Agave plants, heated, sweated for three days, in a near vacuum, in plastic bags. He opened a bag. It looked like the center of a pile of rotting leaves. He broke off a piece. It just shredded in his hands. "¡Toma!" He wanted me to try it. I cautiously bit into the brown, unattractive vegetable, which looked like a piece of stringy 4-day-old celery. It was sweeter than sugar cane, a real treat.

I talked my friend John into flying into Ixtapa to break up my solo adventure and bribed him with the promise of sun and sand. Into the bargain went Zihuatanejo, the real joy, five miles south of the pristine and tranquil, but soulless, resort town of Ixtapa.

John likes Mexican resorts. "I just want to kickback," he said.

"How can you kick-back when you've never kicked-forward?" I said.

My preference is for Colonial Mexico, it's rich architecture, the sense of history as you walk down a cobblestone street, the marvels that surprise the traveler, it's diversity, fruit trees and cactus in the same fields, and the feeling of stepping back in time.

I gave up the sun and the beach with my second skin cancer, but for a friend's company, I was willing to bend.

John, after 3 days on the beach, responded to my "kicked-forward" needling, and said, "Let's go to Taxco." It's the silver capital of Mexico, and it didn't look too far on the map.

We added up the miles from Ixtapa to Taxco on the AAA map, 267 miles. "That's not so bad," I said, "and we can make a side trip to Patzcuaro."

Next morning, we got an early start. It was still dark at 7 a.m. We each had a banana for breakfast. I told John, "I think we'll miss some traffic if we leave early. Then we can grab a bite on the road."

We filled up at the Pemex station and asked directions. The map was a little unclear as to just how far north we'd drive before we would catch Highway 134. It might be 5 or 20 kilometers and I didn't want to miss the turnoff. Roads are generally good but poorly marked in Mexico.

As the station attendant topped off the tank, I asked, "How far to the highway for Taxco?"

He pointed south and said something about Acapulco. My Spanish is not perfect.

"We want to go to Taxco, Altamirano, Iguala," I named the towns along our route.

"Oh, you want to go to Altamirano." Now he pointed north. "Five minutes. Turn at the Pemex station." Mexican directions are often given in time not miles.

"We want to go to Taxco for the silver, " I said. "Altamirano is on the way."

The attendant, a big guy, maybe about 45, said, "You can go to Taxco by Acapulco."

I wondered if he owned a car. On the map that route was a much longer drive.

"We want the shortest road," I said.

"Well, Altamirano is the shortest." Then he added, "Es un poco feo." It's a little ugly.

I told John, "I guess the scenery won't be great."

Off we went, turned right at the next Pemex and true to premonition, we didn't see the Highway 134 sign until we made the turn. It was still dark as we drove east, into the mountains, into the cool forest and onto the worst road I've ever encountered in Mexico.

Un poco feo turned out to mean, a marathon bad highway, 132 miles of neglected road to Altamirano. The highway was 1/3 paved, 1/3 onced paved, 1/3 potholes revealing a gravel base, and 10% extra shale road rocks sitting on top, washed down from the mountains by the rains.

The Grand Marquis rocked and humped. A front wheel would dive into a pothole and the rear would buck. Average speed: less than 30 mph. I'd twist the steering wheel to miss a rock on the left and hit one on the right. This was a road to put calluses on tires. But I just love the Grand Marquis. It's a two-wheel drive Hummer. It never quits.

We shared the road with dogs, burros, horses, cattle, chicken, pigs and at least 2 iguanas.

We followed route 134 for about 2 hours and covered just over 40 miles. We hadn't seen a car coming or going. Huts built of light materials and modest homes of concrete blocks were dabbled here and there along our route.

The road followed the topography. Turns and curves, twists, ups, downs, and mostly forested.

It was now daylight. We were wondering just what folk did in this mountain forest when we came to a good-sized village. Four men were standing in the roadway talking. A couple of big trucks were parked just off the road. There was a "Refrescos" (soft drinks) sign.

The men were big and burly. They didn't move as I drove up. I rolled down my window and asked, "Where can we get coffee?"

Without answering me, one man, a large guy, hollered across the street. Then he turned to me and said, "She'll make you coffee."

The restaurant was simple, a pine floor, the color of dirt, eight poles supported a thatched roof, lower half walled and in the corner, a wood fire stove.

The gal was happy to wait on us. I felt special. A Grand Marquis with California plates just never came this way before.

There were six tables, a TV playing a children's program, "Mexican Sesame Street" or "Barney". The restaurant was windowless, or all windows, open to the breeze with comfortable white plastic chairs emblazoned with the Corona Beer logo.

Our waitress boiled water over the fire and brought us the hot water in a cup, a jar of Nescafe Instant and a soupspoon for a measure. She was sweet, pleasant, kind and cordial. She asked us where we were from.

John told her Turlock, "Central California," trying to make it clear. I merely said, "Near San Francisco." Everyone seems to know San Francisco.

I asked, "What do the men do?" "Madera," she said. The men were loggers. We were in a pine forest. I didn't ask if they were legal or illegal poachers. The Monarch butterflies feed in the pine forests of Mexico and are endangered by deforestation. It's a major problem.

We drank our coffee and got back to the task of trying to miss potholes. It was slow going but a beautiful route. Due to the mountains altitude and tropical latitude, Mexico's vegetation changes rapidly and mixes plant species. Pines and cactus, purple flowering Jacaranda trees, red Bougainvilleas indicating a home or subsistence farming. It's all here, close together, just around the bend or over the next crest. Bio-diversity is the mantra.

We weren't out of the forest and were still climbing higher when we saw the first Mescal sign. It was a sign with an arrow. Simple advertising. We saw another Mescal sign and could see a still or some apparatus under a bridge.

"I guess it's legal, no one's trying to hide it." John said. And then at the next crest, there was a stand offering Mescal. It was the front porch, the veranda of the home and distillery of Adolfo Carreo, 74. He was tall, with salt and pepper hair, a mustache, stubble beard and delightful.

His wife was silent. She smiled and let him talk. He had three grades of Mescal. Fifty, sixty and eighty pesos for half liter bottles, He sold Mescal in recycled plastic water bottles. He insisted we taste.

Family pictures were thumb tacked to the unfinished wood wall, high school diplomas and a daughter's picture in a Navy uniform stood out.

We were sampling the Mescal. I was surprised by the sweetness. One was yellow in color. Adolfo said, "It's chicken flavored." And I still don't know if he meant if truly was chicken flavored or that somehow this Mescal was yellow in color and he enjoyed pulling my leg.

I remarked about the sweetness. Adolfo took us in back where the process began. Agave plants, heated, sweated for three days, in a near vacuum, in plastic bags. He opened a bag. It looked like the center of a pile of rotting leaves. He broke off a piece. It just shredded in his hands. "¡Toma!" He wanted me to try it. I cautiously bit into the brown, unattractive vegetable, which looked like a piece of stringy 4-day-old celery. It was sweeter than sugar cane, a real treat for the sweet toothed.

"First it's sweated, then it's fermented," Adolfo explained the process.

I asked, "How many children do you have?" He held up both hands, "Count." "Nine," I said. "No, no ten. Mira (look)." One finger was malformed and hid behind another. At any rate, I had guessed one less than two fistfuls.

We tried the counter samples. Then Adolfo said, "In the barrel, that's anejo (aged), muy bueno."

He got a short length of hose and siphoned out a sip for us. I said I'd take a half-liter. Adolfo, waved me off. "A full liter. Anejo. 100 pesos." Obviously a bargain.

We crested the mountain. Agave plants growing from sheer cliffs came into view. Pines gave way to cactus and a variety of deciduous trees. Looking into a valley, we spotted a field of something; we presumed corn. The road improved and we arrived in Altamirano at 2 p.m. It was our halfway point. We had gone 132 miles in a little over 6 hours.

We kept a eye out for Iguala our next town as we drove through Altamirano. At the circle at the edge of town, we saw the sign, but we hadn't eaten.

"Maybe we should turn around and get a bite to eat," I said. John said, "Keep going. Let's see if we find a roadside restaurant."

Like magic, like Mexico, in less than a kilometer, we spotted Los Pericos Restaurant

We had found a restaurant decorated in rich, bright Mexican colors, red and blue tablecloths, decorative tropical birds, both on the walls and hanging from above, a mirror hung on the wall with a carved frame, tropical scene, also brightly painted. There were bone white chairs, a red tile ceiling, the underside of the tile roof, and outdoors, flowers entangled and defined the restaurant perimeter.

We asked for a beer and guacamole to start. John ordered chicken tacos, beans and rice for the main course. Juana, our hostess could cook and presented a plate with an artistic flair.

Juana asked, "Where did you come from?" We said California. "No, which road," she meant.

"Highway 134 from Ixtapa."

"That's a very bad road," she said.

"We've renamed it the Mescal Highway," I said.

"Ya, Mescal, marihuana and bandidos. Tourists are held up on that road. Two, an Egyptian couple, they were murdered. It was sad." Juana gave us the short history.

I asked Juana if she had ever been to the U.S.

"I went bracero, illegal. I worked in Georgia, always in the kitchen."

"When?" I asked.

I was interested and she seemed ready to tell us about her experience.

"In 1999. We crossed at Matamoros. But through the desert, 15 hours walking. It was horrible."

"Did you have a coyote?"

"SÍ, there were 9 of us."

"How much did you have to pay?"

"1000 dollars each."

I said, "$9000 for a trip across the border? Cash? Did you pay before or when you arrived?"

"Only on arrival at a safe house."

"Each one carried $1000 cash?" I said.

"No, the money is arranged at the safe house. If we don't arrive the coyote doesn't get paid and our money is with the family."

Juana worked only 9 months in the U.S. It was hardly long enough to recoup her investment. Georgia lost a fine cook.

"How much did you make?"

"The best was $9 an hour. But I didn't like it."

Juana was a very cordial lady. She was just giving me the facts. She wasn't complaining.

"It's a different life, different customs," she said.

It was an adventure. She opened her restaurant Los Pericos (The Parakeets) four years ago.

John snapped my photo next to the decorative mirror. Then we got back into the Grand Marquis and found the road improved.

I was starting to make some time when we crested a hill and pow, a colossal, Mount Rushmore sized head jumped into view. I was as startled as if the air bag had slapped me in the face. I had to stop.

It was another Mexican marvel. A 50-foot tall stone head that made the 12-ton Veracruz Olmec Rey Head seem like a minor accomplishment.

John crossed the highway and stood in front of the giant. He looked like a whisker on the chin of Lazaro Cardenas, Mexico's president who nationalized oil.

This story is from my Forty Days in Mexico.
The previous story in the series is A Surprise Behind the Curtain.
The next story in the series is Puebla.