The Route of the Volcano, Popocatepetl

February 5-9, 2007

We were sitting in the early morning of a given day, thinking about a route that could have the advantage of proximity as origin, and the attractive of distance as destination. The map announced, solicitous, the answer: a route through the centre of the country around the Popocatepetl—that eternal companion—always near to impose its presence, always afar as to not let itself be reached. The route will be baptized then, as the Route of the Popocatepetl, or the the Route of the Volcano.

Time was a primordial concern, one that will limit us more than distance could. Our ambitious plans originally included a route to Veracruz (Xalapa), a drive that normally only takes 6 hours by car through highways. However, reality imposed moderation on our agenda. To put our objectives in a proper dimension, Cholula emerged as a possible and attractive destination: halfway between Xalapa and Mexico city. Besides, we would be using secondary roads and dirt tracks, going through the villages on the slopes of the Volcano. The road would be, as a result, much more long and winding, but the view is worth it, as well as the tranquility of avoiding the risk due to traffic. With a week time as a deadline, we started the 350 km of our trip.

The 3 Amigos

Se were asked a million times why we did it. Why taking the risk? Why leaving in the first place? Such an extravagance would no doubt be far from a Sunday walk over roses, since we were carrying the less to endure the most. Truth be told, there were multiple objectives, pragmatism and idealism, all poured into the same chalice, were the search for the search itself is turned into a legitimate goal. More than executing a process, we wanted to study our own advancement rythm, getting as far as we could in that time. Other reasons: because of a sense of adventure; maybe to, in boastful vanity, acquire some personal prestige and having something to tell our grandchildren; it was a pilgrimage as spiritual as secular, almost always an expiation. There is no crucifixion without via crucis, and the trip was to show us were we were standing. Expectation was a central component. The 3 Robertos (Cervantes, Vivero and Hoyos, Roberto 3, 2 and 1, respectively, the eldest having precedence) would hit the road on February the 5th.

By 10 a.m. we were reaching Cuernavaca's city limits. In no time we arrived to Yautepec and Cuautla. The road is mainly downhill. That helps in covering distances rather quickly. The little map I attach can illustrate the route. As you can see, we sacrificed distance in the hope of seeing the colorful villages and minimize the risk of a crowded road. Given the proximity of Cuautla and Cuernavaca, it is useless to describe those places. For us, the attraction laid on the uncharted territories beyond, towards the legendary Anenecuilco, Zapata's hometown, to which we were arriving by 2:30 p.m.

Just like the character, the territory from then on is lost in mysticism. Those are not the plains of the pacific, nor the extensions of the Cuenca Lagunera, northern fertile extensions. Morelos is a small state (less than 0.25% the area of the country) and mainly agricultural, almost 40% of its territory dedicated to agriculture. Half of the production is sugar cane, and the weather is hot. For miles and miles the only thing that surrounds the traveler are endless acres of sugar cane (and I want to highlight endless), over an irregular orography. Here, time transpires slowly and the sun appears to never settle. A stop on the road can allow you to appreciate the feeling of the place, somewhat shy, unaware of the world in general, wanting to be left in peace.

Getting to Anenecuilco is pretty easy. There are plenty of signs indicating the Route of Zapata, but one can risk missing it. After Cuautla the arcs signaling the 'land of the boss', show one has entered the municipality of Ayala. Not long, after a golden statue over a wall, you know you are close. Just ahead, the zocalo has a statue of Zapata. The museum must be like 5 to 10 minutes from there. Unfortunately we arrived on Monday and the museum itself was closed. But blessed is the good will of the people in small towns; to our fortune we were allowed to enter the outer part of the museum, where the remains of the house were Zapata was born are still standing. What is left is covered with canvas, to avoid deterioration. As I mentioned before, the sun never appears to settle. Suddenly, it rained, poured actually, the clouds emptying as fast as it came. Tropical rain under a desert's sun, with the advantage of rainbow, the smell of moist soil and a fresh afternoon. We arrived to Ciudad Ayala in a matter of minutes, actually. This place deserves, undoubtedly, a story of its own.

First Night: From a bunker to a suite

It was like 4 p.m. With two more daylight hours we really did not want to take any chances in reaching the next town, for our stomachs were claiming for food. Since eating there would have meant losing those daylight hours, we decided to spend the night there. We then searched for a nice place to eat, good and cheap. For 96 pesos we had three generously served meals and a jar of genuine coconut water, just meters away from the plaza. We left our bikes in front of the restaurant, tied one to another, just for peace of mind, in spite of the well-intentioned plea of the owner, who was discarding any attempt of robbery. He himself once left his bike in the street, without a chain, only to find it the next day, undisturbed. How beautiful! In some places in Mexico City "you just don't it."

The next step was looking for accommodations. The tale of the travelers encircling the Popocatepetl must have caught the attention of a girl, who may have considered the idea of taking us with her, only to accept, a little bit ashamed, that her dad would not allow it. If that inner conflict was what I saw in her eyes, or if it was a kind of discreet flirt, I can not tell; a chance to talk to a stranger, at the end of the day makes my wonder in the more easygoing spirit of people around here. With how many strangers you yourself talk to in the bus?

I was amazed to see a post like the one the Voladores de Papantla use, in front the church. While one of us was taking pictures of it, two girls were saying sufficiently loud for me to hear: "Look, he's taking a picture of the big stick, he'd better take one of us". When I heard that I could not help but to say instead: "Well, then, if you want a picture I'll be happy to accommodate you", to which they turned a bit shy, maybe not expecting it.

By the time the mass had finished, we went to the father. We requested permission to stay, and he answered yes, immediately, allowing us to stay in a subterranean room, in the patio in front of the church. For us, who feared the rain might take us by surprise in the middle of the night, a subterranean room was a bliss. Our bunker was 5 x 20 meters. Taking us for a big group of cyclists, the father let us stay there, without asking questions, but when he realized we were only three, he offered us to stay in his place, in a room with a view of the plaza. In less than 30 minutes we were moving from a bunker to a suite. His house had a colonial touch, with a kitchen with yellow and blue mosaics, pottery, and a very polished architecture: arcs and niches. The space was reduced but very well managed, for in the living room there were chimneys and fireplaces, a sofa, a place for the TV and the dining room itself. The floor was made of crockery, clay colored, with a central rug made out of stone.

We slept in a room upstairs, soon to be called a library or study room. It was very nice. The fact that some details were missing, for the house was still under construction, did not matter to us—we said to the father, when he apologized for it—. There was no need, really: we were in a presidential suite compared to being in the open, under the rain. The place was nice and cozy, but we were truly disarmed with his "What can we offer you for dinner?" Gee! We had obtained too much already, and we didn't want to be some sort of freeloaders. We declined the generous invitation, more as a result of shyness than for genuinely been satisfied, although we had something to eat not much earlier. The bikes stayed in a room downstairs, safe as well, so we would sleep peacefully that night. We made ourselves at home, while the father was celebrating the evening mass and by his return we would talk about our trip and, mainly, about architecture. There we knew about his meticulous plans to improve his church and evangelize, according to him, with something more tangible and easy to understand, through a construction full of symbolism, where nothing was left to chance: the number of columns representing the twelve apostles; a section dedicated to the old and new testament; a shrine which is a 1.5 ton rock, brought ex profeso for the chapel, escorted by an arc with a rocky sun as focal point and center; a Garden of Eden with date palms; a baptism pile by immersion, with a fountain and niches carved out of a rock with little plants inside, with a very natural touch; the ten commandments over a flat stone, with little stones encrusted as characters. Everything in there was harmony, and you could feel it. Display was in such a way that acoustics were optimal. And, according to the father, only 30% of the initial plan was finished. When it is finished it will look gorgeous, no doubt. And there is more, two threes offering shelter from the sun, and the view of the Volcano was astounding.

Day two: continental breakfast

Indeed, it rained the previous night. But we could only care very little. By 6 a.m., the elusive volcano that was covered with clouds all day long now was naked. Photo op. We got ready to depart and we tried to say our good-byes, but his time, a second offering for breakfast would not be ignored. Such gallant attention demanded diligent acceptance. We had fruit, milk, and bread, even meatballs with beans. Is good to be king. After consulting the maps (actually, a horrendous and inaccurate map which was only giving us an idea of our whereabouts) we said good-bye to father Miguel and the ladies who very kindly prepared a meal for us, and we headed towards Tenextepango, about 10 a.m.

Playing with the idea of visiting Chinameca we went to the industrial park (where Saint Gobain is located, glass producer) and went to the road that takes to the Siglo XXI highway. From a distance you could see Temoac's church, our next stop. We calculated, in a straight line, it must be around 10 km... uphill. From then on, in fact, until San Miguel Tecuanipa, we would be going uphill. We passed Amilcingo and arrived to Temoac. We thought about staying there. It was 4 p.m. already. Church is closed on Tuesdays so there would not be any more accommodations, and since there was not single place open for business, or to eat, given the case, we then headed to San Bartolome Cohuecan, the first town in the state of Puebla, to which we would arrive, exhausted, around 8 p.m.

That night, though, we had some good tortas for dinner, ham and cheese, sweet bread and fruit. We slept outside the hall, in which the law enforcement agents let us stay. The town is quite small, maybe no more than four to five blocks wide, and nobody disturbed us during the night, except, of course, the city clock, ringing the bells every hour. I believe it was the worst day, the most demanding one. To our surprise, weather was nice: clear skies and no wind. I really did not use the sleeping bag, actually.

Day 3: the road to Mordor

With the intention of cutting corners quickly, we left without having breakfast, around 7 a.m., barely some fruit and some bread. Road was tough, uphill the first 5 hours, and we advanced slowly, but the landscape was giving us pretty images of the volcano, now called Mordor, because of the difficulty in getting close to him. We got to Amecac by noon, where we did invest in a lunch sufficient enough to help us endure the rest of the day.

At this moment, landscape changes dramatically. Gone are now the fields. Now everything is dry, and not very aristocratic. Soil is mostly rocky and loose rocks make the road slow at times. Wind becomes colder and the oxygen fainter. The sun burns with equal intensity.

From Amecac on, you find plains and hills, making it faster to travel. We ate distances with ambition. Without us knowing it, we arrive to Atlixco by 3 p.m. Morale is high. According to our calculations we just have saved a day. We would be in Puebla the next day.

Churches in Atlixco

There is something that catches the traveler's eye when arriving to Atlixco: its churches and convents. You find them by the lot. Just in the first quarter of the city there are four convents, six churches and a parish. One, in particular, over a hill, like Dracula's castle, was intriguing. It looked like the ideal place to spend the night, but we didn't consider that, here in Puebla, asking for accommodations was to be a bit different from before, except for one, honorable exception.

I wanted to go on and hit the road again, and risking arriving to Tecuanipa that very evening, but consensus was to watch Mexico vs USA, 8 p.m. So, we left our stuff in the park. The plaza was beautifully decorated, and I went to the church on the hill, that with a nice view of the city. The patio was ample and it had a medical center. Then something happens: I am asked for an ID and a letter requesting permission to stay there for the night, and of course my personal address and number, although they assure me there is no problem in staying there. I am not really against the idea. Maybe the church was robbed before. Distrust sometimes is more than justified. The view is well worth a xerox of my ID and a polite letter, but then I also think maybe distrust is mutual and we prefer to look for accommodations elsewhere. We had many more options anyway, before going back.

We toured the market place. We ate bananas and cream, sliced coconut with chilli and horchata water to calm midday's hunger. We also had located a nice spot to see the soccer match, with the assurance that they won't be closing until late in the evening, if not in the early morning. So we went out to seek more options for accommodations. Being in places where every activity ceases by 6:00 p.m. it was necessary to know closing times.

We asked in another church, in front of the plaza, if we could stay, and we noted the attitude that intellectuals like to call, and with justice, "fooling one self". So we tried somewhere else, just as I was pondering on Joseph looking for a place to lodge.

The assistance of father Socorro

I was frankly disappointed. But the third trial was successful: just over avenida Independencia: the Church of San Agustin. We immediately addressed the father, and we told him about our situation: that we were travelers coming from afar in our bikes, that we pretended to reach Cholula, that we had a camping tent and sleeping bags and that our only purpose was to cause the least trouble, because we only needed a safe place for us and for our bikes. It was not necessary to tell more, for he conceded permission right away. We told him we would be coming back in the evening (since we wanted to see the match before), but when we came back at 7:00 to leave our bikes and get out and see the match, something happened.

If the day before we were less fortunate, this would compensate dearly. Father Socorro let us know he's got a spare room, and that we can use it. It is inside the church, and it will shield us from the cold night. Having been, he himself, to Yucatan just five months prior, I am sure he knew exactly what he was talking about.

We left our stuff in a room and he invited us to dinner. "Don't worry about food, I know how it is," he told us. Some minutes later we were having barbacoa, with corn tortillas of course, black grain, and a dish with avocados and cheese. He was a traveler, too. I personally never met a father with such openness: we talked about sacred and profane subjects. He told us about his life as a seminarist, which he did in the U.S., and about places and churches to see in Morelos and Puebla. Just arrived from Yucatan, he spoke about the high degree of syncretism found in the ceremonies performed there. He always spoke like someone who would put understanding and tolerance before judgement (or prejudice). A man of great knowledge and wisdom, he was, and acted, so natural, so much flesh and blood, that by opening to ourselves he became the more enigmatic. Without even asking for our names, one of his very first actions was to present us with an asset, highly valued by travelers, and equally appreciated: toilet paper.

After having dinner we made it back to the church, to the quarters we will be occupying for the night. He offered us blankets and showed us the bathroom, hot water, of course. After 3 days of continual effort and wearing only one change of clothing, we took a shower.

Day 4: Cholula Postcards

By 8:00 in the morning we were ready to leave, but the father insisted in inviting us tamales and atole. We took a picture with him. He gave us the traveler's blessing and we left. We made a quick stop in Atlixco's tourism office, which truly gave us a good treatment. I have no complaint about the service they give: police tries to keep the place nice, even the benches and gardens. The zocalo is clean and colorful and quiet, well maintained. I've never been to Atlixco before, its streets and the colors of the houses, with bars in the windows, remind me of Coatepec or Xalapa, very colonial. You'd better be with a camera when you get there. The little town is nice. The view you have from the Franciscan ex-convent is well worth the hike.

We still hadn't done all the hills in this trip, though. There was one particularly long and tough, which tool almost an hour to climb, constant and lethal, before Tecuanipa. From then on the road was arid and flat, until we saw Cholula, on the distance. It was then that I realized that I forgot some cigars for the victory.

I wanted a post card, but the prohibitive price of 8 pesos (I was not feeling really friendly at the time) made me feel like penny-pinching and I bought nothing. It was not the price per se, what bothered me, rather the amalgam of them pricing stuff higher, because of tourists. Probably I felt that way because we were no longer shielded with the people's friendliness, characteristic of small towns, but to the cold city mood.

I did climb the hill, more as an obligation than pleasure. Besides, I wanted a picture from the top. The view is amazing, I must say.

We ate at the plaza, and I went to Berenice's place, a very good friend of mine, in Puebla. I wanted to give her the surprise of our arrival. I want to commend her for being very nice with us, and I extend this gratitude to her family as well. That day a hot shower, a good meal, the company of people you like, a known face and a mattress, was all an earthly paradise: I slept 5 hours straight, and I committed the exquisite crime of getting up at 9:30, a monumental exploit when compared with days of getting up every hour trying to sleep.

Day 5: From Puebla with Love

By noon we were ready to leave. We were escorted that time to the bus station. We decided it was enough of a trip. We saved one complete day. Everything was just perfect. Not even a flat tire. It was not convenient to exhaust ourselves, and it made us see the dimension of our efforts and mistakes as well. We were tired and one of us was to return to classes on Monday. We went over the top with the expectations.

Three lovely girls escorted us to the terminal, and a couple of drinks in a bar nearby served as a good-bye, while we waited for our bus. But Puebla would not let us go without a touch of its hospitality: to begin with, a restaurant didn't let us enter with the bikes, saying that it could ruin aesthetics; yeah, the crowds gathering in the empty place could be offended. There was actually not a single client. I know now why. And there was of course, the underpaid guard almost shouting at us because we attempted (and actually did) to enter the parking lot in our bikes. The bikes were luggage anyways.

Two hours and forty minutes later, we rapidly covered what we did in four days. Three kilograms after, legs harder, proud the spirit and happy about seeing old friends, we came back. We never actually used the camping tent, though we had to carry it over the mountains. Would I do it again? Well, Mexico is big, really big. I, for the moment, will forget about the bike in the next days and will commit myself to contemplation.

Travel Notes

• Take sun block with you. Sunscreen is much more better. The Sun can really burn you. Our 'rookie-ness' in believing the whole trip was to be cloudy, confirmed it. It is recommended that you cover your body from the Sun. Long pants and shirts with long sleeves are valuable.
• Take enough water. Two liters is enough for a 5-hour interval. You should replenish your canteens every time you stop to a town.
• Carry some ointment to avoid your lips getting dry. The sun and wind will definitely smash them.
• Take clothing for cold nights. It is preferable that it is small and warm at the same time.
• Camping tent could not be entirely useful if you know how to find accommodations. When in a group of three, the backpack can be a terrible weight upon morale.

Budget: about 350 pesos, including a bus ticket back home (first class, naturally, since the space to carry the bikes in the bus is bigger). A twenty pesos tip can really make a difference as well.

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More pictures

The map was obtained from World Wind, NASA. It belongs to the public domain.