Green is the color of our road

The road is blue-gray, but green is the color of our road.

Seemingly endless spears of broadleaf green grass loosely hang over the road's edge, flowing into an abyss of green landscape- where green palm trees are overshadowed by even bigger collections of green topped Manilkara trees that produce pounds of chicle.

Swinging my head forward I see the brown sun-baked legs of Pat, passing in constant circular motions, starkly contrasting the green-scape that abounds. Few things contrast in such a green place: the occasional black lettered sign announcing a nearing village; the all too frequent roadside memorial that morbidly marks a tragic end of life, reminding us of our own mortality, keeping us keen to our surroundings; the gray-white ox that swings its head as we approach, idly drinking water from a rain-filled watering hole, its black tassel like tail swats off enemy pests that crudely bite at its skin; the wedding-white Heron that stands picturesquely near water's edge, moving only slightly before spreading wide its incredible wingspan and flying evenly into the green forest-scape.

Proudly flying the Mexican flag

A light-green soupy marsh sits in idyllic tranquility, a motionless green mass of soup. And then, an almost black, green faced bull frog emerges with vigor, unsettling the tranquil green soup. Its head emerges as quickly as we pass. Nearby a milk chocolate brown river splits through our green paradise, if only for a moment, dirtying our chlorophyllic filled surroundings, with a cold rush of recent rain-mud mix, that muddies the green as it passes.

Rows of Papaya, Mango, Melon, Banana, Guava, Tomatillo, and Guanábana occasionally cover the landscape, ranging from small to large parcels of land. Symmetrical rows of fruit-bearing trees drop dozens of heavy, sweet filled shells of foreign-looking fruit. The Noni fruit that hang like pear-shaped vesicles from their mother tree, waiting for gravity to do its work.

Feeding our green paradise, like clockwork, small, then large drops of rain start to fall usually in the mid-afternoon. The rain first moistens our hot skin, then progressivley becomes more violent, the rain sometimes sharply cutting into our soft flesh, for miles, minutes, sometimes hours. Our green paradise is flushed clean. Pools of water accumulate on the roadside. The waterlogged soil like an over-soaked sponge, quickly overflows and creates previously uncharted waterways, where spores and seeds no doubt move miles from origin. Like nature's superhighway, the tiny lifeforms spread for miles in every water soaked direction. We stop to drink something other than rainwater, taking a moment to observe the quaggy terrain.

Our Green Road: Oaxaca, Mexico

We approach yet another green shaded hill top. We pedal up, and cruise down, our green colored landscape at its purest design. Green evergreens hang from steep rock-encrusted cliff sides like flying buttresses from Gothic Cathedrals. Bending as if properly designed, the tree limbs arch their way into lower levels of green abyss.

Leaving Guerrero, Entering Oaxaca

This is our green colored road. Our green paradise. If only occasionally marred by diesel filled, almost iron clad, mechanical contraptions: the speeding bus with tinted passenger windows, a speeding torrent of multi-colored sedans, and a cautious motorist that slows to our speed, following our movements for minutes too long. Plumes of dark hydrocarbon smoke trail behind vehicles both large and small.

Watch Out-Rockslide!

We ride through the green. It gives us our deep clean breaths. Until we approach gut twisting, throat-gagging smells, that are otherworldly, that don't belong.

Day 70

After passing Oregon, the entire coastline of California, the Mexican States: Baja Norte, Baja Sur, Sinaloa, Nayarit, Jalisco, Colima, Michoacan, Guerrero, Oaxaca, and now finally Chiapas we are only one long day's worth of riding away from passing into our final challenge, Guatemala.

Our last day of Mexico is upon us, 145 kilometers of Chiapas to surpass, before reaching the chaotic, loud, and busy border town of Tapachula. We look forward to the green highlands of northern Guatemala. Tremendous mountain climbs, with green as-far-as-the-eye-can-see views await; 8,000 foot summits in less than ten mile climbs. We near Zacapa, we near the clinic, we near our goal.

A black-lettered sign loudly announces an approaching village; Poblado Proximo the sign announces. I slow my swift pedal blows, if only to relish for a few more moments, our sweet-green-paradise.

Greg