A visit to Mexico May 29, 2018 – Posted in: Blog – Tags: , , , ,

A visit to Mexico

On the last curve John was yelling, “I’ve lost the brakes, I’ve lost the brakes!” We cruised through the intersection without hitting anything and began to slow on the flat ground. We pulled up at a bus stop on the edge of the central bus station, our wheels turned into the kerb to keep us there, and sat there, panting.

An odd sight for the waiting passengers, pale-faced against their swarthy complexions, and parked where you wouldn’t expect an RV to be. Mexico is a forgiving nation and no one yelled or shook their fists.

Buses coming into the station had to engage in some complicated maneuvering, and those destined for our bus stop parked in the middle of the road, meaning the passengers walked around us, and the traffic jammed behind.

We were in Zacatecas, a town situated in the Mexican mountains north of Mexico City about 2480 metres above sea level. Zacatecas is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, famous for its tunnels and architecture. Sightseeing would have to be postponed for now.

The bus stop wasn’t getting quieter and neither was the traffic. With our breathing back to normal, we could talk.

“What do we do now?” I asked.

“Find a garage,” replied John.

We set off in different directions. Shops, offices, churros, clothing – and then in a back street a garage of sorts.

A tentative “Habla ingles?” was met with blank faces, and my gesticulations with grins. I found John and he worked out they weren’t doing mechanical repairs, so we had to keep searching.

“How about a hotel, John? The staff on the desk should speak English.”

We widened our target to include accommodation. John found a hotel owner who realised from our broken Spanish that we needed help and he brought in the policia.

This was good. We were worried about where we’d landed; our RV was creating mayhem and we might get towed, or a ticket and we wanted neither. With the help of the policia we drove the RV park into a Sin Parar or No Stopping area.

Our clumsy explanations had the policeman calling back to the office, and shortly after, we were surrounded – four policemen, two on bikes, one in a car and the first on foot. The bonnet was up and John moved one leg as if pushing down on the brake. He acted out his consternation and fear as the RV failed to stop. The policemen exclaimed, conferred and fiddled with the engine. One took John aside and, in another round of street theatre, declaiming “Caliente! Caliente!” informed him that the brake fluid had boiled.

We had driven around the hills above the city twice, following extremely poor directions to the camping ground. Driving slowly and braking often was what had done the damage.

We found out this is a common mistake for tourists in both North and South America on hill roads so much higher than in New Zealand roads. John nodded his comprehension, and was told we must wait for the fluid to cool and bleed the brakes before we made any long trip.

The policeman said they were happy with us leaving the RV parked in the no-parking zone and to fill the necessary hour for the brake fluid to cool, he suggested we attend the carnival down the road and through that alley.

So that’s what we did. As we drew nearer, the noisier it became and soon we were walking between crowded stalls, listening to the music and eating hand-cut potato chips cooked to perfection in an oil-filled vat.

We sampled other dishes from a street stall, admiring the rainbow colours of corn barbequed and sold still in their home-grown wrapping. A vast cauldron of stew simmered outside a shop, and street artists performed for families out for a day’s entertainment.

Though it was late afternoon, it was still too early for live music. Instead, piped music at extreme volume blared out of massive speakers on the four bandstands. Travelling between them exposed you to a cacophony of melodies vying for attention. We covered our ears to stop them vibrating and worried about ending up deaf! We sat on the church steps to watch men erect an elaborate metal contraption packed with fireworks, like an oversized catherine wheel. This was unsteady and worryingly close to stalls, balcony and power lines, offering much potential for problems once lit.

Children in local costume rode the fairground swings and horses, and one and all had food in their hands and a smile on their faces.

Our van’s brakes were working when we returned, and, with intense concentration and fingers crossed, we located the camping ground. No wonder we’d missed it before, as it was tucked away down a one-way street with no lower entry.

To make sure, John walked down to check it was accessible. We couldn’t risk getting stuck. Our mobile home was 8 metres long and tricky to maneuver in a tight space. John returned, and clambered into the driving seat with a look of fierce concentration.

We drove slowly down the narrow lane and with a hard turn to the left entered the camping ground. Down a ramp we pulled up as directed in front of a low stone wall. John pulled on the hand brake with relief and out we tumbled.

The view was stunning. We were on a ridge high above the city centre and the carnival. The stone wall was the boundary of the camping ground, built along a sheer cliff that went straight down except for houses built higgledy-piggledy on the mountainside.

Thank goodness our brakes hadn’t failed us there!

The owner lent us the tools we needed to bleed the brakes. We stayed for a wonderful few days, exploring this city built in a canyon below a silver mine, with its old, colonial houses, narrow winding streets, tunnels and a funicular. Above were multi-coloured houses, built on the towering mountainside wherever there was access.

When we departed, amidst much Mexican goodwill, it took three tries to get up the ramp.  Each time John rolled back, I fixed a wary eye on that stone wall.

Finally, we were heading in the correct direction up the one-way lane and out of town for further adventures in Mexico.