We were looking forwards to a stay in the city of Veracruz which has a reputation as a sultry latin place with Caribbean influence. The ride along the seafront under a blue sky was great but the city's eclectic mix of cargo terminals, tourist beaches, strip development and old colonialism wasn't what we had imagined.
Having made slow progress through the mountains we hoped to make easy miles on the flat coastal plains of the Gulf. As we slogged along at 5mph into a gale force headwind that was coating us black with sugarcane soot we came to realise that this would not necessarily be so. Thousands of birds migrating north to the USA and Canada seemed to be finding it equally hard but not the convoys of north american retiree "sunbirds" in their enormous mobile homes that passed us on the highway on their way back from a winter at the resorts of the Yucatan.
We made landfall for the night at an "eco camp" near the village of La Mancha. The only eco thing about it seemed to be the hugely successful mosquito breeding programme in the thatched roof bathrooms. The wind was still blowing the next morning so we spent the day wandering the scenic beach, jungle and low hills under a grey sky.
North along the coastal highway we rode past rugged hills, lagoons, deserted beaches and a nuclear power station to reach the Costa Esmeralda where half of Mexico was arriving for Easter Week. We passed a faded wooden sign for Santander Turtle Project and decided to take a look. We found ourselves in a lovely secluded spot amongst pine trees next to the beach with free camping and friendly locals, so we stayed a couple of days.
Further north we threw our lot in with the holidaymakers at Casitas and camped under the palms on the beachfront and watched Mexican families at play - one of whom had brought their prize fighting chickens on holiday with them. I went for a swim but was told off by lifeguards - apparently there is a dangerous current along the entire Gulf Coast - so decided to sunbathe on the grass instead where I was promptly eaten alive by sandflies.
We made our way to Tecolutla by a quiet backroad that became a dirt track and ended at a river estuary where two friendly lads were pleased to relieve us of some pesos to take us by boat to the town.
Kemp's Ridley Turtles are critically endangered. Having completed an annual circuit of the Atlantic Ocean that takes them as far as north Africa the turtles return each spring to lay their eggs on the beaches of the Gulf of Mexico. Along the coasts of Mexico and Texas a series of turtle conservation projects tries to protect the eggs from predation by humans and stray dogs. They rely heavily on volunteers to help patrol the beaches and locate the nests. We had arranged to spend some time helping the Tecolutla Turtle Preservation Project.
The beaches were so thick with holidaymakers it seemed inconceivable that turtles could nest there, but north of town a 5 mile stretch of beach had remained undeveloped due to a lagoon that drained into the sea creating two small rivers across the beach.
Recognising that we weren't going to be much use at educating the public we were offered the opportunity to go and live on the deserted beach in a hurricane damaged building formerly used as an Alcoholics Anonymous retreat with no running water or electricity, just a well. We cycled along the beach, waded across the river with all our gear and after 4 miles reached our new home.
We spent a couple of days cleaning, beautifying and shifting things around, Tracey wove a bathroom door from palm leaves and we pitched our tent in one of the rooms.
The makeshift roof still rattled in the wind and we hauled water from the well to flush the toilets but for vagabonds like us it was a kind of paradise. The constant sound of the waves, a cooling sea breeze swaying the palms, sunrise over the ocean and watching lines of pelicans flying over the sea while we sat on our porch drinking tequila and fresh coconut water cocktails out of camping mugs.
We rode the bikes along the beach looking for turtles and watched alligators, otters, dolphins and shorebirds. We were supposed to find and mark any nests so that "Turtle Man" could excavate them and remove the eggs to a safer location where they were covered with a grill to prevent the dogs getting to them. For whatever reason the turtles were late this year so there were no nests to find and move but we enjoyed Turtle Man's daily arrival, patrolling the beach on his quad bike and his ability to pick and open fresh coconuts.
The only slight problem was that when we ran out of food I had to do an 8 mile round trip riding through soft sand and wading across the river twice to get to Tecolutla and back. On one such trip a storm blew in and the turtles came ashore - on my way back along the beach I stopped with a group of students to watch a huge female lay her eggs and had the pleasure of removing some of them while she dripped turtle afterbirth on my hand.
Unfortunately Tracey was at the house sheltering from the storm unaware of the turtle surge and completely missed them - it would be the only time in our 10 days that they came ashore. Given the lack of turtles we felt rather fraudulent volunteers but we were rested, tanned and ready for the road again.
On the evening before our departure a storm system came in off the Gulf marking a seasonal change in the weather - heat and intense humidity under stormy skies would accompany us north to the US border. We would either be sweating or getting wet.
We headed inland into the hills to Papantla to visit the Totonac pyramids and temples of El Tajin. From there we struck north on back roads through jungled hills, past oil workers and burning flares onto dirt roads. In the tiny village of Sombrete we sheltered from torrential rain under the bandstand and ate our tortillas, chillies and tuna for lunch while bemused school children looked on, brass band music blared and CocaCola and Pepsi vans made their deliveries.
It was a long days ride and north of Tuxpam we searched for a campspot amongst the ranchos but only became caked in mud. We chanced our luck and entered the plush gates of Rancho Casa Blanca to ask if we could camp on their lawn. Fortunately for us the owner was away and the friendly caretaker and his family were Jehovah's Witness' glad to offer assistance and we camped under cover away from the insects and rain.
We cycled through woods, pasture and small villages and in Tamiahua ate our lunch on the dock and had ice lollies in the plaza where the children seemed to think we were famous and asked for autographs.
We crossed a river on a long ford and passed men on horseback to reach Naranjos, where I refuelled on tasty tacos. We imposed on a friendly family to camp on their land near the village of Mamey and next morning reached the shores of Laguna Tamiahua on a lovely quiet road and when we weren't sheltering from storms we cycled past swamplands teeming with wildlife and small fishing villages. We got a great deal on a hotel room next to the lagoon in Tampico Alto and sat on the jetty in the afternoon sun with tea and biscuits.
There wasn't much to recommend the city of Tampico on a searing hot day other than the dunes and lagoons on its eastern outskirts.
We turned off the highway and headed north on a dirt road and it took us 5 days riding to cover the 300 miles to the US border. The landscape opened up again into expansive ranchland with huge vistas, distant mountains and big skies. The roads were straight and empty and settlements few and far between. Red-winged blackbirds, Meadowlarks and Grackles provided the soundtrack and we helped tortoises across the road.
We got caught in a huge electrical storm and a family let us camp under cover in their compound in the village of Nuevo Progresso. We were grateful to be out of the rain but they possessed one of the worst drop toilets of the trip. We crossed the Tropic of Cancer for the fourth time but it didn't get any cooler.
The Mexican Marines had been a presence on the roads and beaches since we left Veracruz. No-one we spoke to could explain exactly what they were doing, other than "to protect us". In the war against the drug cartels it seems people have lost faith in the corrupt police so the marines now keep order.
In the dusty town of Soto la Marina the marines were doing house-to-house and half the populace seemed deranged - a night in the brush sleeping to the sounds of goatsuckers, frogs and cicadas under a beautiful moon was the better choice.
We rode 80 miles to San Fernando de Presas for a shower and a days rest. It was a down-at-heel place, the marines were doing door-to-door and the streets deserted by nightfall.
The 100 miles north to the border was the dullest scenery of our journey. We wouldn't see a hill for another 1,500 miles but the dead straight road through endless brown fields with newly planted crops, a grey sky and a headwind was tedious.
In Matomoros we half expected to see pick-up trucks driving around with machine-gun toting gangsters and dead bodies piled up in the streets but the old town was quiet and friendly and elderly couples dressed in white danced in the plaza. Tracey bought 1/2 tonne of coffee which we would be drinking furiously for the next two weeks to create some space in our bags.
We were trying to find our way to Mexican immigration, took a wrong turn and were surprised to find ourselves in the USA. We were sent back to Mexico, the only country we've visited that you have to pay to get out of.
While literally hundreds of Mexicans poured over the border carrying all manner of narcotics and firearms we were delayed for 2 hours by US Immigration who were suspicious of our "we're cycling around the world and need 90 days to get to New York" story until they read my blog and then they were all smiles and paperwork.
I was overwhelmed by the choice of provisions in the biggest supermarket of the trip so far and we picked up a Texas map and USA guidebook at the Brownesville Mall before heading north on a smooth road with a wide shoulder to ride in away from the speeding traffic.
We disturbed an armadillo while looking for a camp spot in an open field and as the full moon rose we were set upon by a plague of mosquitoes the size of helicopters.
As we rode north the next morning under a blue sky we entered a vast nothingness of ranchland scrub. The road verges were ablaze with a spectacular display of wild flowers and white-tailed deer trod carefully amongst the bushes.
It was all going well until we reached a gate into the wilderness and realised that what we thought on our map were villages were actually only ranches. Inevitably the wind got up and blew in our faces and on a hot day 40 miles is a long way on a packet of cherry sours and half a bottle of warm, foul tasting water. As we were reaching a dry mouthed state of delirium a gateman called us over as we passed and like a saviour dispensed ice cold bottles of water - "I figured ya'll must be thirsty coming in that direction". He advised us to be careful of rattlesnakes but the only ones we saw were squashed on the highway.
We reached a rest area and refuelled on vending machine root beer and cakes. A kind lady let us use her cell phone and when she heard our story insisted on laying hands upon us and praying for our safe travel - which may have accounted for the puncture I got 1/2 mile down the road. Tracey had cycled 5 miles before noticing I wasn't behind her, when I eventually caught up she confessed that some days she liked to pretend she was riding on her own!
We were glad to reach Keith from WarmShowers in the village of Riviera, who looked after us fantastically and his friend Diego used a smoker to cook up the best BBQ food I have ever eaten.
Keith is a nurse and in the habit of looking after the needy and so it is that he has rescued 3 donkeys and 13 dogs. On our second day there, Bobby, one of the dogs was badly mauled in a fight with neighbouring dogs. Keith gave him some tlc and concluded he would be OK but by the time he left to go on night shift at the hospital Bobby didn't seem any better. Keith asked us to call him if the dog got any worse. Dog lover Tracey was besides herself with worry looking after him and got up several times throughout the night to check on him, while I reassured her the dog would be fine. At dawn Bobby was as stiff as a board in the hallway. We had only just carried him out into the garden and cleaned up the blood when Keith came home to the devastating news. We rode north while he buried his dog and Tracey cried and blamed herself for the next two days.
We passed a visitor centre in Kingsville and went in for a look. The lady there prayed for our safe travel, which was fine as we had just availed ourselves of her free cookies, coffee and mints. We were out of bug spray and our slight concern that Walmart had sold out had turned to desperation by late-afternoon as store after store had their shelves cleared in a spate of panic buying as the B-movie sized mosquitoes took over the place. Just as we were contemplating smearing ourselves in mud we found some in the one strip town of Robesville (Home of the Greatest Junior Livestock Show).
There was a scorpion amongst our bags in the morning but of greater concern were the Spawn of Satan waiting for breakfast so we legged it in search of pancakes. We didn't find any but while I was sitting in the sun eating my cereal and drying the tent in Odem we were mistaken for homeless bums by a paranoid shopkeeper, though technically she was correct.
Cycling around Texas its easy to understand how theories of alien abduction gain credence - there are simply no humans to be seen. We would ride through towns playing spot the person. Everyone was either inside a vehicle with tinted windows or indoors - there was never anyone walking, cycling or playing. This was something of a pain as US roads are poorly signed and finding a person to ask directions was often frustrating - especially as old people had a tendency to flee in fear when approached by a stranger on two wheels.
We did daily battle with the headwind on long, straight, featureless backroads and by days end found ourselves a lovely campsite at Goose Island State Park. Apparently Texas in spring is a birdwatching mecca and I joined a morning bird walk with the retirees staying in their huge mobile homes ("RV's" as they are called here).
The nearest store going north was 50 miles away but for once the wind was on our backs and we reached Port Lavaca in half a day and camped at a trashy RV park as a storm howled in off the sea.
The Gulf Coast is unusual in that an almost continuous line of huge lagoons separates the mainland from a narrow strip of beach. Even though it seems like you are "at the sea" in fact you are on a lakeshore.
We crossed a number of long causeways over the lagoons, which would've been cool were it not for the dead pelicans squashed all over the road - their relatives were gracing the front pages covered in crude but no-one cared about these casualties.
It took a couple of days to actually reach the beach. On a beautiful day surfers rode the sparkling sea and people played on the sand amongst the traffic - Europeans take their towels to the beach, Americans take their vehicles.
It was an enjoyable ride north with the beach on our right and lagoon on our left and it was here we first saw "The American Dream" - enormous and rather lovely beachhouses raised on stilts and looking out to sea.
We decided to have a rest day on the beach at Galveston but I still had to cycle a 25 mile round trip to buy groceries.
Making our way north along the seafront a wrecked pier and hotel were Hurricane Ike's calling cards but most of the wooden Victorian "gingerbread" houses had been repaired.
We chatted to friendly locals on the ferry as we crossed the bay to the Bolivar Peninsular, where Ike had wreaked havoc. Water and sewage were only just back and some homes had been rebuilt but many people were living in RV's. We camped on the beach and were awake to watch an orange sunrise over the sea. As we turned inland across the swamps a field of "nodding donkeys" creaked as they pumped oil and offshore the rigs sat on the horizon.
The 20 miles of highway between Minnie and Port Arthur were remarkable for the variety of wildlife smeared all over the tarmac - alligator, turtle, tortoise, raccoon, armadillo, opossum, snakes, egrets and an array of small birds. Gases spewed from the Petrochemical plants as we passed through Port Arthur and onto Pleasure Island.
On a sunny morning we cycled over a pod of dolphins swimming below the Sabine Bridge and entered the swamps of Louisiana. The road had been rebuilt and re-opened after the hurricane and we had it almost to ourselves as we rode through the wetlands amidst egrets, wading birds, alligators, aquatic rodents and raccoons. We came upon some cowboys sorting cattle and watched their tremendous skill and horsemanship as they separated cows from the herd.
It was another "50 miles to a store" day and we rode alongside a deserted sandy beach and crossed on a ferry to the town of Cameron that had been devastated by Hurricane Rita and then flattened again by Ike. The people that remained seemed as defeated as the infrastructure. We ate crawfish pie and fries at the Hurricane Cafe as there was no fresh fruit or vegetables to be had. They had just rebuilt the library though and the helpful ladies there photocopied a road atlas for us as the nearest town selling a map was 30miles inland.
The next day I found my first fresh vegetable in 80 miles at Mrs Booths grocery store. There were newspaper cuttings on the wall showing her 1950's store reduced to rubble and of the 70 year old in her newly opened shop.
Mrs Booth refused payment for the onion and went out back and gave us 2 courgettes from her own kitchen and for the millionth time we were grateful and humbled.
As we headed east we were impressed by the vast swamp wilderness and the wildlife though had we been there a few months earlier we would have needed bullet-proof jackets and ear plugs in this "sportsman's paradise".
We turned inland and after a long day asked a man mowing his field if we could camp there - Josh said that was OK and we relaxed in the late evening sunlight under giant oak trees dripping spanish moss and at at night there were fireflies and a starry sky.
We checked into a dorm room at the Blue Moon Guesthouse in Lafayette which also doubles as a popular cajun music venue.
By the time Terry & The Zydeco Bad Boys had finished their set Tracey had already been dragged onto the heaving floor for a dance that combined elements of latin, country and cowboy.
I had the pleasure of chatting to people who actually voted for George W Bush twice and were proud of it.
In a drunken euphoria T befriended some locals who took us to another bar, plied us with drinks and then drove us to Waffle House. Tracey didn't look out of place passed out on the table and I polished off her waffles.
Tracey spent the next day with her head in the toilet and when Alicia (who we met the night before) came to pick us up for dinner at their house we had to make a couple of rather embarrasing unplanned stops at the roadside on the way. While I tucked in to Chad's fantastic cajun home cooking Tracey made trips to their bathroom. They were a lovely couple and our first introduction to famed southern hospitality, but who knows what they think of the British!
Up until this point we had found the US roads fine for cycling but as we made our way out of Lafayette we became acquainted with a type of American driver who, away from the civilised north-east, has evolved into a new human subspecies, Homo Assholeins, that through lack of use has lost the ability to use their brains and their legs. From here to the Mason-Dixie Line whenever we had to ride on a busy road sooner or later we would be treated to some knucklehead yelling "Geet owfaa tha gaawd-daamned rouwd" at us - or expletives to that effect. Young, old, black and white they were angry and aggressive. Its the only country I have ridden in where the drivers are hostile to cyclists and it made us scared, angry and sad. For every asshole there were 5 others who cheered, waved or gave the thumbs up but it was hard to keep that in perspective. We liked Louisiana but it wins the wooden spoon for the least cycling friendly place of our trip.
We toured a french plantation house and learned about the history of "The South". We came up against the Atchafalaya wetlands and were forced south-east along the Bayou Teche past beautiful white plantation homes framed by avenues of ancient oak trees. One hot morning we rode like devils into a headwind for 35 miles to reach Cajun Jack's in time for his 2pm swamp tour. Dripping with sweat and dehydrated we were told there would be no tour as we were the only punters and at least 8 were needed. As it turns out Cajun Jack, like many of his ilk, is a rascist right-winger and we so we consoled ourselves with a drive-thru milkshake, which in America is actually ice-cream.
A life on the road takes its toll and its fair to say we were looking rather worn, but only in America could a cycle tourer be mistaken for a poor vagabond - while we were filling our water bottles at a gas station a lady offered us $10. We decided we needed some new clothes. As we rode alongside the swamps in the evening sunlight a middle-aged guy looking like Dennis Hopper in Easy Rider started yelling at us "Now that's freedom maaan, that's freedom, look at thaaaat" - its hard to go far in the US without concluding they are all mad.
Swamps aren't that great for camping but we found a spot inside a flood levee next to the river where the air was thick with humidity and mosquitos. We followed quiet back roads to White Castle and Tracey was shocked when she asked directions to be told openly in front of others "why'dya wanna go there, its full of blacks".
We ate a picnic lunch on a sandy beach besides the mighty brown Mississippi River and imagined the adventures of Huckleberry Finn. As we followed the river south-east towards New Orleans the rim on my rear wheel split but I managed to coax it for two more days into the city. On the way we visited an African-American Museum in down-at-heel Donaldsville and another beautiful plantation home at Vacherie.
Riding along a back road we were pulled by the local sheriff who said he had received reports of two cyclists on the road. He said that as we were riding without mirrors we were not allowed to ride with traffic but must cross to the other lane and ride into the traffic - at this point we knew bugger all about US cycling regulations but argued it was utter madness and totally dangerous - in the end he said he'd been a sheriff for 10 years, knew the rules and either we did as he said or he we would give us a ticket. We crossed over, he drove off, the first car blasted its horn and nearly killed us, we crossed back and carried on. (We would soon discover that the sheriff was as ill informed as his fellow citizens, indeed there were government billboard adverts in New Orleans educating drivers and cyclists to ride with traffic not against it!).
We cycled on top of the levee past industry and construction into New Orleans but missed the last ferry across the river at Gretna and had to ride another 2 miles on tired legs and broken wheel to the Canal Street Ferry and then back on the other side to Ray and Chris's appartment in the Lower Garden District.
A WarmShowers cyclist from Vermont, Ray gave up his bedroom for the weekend while he slept on the floor, he drove us around bike shops to get me a new wheel built and to the mall to get us new clothes and he took us to volleyball and a fun night out on Bourbon Street. We couldn't thank him enough.
On our way out of the city we cycled through the French Quarter, past elegant caribbean-colonial architecture and wrought iron balconies dripping with carnival beads, past the horse & carriages pulling tourists, through the black neighbourhoods still recovering from the Rita flooding, past dereliction and industry back out to the swamps.
A WarmShowers cyclist from Vermont, Ray gave up his bedroom for the weekend while he slept on the floor, he drove us around bike shops to get me a new wheel built and to the mall to get us new clothes and he took us to volleyball and a fun night out on Bourbon Street. We couldn't thank him enough.
On our way out of the city we cycled through the French Quarter, past elegant caribbean-colonial architecture and wrought iron balconies dripping with carnival beads, past the horse & carriages pulling tourists, through the black neighbourhoods still recovering from the Rita flooding, past dereliction and industry back out to the swamps.
We turned inland and rode across Lake Ponchartrain on a 3 mile long causeway and as the Gulf behind us filled with oil the wind was no longer in our faces.
