El día 18 - Bienvenido a México

No pude dormir mucho anoche. Estaba en una alfombra mágica volando por todos los lugares de Latinoamérica en que podía pensar. No, no estaba alucinando bajo de efecto de tomar lo que César me dio. ¡Neta sin mamadas! De hecho tenía demasiada emoción.

Me levanté y duché. Mi anfitrión de couchsurfing había preparado hot cakes para el desayuno. Pensé que probablemente fuera la ultima vez que los comí. No sabía que comen los mexicanos. ¡Estubieron Chidos! Me despedí de mis anfitriones y alejé hacia la frontera. Estuve un poco nervioso porque casi todo el mundo me había dicho que la frontera está peligroso.

Mis anfitriones increíbles

¿Puede usted ver México en la distancia?

Había una tienda de Dollar General en el camino. Decidí probar mi suerte y comprobar si se vendían la cámara “Re” de HTC que quería. No la tenían. Pero compré pilas recargables por $10- una decisión prudente. El chico en el mostrador era muy considerado. Me preguntó si yo tenía la cantidad justa de cambio para el puente de peaje fronterizo y me dio el cambio exacto que yo iba a necesitar.

Pedaleé hacia la frontera. En mi camino, vi un cartel informando que llevar armas o drogas es una ofensa en el lado mexicano de la frontera. (Cosa de Cesar! Mis pantalones se estaban mojado por el pipi metaforico.)

Después de cierta confusión en la oficina de inmigración de Estados Unidos (quería un sello de salida en mi pasaporte. Yo sabía que EE.UU. no provee un sello de salida cuando alguien sale en un avión debido a que la compañía aérea proporciona los datos de que salen del país a las autoridades de inmigración. Pero yo estaba dejando por tierra. Yo quería el sello de salida. Pero no, los pendejos gringos no iban a proporcionar uno. Finalmente, crucé el río Bravo, es decir, la frontera! Yo quería que alguien saque una foto de mí y mi bici, Brownie, de entrar en la frontera con el letrero de "México", solo unos metros lejos. Pero no era posible con todos los enormes camiones alineados en el puente y todos los coches que estaban pasando al lado de mí.

Río Bravo - la carretera a los EE.UU. para muchos inmigrantes latinoamericanos

El puente sobre el río tenía una valla de alambre en ambos lados. "México" en el edificio en el extremo del puente en que están las oficiales de inmigración y de seguridad de fronteras fue oscurecido por algunos bloques de cemento y parte de la valla. Entré en la puerta de México. Por desgracia, no podía hacer clic de imagen de "México" en letras grandes tampoco.

Al verme toda perplejidad, un agente de seguridad hembra se acercó a mí y me preguntó qué todo lo que llevaba en la bici. Señalé a alimentos, agua, ropa, carpa, mochila, bolsa de dormir, ciclo de piezas de repuesto, etc. Mientras hablaba, el perro rastreador en el cesto canina unos 10 pies de distancia empezó a ladrar. Sin cesar! Me las arreglé para controlar pis metafórico. Pidió a los otros agentes de calmar al perro. Que estaban haciendo ya. Ella me pidió que aparcar la bici y obtener la autorización del agente de inmigración. Ella dijo que iba a inspeccionar mis chivas después de eso.

Fui dentro del despacho de inmigración. El oficial me pidió que llenar un formulario y pagar la cuota en un banco ubicado fuera. Así que, curiosamente, podría entrar en el territorio mexicano para pagar el costo de la visa en un banco sin mi pasaporte (no tenía ni la moneda mexicana, así que tuve que usar mi tarjeta.). Nadie me acompañó. Una de las agentes de seguridad me mandó "¡Vuelva después de pagar!" Jaja. Volví a la oficina de inmigración. Sin ningún problema recibí mi visa. En conjunto, no fue nada complicada. Pero fijase, el agente de inmigración estampado mi pasaporte con la fecha el 11 de febrero de 2016. Le recordé que era de hecho el 12 de febrero. ¡Que pendejo!

¿Ve? ¡No estoy mamando!

Salí. El agente de policía que inicialmente me había instruido ya no estaba allí. Parecía que el cambio del anterior grupo de oficiales había terminado. No podía ver la canasta canina tampoco. Había una nueva agente femenina. Ella me preguntó de dónde era. Le dije que la India. Pude ver sus ojos se abren con asombro. Ella me pidió que abriera la mochila. Miró a su alrededor. Creo que ella estaba comprobando si alguno de sus supervisores estuvo alrededor. Creo que no. Porque me preguntó la siguientes preguntas mientras ella lánguidamente inspeccionó el compartimento principal de mi mochila:
1. ¿Trae armas?
2. Alcohol?
Hmm...
3. Drogas? *guiño*

Obviamente dije que no. "Andale, pasele."

A pesar de que me había ido temprano a las 8:30, finalmente podía entrar a México a las 11:30.

No tenía ni idea de por dónde ir después. En mi emoción, se me olvidó buscar unos anfitriones o lugares para alojarse en Ciudad Acuña o dónde iría después de Ciudad Acuña. Me decidí dar una vuelta de la ciudad por primera vez. Dos agentes de los federales (la policía federal) situados justo fuera del puesto fronterizo me llamaron. Me preguntaron las preguntas habituales. !Los apendeje con mi explicacion con la razon de mi viaje! También me preguntaron como esta la India. Creo que preguntaban de desarrollo / economía de la India. Les dije que esta casi como Mexico. Me dijeron la manera de salir de la ciudad y algunas otras cosas útiles. Y me fui.

La primera vista de Ciudad Acuña:



Yo acababa de cruzar un río, pero el mundo a mi alrededor había cambiado. En las calles había más color, más personas, y un poco de caos también- un caos que indicó que viven humanos en vez de maquinas.

Había vendedores de calles que venden helados y otras cosas.

Oxxo que se ve en el fondo? Es el 7-11 mexicana.

Había puestos de zapatero.

Así es como debería ser. El cliente debe recibir para sentarse. Zapateros de la India, presten atención!

Al final había transporte público! Después de Nueva York había visto autobuses en Dallas y Austin. Uno podía caminar más rápido que ellos! Pero no hubo ningun sistema de transporte público en las ciudades que eran del tamaño de Ciudad Acuña.

Mi primera reacción? Esta podría ser la India ... en español!

Dentro de la primera hora, esto es lo que sucedió. Un muchacho que iba en la misma dirección que yo redujo su coche para preguntarme lo que estaba haciendo con todas chivas en mi bicicleta. Le conté mis razones. De inmediato me articuló algunas obscenidades en español. Estaba bromeando, por supuesto. El medidor de miedo estaba corriendo un poco alto por eso finjí falta de interés y seguí adelante. (En serio, el parecía un poco sospechoso.)

Acabé para sacar una foto de esta iglesia:



Un ratito más tarde, otro hombre se desaceleró su coche. Le dije que hasta donde tenía la esperanza de llegar. Exclamó, "Órale!" Esa es una de usos múltiples del argot español mexicano. En este contexto se refiere "Holy Fuck!" Luego se detuvo su coche y se bajó. El miedo de calibre estaba bajo control y por eso yo también me detuvo. Después de una conversación introductoria, me invitó a comer! Pensé que me llevaría para un aperitivo o algo. No. Él me trató de una comida de cuatro platos- sopa de lentejas, tortas de camaron, filete pescado y capirotada! ¡Bienvenido a México!

La comida típica durante la Cuaresma

Él me ayudó a planear mi ruta para las próximas dos semanas más o menos. Me dijo los lugares turísticos y los restaurantes de revisar en los pueblos que iba a pasar. Me ofreció a conectarme con sus amigos y conocidos en esas ciudades si necesitaría algo.

¡Y luego él me invitó a su casa!

No podía creer mi suerte.

Varios amigos y admiradores, entre ellos algunos de mis anfitriones y amigos que había conocido en mis viajes, me preguntaron varias veces si yo había planeado mi ruta y mi viaje después de los EE.UU.. No lo hubiera hecho. Sé que la mayoría de ellos pensaron que estaba un pendejo por no hacerlo. Tal vez estaba. Pero tal vez, tengo un ángel de la guarda. Tal vez todos tenemos uno. Tal vez innecesariamente intentamos controlar el futuro en nombre de la planificación.

También me ha obligado pensar en esto: este hombre no podía ganar nada por ayudarme. ¿Por qué hizo todo eso por mí? Asi son los mexicanos al contrario de la opinion de resto del mundo

Nunca lo entenderé. Pues para los próximos 1000 km más o menos tenía un nuevo amigo que mira hacia fuera para mí. Su nombre es Carlos. No sé cómo pagarle toda su bondad.

Carlos y yo

7 Mexican Slang Expressions That You Must Know Before Going To Mexico

And that you may not even find in Rosetta Stone’s or Duolingo’s Spanish lessons.

The best way to feel like a local in a new country is to speak their language, and more importantly, to know the slangs and the colloquial expressions. If you already speak Spanish but have never been to Mexico, chances are you do not know the following expressions. If you do not speak Spanish, you definitely would not know the expressions explained below. Either way, if you plan to visit Mexico, I strongly recommend that you acquaint yourself with these 7 Mexican slang expressions. The locals will love you.

1. Que onda?

First things first, you must know how to say "What’s up." When I was in Spain, I never heard Que onda. The Spaniards preferred Como estas or Que tal. Mexicans do use those expressions. However, in informal conversations they seem to prefer Que onda. I love the sound of it.

Pronounced as k ondaa (with a soft ‘d’ sound).

2. Güey

Spanish learners often confuse the words guay and güey.

Guay means "cool" in Spain. Its origin, interestingly, lies in the Arabic word, kuayis ( كويس), which means “of good quality.” It does not exist in the Mexican Spanish dictionary. Even in Spain its use has declined and its contractions uay or way are more common.

In Mexico, güey, or its contraction wei or wey, means "dude" or "dudette." To me it sounds like only dude, but I have seen guys use it to address their female friends as well. You can go around impressing the locals by greeting them with Que onda, wei?

I have met some people who punctuate every second sentence with this expression. I thought I could use it freely.

But I was advised not to use it with somebody whom I have just met or am not very close to. I checked the Mexican Language Academy's dictionary to verify that. Indeed, it can be used as an expression of endearment for a close friend; a stranger may take offence because the word also means a goofy or a foolish person. Apparently, mai is what I should use then. Like this: Que onda, mai?

Pronounced as way-i (i as in the word sit).

3. ¡No mames!

It is the Mexican substitute for “Are you kidding me?” or “You must be joking!”.



If I told you that these places exist in Mexico, seeing their prisitine beauty, you should exclaim “¡No mames!” in disbelief.





Or, if I told you that you can travel through Scandinavian countries on a living-expense budget of only €15-20 per day, you would definitely exclaim, “¡No mames!” But it’s true.

It is typically used by the younger generation.

Pronounced as no maamays (with a softer than usual ‘s’).

4. Ándale

You will hear this expression very often. It usually means OK, but you may hear Mexicans use it in other contexts as well. For instance, if you asked somebody for directions and later expressed your thanks by saying Gracias, a Mexican may respond with Ándale instead of De nada (which means “You are welcome.”). If a Mexican were to ask you, "What does ´Mexico´ mean," and you replied, "The navel of the moon," you will get to hear ¡Ándale! In this context it means, "Exactly" or "Right on."

They use OK as well. OK is almost universally understood. But Ándale is more Mexican. So if you want to feel like a local, use it instead! Ándale?

The gentleman on the right is the current Prime Minister of India. He is known for his obsession for selfies.

Pronounced as aandalay (with a soft ‘d’).

5. Órale

If you got to know of somebody travelling by bike, like me, that’s what you should say: “¡Órale!” (Pardon the abject lack of modesty!)



Or when Mexicans ask me where I am from, and I tell them “de la India,” they usually respond with “¡Órale! ¡Está muy lejos!” (Wow, it is too far!). In this sense, it is akin to the interjection, No mames.

But, Órale is a lot more versatile. In addition to expressing surprise or disbelief, you could use Órale to simply say OK or “right on” (like Ándale).

Or, to encourage someone. For instance, if I told you I am physically exhausted, you could use this expression in the following manner: “¡Órale! You can do it!”



This one word probably has more than one hundred uses! Did I hear you say “¡Órale!”?

Pronounced as oraalay (with a slightly elongated ‘O’).

6. Muy padre 

Padre means “father” in Spanish. Muy means “very.” Literally, this phrase translates into nothing. But Mexicans have come to use padre as an adjective as well, and it means “cool.” Use padre as often as you like to express your appreciation for anything Mexican. “Güey, those tacos were muy padre!” “The Mexican beaches are muy padre, wei.” “Mexicans are muy padre, wey!” “Gringos are so not padre.” (Gringo is a (pejorative) term that Mexicans use for white people, especially those from the US.)



You could simply upon experiencing something worthy of praise, say ¡Que padre!

Pronounced as mooi paadray (with a soft ‘d’) or k paadray.

7. Mande

This one is very straightforward. It means “I beg your pardon.”



If you have learnt Spanish as spoken in Spain, you probably use Cómo or Perdón instead. So it may be a little jarring, at first, to hear the Mexicans say, “Mande?”

Mande comes from mandar which means “to order.” One of my Mexican friends told me that the origin of this expression probably goes back to the colonial times when Mexicans were enslaved by the Spanish. Instead of requesting their masters to repeat, they perhaps used to ask them, “What did you order, master?” Somehow, its usage did not diminish even though Mexico became independent.

It may be used as a rhetorical device as well:



Pronounced as maanday (with a soft ‘d’).

There are, of course, innumerable other expressions. Mexican Spanish is extremely rich and colourful when it comes to slang expressions. But the others may require some discretion. These 7 expressions appear to be the most common and can be freely used in the company of locals. Whenever I use any one of these, it always brings a smile on their faces. No mames even makes them laugh each time I use it.

One last tip: while it is not in connection with Mexican slang expressions, I thought it would be useful for you to know. In Mexico, one would typically wish Buenos dias or Good Morning between midnight and midday, Buenas tardes or Good Evening from 12 noon till about 7pm, and Buenas noches or Good Night from 7pm onwards.

Now that you know how to use the most common Mexican slang expressions, I wish you happy and safe travels to Mexico!

Beauty: A Brown Guy's Observations in Black and White

In Istanbul, I was at an event organised through a travellers' network. I was talking to a Turk and a German (yes, sometimes they can stand each other!). I noticed a black person at the event. In the previous four months of travelling, I had not come across any black traveller. I immediately excused myself from the conversation that I was having and went to introduce myself to the black person- a girl from Nigeria. Let's call her M. We grabbed a drink each and got talking. She was pursuing higher education in Istanbul. After the customary introductory conversation, I invited her to the dance floor. Actually she brought up dancing by making fun of Bollywood movies. She wanted me to dance Bollywood to jaded international music! I tried. Pitiably.

We were having fun. Just then somebody pushed her from behind. There was a group of Turks. I am not sure whether it was inadvertent or intentional. But she wanted to get off the dance floor. She was visibly disturbed. We sat at a table nearby. We were two and the table was for a larger group. Another group of Turks entered the bar and sat at the same table. The floor was quite small and overcrowded. But my friend felt offended. I wanted to make sure that she was all right. I asked her what happened. I could sense that it was not about the Turks shoving and grabbing the seats. It went much deeper. Upon much insistence, she eventually told me how secluded she felt in Istanbul because of the colour of her skin. "Turkish women think they are the most beautiful in the world. I am beautiful too. I do have nice features. So what if I am black?" She said a lot more. But, after a point, her serrated words felt like a stab after stab after stab. I could not bear the pain that she wanted to share, and, to this day, whenever I think about my conversation with M, my eyes turn moist. I really want to relay her pain to all of you. But I don't know how. In that moment, however, I wanted her to stop. I wanted to reach out to her, hug her, and apologise to her on behalf of the rest of humanity.

"Why should anybody have to feel like that," I thought to myself.

The correlation between beauty and skin colour had come up earlier in a few conversations. The first one was somewhere in Romania with an Austrian, a Romanian and two Germans-all of them in their 20s. We were discussing women of which country or region are the most beautiful. The Austrian's verdict- Scandinavian. I contested, "Scandinavian are too white. I'd say Balkan, Mediterranean, or Middle Eastern, even Turkish." The older German guy facepalmed at the mention of Turkish women. The Austrian reiterated that the Scandinavian are the most beautiful in a tone that I did not appreciate. I said something to warn him that he was almost sounding racist. At that point, the younger German tried to pacify the rising tempers by sharing his honest perspective, "I should be able to see the girl in a dark room. That's where I draw the line."

Later, somewhere in Montenegro, I became friends with a group of German travellers. Even though I was the only one who could not fluently speak German, we conversed mostly in English. Three of the Germans had been travelling for a month and had spent too much time in the sun. The hands of one of them had become pale yellow. He remarked, looking at his hands with a bit of disgust, "Oh man I cannot wait to get back home! Look at my hands!"

In another conversation in a different country, this time with a French and a German (While travelling in Europe it may seem like the Germans have surpassed the Chinese in number; they are everywhere!), I was sharing the story of a Norwegian friend- a girl travelling solo in India and finding a second home in a remote village in north-east India. The German wanted to travel to India and had asked me about safety in India. It was in that connection that I was sharing the story of the brave Norwegian girl I was lucky to meet during my travels. One of the details is that she got off from a bus in that remote village and almost immediately a few villagers gathered around her wondering what she was doing there. I commented, "They had most probably never seen a white person before." The German guy blurted out, almost wanting to withdraw what he had said, "They must have thought, 'Wow, who is this angel!'" (I would have liked to share my Norwegian friend's story here because it is quite interesting and funny, but it's not related.)

In northern Mexico, a white Mexican guy asked me if the women in India were too short like the Mexicanas. He also commented how women of Sinaloa and Jalisco (states in Mexico) are the most beautiful in Mexico. I asked him why. He replied, "They have white skin, blond hair and light-coloured eyes." The girls in his state, Chihuahua, are light brown and typically not doe-eyed. Somebody, somewhere else in Mexico, had commented that the women from Oaxaca and Chiapas (two states in southern Mexico) are not the best.

Which country has the most beautiful women people, and implicitly, what is the definition of beauty, is a theme that keeps coming up in conversations with other travellers-both male and female. There seems to be a universal agreement that white is the most beautiful. Most white women are afraid of travelling solo through brown or black populations.

But we all know that. So what is my point?

I am not sure. I think when I was at home, I could see the media projecting white as beautiful all the time. So I knew the world considers white to be more beautiful. But I was nonchalant about it because it did not jeopardise me in any way. However, after I started travelling, to confront actual individuals, who were nice to me otherwise, but considered themselves or their ilk to be more beautiful because of the colour of their skin made me feel mad. Yet, I did not really confront the Austrian, the Germans and the white Mexican. I ignored them.

But after my conversation with M, I was forced to think about all of this and not continue to live like a zombie without questioning what is wrong with considering white to be beautiful and by implication superior.

I could not bear the pain and said goodbye to M. While walking back from Takşim to my hostel in Sultanahmet, I contemplated over the genesis of our common perception of beauty. I am sure there are others who must have thought about it before: I think our neurons have become wired to believe in a unidimensional definition of beauty. Now, I am no brain scientist but could it be traced back to our fear of the dark in ancient times? As human beings we must have been afraid of the dark before we learned to make fire. Perhaps, therefore, most cultures associate dark with evil and white with something, as the German traveller said, “angelic.” Gods of many Native American tribes were white. Indian Hindu deities are mostly white. In several ancient cultures nightfall meant a demon swallowed the sun. Therefore, anything lighter than dark must have been preferable, even when it came to skin colour. When people of different skin colours interacted with each other for the first time, not surprisingly, the darker ones were considered inferior or associated with evil. When invaders or settlers from Central Asia and Europe arrived in India, the natives were made to believe that they were less beautiful. Some people argue that in the Indian Hindu epic Ramayana, the people portrayed as demons were in fact the darker natives of India. Or, when the darker-skinned gypsies or Roma people arrived in Europe in the 11th century, perhaps because of the fear of everything dark, they were associated with evil. In Easter Europe, to this day, parents use threats, such as "...or else the gypsies will kidnap you," in order to get their kids to agree with them.

In fact, I was confused to be a gypsy in Romania by an old man who kept hurling racial slurs at me while I was waiting for a bus in Brašov. The racists in Northern or Western Europe would probably do the same to a Romanian. Racist Turks treated M just the way racist Germans treat the Turks. It's a funny world we live in. 

But I digress. Going back to neurons: if our neurons are wired to perceive white as beautiful and “angelic,” perhaps we can make our neurons shed this perception that has been passed on for generations and reinforced during the subjugation of darker skinned peoples in different parts of the world. The brain is, after all, only a muscle; it can be trained.

I hope that by the end of my travels, beauty, for me, will not be skin deep. And colour will be what it is- merely the light rays reflected by a surface because it absorbs the rest of the spectrum.

M. also said that she liked the way Germans treated her. She wanted to move to Germany. I hope she is a happier person now.

Day 18 - Welcome to Mexico

I could hardly sleep the previous night. I was on a magic carpet flying through all the places in Latin America that I could think of. No, I was not on the stuff César gave me. I was genuinely that excited.

I woke up, showered, had pancakes and waffles for breakfast for probably the last time. They were too good! I said goodbye to my hosts and nervously rode away towards the border.

My amazing hosts in Del Rio

Can you see Mexico in the distance?

There was a Dollar General store on the way. I decided to try my luck and check if they had the HTC camera that I wanted. Nope. But I bought rechargeable batteries for $10. Sensible decision. The guy at the counter was nice enough to ask me if I had the right amount of change for the border toll bridge and tendered the exact change I would need.

I cycled towards the border. On my way, I saw a sign informing that carrying arms and drugs was an offense on the Mexican side of the border. (César's stuff! Metaphorical pee wet my pants.)

After some confusion at the US immigration office (I wanted an exit stamp on my passport. I knew that US does not provide an exit stamp when you leave by air because the airline company provides the data of you having left the country to the immigration authorities. But I was leaving by land. I wanted the friggin exit stamp. But no, they would not provide one.), I finally crossed the Bravo River, i.e. the border! I so wanted somebody to click a picture of me and Brownie entering the border with the sign "Mexico" a few meters away. But with all the huge trucks lined up on the bridge and all the cars whizzing past me, that was not possible.

Bravo River - the highway to the US for so many Latin Americans

The bridge over the river had a wired fence on both sides. "Mexico" on the edifice at the end of the bridge that housed the immigration and border security authorities was obscured by some cement blocks and part of the wired fence. I entered the gate. Alas, no picture of "Mexico" in big letters either.

Now, mind you, everything from this point onward took place in Spanish. So whatever I am going to share with you will be my translation. Some things will get lost in translation.

Seeing me all perplexed, a female security officer came up to me and asked me what all I was carrying on the bike. I pointed out food, water, clothes, tent, sleeping bag, cycle spare parts, etc. While I was speaking, the sniffer dog in the canine basket about 10 feet away started barking. Incessantly! I managed to control the metaphorical pee. She asked the other officers to calm the dog down. They were doing that already. She then asked me to park the bike and get clearance from the immigration officer. She said that she would inspect my stuff after that.

I went inside the immigration office. The officer asked me to fill up a form and pay the fee at a bank located outside. So, funnily, I could get inside the Mexican territory to pay the visa fee at a bank without my passport (I had no Mexican currency so I had to use my card.). No escorts. One of the hot security officers asked me to ensure that I came back. Haha. Anyway, it was not complicated at all. I went back to the immigration office. I got my permit. The immigration officer stamped my passport. The stamp was dated February 11, 2016. I reminded the officer that it was in fact the 12th of February. Welcome to Mexico?

See? I am not kidding!

I went out. The female officer who had initially instructed me was not there anymore. It seemed that the shift of the previous group of officers had ended. I could not see the canine basket either. There was a new female officer. She asked me where I was from. I told her India. I could see her eyes widen with amazement. She asked me to open my backpack. She looked around. I think she was checking if any of her supervisors was around. Apparently not. So she asked me the following questions while she languidly frisked the main compartment of my backpack:
1. Have you got any arms?
2. Any alcohol?
Hmm...
3. Drugs? *wink*

I obviously replied in the negative. I was asked to proceed.

Even though I had left early at about 8:30, I finally managed to enter Mexico at about 11:30.

I had no clue where to go next. In my excitement, I forgot to look up hosts or places to stay in Ciudad Acuña or where to go after Ciudad Acuña. I decided to check out the city first. Two officers of the Federales (the Federal police force) positioned right outside the border post whistled to call me out. They asked me the usual questions. They got quite excited after listening to my plan. They also asked me how India was doing. I think they meant development/economy wise. They told me the way to get out of the city and some other useful stuff. And off I went.

The first view of Ciudad Acuña:



I had just crossed a river, but the world around me had changed. In the streets, there was more colour, more people, and some chaos too.

There were street hawkers selling ice cream and other things.

You see Oxxo in the background? It's the Mexican 7-11.

There were cobbler stands.

This is how it should be. The client should get to sit. Indian cobblers, pay attention!

There was public transport! After New York, I had seen buses in Dallas and Austin. One could walk faster than them! But nothing in towns that were the size of Ciudad Acuña.

My first reaction? This could be India...in Spanish!

Within the first hour, this is what happened. A guy heading in the same direction as me slowed his car down to ask me what I was doing with all that stuff on my bike. I told him. He immediately mouthed some obscenities in Spanish. In jest, of course. The fear gauge was running a little high so I pretended lack of interest and moved on. (Honestly, he looked a little shady.)

I stopped to click a picture of this church:



A few seconds later, another man slowed his car down. He had the same questions. When I told him my plan, he exclaimed, "Orale!" That's a multipurpose Mexican Spanish slang. In this case it meant "Holy Fuck!" Then he stopped his car and got out. Fear gauge was under control so I stopped too. After an introductory conversation, he invited me to lunch! I thought he would take me for a snack or something. No. He treated me to a four-course meal! Welcome to Mexico!

A typical meal during Cuaresma or the Lent

He helped me plan my route for the next two weeks or so. He told me the tourist attractions and the eateries to check out in the towns that I would go through. He offered to connect me with his friends and acquiantances in those towns should I need something.

And then he invited me to his home!

I could not believe my luck.

Several friends and well-wishers, including some of my hosts and friends I had made on the road, repeatedly asked me if I had planned my route and my trip after the US. I hadn't. I know most of them thought I was being stupid. Maybe I was. But maybe, I have a guardian angel. Maybe we all have one. Maybe we unnecessarily try to control the future in the name of planning.

I was also compelled to think about this: this man stood to gain nothing by helping me. Why did he do all that for me?

Anyway, just like that, for the next 1000 Km or so, I had a new friend looking out for me. His name is Carlos. I don't know how I will ever return all his kindness.

Carlos and I

Day 17 - Last Evening in the US

I woke up to find my host making pancakes and waffles for breakfast (I was sleeping on the couch in the living room.). One by one the family members emerged- the mom, two sons and a daughter. I had already met the dog- Lucy. It was a weekday so they were all busy. Kevin teaches biology at the local university. He had told me before I arrived that his students wanted to meet me. They had several questions for me, including "Is he crazy?" He invited me to be there for his class at 11am. I agreed. But before that I needed to go out and take a walk to clear my head- I had to decide whether to continue to El Paso or get into Mexico from Del Rio. The border was less than 2 miles away from my host family's house. Kevin called up one of his Mexican acquaintances to find out whether it was safe to cross into Mexico from Del Rio. He advised that Mexico, as a whole, had become a safer place.

I went for my walk. I could not resist the temptation to cross the border. But I remembered that I had ordered some stuff on Amazon. It was to be delivered to César's friend in El Paso. It was too late to cancel the order so I logged into my account. Amazon had already cancelled my order! I couldn't fathom why. Was it a sign?

I went to Kevin's class. The students, about 15 of them and mostly Hispanic, were discussing the definition of "animal." In order to illustrate the point that an animal is an organism that moves, Kevin pulled out a snake. Yes, a snake! I had told him earlier that while wild camping, one of my biggest fears is being bitten by a snake. To help me get over my ophidiophobia (why do I remember that word?!), at breakfast, he had shown me pictures of venomous snakes, supplied tips for identifying venomous snakes, and we had discussed fear. I did not expect him to surprise me with a live snake! I freaked out. After seeing his students take the snake in their hands (mostly the girls!), I finally agreed to hold the slithery thing. It was cold (duh, it's a cold- blooded animal). And oddly, perhaps because of having spent so much time in nature, I felt connected to the King Snake. I guess the fact that they're non-venomous also helped.



After talking to the students about my travels, I left. Some of them were touched by the story, especially one of the girls. I would have liked to interact more with them after class but I had a very important decision to make.

I continued walking and contemplating about my next step. I was approaching a Whattaburger restaurant and saw a man eating outside on the floor. As I got closer, I noticed a bike behind him. The bike had panniers. A bike tourist! I went up to him to introduce myself and find out about his trip. He was going from the Pacific coast to the Atlantic coast within the US. He shared with me his ordeal through the desert stretch that is almost uninhabited. He was like, "Not cool man. Avoid it if you can!" Another sign?

I took that as a sign and decided to change my route. No more El Paso. No more worrying about there being no water between Langtry and Marathon. I was going to Ciudad Acuña! To celebrate my new decision, I went to the Fuddruckers restaurant, which was a few steps away, and treated myself to their famous chocolate malt.



A little while later, Kevin called. I told him about my decision. One of the things I had ordered on Amazon was a HTC Re camera. It's a very cheap substitute for a GoPro camera. Kevin suggested that it may be available at Walmart. So he drove me there. Unfortunately, it was out of stock. We then bought some groceries to make some Indian butter chicken.

On our way back, I learnt that Kevin and his family are Mormons. That day I got to know a lot about Mormons- their book, tenets, and beliefs. Some of the things I liked: their religion prohibits drinking alcohol and tobacco (like Islam!), and even tea and coffee (I later read that what's prohibited are "hot drinks" which is interpreted by their church to mean tea and coffee.) Hah, I come very close to being Mormon, at least, in respect of adhering to their "Word of Wisdom."

That evening, while I was making the butter chicken, and later, at the dinner table, a lot of knowledge was exchanged. Before we started eating, as is their ritual, the family said a prayer. They included me in their prayer and asked for my safety during my travels!

Before anybody else could say anything, I cheekily declared that the chicken was good enough. I think it was. After all, the eldest son had three servings!

Day 16 - Uvalde to Del Rio

This was a special day. I cycled 72 miles (about 115 Km)! Quite an achievement for me. I also reached the 500 Km mark according to my bike computer. But I remember the computer did not function the first couple of days (entirely my fault). Probably I had finished 500Km when I reached Lost Maples.

When I left the motel and turned on to the pavement, I approached a zebra crossing. On the other side of the zebra crossing was a lady pushing a baby stroller. As the light turned green, I prepared myself to cross the zebra crossing without hitting the baby stroller. As we crossed each other, I was surprised to see four baby dolls in the stroller. I looked carefully at the lady, she was actually trans. In those few seconds, I also managed to muster a smile to exchange and hide my astonishment. I hope.

The ride was full of the same landscapes. Texas was becoming boring. Except this: the Nueces River. There was a sheep farm right before the bridge over the river guarded by two efficient white dogs who manage to leap over the fence (if there was one) to chase strangers like me away.

Then there was this old rail bridge.

And then these windmills.

Remember I told you on Day 4 the Park Host in Blanco State Park told me about a guy who was walking all around Texas and planning to cover all the state parks? Guess what, I ran into him! At first, I thought he was a hitchhiker. He was on the other side of the road and had an umbrella hat on so I could not see him clearly. I slowed down and yelled out the customary hitchhikers' greeting from my side of the road. I thought I could offer some food or something so I even stopped. When he raised his head and removed the umbrella from his head, I was stunned to see a really old man! I thought he was homeless or something. He walked up to me and introduced himself as Dave- a 72-year-old man! He had cycled through some famous trail in the US, walked through a few trails already, started this trail in Louisiana in October 2015, and was planning to walk the Rocky Mountain trail after finishing this one. It was...just...I mean...I...you know...was speechless. That is thousands of kilometers! He made me feel so less than ordinary. I asked him if he had been to Blanco State Park and spoken to the Park Host there. He had. It was hilarious to run into each other like that. Hilarious for him. I was still in a state of shock. How could a 72-year-old do all of that?! We spent about half an hour talking to each other sharing our respective stories. I wish I could spend more time with him, but I had to get to Del Rio. So we said goodbye and continued our respective journeys. You can check out his website and you must! www.davidowenroberts.com

Man of the Post - Dave

I spotted this hill. I thought how lonesome it must be for it to stand there most probably at the periphery of "Hill Country"

And then I saw the name of the ranch within which it stood- Lonesome Hill. Haha!

The sun was draining out all my energy. The first 35 miles to reach Bracketville took forever. I got there at about 5pm. I had a nice, heavy meal at Subway on the highway 90. I called my hosts in Del Rio to check with them if they were all right with me arriving later in the evening. They offered to connect me with somebody in Bracketville to spend the night. But I wanted to achieve the 100Km a day milestone. So with their permission, I pedalled on.



Somehow it's so much easier to bike at night. There's no sun and there's lesser traffic. It's easier to tell there's traffic approaching from behind because of the headlamps. Moreover, biking during the day time is a transient joy. There is something more eternal about the joy of biking under a swarm of stars at night.



I had left Bracketville at about 6:20pm. This is where Del Rio begins. I reached this point at exactly 9pm. It took me significantly lesser time to cover 30 miles at night!



But it took me another hour to find my hosts' place.

Kevin, the head of the host family, was waiting for me around the corner of the street to make sure I did not get lost. The rest of the family had gone to bed already. I took a shower and had dinner as quietly as I could. I slept like a log.