The "nice new day" arrived much too early, to the deafening sound of explosions, the monster fireworks announcing something to do with Semana Santa.
We stumbled to the breakfast area to find it swamped with officers and weapons. We sat quietly amidst about 50 brown-skinned and black-clad men, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. Breakfast was good and the men were courteous but somewhat enamored with the blonde woman at my table, methinks. The previous night, we were definitely the topic of conversation, as it doesn't seem many gringos come this far down, at least based on the stares and stops of onlookers and street-goers. One can't help but feel conspicuous and wondering about the “Trump” issue is always at the forefront of your mind.
The heat of the city made us fodder for the hotel room, chilling some, repacking gear, washing out clothing and trying to catch up on things. The day slipped away until we felt it was time to head out in lessening heat for a walk and some pics.
The city was busy, and the people were swarming about. Neither of us felt particularly comfortable, as the stares weren't followed by smiles like we've seen in other areas. There seemed to be a tension and harshness in the air that probably echoed the tension of the region for so many years. I don't make sweeping statements based on one trip to a place, but Kim felt the same as I - a certain “unease” to the town and to our spirits. As travelers floating through so many regions, you begin to sense things, unable to pinpoint any specific reason, and in this case it was strong.
We explored the streets looking for interesting things and people, doing some street shooting but feeling as conspicuous as the gringos that we were. Cars would pass and people would stick their heads out the windows or circle the block to look at us. At one corner, I stood for a few minutes waiting to capture a shot, when a young woman walked up across the street. She stopped, obviously not wanting to be in the photo. We tried to indicate to her to go ahead and that I wouldn't shoot, but she stared with disgust, then shot us the big finger and began shouting at us.
Across the street, an older woman and younger girl had been sitting for a while, unconcerned with us, but when the girl began yelling they stood and joined in. I assume they were family members, but the mother began shouting at us and waving her hands. It was a tense situation. Being in an “iffy” neighborhood with angry locals, I calmed TIB down a bit and told her we needed to bail out asap. An older man near me on the street tried to tell me what was going on, but spoke Spanish too quickly for me to comprehend. It wasn't hard to figure out that he was telling me what she was saying and for us to go away quickly. I wasn't entirely sure whether he was trying to help us, or was joining in with the others.
We walked away and after a few blocks, entered the mercado to find some food, people watching us intently and unfriendly. We didn't feel comfortable, eating some enchiladas quickly and heading back for the hotel.
Exiting the elevator and turning the corner for the hallway to our room, two guarding Federalés stepped aside to let us pass, which seemed a bit odd. Then we saw down the opposite hallway and understood. The hallway was filled with officers... and some “affectionate” women who were NOT dressed like nuns. Kim and I did our Sergeant Schultz "I zee nothing!" routines and hit our room. Man what a day.
Uruapan is a busy, bustling city, a little dirty but still an interesting place. Within the city limits lies a National Park, and the surrounding region is filled with great roads and places to see. One of those, and one of the main reasons we’d ridden down, is the remains of a church buried by lava from the eruption of the Paricutín volcano in the 1950's. The entire town surrounding the church was buried in lava, only the tall church towers visible above the black crust.
We got a reasonably early start for the place, and after riding into the surrounding mountains, we reached a dirt turnoff that my GPS insisted was the proper turn to get to the town. I’d had an old GPS track of the route, but it didn't seem to be working. We took the dirt road up into the mountains, passing through farm after farm of avocado trees. The road was decent, with the occasional rain ruts and such, climbing higher and higher in the pine forests. After a while a local rider on a little bike passed us, a surprised look on his face.
As we continued on, the road began to branch off and get narrower and rougher. Several times I had to run ahead up through rough sections to see if the road was doable. Kim did great in the long uphills as we got deeper into the forest. From the GPS I could tell we weren't getting anywhere near the church and my alarm bells were going off. Riding deep into mountain terrain on little used tracks in the state of Michoacan can lead to places you don't want to go. The region is a haven for narcos and there are outbreaks of violence and war with the Federales frequently, the region seeing beheadings and villagers hung from bridges. I felt uneasy about our winding deep into the mountains on an ever disappearing track and finally called it. We backtracked back out to the main road, losing a couple of hours in the process of our little detour.
Back on the main road, we followed it for miles until it turned to gravel and we saw some hand-painted signs for "San Juan Parangaricutiro", the remnants of the buried village. Eventually we reached the valley floor, with long stretches of black volcanic sand and the requisite wallowing on the loaded bikes. Kim went down a couple of times on the 1200, and if my legs hadn't been so long for dabbing, I'd have bitten sand a couple or three times myself. GS’s are notoriously bad in sand or mud. Eventually the sand washes led into harder tracks through massive lava fields, piled high around us.
Volcan Paricutin
Black lava fields ahead!
Riding through the lava fields was surreal, as if being on the moon. Here and there along the road bulldozed through the porous rock fields, were shrines and memorials. The little road winding between high mounds of black lava was a very interesting experience.
To one side lay the silhouette of the volcano, and to the other the lone bell tower of the church rising from the black lava fields, incongruent and surreal.
At the turn off for the church, the sand was deep and tricky until we reached a parking area where the huts of the local indigenous folks making hand ground blue corn tortillas and food for the tourists stood. Again, Santa Semana had struck with tons of people on vacation. BTW, something I didn't know was that the "blue" corn tortillas got their color from a mold or fungus, thus the blue coloration...
It was hot and we were tired, but clambering around on the high piles of jagged lava engulfing and surrounding the church were engaging. To one end, we found the original altar which had survived. To the other end were the remains of the entry, the wall of lava having burst through the front doors and into the church, filling it.
"Knock Knock", "Who's there?", "Lava", "Lava Who?”, "I just lava how you've decorated the place!"
Kim wormed a way into a couple of rooms and the bell tower, the original spiral steps leading down into pitch darkness.
As you can see, they teach 'em the “Gringo Finger” early...
We spent quite a while at the ruins, a remarkable place and worth the effort despite the heat. If you are ever in the region it's worth the work to get there.
As the day waned, we struggled the bikes out of the sand in the parking area and back onto the sandy road, heading for the village of Anguhuan. The road quickly turned into 4 miles of deep, black volcanic sand and after an hour we'd only made a couple of miles, the soft stuff being a foot deep or more much of the way. After burning clutches and sweat-filled boots, we finally made some red dirt and rocks as the road led up into the hills. The rough and rocky road was far preferable to the sand, and eventually we made blacktop as the sun sank low. It was a race back to Uruapan to try and get some cool air through our hot riding gear.
We were starving when we made the hotel, a taco place across the street satisfying our ravenous stomachs. It had been a long, hard day, but the ruins were worth the trouble.
