Bill, released the catch on his seat, spun it around, braced his hands on the arms and propelled himself up out of it. All the time glaring at me. Another dirty look came my way as he grabbed his black Stetson and jammed it on his head. With a hitch of his pants he went out the door and down the steps to talk to the gathering crowd. The motorhome rocked with the force of the door slamming shut. One man shuffled forward to meet him. With a shake of their heads they both turned to study the motorhome and trailer. After a few minutes of discussion Bill and the worker started walking towards the back. The rest of the men fell in behind as they walked around the motorhome and trailer, twice.
The only thing to do was back the 24-foot motorhome with the ten foot trailer on the back down a one-lane cobblestone street around a corner.
“Why don’t Randy and I get out and take the trailer off. We can get it out of your way so you can back up,” says John Mc as Bill comes back inside. He is brave, maybe because he isn’t actually related to Bill. His offer is not received with good grace.
John, Paul and Gil slink back to the back bed. Randy keeps dealing his cards, not looking up. I sit there keeping my mouth shut as we ever so slowly back down the street towards the corner. A couple of the workers walk to either side of us giving Bill directions. Getting the trailer around the corner was the hard part, but he finally made it and soon the motorhome was also around the corner and backing towards an intersection. The workers wave good bye their faces bright with smiles (laughter).
Within a few minutes, we are out of Tequila back on the main highway heading to Guadalajara, without visiting a distillery.
Everyone found something in the back of the motorhome to occupy them.
I alone remained up front ready to give more directions. When asked.
KAPOW! POP!
“What the heck is that noise?” Bill demanded.
“It sounds like it's under the motorhome.” I ventured.
BANG!
He pulled over, got out and walked around the motorhome. Nothing seemed to be wrong, no blown tires, no broken hoses.
“Something smells awful out here!” He followed the smell to a compartment under the front end. Something amber in color was seeping out the door. He unlocked and propped open the compartment
“John McClung, get out here now!”
The home bottled beer. The bottles were exploding! Just a little too much heat and one too many jolts. (Probably that cobblestone street leading to the distillery.) The broken bottles were put into a sack to be disposed of later. Bill slammed the compartment door closed. When they got back inside John Mc said he would clean up the rest of the smelly, gooey mess when we stopped for the day.
We reached Guadalajara early afternoon and found a great campground with full hook ups, showers, and laundry. Almost everyone there was from the northern U.S., it was almost like being home. Our neighbors who came from Wisconsin told us they drove to Mexico every year for the winter. The climate was great and living very inexpensive. "Beats shoveling that dad blamed snow." He says. "And wearing all those heavy clothes and galoshes." She was wearing a cotton t-shirt, shorts and sandals when she said it.
After setting up camp and unhooking the trailer we drove into the city to look around. Guadalajara was an impressive city. We explored the charming old government buildings. Many of which had been standing since the Spaniards built them. Most were built out of stone then plastered with beige or white stucco. Some were trimmed with wrought iron and Mexican tiles and others had terra cotta tile roofs. Around the main square were the Cathedral, The Governor's Palace and the State Museum. On the fourth side is a concert hall .The doors were open and we could hear the orchestra practicing. We were drawn into the cool dark interior by the music. Only the stage where the musicians played was lighted. We sat in the back and listened for a while. Bill and I could have stayed and enjoyed the music longer but the kids were getting fidgety so we left.
Back out at the main plaza Bill flagged down one of the horse drawn carriages. It was shinny black lacquer with red and gold trim; its wooden spoke wheels were painted white. The bonnet was red and trimmed with big crepe paper flowers. Inside it had two facing seats. The driver, who wore a top hat, sat on a high seat with the reins in his hands and his foot on the break. A muscular, well-groomed brown horse, wearing a sombrero with a large red flower, pulled the carriage. Six of us settled in the passenger seats. John Mc climbed up to ride with the driver who was a very congenial man and delighted to point out all the sights to us. These carriages went all over town, the drivers bluffing the cars and busses for the right of way. At the end of our ride he dropped us off a block from the main plaza at a large indoor/outdoor market place. We went in through the street level shops then down some stairs to the open-air market.
The area was filled with color and noise. Bolts of multicolored yardage stood in the middle of the market. Drums, guitars and flutes were for sale in one stall. Bananas, tomatoes, oranges and artichokes in another. A bakery was giving off delicious odors; a restaurant even more pleasing smells. Enough to make anyone hungry. Two Mariachi groups were playing, one at each end of the market. Both groups are wearing black suits trimmed with white embroidery. The jackets fit close and buttoned to the waist, the pants, which fit even closer, had flared bottoms beneath which polished black boots were visible. All had on big white sombreros.
Our supplies needed to be restocked so we planned on buying a few items.
The first things we had buy were shopping bags to carry our purchases. In Mexico, everyone carries their own shopping bags, as the stores don’t provide them. We bought red and white-stripped ones. They were made out of a kind of plastic mesh material with red solid plastic handles.
By now it was late afternoon so Bill and I wanted to get what we needed and get back to the campground. The kids were excited and couldn't wait to spend some of their money. So far they hadn't bought any souvenirs. Gil was pulling on my skirt and whining about something he wanted to stop and look at. I turned around to grab him to hurry him up and my arm connected with his nose. Blood spurted out. He reached for his nose. When he pulled his hand away and spotted the blood he started jumping from foot to foot and began to howl. Everyone within hearing distance turned around to see what was going on. I tried to pretend that blood pouring from my kid’s nose was a perfectly normal happening. Randy and both Johns no longer knew us and quickly walked in the other direction. Paul stared at his brother, puckered up and started to bawl because Gil was bleeding. Several women turned and started toward us. I couldn't tell by their expressions if they wanted to help him or hurt me. Bill cut them off and hastily explained that it wasn't serious and we weren't trying to kill the kid regardless of how loud he was shrieking. He managed to convince everyone that Gil really was okay and we beat a hasty retreat out of the market. The only things we had purchased were the bags to put our purchases in.
On the way back to the campground we stopped at a street vendor to buy John’s favorite, jicama. As we pulled over to stop his last customers, two older women, were just walking away. They were wearing brightly colored dresses, one pink the other yellow. Below their dresses were black stockings and “old lady” black shoes. Around their shoulders and over their heads were black knit shawls. Both carried bags with their purchases. Their shopping over it was now time to go home and prepare dinner. The vendor was an old man wearing a straw hat, long sleeved shirt and jeans. The jicama was laid out on a table. After a few minutes of bargaining, we had two big jicamas and he had more pesos
Back at camp John cut the jicama into slices and put the pieces to soak in vinegar. Before the day ended he had eaten every bit of it (he made sure no one else got any!) and he had a well-deserved bellyache.
John Mc got busy cleaning out the “beery” front compartment. Everything that was stored in there had to taken out and washed. Luckily it was just tools and spare parts. He and Randy decided to keep the unbroken bottles, but they put them, case and all into a garbage bag and moved them to a middle compartment where hopefully they wouldn’t bounce so much.
Randy unloaded his motorcycle from the trailer and spent the rest of the daylight hours cleaning and polishing it. Paul and Gil talked us into letting them take their bikes down. They were gone until dark, riding around camp, stopping to talk to everyone who would talk to them.
The only thing to do was back the 24-foot motorhome with the ten foot trailer on the back down a one-lane cobblestone street around a corner.
“Why don’t Randy and I get out and take the trailer off. We can get it out of your way so you can back up,” says John Mc as Bill comes back inside. He is brave, maybe because he isn’t actually related to Bill. His offer is not received with good grace.
John, Paul and Gil slink back to the back bed. Randy keeps dealing his cards, not looking up. I sit there keeping my mouth shut as we ever so slowly back down the street towards the corner. A couple of the workers walk to either side of us giving Bill directions. Getting the trailer around the corner was the hard part, but he finally made it and soon the motorhome was also around the corner and backing towards an intersection. The workers wave good bye their faces bright with smiles (laughter).
Within a few minutes, we are out of Tequila back on the main highway heading to Guadalajara, without visiting a distillery.
Everyone found something in the back of the motorhome to occupy them.
I alone remained up front ready to give more directions. When asked.
KAPOW! POP!
“What the heck is that noise?” Bill demanded.
“It sounds like it's under the motorhome.” I ventured.
BANG!
He pulled over, got out and walked around the motorhome. Nothing seemed to be wrong, no blown tires, no broken hoses.
“Something smells awful out here!” He followed the smell to a compartment under the front end. Something amber in color was seeping out the door. He unlocked and propped open the compartment
“John McClung, get out here now!”
The home bottled beer. The bottles were exploding! Just a little too much heat and one too many jolts. (Probably that cobblestone street leading to the distillery.) The broken bottles were put into a sack to be disposed of later. Bill slammed the compartment door closed. When they got back inside John Mc said he would clean up the rest of the smelly, gooey mess when we stopped for the day.
We reached Guadalajara early afternoon and found a great campground with full hook ups, showers, and laundry. Almost everyone there was from the northern U.S., it was almost like being home. Our neighbors who came from Wisconsin told us they drove to Mexico every year for the winter. The climate was great and living very inexpensive. "Beats shoveling that dad blamed snow." He says. "And wearing all those heavy clothes and galoshes." She was wearing a cotton t-shirt, shorts and sandals when she said it.
After setting up camp and unhooking the trailer we drove into the city to look around. Guadalajara was an impressive city. We explored the charming old government buildings. Many of which had been standing since the Spaniards built them. Most were built out of stone then plastered with beige or white stucco. Some were trimmed with wrought iron and Mexican tiles and others had terra cotta tile roofs. Around the main square were the Cathedral, The Governor's Palace and the State Museum. On the fourth side is a concert hall .The doors were open and we could hear the orchestra practicing. We were drawn into the cool dark interior by the music. Only the stage where the musicians played was lighted. We sat in the back and listened for a while. Bill and I could have stayed and enjoyed the music longer but the kids were getting fidgety so we left.
Back out at the main plaza Bill flagged down one of the horse drawn carriages. It was shinny black lacquer with red and gold trim; its wooden spoke wheels were painted white. The bonnet was red and trimmed with big crepe paper flowers. Inside it had two facing seats. The driver, who wore a top hat, sat on a high seat with the reins in his hands and his foot on the break. A muscular, well-groomed brown horse, wearing a sombrero with a large red flower, pulled the carriage. Six of us settled in the passenger seats. John Mc climbed up to ride with the driver who was a very congenial man and delighted to point out all the sights to us. These carriages went all over town, the drivers bluffing the cars and busses for the right of way. At the end of our ride he dropped us off a block from the main plaza at a large indoor/outdoor market place. We went in through the street level shops then down some stairs to the open-air market.
The area was filled with color and noise. Bolts of multicolored yardage stood in the middle of the market. Drums, guitars and flutes were for sale in one stall. Bananas, tomatoes, oranges and artichokes in another. A bakery was giving off delicious odors; a restaurant even more pleasing smells. Enough to make anyone hungry. Two Mariachi groups were playing, one at each end of the market. Both groups are wearing black suits trimmed with white embroidery. The jackets fit close and buttoned to the waist, the pants, which fit even closer, had flared bottoms beneath which polished black boots were visible. All had on big white sombreros.
Our supplies needed to be restocked so we planned on buying a few items.
The first things we had buy were shopping bags to carry our purchases. In Mexico, everyone carries their own shopping bags, as the stores don’t provide them. We bought red and white-stripped ones. They were made out of a kind of plastic mesh material with red solid plastic handles.
By now it was late afternoon so Bill and I wanted to get what we needed and get back to the campground. The kids were excited and couldn't wait to spend some of their money. So far they hadn't bought any souvenirs. Gil was pulling on my skirt and whining about something he wanted to stop and look at. I turned around to grab him to hurry him up and my arm connected with his nose. Blood spurted out. He reached for his nose. When he pulled his hand away and spotted the blood he started jumping from foot to foot and began to howl. Everyone within hearing distance turned around to see what was going on. I tried to pretend that blood pouring from my kid’s nose was a perfectly normal happening. Randy and both Johns no longer knew us and quickly walked in the other direction. Paul stared at his brother, puckered up and started to bawl because Gil was bleeding. Several women turned and started toward us. I couldn't tell by their expressions if they wanted to help him or hurt me. Bill cut them off and hastily explained that it wasn't serious and we weren't trying to kill the kid regardless of how loud he was shrieking. He managed to convince everyone that Gil really was okay and we beat a hasty retreat out of the market. The only things we had purchased were the bags to put our purchases in.
On the way back to the campground we stopped at a street vendor to buy John’s favorite, jicama. As we pulled over to stop his last customers, two older women, were just walking away. They were wearing brightly colored dresses, one pink the other yellow. Below their dresses were black stockings and “old lady” black shoes. Around their shoulders and over their heads were black knit shawls. Both carried bags with their purchases. Their shopping over it was now time to go home and prepare dinner. The vendor was an old man wearing a straw hat, long sleeved shirt and jeans. The jicama was laid out on a table. After a few minutes of bargaining, we had two big jicamas and he had more pesos
Back at camp John cut the jicama into slices and put the pieces to soak in vinegar. Before the day ended he had eaten every bit of it (he made sure no one else got any!) and he had a well-deserved bellyache.
John Mc got busy cleaning out the “beery” front compartment. Everything that was stored in there had to taken out and washed. Luckily it was just tools and spare parts. He and Randy decided to keep the unbroken bottles, but they put them, case and all into a garbage bag and moved them to a middle compartment where hopefully they wouldn’t bounce so much.
Randy unloaded his motorcycle from the trailer and spent the rest of the daylight hours cleaning and polishing it. Paul and Gil talked us into letting them take their bikes down. They were gone until dark, riding around camp, stopping to talk to everyone who would talk to them.
Tequila and Guadalajara
Outside, one of the workers standing between the dock and us straightened up and started toward us. He was frantically gesturing, arms above his head, motioning for us to back up. I could hear him yelling, “No! No!” as he continued to make pushing motions at us. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t inviting us in for a tour.
We wanted to get as far as Guadalajara, Jalisco only 165 miles away. The highway wound through more mountains but it was cooler because they were higher and we didn’t get stuck behind any trucks. The scenery was changing some, not so many farms but more industry. We passed tobacco plantations, Coca-Cola and Pepsi bottling plants, and a cigarette factory. There were Maguey farms, the cactus that tequila is made from row upon row of them.
In fact, we were going to pass through a town named Tequila. Reading the guidebook I discovered there were 24 distilleries in Tequila and I thought it would be interesting to visit one.
The day was beautiful, the boys were content and Bill was agreeable. “Just tell me how to get there.”
I did. “Turn right here,” I said, my finger tracing the route on the map. “Now left there.” The distillery I picked to visit was down towards the center of the old part of town where the streets were still cobblestones. Cobblestones were very rough to drive on, everything inside bounced and rattled around and the motorhome creaked in every joint. The bunk bed bounced up and down, each time getting closer to Bill's head. In the mirror I could see the scowl on his face getting more intense. But he just gritted his teeth, clutched the wheel and continued to follow my directions. I pretended I didn’t notice the look or the racket or jarring and continued to call out directions. By now we were into a very narrow one-lane, cobblestone street.
“Now turn left,” I told him, "it should be just around this corner."
Warily he turned the motorhome and trailer into another one-lane, cobblestone street. The tequila plant was smack dab in front of us. In fact the street ended at the entrance of the plant.
Bill braked, threw his hands up in the air and turned to look daggers at me. I carefully folded the map in my lap while acting as if I was very interested in looking at the massive stone buildings that surrounded us on three sides. John came up to sit next to me and we sat there looking out the windshield at the four or five blue clad workers who had been lounging next to the building in the shade. Now, cigarettes hanging from their lips, they were staring opened-mouthed at us.
So there we were head first, trailer behind, up against the entrance and loading dock area of the tequila plant. The one I wanted to visit.
Inside the motorhome there was dead silence. One thing the boys had learned was when to keep quiet.
“Now turn left,” I told him, "it should be just around this corner."
Warily he turned the motorhome and trailer into another one-lane, cobblestone street. The tequila plant was smack dab in front of us. In fact the street ended at the entrance of the plant.
Bill braked, threw his hands up in the air and turned to look daggers at me. I carefully folded the map in my lap while acting as if I was very interested in looking at the massive stone buildings that surrounded us on three sides. John came up to sit next to me and we sat there looking out the windshield at the four or five blue clad workers who had been lounging next to the building in the shade. Now, cigarettes hanging from their lips, they were staring opened-mouthed at us.
So there we were head first, trailer behind, up against the entrance and loading dock area of the tequila plant. The one I wanted to visit.
Inside the motorhome there was dead silence. One thing the boys had learned was when to keep quiet.
February 1st By now we had traveled 1882 miles on the Pan American Highway, about 1/5 of the way to Argentina.
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