encouraging it. I inform my landlord in Vallarta I'll be a day late and they're all good.
The next morning I ride a good 349km (216 mi) to Guasave. Here's the thing, though. These are -Mexican Miles-. This isn't some cruise across the desert. I'm taking the tollway to save on time, sure, but the roads are rough, the traffic is heavy and inconsistent, and things like bathrooms and gas are a little more difficult to navigate than on the American Interstate system. It takes about 7-8 hours.
Paul recommends a restaurant half-way up the tollway, Mariscos Del Chapo (Chapo's Seafood) where I can indulge in even more shrimp. The restaurant is wide open with no walls and only thatched roofs, just a stones throw from the Pacific Ocean. It's a slow afternoon and I'm happy to escape the heat. There are only 2 patrons in the bar sitting with each other, so I find a spot with the best view of the ocean in the shade to take some photos and order Camarones del Diablo (Spicy Devil Shrimp) and coffee. More spicy food with hot coffee in the tropical heat. I'm a glutton for that kind of punishment.
The waitress then informs me I've been invited over to the table with the 2 men, so I go over and guess what- they're motorcyclists. The owner of the restaurant, Chapo, was dining with a friend, and Paul had told them both I was coming. Go freakin' figure. Paul is the man. We have a great chat and I keep the Spanish going.
You'd think I'd arrive in Guasave with Paul but no! He actually had a friend, Charly, who is also a motorcyclist, meet up with me at the gateway to the city. I was about to have wonderful night with amazing people, I just didn't know it yet.
-JT
11/20/2022