We were long enough on the road that neither of us had to search for journals, border documents, maps or the Spanish phrase book - our things had found their places. We followed the ocean south on Mexico’s coastal west, got dusty on dirt tracks and felt increasingly small, insignificant and together under lush foliage, humidity and buttressed height.
On a nighttime pine forest track in the Belize highlands we were two headlights navigating deep pools from a recent rain. Two people illuminated by dash lights in the dark of a forrest. The sweet smell of pine reminded me of home, and I reached to my right knowing the place where Michelle’s hand settled on the bench seat - I felt the ring on her finger and mine on the steering wheel. I felt her smile. We were two people who had found their places, stood in front of a priest and god - and now we tempted the fates together; we were on our honeymoon.
La Mesilla, Guatemala was on our route home. We wound through streets of bright painted cinderblock, wandering livestock, rebar aspirations and the lazy smoke of smoldering morning cook fires. By now we were a practiced team navigating the maze of one way streets, the cacophony of car horns, blaring exhaust and fearless street vendors. Rounding a corner we were abruptly in the cue for a sign held over the bustle of morning that read “Bienvenido a Mexico”.
Northbound on Mexican soil - Eore, our 1974 Land Rover, caught a glimpse of open road through the lumbering, battered trucks that congregate in black clouds of diesel on latin borders. Four cylinders made a heroic effort at turning combustion noise into forward motion aimed at blue skies. First to second gear, and we flirted with 25 mph. Clutch and a swift shift to bang the four speed into third, but the gearbox refused without a grind or a grunt. With the revs dropping, I made a mad grab for fourth, but Eore again refused. Back into second - a shove on the RoverDrive’s green knob - and we broke through the diesel vacqueros with Eore screaming mad at 30 mph.
Safely down the road, I pulled rubber inspection plugs from the naked aluminum transmission tunnel. Michelle hummed to herself and studied a map laid on the front wing. Around us, lush and low green hills cut blue sky with birdsong and insect buzz while the border diesels caught and mocked us from the nearby roadway. The third and fourth shift dogs appeared intact, metal brackets retained springs and metal detent balls and the oil levels were correct. I rocked the shift lever between third and fourth with no indication of the subtle give of synchro springs.
“I think the problem is in the box. This isn’t something we’re going to sort here,” I smiled feebly. Having travelled many miles in Eore I accepted the potential for times like this. The slow speed, the heat, the lack of basic comforts - I had always marvelled at Michelle’s ability to find enjoyment despite the two of us - Eore and I. “We can still drive."
“San Christobal de las Casas is up the road - probably 5 hours. It’s a good sized town,” she smiled with a reassuring confidence.
The winding road kept the speeds slow, so the three of us were just a mild irritant to Mexico going about its daily life. It was a quiet ride, and I lost myself in worst case scenarios. Michelle slipped into her travel pillow and left me to the changing countryside, Eore at 25 mph and my ruminations. Travel wonder kept at bay most of the nagging worries of being so far from home.
The road into San Christobal opened into a long straight flanked by belt-fed gun nests. I waived with an exaggerated exuberance as we approached a collection of military vehicles. I was sure our slow speed must be suspicious coupled with a high revving engine. Bored and ornery fatigues stood defiant under the oppressive heat and humidity. I was paranoid from my rumination’s and assumed a few safeties had been switched off and fingers moved to triggers. This was EZLN country - in recent years indigenous communities wrote declarations of independence from the Lacandon jungle. Free trade agreements threatened to cleave Mayan lands with a superhighway while heavy handed military and local land owners marched under a rain of subsidized foreign corn on community co-op farming efforts. There had been violence among the people of the corn; Violence that gave way to direct dialogue with the world through a new and expanding information superhighway - the internet. But, hope and resolution is a difficult thing - governments make deals, people face the ramifications and the world keeps turning. We fled the checkpoint at 25 mph, and I found Michelle’s hand in its place - gave it a reassuring squeeze.
San Christobal broke the heavy mood of our afternoon. School uniformed teens in backpacks flirted in the square to the rattle of a coke truck hauling glass bottles down potholed streets. High above, a church spire aspired to a cloudless blue sky. It was a welcome reminder of shared love and future - it can get lonely when things go wrong and you’re far from home. Down a cobblestone street we found a small hotel with a vehicle lock-up. Michelle showered while I got greasy diagnosing Eore. It was good to get clean in my turn, and scrubbing off the doubt I hoped for mechanical enlightenment.
At an internet cafe we sipped Cafe con Leche’s, and I emailed friends from the Land Rover community back home. There were theories on Eore’s maladies. A broken synchro spring, shift dog issues - all involved removal of the transmission, a parts delivery and a dirt-lot rebuild getting pecked by chickens.
“I will have to take the gearbox apart to find out what’s wrong, and we have no time to wait for parts,” I said. “We have 6 days to drop Eore in San Antonio for the truck home, and we have our flights to catch.”
“So we drive,” Michelle stated decisively.
"We drive,” I smiled at her practicality and positivity. “First, we have to find my new Guayabera.”
On a summers day in Toronto, Canada - Michelle’s priest had insisted we attend a weekend retreat among monks speaking from the pulpit about marriage. In a beige and humourless building, I had worn my sky blue, ribbed, tucked, pleated, decoratively stitched with a mystic’s pearl buttons - Guayabera. The weekend was heavy with conversation about finance, abstinence, fidelity and cycle timed birth control - taught by a woman who had made a “mistake”. Like a high school virgin I slipped Michelle a note regarding the pageantry of my shirt.
“What did you call your shirt - a playground for the imagination? You’re such an ass,” giggled Michelle. To us, in an ochre orange and green cafe with wooden shudders in San Christobal, Mexico it was still funny. And, I still needed a new Guayabera - preferably in a more formal white.
We searched, hand in hand, until the sun set on a parade with banners of woven earth tones juxtaposed with bright colours over fatigues and balaclavas that cut a defiant path through the city. The banners read “EZLN - La Luz de la Livertad”. Under the stars, we left carved wooden shudders open to the moonlight. The gods, the fates, the heavens - they reeled from the seething, determined voices; the fragrant smoke of street vendors, tobacco and pot; the blaring car horns, accordion melodies and heart-wrenching, woeful tales of of lost love, hearts and pistols. Around a corner a hooded figure spray-painted Che on a building, and the city gasped at a backfire and breathed as it settled into the characteristic, air-cooled clatter of a VW bug. Naked on white bed sheets in the calm of rhythmic breathing - we felt small, insignificant but together.
In part 2 we start our journey home - ahead we face over 1,300 miles of road to the US border. At this point in the story, Eore sits alone behind a metal gate at the end of a cobble stone street in San Christobal de Las Casas, Mexico. Eore in shame with a top speed of 30 mph. The decision has been made to make the drive. In part 2, like a Norse sword named for great exploits, Eore makes it home to earn the name - “Eore - The Forgiven”.
