THE BLACK SHEDOG . . . RED TAPE PINGPONG . . . OUT OF GAS AND IN THE DARK . . . CHARADES AT THE CUCARACHA HOTEL . . . GIVING THANKS FOR . . .
 |
| Shedog and I |
While families all over the Midwest were scooting in their chairs for Thanksgiving Dinner, I was smiling nervously, handing out cigarettes to Mexican soldiers at a checkpoint just outside of Ojinaga. Cigarros make a gringo who doesn’t speak Spanish a hell of a lot more tolerable.
The air was a sweet warmth washing over my face. Squeezing in the clutch I rolled towards a gaggle of camouflaged men with M16s and sweat and mean boredom in their eyes. They waved me over to the sandy shoulder next to their tent, I got off my bike and went for my smokes. I noticed the man who waved me over had the most stripes on his arm as he strutted towards me, the M16 held lazily at his waist.
He nodded towards me and said something or other. Where I was headed maybe?
“Camargo!” I smiled and raised my hands like an Evangelist.
He nodded again.
Half of the squad started walking towards us, some looking at the ground. Others grinning like jackals. But all the men were very relaxed on gun safety, barrels aiming wherever they swung. I offered the pack to Sarge and he took a smoke, the rest of them zoned in with outreached hands. One of them with the stench and smirk of a jackass grabbed two. But I just gave him a squinty eyed grin.
I stretched out a map of Mexico and drew the route to Camargo with my finger.
“Gasolina?” I looked at all their faces anxiously. By the classic shake-the-tank method I guessed I had about six cups of the rojo left.
They smiled and shook their heads, nothing but desolation from here to Camargo. 260 kilometers of sun scorched Earth and narco terrorist.
I had spent the majority of my first day in Mexico ping ponging back and forth from Ojinaga to various checkpoints; looking for permits, applications, English speaking Mexicans, and paying fines, waving my hands around like an irate Italian. By the time I got to the military outpost the sun was hanging eerily close to the horizon. The one rule in Mexico, or any Latin American country, is not to ride at night. When the sun goes down in that part of the desert the bandits and cutthroats awaken from their drug haze, ready to rape and slit necks.
A vagrant with a Walmart bag full of dried chiles got out of the back of a pickup truck while I was smoking with the soldiers. He told me the cafe down the road sold gas. I didn’t believe him but at the same time I thought why wouldn’t it? Its Mexico.
About an hour less of sunlight later I was filled up and had a milk jug of bootleg gas in my saddle bag. I waved goodbye to the full titted barista and headed South for Camargo.
Highway 67 is a two lane asphalt trail with trash filled ditches for shoulders. I was ripping down it at 85 miles an hour, cutting through the shadowy blue hue of the final rays of sun. Beneath me was a 1977 Kawasaki Kz 650. Hand painted flat black and covered in duct tape to ward off would be thieves. Highway 67 seemed to be primarily a supply route. Other than dusty Semi Trucks, the only other traffic was the occasional hay hauling pickup, usually a decade old Nissan driven by a sun dried old man with a well worn smile.
The official speed limit all the way to Camargo is 65 kilometers an hour, thats 40 stateside. At this snail’s pace I’d be flayed and dragged through the desert in three hours; So I kept the wobbly speedometer needle between 80 and 90 until the tank was empty, a roaring helldog to any Mexican traveling in that cold desert, leaving only a trail of black plumes from a leaky tachometer cable.
As I rounded a gentle curve onto a 50 kilometer straightaway, Shedog started sputtering and the RPM needle dropped. I was out of gas and in the dark, but I knew it had been about 180 kilometers since the checkpoint. That meant about 70 kilometers till the next gas station. Just far enough for a dirty milk jug that was seductively filled with stolen gasoline to get me to Camargo. I hopped off and pushed the bike as far to the right as possible, careful not to fall into the trash gutter, and took out my last 2 liters.
I caught the glint of a headlight in my sideview mirror and my chest contracted. I turned around to see the dull yellow beams of the three Semis I passed hours ago, chugging along at breakneck speed. Shrieking, I ripped the top off the jug. My hands were shaking with fear and I couldn’t get a grip on my keys.
I howled at the stars while my shadow elongated from the headlights. I finally got the tank open. Flipped the jug upside down over the gashole. Missed. Spilling gasoline on everything, seat, controls. Panting, neck at a twisted angle, eying the ever approaching Mack trucks. I tossed the jug into the trash ditch. The first Semi careened to the left as I spastically flashed my tiny red brake light. The driver yanked down on his blow horn and cleared me by less than an arms length. My shrieks were whispers over the horns and wind and rattling cargo. In a matter of 12 seconds the trucks had passed and I was still alive and screaming.
I straddled Shedog and caught my breath, hands on my hips. The shrinking tail lights of the last Semi urged me to get to Camargo and out of that fucking desert. I turned the ignition and the old Kawasaki made a screeching attempt to start but lost wind. So I curbstomped the kickstarter and ripped after the Semis.
The air was a sweet warmth washing over my face. Squeezing in the clutch I rolled towards a gaggle of camouflaged men with M16s and sweat and mean boredom in their eyes. They waved me over to the sandy shoulder next to their tent, I got off my bike and went for my smokes. I noticed the man who waved me over had the most stripes on his arm as he strutted towards me, the M16 held lazily at his waist.
He nodded towards me and said something or other. Where I was headed maybe?
“Camargo!” I smiled and raised my hands like an Evangelist.
He nodded again.
Half of the squad started walking towards us, some looking at the ground. Others grinning like jackals. But all the men were very relaxed on gun safety, barrels aiming wherever they swung. I offered the pack to Sarge and he took a smoke, the rest of them zoned in with outreached hands. One of them with the stench and smirk of a jackass grabbed two. But I just gave him a squinty eyed grin.
I stretched out a map of Mexico and drew the route to Camargo with my finger.
“Gasolina?” I looked at all their faces anxiously. By the classic shake-the-tank method I guessed I had about six cups of the rojo left.
They smiled and shook their heads, nothing but desolation from here to Camargo. 260 kilometers of sun scorched Earth and narco terrorist.
I had spent the majority of my first day in Mexico ping ponging back and forth from Ojinaga to various checkpoints; looking for permits, applications, English speaking Mexicans, and paying fines, waving my hands around like an irate Italian. By the time I got to the military outpost the sun was hanging eerily close to the horizon. The one rule in Mexico, or any Latin American country, is not to ride at night. When the sun goes down in that part of the desert the bandits and cutthroats awaken from their drug haze, ready to rape and slit necks.
A vagrant with a Walmart bag full of dried chiles got out of the back of a pickup truck while I was smoking with the soldiers. He told me the cafe down the road sold gas. I didn’t believe him but at the same time I thought why wouldn’t it? Its Mexico.
About an hour less of sunlight later I was filled up and had a milk jug of bootleg gas in my saddle bag. I waved goodbye to the full titted barista and headed South for Camargo.
Highway 67 is a two lane asphalt trail with trash filled ditches for shoulders. I was ripping down it at 85 miles an hour, cutting through the shadowy blue hue of the final rays of sun. Beneath me was a 1977 Kawasaki Kz 650. Hand painted flat black and covered in duct tape to ward off would be thieves. Highway 67 seemed to be primarily a supply route. Other than dusty Semi Trucks, the only other traffic was the occasional hay hauling pickup, usually a decade old Nissan driven by a sun dried old man with a well worn smile.
The official speed limit all the way to Camargo is 65 kilometers an hour, thats 40 stateside. At this snail’s pace I’d be flayed and dragged through the desert in three hours; So I kept the wobbly speedometer needle between 80 and 90 until the tank was empty, a roaring helldog to any Mexican traveling in that cold desert, leaving only a trail of black plumes from a leaky tachometer cable.
As I rounded a gentle curve onto a 50 kilometer straightaway, Shedog started sputtering and the RPM needle dropped. I was out of gas and in the dark, but I knew it had been about 180 kilometers since the checkpoint. That meant about 70 kilometers till the next gas station. Just far enough for a dirty milk jug that was seductively filled with stolen gasoline to get me to Camargo. I hopped off and pushed the bike as far to the right as possible, careful not to fall into the trash gutter, and took out my last 2 liters.
I caught the glint of a headlight in my sideview mirror and my chest contracted. I turned around to see the dull yellow beams of the three Semis I passed hours ago, chugging along at breakneck speed. Shrieking, I ripped the top off the jug. My hands were shaking with fear and I couldn’t get a grip on my keys.
I howled at the stars while my shadow elongated from the headlights. I finally got the tank open. Flipped the jug upside down over the gashole. Missed. Spilling gasoline on everything, seat, controls. Panting, neck at a twisted angle, eying the ever approaching Mack trucks. I tossed the jug into the trash ditch. The first Semi careened to the left as I spastically flashed my tiny red brake light. The driver yanked down on his blow horn and cleared me by less than an arms length. My shrieks were whispers over the horns and wind and rattling cargo. In a matter of 12 seconds the trucks had passed and I was still alive and screaming.
I straddled Shedog and caught my breath, hands on my hips. The shrinking tail lights of the last Semi urged me to get to Camargo and out of that fucking desert. I turned the ignition and the old Kawasaki made a screeching attempt to start but lost wind. So I curbstomped the kickstarter and ripped after the Semis.
No comments:
Post a Comment