The toll roads in Mexico are a godsend for bicycle tourists. Little traffic, wide shoulders, and mellow grades are the norm. It’s even possible to let your guard down enough and get into a rhythm without needing to check the mirror every 30 seconds. The downside is that toll roads avoid towns and services.
Our first few nights out of Mazatlan we’d gotten into a habit of stopping in little pueblos and asking for a safe spot to camp – outside churches, hotels, restaurants, etc. Once we rerouted to the autopista, there weren’t any towns for miles and the roadside was lined with barbed wire fences. So, when the sun started nearing the horizon, we had to devise a new strategy. Wild camping was out of the question, as the last thing we wanted to do was to explain to some angry rancher why we thought it would be okay to hop his fence. We would have to ask permission and hope for the best.
We hadn’t seen anything resembling a house for miles when we approached a small overpass intended as a cattle crossing. We pulled the bikes onto the shoulder and I walked over the bank to the fence. Sure enough, a little farmhouse was right there, hidden from view from the highway. Buenas tardes! I called. Hola! Nothing. Oye! I whistled. Still nothing. Oye! An old campesino strolled out from the corral. He motioned me to enter. “Buenas tardes señor, my girlfriend and I are traveling by bicycle from the States. We usually camp at night but we don’t want to trespass on anybody’s land. We have food and a tent, we just need a safe place to stay. Could we pitch a tent on your land?”
He hesitated, obviously confused why two gringos on bikes wanted to stay with him. “I’ll have to check with my family before I invite guests for dinner.”
“Really, señor, we’re not asking for a meal or a room, just a safe place to put a tent.
“Bueno, vamos.” And we followed Esteban down to the house. I felt a wave of heat as we stepped into the kitchen. He introduced us to his wife, a smiling señora who was pressing tortillas in between tending the myriad pots on the comal and adding fresh leña to the stove. Then we met Esteban’s daughter-in-law, Erika, whose daughter was tugging her pink sweatpants as she shredded meat for tacos.
Esteban grabbed stools for us as his wife offered coffee. Most campesino families in Mexico don’t have much in material wealth. Coffee is a luxury. But, I could tell from the señora’s smile, it would have offended her if we refused. It’s a situation we’ve had repeatedly now. We, the gringo travelers, feel guilt at accepting items that are a luxury. Refusing, however, could only make things worse. Most Mexicans we’ve met, especially in rural areas, tend to be far less attached to wealth than Americans. There is no value in hoarding, only in sharing. No fear of storing up money for the future. Whatever is available is happily shared.
“Thank you, it’s delicious.” I said, taking a sip and hovering over the steaming mug. We had ascended up to around 9,000 feet and the evening breeze had a nip to it as it whirred through the pine forest. Erika finished cleaning the meat off the bones and tossed them to the dogs. She began to pile up a stack of tacos dorados, for the boys’ to take to the fields the next day. She handed each of us a sample. “¿Qué es? asked Emily.
“Tejón.”
“What’s tejón?”, Emily whispered to me as we took a bite. I tried to picture the structure of the animal Erika had just been cleaning. “I have no idea, but fried and wrapped in a tortilla…it’s pretty damn good.”
Within minutes the boys got home from work and the mood changed. Esteban and his wife had four boys and a girl. The girl had gotten married and went to live with her husband’s family, so Erika and the señora were in charge of keeping everyone fed. The volume increased substantially as they boisterously settled into the kitchen. The table could only fit a person or two so we were all scattered around the dim, smoky room. Erika’s husband, Teban, was enthralled with catalogs of kitchenware and woman’s fashion accessories and shared his enthusiasm with everyone. “Forty dollars for perfume? hahahaha!” He sampled each of the scratch & sniff scents, dramatizing each reaction and accentuating the absurdity of consumer catalogs in the humble kitchen.
The biggest of the sons, in his late twenties with a solid frame and a healthy belly, said he was hungry and took a seat at the little table. Mom served up beans, soup, chile, and tortillas. Then Teban declared hunger as well. The señora, who’d been at the stove all evening, stepped aside and let her daughter-in-law take over. Though Teban was her son, now that he was married, Erika served his food. He sat at the table. Erika brought a bucket of water for him to rinse his hands. He held them out as she poured soap on. Once he rinsed, she took the bucket away. She served him the same dinner as his brother, never sitting down. She’d eaten earlier, while she was making tomorrow’s lunch and looking after their toddler.
Then it was back to stories and catalogs as everyone decompressed from the day. I saw Teban playing with his little daughter, toy in hand. From a distance it looked like a rabbit’s foot that people often have as a good luck charms. He noticed I was watching and brought it over. Not a rabbit’s foot, but a paw the size of small dog. “Touch it.” He handed it to me. It was black, with smooth fuzz and soft skin. The flesh was supple, and I could see the wrist bone sticking out a bit.
“What is it?” I wondered.
“That’s what you just ate.” He giggled. I felt more eyes focus on me, waiting for a reaction.
“Really?” I asked, slowly putting the pieces together. “It was delicious.”
Un tejón, we later learned, is a badger
