Things calmed down a bit in this last week, with only one inexplicable coincidence and the usual few unplanned joys.

Teo of Mazatlán had recommended a tyre place in Guadalajara, as they stocked the Motoz brand the DR was running. It was a bit of a drag getting there before 3pm, to allow time to fetch and fit the new rubber. The first excitement was self induced by finding that the freeway was perhaps a bit longer than expected with no exits until the end. Going twenty miles into reserve fuel was uncomfortable, shall we say.

There was much agriculture in the area, with acres of headaches.

The second excitement was getting across Guadalajara itself. Navigating plus staying alive amongst my fellow Mexican road users in a busy city requires full attention. With ancient eyes, it's hard to pick out directions on the GPS, especially getting the exit lanes right; more than once I had to do a U turn. You may have heard the swearing. 

Turns out that the tyre place doesn't have Motoz after all, but Mitas. Oh well, they're black and round and keep the shiny bits off the deck.

A young chap Carlos and I had an interesting long conversation while his colleagues did the mucky work. He was into Formula 1, liked the Albert Park layout, will visit Monaco one day, knew about Lotus 7s and so on. I got a bit worried when his mate couldn't undo the front axle - he didn't know the clamp needed loosening - but all is well, neither wheel has fallen off so far.

Localities Ajijic and Chapala are unusual in that signage is either subtitled or solely in English. It's easy to understand why there are many US expats living in them, with their charming lakeside location under attractive hills.

Ajijic's central plaza had a lovely relaxed vibe in the late evening. Kids played, expats on the next table practiced their Spanish on each other while a dance group did their thing.

(Kirsten has already told me off for doing food snaps like the cool kids)

To make up for boring riding the day before, I found some squiggly lines on the map in the mountains.  Hooray. Looking up possible overnight stays on the interwebs led to "but you're gunna die! There are narcos everywhere!". 

eg. Zamora - fourth most deadly city in the world, on murder per capita

Mind you, Zacatecas is seventh on that same list, where I'd stayed the week before. 

All the same it bothered me, so in a pretty crappy mood I went straight to Morelia via a freeway instead. At least the thunderstorm kept me awake.

Morelia is another of the "Pueblos Mágicos" cities, so noted for their magical qualities - beauty, history, legends et cetera. The great part is that once inside the historic Centro, there's plenty of beauty without the ugliness of the surrounding city. For example, the aqueduct from 1730 is almost 2km long with 253 arches. It appears on 50 peso notes.

Naturally the faithful have laid a few bricks as well.

Just down the road, Pátzcuaro had unexpected delights. 

Lake Pátzcuaro is fringed with small villages mostly populated by indigenous Purépecha people. Overlooking Tzintzuntzan (what a great name!) are the ruins of a pre Spanish ceremonial centre made of semi circular pyramids. The terracing and rubble on top hints that they would have been impressively tall in their day.

They reckon Mexico has almost 130 million people.  I dunno. In Tzintzuntzan a bloke walked past me, smiling. He turned around and told me "You were at my restaurant in Sombrerete. You had mole (a traditonal sauce) on your burritos". Well, I think that's what he said. Sure enough, it was the owner where I'd met Francisco (see last chapter). He was wearing the same pink shirt as when he'd fed me some nine days before, 660km away. Incredible. 

Every hotel was full in Pátzcuaro, but it took until later for me to realise why. In the interim I put the tent up out the back of a hotel. Wandering back into the centre, the crowds got bigger and bigger. A band was playing on stage, thousands of folk listening, some dancing. 

I noticed small paper balloons being lit and set aloft.  Aha! It was the annual "Cantoya Fest", named in honour of Juan de la Cantolla y Rico, a Mexican aeronautical pioneer of the 1800s. What a spectacle. The timing was so lucky.

Vendors sold flat pack paper ballons to the public. These were then lit and once lighter than air, released.

It's hard to describe the scene. As the evening progressed, the crowd was so thick that families snaked along, hand in hand, so they didn't lose Grandma or little Juan. Mixed up with them, other families were lighting up their new toys. Some caught fire before lift off, some set trees alight, some plummeted back into the crowd in flames. It was beautiful mayhem. 

A shopkeeper used a long pole to work one inferno away from his eaves.

More formal creations were impressive. 

Walking back to the tent was surreal. Hundreds of orange glows floated overhead in the same direction. Wonder if I'll find a melted nylon blob to sleep in? Even with "camp" being almost 2km from liftoff, a few spent balloons were close by the tent come the new day.

(Sorry - even harder to capture than big landscapes)

I jogged back to the main plaza in the morning. A poster listed events for the day. A friendly fellow explained the locations. He then suggested a coffee. Being in jogging mode, I hadn't any money on hand, but this didn't bother Hector. We had breakfast and pleasant conversation in two languages. It was lovely. So many locals bid him good morning that a friend joked he was the mayor.

The local lookout Mirador El Estribo is a must for any visitor. Most drive or ride to the carpark but the walk was great. Mixed together were motorcyclists enjoying a beer (and a chunk of machismo), families and couples. The lake and town views were ace.

From the carpark steep concrete stairs take the energetic to even better views.

Another day, another dump of rain. This time I got caught out with riding gear, camping clobber and newly washed clothes all drenched before I could get back in time. I sheltered under a home's roofline along with a chap who must have been affected by all the moisture. He relieved himself against the house.

Another feature is Janitzio, the lake's biggest island. It has no vehicles and is populated solely by Purépecha. The most interesting part for me was the statue of Jóse Maria Morelos, a revolutionary hero. Like the Statue of Liberty, a spiral staircase on the inside lets the visitor go 40m up into the fist. 

The inner walls have painted murals telling the hero's tale. 

For me, the heavily commercial aspects of the island detracted from it's charms: hawkers of knick knacks lined all laneways.  Many of the offerings were in shrink wrapped plastic, many were generic pieces of crap from elsewhere. Perhaps there were local artesan creations, but if so they were a little drowned out.

The ever present litter also uglified an otherwise attractive place. This isn't in any way unique to Janitzio - Mexico just has a different approach to rubbish than what I'm used to. 

Last night a big bloke with a big laugh rocked up to the same hotel on a BMW R1200GS. Fernando lives in Cancun and was on his way home after visiting his mum in Puerta Vallarta  - a total 5400km trip to say hello. We went out for tacos together.

I sure paid for today's tardy start, getting hit with a thunderstorm. Sheez it was heavy, including hail. It's not worth cracking on in these conditions so instead I took shelter under a pedestrian bridge. To pass the time, I tapped out this drivel.

Roll on Mexico City.