The road signs outside Mocorito carry the town’s name and a QR code. I guess you stop in the middle of the road and scan it for tourist information?
So that’s what I did, and I didn’t get run over.
I’d left El Fuerte early, having talked the owner of the Punto Madero Hotel & Plaza into a noon check-in. I was on a moto, and riding in this heat isn’t fun. Every time I’ve asked for this favor on this trip, they've granted it. Kindness and understanding are common here.
Sinaloa is “Level 4, Do Not Travel.” The cartel war (Chapitos vs. Mayos) is still going strong here, and the hottest part of it is where I was riding today.
While planning this trip, I’d had some anxiety about the dangers. I put it aside.
Main roads and daylight only, and nobody knows what to do with a 70-year-old guy on a weird orange moto.
I rode through thousands of hectares of irrigated farmland in a region dominated by corn, with beans and chickpeas mixed in. Huge grain elevators and oversized machinery made the scale obvious. This wasn’t just farming; it was agribusiness. I imagined I was in Iowa.
Near town, the terrain turned to green rolling hills. The entrance is the usual Pueblo Mágico arch, only grander, a long tree-lined street into town.
I arrived around noon, and the scorching had begun. Managing heat on a moto takes a few tactics. First, your jacket and pants have to let air through. That works while you’re moving. While sitting in a long line at a construction stop, you quickly roast and feel dazed.
A cooling towel around your neck helps until it dries out. The ads say it stays wet for hours. I got 30 minutes. Pouring water inside the front and back of the jacket provides evaporative cooling when moving, but when you stop, it turns into a steam bath.
And when all that water gets down to your butt, it just sits there, soaked up by your padded riding shorts. As it warms up, you feel like you’re sitting on a warm pool of piss. The hotel receptionist knows none of this.
Punto Madero Hotel & Plaza has an open courtyard with a large tree in the center, a common configuration in Mexico. Less common were the hundreds of sparrows beginning their pre-roost chirpfest. Mayhem. Then silence.
One sad detail: my moto had to spend the night locked up across the street.
The Jesuits planted a mission here in the early 1590s. The name is Cahita, tied to the Macorito people who were here first. It’s a Pueblo Mágico, but I’m not sure why. Let’s call it sleepy charm.
Mocorito claims chilorio: shredded pork seasoned with chile pasilla, garlic, oregano, and lard. I confess I didn’t eat any in the town that says it invented the stuff. What I did find was a produce place with a friendly, happy owner, who sold me on his miniature white beans and dinky black-eyed peas. They rode on with me.
The nickname, La Atenas de Sinaloa, comes from the town’s old literary clubs and gatherings, not its architecture.
Its monument is the Plazuela de los Tres Grandes: three bronze statues. Agustina Ramírez lost twelve of her thirteen sons in the French Intervention. Eustaquio Buelna was a historian. General Rafael Buelna was a revolutionary nicknamed El Granito de Oro, the Little Grain of Gold.
There’s your Athens of Sinaloa.
That evening, a band was setting up in centro at Plaza Miguel Hidalgo, where the kiosk and palms are the heart of town. I got lucky: Fridays are “Viernes de Plaza,” when the plaza fills with food stands and live norteño music.
For roughly three centuries, this plaza was the churchyard and cemetery. Now it was a dance scene. The singer insisted on being photographed and gave me several poses.
People of all ages packed the plaza, dancing with purpose. If their men weren’t into dancing, the women danced with each other and their kids. A special section was reserved for the old folks.
A volleyball game ran next to the rocking kiosk, and the teenagers playing it were talented.
There wasn’t a beer in the plaza. The only beer was across the street, where seven cowboys drank it while sitting on their black-and-brown horses. I never figured out their role in the evening. It could be as simple as, “Juan, let’s saddle up and ride into town to watch everyone dance.” Maybe they were too shy to dance.
Just another Friday night in Mocorito.
Mocorito annual rainfall: 619 mm (24 inches)
Altitude: about 90 meters (295 feet) in town
Cumulative distance ridden: 2,860 kilometers
More Photos
Day 15 Álamos Sonora to El Fuerte, Sinaloa
I roll in on what people in Mexico think is a huge bike. In fact, it’s a loaded-down 390cc tiddler with fat tires. I have side luggage boxes and a big tailbag strapped where a passenger would usually sit. I come in hot, sweaty, electrified hair with a slightly maddened look that could be mistaken for severe discomfort bordering on heat stroke, always pr…