Central and North America (5).

Camping was only possible in the villages. The verger gave us permission to put up the tent, near the church. For the greater part the church was in ruins, but was still in use, the verger was busy to take Christ from the cross and was balancing at the top of a ladder. "Be careful", his assistant shouted, "last year someone tumbled down with Him." In procession the decorated statue was brought past our tent into the village.; It was Easter. A little boy killed a snake with a well aimed stone, shot from his catapult. And in the evening the bats flew against our tent and Henny's hair. The village danced the whole night in the church square and at dawn they left the party and we got on our bikes again.
We stood by a river, where a family was busy with the washing, dad washed his old truck, mum did the laundry and the children - quite a lot - played in the water. We had just come down from the mountains with beautiful pines and a nice cool air and we were sweating again at a lower level. As he did every day now, Henny was busy keeping the bicycles in working condition, endlessly repairing spare tyres, replacing broken spokes. In the mountains we had found a kind of black berries, and I had made jam of it. The family saw us being busy and came to us.
The usual list of questions followed:
1 - Where do you come from ?
2 - Where do you go to ?
3 - Aren't you getting tired of cycling ?
4 - Don't you have children ?
"No" we said "we don't have them". Then their own offspring was sent away and dad bent over to Henny and whispered "How do you do that". We had to give them thew facts of life. This was, however, not the first time in these regions. Here the state clearly fell short in a great need. These large families, not everybody had fun in them.
Just before Mexico-city we cycled, at an altitude of 3000 m, along the snowy beauty of Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuat, two Indian lovers, petrified into a mountain according to a legend, but going down to Mexico-City this beautiful face changed into a haze and thick black shrouds, which envelope this million-town the whole year round. We had already been introduced in the busy Mexican roads, buses which did not give way a hand width, tore past us unimaginably fast, and we, scared to death, dashed into the bank. Our fear to cycle in the city appeared to be unfounded, already 20 km before, on the central reserve of the 8-lane road, was a "bicycle path": for cyclists and donkeys only!
And of course, punctures again, these tubes of Mexican origin got punctures automatically, and our patches and glue, Simson from the Netherlands, were also worthless: it came loose of itself, which you could endlessly "enjoy" the punctures. We saw a tap and wanted to repair the punctures. "Is there water in the tap" Henny asked. "Yes" said the child and then, when he saw that I wanted to go there with a can : "Sometimes".
In the city we called a tyre factory, Uniroyal. "Drop by" they said, and we were friendly welcomed by the Mexican manager.
"I don't think that we have your size", he said "go and have a look in the store". The storekeeper took us to a great heap in the corner, we looked: 28x1.5/1.3x8, "Now this one should fit" we told him and we got 4 extra. They all but one fitted.
In the mountains where cacti rise up with many arms, like sky high candle sticks, we all of a sudden heard a loud bang. The one tyre, which every time shot from the rim and which we had pushed around the rim was gaping again at an unguarded moment, the tube shot out of it with a bang and gone was the last good non-Mexican tube. Moreover these tyres, also the "hecho in Mexico", surpassed the Continental, which until then, with us, held the record.