I am requesting that Michael include some lovely photographs which have little, if anything, to do with the text of this blog. Everything described below was either too gross or we were in to high a state of fear/worry to photograph them. But I know you love the photos... so enjoy.
Now, for those of you following the blog closely, you will remember that our previous trips to the beach have been fraught with difficulty, dismay and discomfort. Ever the optimists, last week we sallied forth with our pals Wes and Ron for what was billed as an idyllic twelve days in Ixtapa, Acapulco and Cuernavaca. Mother of God were we wrong. Priding ourselves on both our thoroughness (GPS + Google Maps) and pluck (grisly stories of Michoachan and Acapulco are overblown), we packed the car with luggage and a suitable supply of sandwiches, wine and cheese and set forth bravely at 9:30 Wednesday morning for our six and a half hour drive to Ixtapa.
By noon, we began to tip to the fact that something was seriously wrong with the GPS which appeared to be sending us to Morelia instead of Ixtapa. We left a modern, four lane highway and began our descent (or ascent as it would turn out) into sinuous, two lane, potholed, debris strewn back roads that would be our personal hell for the next 24 hours. And not just any debris. Living a sheltered life, I had never actually seen vultures feasting on dead burros...and cows... and coyotes before. Well, I can check that off my life list. There is a lot of death in those mountains.
At some point, I began to suggest that we should retrace our steps to a point where we could use the Google Maps directions. No one heard me or perhaps, just perhaps, they were not paying attention to me. We plunged on into mountains exceeding 3,000 meters characterized by: 1) lovely vistas; 2) rock slides; 3) no cars; 4) no people; 5) no signs of civilization. The GPS was resolute in its conviction and determinedly directed us further and further afield. By consulting the highly insufficient map that Google Maps had provided, we determined sometime around 2PM that if we turned right at the next intersection we could reach a town shown on the Google Maps route. We were near giddy with relief.
As we approached the sought after intersection, we realized that we had a problem on our hands. In front of us were arrayed a large number of Mexican Army soldiers resplendent in full body armor and large automatic weapons. They looked tense. We looked tense. Michael pulled up and the soldier in charge gestured that we should proceed to the left. But we needed to go right. Oh, but look. The right hand road was barricaded with army vehicles and prickly looking soldiers. Hmmm. We accurately deduced that we were not going right (our one chance to find the town we needed to get on course). We asked him "Which way to Ixtapa?". He looked very confused but said "Go left and then when you can, go right". There was only one problem. You could never go right. Never.
Finally, finally, at around 5:30 we arrived in a very big town (well comparatively) and the GPS announced triumphantly that we "had arrived at our destination". Except there was no resort there. It was a big town but it wasn't Ixtapa. We assumed it was the big town next to it. Zuhuantenejo. So we asked a guy where Ixtapa was. He looked confused. Said he didn't know. We thought "Wow, he sure doesn't get around much. It can't be more than 10 miles away. What a rube." We started on our way when our eager eyes latched onto a sign that said Ixtapa. Hurrah! A portion of the sign was obscured but as we approached more letters were revealed. 234km. There were some in the car (well one -- not me) who refused to believe that. So we stopped at the Pemex station where I tried to get a bored 14 year old girl behind the counter to confirm or deny that we were close to Ixtapa. She couldn't be bothered. Some things are universal. I went outside and asked the guys about it. "Oh, it is about 3 and 1/2 hours away."
The sun was setting. Michael had been driving for about 10 hours on hideous roads. We still didn't know what town we were in. We sat in the parking lot having a lively discussion on whether to continue driving in the dark through mountainous roads filled with cartel figures and dead donkeys and live donkeys soon to be dead when we hit them. Just then a nice Mexican guy came up to Michael's window and said: "Señor you do not want to drive on that road at night. It is very, very dangerous." When a Mexican tells you it is dangerous, it is dangerous. Not just life threatening. A certain death.
We retraced our steps and located a hotel. While doing so we were heartened to see that the town was a headquarters for the Federales. We were less heartened to note that the entire station was surrounded by sand bags six feet high with gun slots but hey, it was something. Upon entering the lobby, the desk clerk almost fainted at the sight of us. Clearly there had not been a gringo in this town for at least ten years and any gringo who would come into this drug infested den of the cartels would have to be crazy and/or dangerous. I didn't have enough Spanish to disabuse him of this idea so merely ordered up two rooms. They were as you may have expected. We would have put furniture in front of the door for added protection but there was only one resin chair. But don't feel sorry for us. Really.
We decided leaving the hotel to seek out a charming little eatery might be tempting fate. Thank God I'd packed well. It was a little surreal sitting in this horrid little room in this really scary town eating Camembert and drinking a decent red wine. Ah! moments to remember.
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| At least the hotel in Ciudad Altimarano came with peacocks! |
Astoundingly we survived the night. Up at the crack of dawn and primed to find that damned Ixtapa if it killed us which it was looking as if it might. All we had to do was follow one, single road. One. Route 134. May it live in infamy. To give you an idea, we had to travel 234 km. It took us 6 hours of constant driving. That is less than 40km per hour. Like an average of 27 mph. And, at that, I was making little animal noises and clinging to the door handle and occasionally weeping with fear. This stretch had it all -- numerous rock slides, sheer drops of thousands of feet sans guardrails, potholes the size of swimming pools. On one curve was a dead cow being feasted upon while across from it was a dead coyote that had gotten hit while in a mad dash to get to the dead cow. Poetic justice.
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| Some of the mountain views in Michoacan... |
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and more mountain views...
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| What passed for a roadside rest stop-- we leave it to your imagination |
Well, we finally made it. Sometime in mid afternoon. We then went and ate and drank a lot. Our hotel was typical of the sort utilized at Spring Break except all the guests appeared to be old, Canadian and undiscerning. We knew things could only look up from this point forward. And they did. Kind of. But you'll have to wait until the next installment which I promise will be soon.
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