Walking the Americas Read online

  Occasionally there were overgrown paths with rotting fences and drystone walls that seemed to lead off, perpendicular to the main road. Some of the tracks clearly hadn’t been used in years, as trees clamoured on their fringes to join up both sides, making them appear as tunnels of green fading into the blackness of the woods. These were the gateways into the haciendas, now deserted and derelict. Sometimes I could just make out the stack of a chimney poking out from the trees a distance away, its glory now faded and distraught, a symbol of changing times.

  When synthetic rope was invented, the Sisal business went bust and the haciendas became obsolete. Apart from a few that eked out a living making specialist fibres for clothes, most of the ranches shut down, their owners fleeing to more lucrative trades in the cities, or moving back to Spain when Mexico became independent. I felt most sorry for the locals. Whole villages and towns had grown up surrounding these great houses, in a way not dissimilar to the coal and steel towns of northern England. But when things dried up the workers, who’d relied on employment in the fields and factories, were left with nothing but a crumbling monument to fleeting wealth and a big, expensive church that they could no longer maintain. The Spanish patrons were long gone and the jungle threatened to reclaim what was left of their memory. All that was left to do for the Maya was to sleep.

  After two days, I arrived in Mérida. Suddenly the forest simply stopped and buildings began. First a flyover and a footbridge, then a factory, a business park, service stations, motels, fast-food joints and mobile-phone towers; all the trappings of a city that had sprung from nowhere. I followed the steady flow of traffic as it poured in from the ring road and found myself in another world. Despite the heat, the city folk were very much awake and before long I was sucked into a bustling, vibrant town. Storm clouds brewed overhead and as the afternoon wore on the sky became blacker and I waited for the inevitable rains to come. I smiled, it was like a homecoming, and I thought back to the last time I had been here years before and that fateful day I got my camera nicked.

  The first droplets of rain came as I walked into downtown, the old colonial quarter, with its beautiful Spanish plazas and colourful churches and hidden gardens. The little casitas were as pink and yellow and green as I remembered them and I tried to recall where old Graciella’s house was. I couldn’t. Maybe she had left now, anyway. In the alleyways, old ladies in their huipils sat on doorsteps gossiping, and men in straw hats, with their brown, taut bellies hanging out, pushed rickety old bicycle rickshaws selling fresh bread, coconuts and ice creams. Sounds blasted from shuttered windows; the familiar trumpets and banjos of Mexican music. Cats stretched out on dusty old cars with no wheels and in the main square by the cathedral, horses stood idle, waiting for their carriages to fill. Cowboys rubbed shoulders with mariachis. The whole atmosphere was that of a frontier, a gateway into the Mexico of old.

  But of course, it was an illusion; a bubble of tradition surrounded by modernity. Walk ten blocks and you’re rapidly surrounded by McDonalds, Starbucks, and shiny new shopping malls. The contrast is hard to reconcile. Outside the downtown with its narrow alleyways and sixteenth-century porticoes are wide avenues filled with glass apartments and high-walled villas. Boys in rags on horses compete for tarmac with girls in Gucci driving the latest BMW. Thatched mud huts, the original Mayan abode, sit in all their timeless beauty next to concrete mansions. Old and new, the beautiful and the horrid, go hand in hand in Mexico.

  ‘Eyyy, Levi,’ beamed Alberto, as he stood in his front door. The following morning it had taken a while to find his house in amongst the modern apartments of the northern suburbs of Mérida. He buzzed me in through a security gate and I walked past a flash Mini Cooper with sparkling alloy wheels and bright-red trimmings.

  ‘Chinga!’ he said, hugging me. ‘You’re looking old, look at your grey hair. And a bit fat, too.’ He looked me up and down. ‘I thought you said we should be fit for walking, look at me, like an athlete,’ he pushed out his beer belly as far as it could go, in fits of laughter. ‘Come inside.’ He patted me on the shoulder, ushering me into the welcome feel of his air-conditioned studio. It was like walking into an architect’s showroom. It was the ultimate bachelor pad. The walls were white and minimalist. His monochrome photographs lined the hallway and a shelf displayed dozens of cameras, some modern, top-of-the-range types and other vintage pieces. All the furniture was designer, and plastic feature-plants gave the apartment a light, breezy vibe.

  ‘Come, let me show you around. Here are some of my toys,’ he pointed to a cabinet full of expensive photographic equipment: lenses, lighting, laptops. He had the latest espresso machine in the kitchen and a utility room stocked with models of Star Wars flying machines and film props, and even a very realistic-looking paintball gun. I remembered that I’d seen on Facebook that he had got married a year or so ago, but this didn’t look like the house of a married man at all.

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ I asked him. ‘I mean, you realise what you’re letting yourself in for?’

  ‘Of course I do. This is going to be an adventure. And to be honest, I need one right now. You seem to turn up in my life exactly when I need to escape.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘The last time we went on an adventure, you lost your business.’

  ‘Yes, and it was the best thing that ever happened to me, in the long run.’

  ‘Oh. And what about your wife? I saw that you got married, she won’t exactly be happy about you going off for four months, will she?’

  ‘Well, we got divorced a couple of weeks ago, so now I’m single and I can do what I want.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said, for having put my foot in it.

  ‘It’s OK. We were only married a year and it was all very sad, but everything is OK. I could just really do with an adventure, like I say.’

  I didn’t want to pry too much into the details and, anyway, I figured there was plenty of time for that later, so I changed the subject.

  ‘Would you like me to give you your kit then?’

  His eyes lit up. ‘Yes, I want my toys! I feel like James Bond going on a mission.’

  ‘I wouldn’t get too excited, this is just the basics,’ I said, handing him a pair of Altberg jungle boots, some Craghoppers expedition clothes, and a rucksack filled with socks, a first-aid pack and a water bottle.

  ‘We’ll get you a machete and a military hammock when we get to the jungle,’ I said.

  ‘Holy shit, a machete.’ I could sense his genuine excitement for what lay ahead. I wondered how long he would last and feared that he was so unused to the rigours of life on expedition that he’d take something for granted and wind up getting hurt, or worse. He’d never been in the jungle, or walked further than a few miles. He knew nothing of first-aid, survival, or what to do in an emergency.

  I thought back to our African trip together, when he’d driven with me from Syria to Malawi. It had been an adventure, for sure, but at least then we were in a vehicle with plentiful supplies. I had no idea how he’d deal with things this time round, but I reassured myself with the consolation that at least he had a good attitude and was up for a challenge, and I could deal with that in an expedition companion. The rest he could learn.

  So we sat down and went through all the kit, I explained how stuff worked – the satellite phone, the GPS tracker, and of course, all the first-aid stuff. I showed him the first field dressing (FFD) and a tourniquet, and which antibiotics did what. He was an eager student, asking all the right questions and demonstrating that he’d taken it all on board. I thought back to when I’d first met him and he had lent me a camera and shown me how to use it. The roles had now been reversed and it felt slightly odd playing teacher to my former mentor. It boded well, though, that we’d get along just fine.

  Having packed his rucksack for the third time and dressed him in his explorer’s garb, boots and all, it was time to set off. So Alberto locked his front door, kissed his Mini Cooper goodbye, and we walked
out into suburbia, heading south by south-east.

  Alberto kept up. I was surprised. He’d actually trained for this, which is more than I could claim, and got himself relatively fit and healthy. I’d planned for us to have a short first day of walking, only ten miles or so, to make it to the next town out of Mérida, a quiet little place called Kanasin, which was basically part of the Mérida conurbation anyway. We walked along the main road most of the way, since there was no other option, and found ourselves battling with lorries hurtling past on their way to the coast.

  Alberto didn’t stop talking the whole way. He laughed and joked about how his life had suddenly got very simple and we agreed that despite the oppressive heat and aggressive driving, it was actually very good fun to be doing this journey together and that as long as we both kept a sense of humour, we stood a good chance of making it to Colombia.

  By eight o’clock it was almost dusk and we’d walked enough for one day. We were both still acclimatising and thought a bit of refreshment wouldn’t go amiss.

  ‘Let’s go get a beer,’ I suggested to Alberto. We walked across the main square of the town, past a large Spanish church that was three hundred years old, and found a suitable place. An enormous plastic cockerel stood proudly on the roof of the saloon bar at the intersection of two roads. It protruded among the dangling electricity and phone wires that formed a chaotic web over all the Mexican streets.

  The words El Gallito were written in black block lettering on the whitewashed walls below it.

  ‘It’s a cantina,’ said Alberto. Like the village pub in England, every Mexican town has a cantina or two. In places like this, outside of the main towns, they were often fairly sordid abodes and El Gallito was no exception.

  We walked through the swinging wooden doors, just as the starlings came in to roost on the telegraph poles and trees that lined the plaza. I immediately felt like we’d entered the set of a western movie. The interior was small and smoky. Filthy plastic tables and broken chairs were huddled around the spit-and-sawdust floor. Stained-wood panelling reached halfway up the dingy walls and above it was a veritable gallery of wretched art. Cheap paintings, antique posters of women in lingerie and sepia photographs lined the crusty paintwork. There were 1970s pin-up girls with their breasts out and cut-outs from dirty magazines all over the place.

  The place lived up to its name. El Gallito – the cock – has the same connotations in Spanish as it does in British English, and as such, there were hand-drawn pictures everywhere of penises. One, in the style of a classical portrait, showed a penis with wings and a saddle being ridden by some sort of fair maiden. Blokes’ humour, apparently, is universal.

  Next to a broken jukebox was the ‘Caballeros’, the Gentlemen’s bathroom, which consisted solely of a wooden plank only half-blocking a stinking urinal in the corner of the room. Naturally there was no Ladies.

  ‘They don’t let women in here. Not even the hookers,’ said Alberto with an enormous grin.

  An old photograph in a gold frame hung next to the bar. It was dated 1916 and showed the outside of the saloon. It seems little had changed in exactly a hundred years since the establishment was built. Behind sombrero-wearing cowboys in the wartime street scene, a large Coca-Cola emblem was emblazoned across the vintage wall.

  ‘That’s my grandfather,’ said the fat bar-owner, pointing at the photograph with a chuckle. He looked like a jolly man, with a drooping moustache and his belly hanging out below a soiled T-shirt.

  ‘I can’t believe we were drinking Coke a century ago,’ said Alberto. ‘That’s why Mexicans are all so fat.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked the bartender. His name was Victor.

  Alberto responded first.

  ‘We’re walking, amigo. All the way to Colombia. This is day one and I have my English friend with me, and we intend to get drunk tonight.’

  ‘You’ve come to the right place,’ said Victor.

  Victor pushed two bottles of local beer across the bar, and with them two shots of tequila.

  Alberto picked up the tequila along with some lemon. He dipped the lemon in a plate of salt and raised his glass.

  ‘Tequila first, lemon and salt after – that’s the proper way we do it.’

  I raised my shot.

  ‘To Mexico,’ I toasted.

  ‘To walking,’ he replied.

  And with that, we poured the liquid down our throats and felt the sensation of burning as the alcohol spread through our bodies.

  Alberto then sucked his lemon clean of all the salt and winced at its sourness.

  I did the same.

  ‘Otra,’ he motioned towards Victor, who poured another round.

  ‘So, what happened with your wife?’ I asked him.

  ‘Ah, you know, it just didn’t work out. She freaked out and didn’t want the commitment and asked for a divorce. That was that.’

  ‘It seems a shame, though, it was only a year.’ I tried to offer some sympathy.

  ‘Yes, I agree, but that’s what she wanted, so screw it. Time to move on. Seriously, this trip couldn’t have come at a better time. I’ve been really low the past few weeks and this is a new start. I’ve decided to give up on women, they’ve been nothing but trouble. Here I am, forty-two, and I spent sixty thousand dollars on a wedding and lost a house because of that woman.’

  ‘How much on a wedding?’

  ‘You heard. Sixty thousand dollars, for what? One night’s party! Mind you, it was a bloody good party. We had five hundred guests and it went on for three days. There was enough tequila for every man to drink a bottle each. I had the best DJs, the best hacienda, the best cars, everything. What more could I have given her?’

  ‘Not a lot, by the sound of things,’ I agreed.

  ‘Well, one thing is for sure, I never thought I’d be in a place like this, drinking cheap tequila and about to walk to Colombia.’

  ‘Well, I hope you do believe it, because that’s what we’re doing.’

  ‘I wouldn’t change it for the world,’ he said. ‘That woman is welcome to my house. I’m here now, and we’re going to have some fun.’

  An old man stumbled in through the swinging doors. He was wearing leather cowboy boots with spurs, and a baseball cap. His face was weathered but, like the barman, it had a kind, friendly feel.

  Without a word, he sat down next to us and Victor passed him a small bottle of vodka. He proceeded to pour its entire contents into a pint-sized glass, and without further ado necked the lot in one fell swoop. He smacked his lips and grinned.

  ‘Hola,’ he said, ‘I’m Ramon.’

  We introduced ourselves.

  ‘Walking you say?’ He pondered our journey, stroking a solitary hair that grew from his chin.

  ‘You’ve got a long way ahead, may God be with you.’

  ‘He’s a church pastor,’ said Victor, ‘and the chief bell-ringer. He’s been coming here every day for thirty years, and never once missed a bottle.’

  With that, he got up and stumbled out as quickly as he came.

  Victor handed us another tequila each, along with a slice of lemon. I wanted to tell Alberto how much I appreciated his enthusiasm for agreeing to come along, but I sensed that I didn’t need to. He was a like-minded soul, and despite our different cultures, languages and backgrounds, I knew immediately that words weren’t required.

  I raised my glass of tequila and so did he.

  ‘To walking,’ I toasted.

  ‘To adventure, the future, and lots more tequila,’ he replied.

  At that, I heard the church bell toll, chiming gracefully across the night sky, and echoing throughout the streets.

  7

  Ruins

  The road was straight and cut through the bush like a knife. As we left behind the suburbs of Mérida, it wasn’t long before Alberto and I found ourselves alone in the heat of the day with only the lizards and mad dogs for company. The villages were sleepy and quiet and as the day progressed, so did the beating down of the sun.
On the long straight sections of tarmac, the horizon would be obscured by a haze of reflected heat. It was punishing and brutal and both of us were sweating buckets as we walked. Alberto never stopped talking the whole way. He told me about his life, and his businesses and his financial investments. He told me stories from his past and stories from his recent failed marriage. He told me about his ambitions to retire from the production business and live a nice life on the beach.

  I listened, happy to let him talk for the time being. I enjoyed getting my body and mind accustomed again to the rigours of walking. I’d found that it takes a couple of weeks to really get into a rhythm and we were in no rush. So long as we made ten or fifteen miles a day to start with, we could cover more ground later on. I was just happy to be back in Mexico, trying out my limited Spanish, and taking in the wonders of a truly unique culture.

  Wherever possible, we’d try and avoid the main roads and take the parallel rough tracks instead – they had far more shade as they wound between the little villages and were more interesting visually than the long, empty highways, even though they were sometimes longer. On walks such as these, with weeks and months ahead, I’d found it important that for the sake of morale, you have to take one day at a time; filling each day with as much joy and stimulation as possible. I’d much rather walk an extra mile and meet the villagers, than take a short but dull route along a main road. But that’s what we were on right now.

  ‘I see what you mean,’ said Alberto.

  ‘What?’ I asked him, on one such stretch of road, my mind beginning to wander.

  ‘It’s quite boring, isn’t it?’ said Alberto. ‘This walking.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you get used to it,’ I replied. ‘And you’ll see, we’ll have plenty to keep us interested, but you do have to expect that at times you’ll just have to be happy in your own company.’

  ‘But I like to talk,’ he said.