It was Friday night, and I was looking to get some food after spending more time than I would like to admit in the last internet cafe. Even though I was on the verge of being famished, I really could not stand the thought of another taco as I eat them for most of my meals. I was craving falafel but knew this town would never give me such satisfaction. I was tempted to go to a restaurant a few blocks from my hotel called Santo Remidio, but I felt like it had a shady operation going as its logo was on all of the rear window of every taxi cab in town. I postulated that cabbies get kickbacks for bringing Gringos in there, and I was not going to be apart of that. I walked several blocks farther and arrived at Los Caracoles which was recommended by the lady that helped me do my laundry earlier that day. Los Caracoles was a one stop shop for tourists. They had a hotel, restaurant, gift shop, whale watching tours, and bar. The menu at the restaurant rivaled that of Friday´s back in the day when it was called TGI Friday´s and the number of pieces of flare mattered. I ordered the potato skins then was stuck between pasta or salad for my main course. I was thinking of going for a second century tomorrow and decided to load up on carbs. I ordered the spaghetti, but the waitress convinced me that I would like the lasagna more. I topped off dinner with an apple pie a la mode. When the other waiter came by and asked how dinner was, I told him that the lasagna tasted funny. I very rarely give bad reviews of food, but I chalked up the funny taste to a different way of making the tomato sauce.
After dinner, I proceeded upstairs to the bar. The place is mostly empty, and I pulled up a stool a few places down from the man who appeared to be the nicest dressed. He wastes no time and introduces himself. He is an air traffic controller and apparently wanted to practice his English with me. About 15 minutes into my Q&A session, the TV is changed from wrestling to Karaoke. The air traffic controller really loves his Tejano power ballads and controls the mic for roughly 50% of the night. He decides that I need to sing a song, and I do my best to push the out of his head. Regardless he scrolls through the American secion looking for the Eagles. As I watch him do this, he thumbs to the ´T´ section, and perhaps a little piece of me wanted to sing, because I redirected him to the ´E´ section. Now I am holding the mic and belting out the best rendition of Hotel California I could. Why would I care that I am horrible at Karaoke? I would never see any of these people again. As the night progressed, more and more people showed up. By people, I mean men. By the time I left around 1am, the room had 50 men and 2 women. I am pretty sure all of the men had the same idea. Let´s go to Caracoles and pick up some women. Damn, there are no women here, let´s get as drunk as possible. When I was walking out, I thought for sure a fight would break out in the next 20 minutes.
This is the Volcan Tres Virgenes. It is between San Ignacio and Santa Rosalia. Perhaps if the Mexicans would refrain from throwing virgins in their volcanos, the nightlife of Guerrero Negro would not make San Jose seem like a college frat party.
I woke up Saturday morning and was not hungry. This was a first. There was a breakfast spot caddycorner from my hotel and the thought of breakfast seemed to make my stomach curdle. I ignored these feeling and started peddling. The road was flat with no wind, but I was really struggling to show any strength. I was ridiculously thirsty and stopping every few miles to pee. I made it to Vizcaino and really considered to quit for the day even though I had only ridden for a few hours. So much for the century. I casually rolled through Vizcaino looking for a place to eat, but I could not find something that was appealing. Before I knew it, I was back in the desert. At various times during the day, I was wondering, what could be wrong? Did I have Montazuma´s Revenge already? I had been super careful not to drink the water. There was one time I had OJ and who knows what kind of water is in that. Could I have Appendicitis? I know my brother had his Appendix removed, and if it is hereditary, I clearly have the gene. Or was it bad food?
I did not want to dwell on the negative too long so I crystallized political theories I would use if I ever go into politics. I stopped around noon and tried my best to put down a sandwich and some breakfast bars. Around 2pm, I was passed another single family pueblo town and stopped for food even though I was not hungry. The place inside was swarming with flys. The only dish for sale was Machaca burritos. I have decided that Machaca is really donkey. The way they make Machaca is to create a meat stew and simmer it down such that the consistency is almost like jerkey but still moist so you really cannot tell what kind of meat you are eating. In my experience, Machaca meat has no resemblence of beef, and it makes sense that these isolated restaurants would look to reduce their variable costs at any measure. Maybe this is presupposing a lot, but until you try one, you won´t understand. This pueblo was 24 km from the next town San Ignacio. As I was sitting at the table amongst my fly friends, I really considered just passing out on the table and seeing what happens. This was the most lethargic I have been on this trip. My stomach made me want to double over. Fears of turning into a fly like Jeff Goldblume made me peddle on.
The road started to go uphill. Great. I had run through all of my camelback and the 1.5 liter bottle of water. Even better. Not to say that I was out of water because I had two others, but the plastic bottles make the water taste like cancer. I pull up to a military checkpoint on the verge of hallucination. I hope he does not want to make conversation. Fortunately he waves me immediately through. I can see San Ignacio in the valley below. This is the first time that I felt any energy all day. It was a delightful cruise down to the town, and I stop at the first hotel. I can barely negotiate a price with the lady, but I knew that I was not going to pay 300 pesos regarless of my situation. I can´t even formulate coherent thought, much less ones in Spanish, and she gives me the room for 250. I walk in the room, get one shoe off and fall on my face on the bed. I wake up a few hours later shivering in a cold sweat. I decide to pull together my final bit of energy and rinse off. I get under the tiny tepid trickle leaking out of the shower head and feel myself start to burp. One of them makes a few chunks come out. I swallow them down knowing what is about to happen. I have had a fear of vomiting ever since watching Spinal Tap as an adolescent, but I knew it was not long until I would have to overcome that fear. I dry off and chug some water just waiting for the inevitable. The nautious feelings pass, and I slide into the covers. Not even 10 seconds after laying down, I know it is coming. I have a quick decision. Do I use the toilet, sink, or shower. I go with the closest which is the sink. I let out 5 heaves of major orange fluid followed by a few dry heaves with some of that Machaca at the end. I immediately feel better. However, my sink does not drain, so there is about half of gallon of vomit festering in the sink. I close te door, lay back down, and pass out. A few hours later, I feel more stomach pains, but the problem will be solved from the other end. I take a fast wet porcelain ride, and when I go to the flush the toilet, the handle is broken. This is fantastic. I have no interest in pulling off the lid to manually flush the toilet so the bathroom is going to eminate of a combination of vomit and diarrea. In my condition, the smell made no difference to me. All in all, I made it to 1184 miles for an 89 mile day feeling like death. I am quite proud of the day.
This photo was taken in the morning after the cleaning lady helped me unclog the sink, but it shows how the sink holding my orange delight was in my face as I was going Number 2. What is it with the Mexican water that makes the metal chain connecting the stopper to the handle corrode? This is the 3rd one I have come across with this problem.
Still lethargic, I could not decide if I wanted to spend another night in San Ignacio or head to Santa Rosalia. Knowing that I am capable of making a significantly longer ride totally sick, I get on my bike a little before noon and head on to Santa Rosalia for the 46 mile ride. I was unable to put down any food other than a Snickers bar for the entire ride. 10 miles outside of Santa Rosalia, there was a long twisting descent. In certain places, there were large speed bumps encouraging slower speeds. However, the gaps between the bumps were large enough that my tires could fit through them. The speed bumps were staggered so I felt like a sober Bode Miller heading down the slalom course. It was a nice test of my hand eye coordination when I did not have much left in the tank.
Here is my first view of the Gulf of California. It is beautiful, but the first spot I passed on the coast smelled of decomposing fish and pelican poop.
As I am circling the downtown area of Santa Rosalia searching for a cheap hotel, I see the owner of Los Caracoles walking toward a political rally. I stopped to chat with him for a bit. I was so pissed that his place gave me food poisoning, and he showed no concern, that I was tempted to inform his wife who was within earshot that I saw him touching the young waitress last night in a way that most would feel unacceptable for a professional relationsip. In any event, my stomach is still sour, but I finally am able to eat. I am now 1230 miles from SF.
Here is a photo of the candiates for a particular campaign. The man at the podium is Guille Santillan. The shorter man with the yellow shirt on is Luis Armando and is running for Governor of BCS.
