Michael and I arrived in Tampico on Friday evening, October 29, and didn’t leave there until Saturday, November 27. Tampico is a fairly typical Mexican city – a mid-sized Gulf seaport, a little neglected since its oil boom days of the early twentieth century, far from the Gringo Trail – and that appealed to us. It seemed a good place to work on learning the language and culture of Mexico. We were given a place to roll out our sleeping bags in the church hall of the Iglesia Presbiteriana Jesucristo El Buen Pastor (Jesus Christ the Good Shepherd).

By this point in our journey, we had established a modus operandi when arriving in a new town. Michael saw himself as an apostle spreading the Good Word, following the instructions of Matthew 10: “Go to the lost sheep of the house of Israel. And as ye go, preach, saying, The kingdom of heaven is at hand…. Provide neither gold, nor silver, nor brass in your purses…. And into whatsoever town ye shall enter, enquire who in it is worthy; and there abide till ye go thence.” We would seek out a person, preferably a religious one, knowing they might be more receptive to our request. The conversation would go like this:

–Hello, can I help you?

–Yes, we have a need.

–What is it, my sons?

–We have a need for a place to sleep.

That was it. If they met our need, we’d gratefully accept the offer. If not, we’d “shake the dust off our feet.” I was the mostly silent sidekick in these transactions, occasionally called upon to translate because my Spanish was better. Michael was pushing me to become more than that, but I tried to explain that I couldn’t fake a calling. However, I wasn’t hearing anything in his message that troubled me. It was ecumenical and inclusive; if he was trying to convert anyone, it was to a life of love and spiritual wholeness. He and I were doing yoga, reading and discussing the Bible one day and books such as Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha the next.

We let the church congregation know we desired to stay in Tampico for a while. Michael wanted to work on his Spanish so he could share his message. We made our home in the church hall that week, buying pastries from a nearby panadería for breakfast, going to the mercado to choose from the wonderful array of fruit for our lunch – piñas, plátanos, naranjas, papayas, mangos, guayabas – each negotiation providing practice in Español. We’d find a bench in a plaza and eat our lunch while enjoying the lively parade of people and the wind rustling the stately palms overhead.

Manuel, a law student and the older son of the church pastor, took a friendly interest, offering us impromptu lecciones en Español. When he had free time, he’d introduce the city to us. We rowed a flat-bottomed boat across Laguna del Chairel and hung out with some of his friends, including Daniel, the son of the family who would eventually host us. Another day, we went down to the docks, boarded a Russian merchant ship, and were given a tour by an English-speaking officer, afterward drinking Brazilian beers with the sailors. On Todos los Santos (All Saints’ Day, or Halloween), we went to Playa Miramar and met a family who welcomed us to their three-room home, where we drank Carta Blancas and conversed about life in Mexico. The next day, el Día de los Muertos (All Souls’ Day), we visited a cemetery packed with people who had brought baskets full of flowers and food so they could tend and then picnic on the graves of their ancestors. It’s a major fiesta in Mexico.

Manuel also helped arrange a meeting with the Rodriguez family, who invited us to stay with them. Our second week in Tampico, we moved into a spare room in their home, becoming the center of attention, falling into the gentle teasing, the endless chistes, of a loving family – Mamá and her young adult children, Daniel, Estella, Chelly, and Estella’s niño, Sofía. The absence of Papá (Señor Juan) and Estella’s husband, Diego – working on Juan’s shrimper off the coast of Campeche – opened up room for us at the dinner table. Manuel stopped by on Saturday to take us across the Río Pánuco to a village in the state of Veracruz, where pigs roamed free in the grass-covered roads. We visited the home of his friend Olga, enjoying a simple feast of pescado, frijoles, arroz, tortillas. One night we happened upon a wedding reception and were invited to join the festivities and dance with the girls. We would accompany Estella and Chelly to the mercado to help with the shopping, learning where to find the best deals. Mamá taught me Sofía’s favorite lullaby, “Mi Muchachita de Corazón,” guaranteed to put her to sleep. And she showed us how to make empanadas: patting the balls of masa into thick tortillas, folding meat or cheese or vegetables into them, and frying them. Simple and delicious.  

Sometimes life in Tampico got pretty intense, sleeping in a room adjoining a busy road, struggling to communicate in a second language, witnessing a tragic drowning in the river. The smells of the oil refineries wafting from Ciudad Madero, the bright red viscera and flesh of the carnicerías in the mercado, the noise and diesel exhaust of autobuses. The incessant discord of the street – taxis cursing, traffic police whistles screeching, bus drivers crossing themselves at each intersection as their brakes hissed, same as the men did from the plaza benches, “Ssssst, senorita!” A block from where we lived, a niña was struck and killed by a car. The next day, while we were on the roof fixing the TV antenna, we saw people gathering at the family’s house for the funeral.

When Señor Juan returned from Campeche, brimming with stories of shrimping in the Gulf, we knew it was soon time to move on. Michael and I took on a plumbing project to fix leaks in the two bathrooms; the experience of hunting around town for parts expanded our vocabulary and language skills. Our last Sunday with La Familia Rodriguez, we prepared a North American feast of spaghetti with a hearty marinara sauce and french fries, onion rings, a tossed salad, and a fruit salad for dessert. We had all grown close in the almost three weeks we lived there. 

Saturday at dawn we took leave of our Tampico friends. The train moved west through the Río Pánuco valley. It was still overcast when we reached the foothills of the Sierra Madre Oriental, but as we ascended, the clouds that seemed to hover over Tampico the last few weeks vanished and a bright sun lit up the beautifully rugged mountains, green with tropical foliage. The train followed the switchback tracks, past swift-moving rivers and waterfalls, sheer rock on one side of the tracks and a steep drop on the other. By the time we reached the Mexican Altiplano, the flora had converted to dry shrubland. As we approached the pueblo of Cerritos, the destination we arbitrarily chose that morning, we took note of a church in ruins on a hilltop and decided to camp there. It was a beautiful warm night, but I slept fitfully, and by morning had a high fever and a severe case of diarrhea. 

Besides getting to know the language and customs of Mexico, we were getting to know its microbial array. As cautious as one might want to be, the Verganza de Moctezuma was unavoidable. Michael had already had a serious case in Tampico, and I, a much lighter one. He proved a great help in nursing me back to health. I slept that day under as many blankets as possible, trying to sweat the fever out of me. Nearby residents visited our camp and returned with chamomile and peppermint, and Michael made teas to calm my stomach. Mexicans are well aware of stomach ailments. The herbalist stalls in the markets were fascinating; nearly everything addressed gut health. 

That night the weather turned cold, windy, and rainy. We moved our camp closer to one of the partially standing walls of the church and set up our tent. By morning the fever broke and my appetite began to return. The clouds scraped the hills surrounding Cerritos, y hace mucho frío, but I felt the gratitude and relief that follows an illness. Michael and I talked about the different places we were in – his commitment to sharing the message, my doubt or indifference. He wanted to be my teacher; I was interested in learning from him, but I didn’t want to be his student. Nothing was resolved, but expressing our feelings eased some of the tensions simmering beneath the surface. That day, we talked of seeking warmer climes, picking Morelia, the capital of Michoacán, about 350 kilometers due south, as our next destination.

Glossary

piñas, plátanos, naranjas, guayabas - The pineapples were especially delicious - smaller, sweeter, more acidic than those found in U.S. supermarkets. Bananas, oranges, guavas were all tasty because locally grown. I wrote a poem that began: “Teresa / the little flower of Tampico / tends a fruit stand in the market.”

pescado - Fish in the sea are pesca; fish on the plate are pescado.

Verganza - How to avoid Montezuma’s Revenge for Cortes’s cruelty? Stay away from tap water. Never stray far from the high-end Cancun hotels. It is the inevitable price paid to truly experience Mexico.

y hace mucho frío - One of our ongoing incentives was to reach warm weather. Even that far south, the Central Mexican Plateau could get cold at night.