Why I Keep Coming Back to Mexico

A postcard about trust, adventure, and letting life surprise you

A lot of people have asked me:

Why Mexico? Why here, why now—especially for my first real season living in a van?

(A sunset selfie while topping off Excalibur, a 5 pitch route high above the village of Potrero Chico, Mexico)

The answer isn’t some grand adventure tale. It’s simpler than that.

I’ve always loved Mexican culture—the language, the food, the generosity of the people. I’d been here before, including to the same regions I returned to this winter. There’s something comforting about that kind of familiarity when you’re shaking up the rest of your life.

I moved into my van in October and quickly realized that winter destinations for van travel dwindle fast—unless you’re into snow sports, which I’m not. So Mexico, with its warmth (literal and emotional), held strong appeal. I left San Francisco just after Thanksgiving, heading southeast with a loose plan, multiple stops—eventually landing in El Potrero Chico near Monterrey.

(Roughly my route from SF to Potrero Chico, Hidalgo Mexico)

People often assume I came because it’s cheaper. Honestly? Not really. Van life in the U.S. can be equally low-cost, especially if you’re off-grid. In some ways, Mexico is more expensive—diesel prices and some groceries, for example, were higher than in much of the U.S.

But the real value here?
It wasn’t financial.
It was human.
And maybe more than anything, it was about learning to trust again—in people, in the road, and in the idea that not everything needs to be figured out in advance.

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The Magic of Small-Town Mexico

I didn’t come seeking cities. I was craving quiet. I love San Francisco—but it’s a place of abundance. Too many things to do. Too many tabs open. Too much scheduled. I wanted the opposite: to climb, work, read, and live simply.

Small-town Mexico delivered.

Here, people make eye contact. They remember your name. They wave when you’re chasing after your dog, who’s about to leap into a muddy puddle. They offer help before you even know you need it. After a while, I stopped locking my van when stepping away. I felt totally safe.

Small-town Mexico is cute and sometimes weird—but weird in the best way. One day, a street vendor brought tamales de frijol con queso to our camp kitchen. We traded him a bowl of vegan chili. Another day, someone casually asked if they could borrow my dog to mate with theirs.

The local kids would sit in the dust and watch climbers attempt their projects, yelling out encouragement like tiny coaches. Over time, you get to know people—the taquero who dreams of sending his son to college in the States. The señora who sells gorditas and handmade trinkets at the park entrance. The guy at the hardware store who now asks about my parents.

There’s an intimacy to these places you can’t rush—and can’t schedule either.

(Settled and cozy in my camp at the village El Salto, high up in the Sierra Madres)

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A New Lens, Through My Parents

One of the most unexpected parts of the trip was showing my parents around.

They flew in for a multi-week visit, and together we explored colonial towns, mercados indígenas, scenic routes, and stayed in eco-cabins and roadside hotels. It wasn’t always smooth—but seeing the country through their eyes was one of the most grounding experiences I’ve had in years.

My parents marveled at the same things I’d long stopped noticing: the politeness of strangers, the quiet bliss of a town plaza were families gather at dusk.

What really struck them?
How safe it all felt.

Granted, we stayed away from the well-known trouble spots—but we also ventured far from tourist hubs, took backroads, got lost looking for waterfalls. And through it all, we were met with kindness.

There was definitely some risk involved. They flew halfway across the world from India to travel in a country they didn’t know much about, where vegetarian food is… not exactly celebrated, and they couldn’t speak a lick of Spanish—not even to order a juice. And yet, they trusted their adult son, who now lives in a van, to be their tour guide for three whole weeks. If that’s not an act of love (or blind faith?), I don’t know what is.

But maybe that’s the point. We left space for life to surprise us. And it did.

(A long and windy drive brought us to the town of Xilitla, and Edward James’ Surrealist Garden)

Re-Falling in Love With Rock Climbing

I also came to see if I could rekindle the stoke—to try hard again. Not to prove something, but to rediscover joy in the movement, the obsession, the rhythm.

What I didn’t expect was how much I’d fall back in love with the community.

There’s something special about the bonds forged through these odd, high-maintenance outdoor sports. I met and climbed with dozens of new people—complete strangers I literally trusted with my life. We traded belays at the crag, cooked dinner together at the camp kitchen, shared gear, stories, and stoke.

I used to think trust came from knowing what to expect. But more often, it comes from just showing up—and staying.

(Mid-day break while out for another day of climbing somewhere in Mexico)

This isn’t a guidebook recap. I won’t tell you which routes to do. But I will say this: climbing here wasn’t just about the rock. It’s about who you become while living close to it—and who you let into your orbit.I also came to see if I could rekindle the stoke—to try hard again. Not in some prove-myself kind of way, but to rediscover joy in the movement, the obsession, the rhythm.

(Hiking out to the Las Animas wall for an afternoon of climbing. A rare heavy rain year in this high desert meant we would cool off later in fresh water streams)

The Kindness of Strangers

If I had to distill this season into a single takeaway, it wouldn’t be the climbing or the van life. It would be this:

Mexico is a country defined by generosity.

Not the performative kind—but the everyday kind. The kind that shows up when your coins don’t fit the parking meter and someone quietly pays for you. The kind that appears when a stranger hands you an ice-cold pulque on a 95-degree day and won’t accept a peso. The kind that gives you space to mess up—and trusts you anyway.

It’s a generosity that doesn’t make headlines. In fact, the Mexico I experienced—gentle, warm, welcoming—is rarely what gets shown in Western media. And those distortions only grow louder in places far away, like India, where my parents understandably had their reservations. What we found instead was connection. Curiosity. Kindness that expected nothing in return.

One day, I accidentally backed into someone’s front porch outside Santiago. I ruptured their water pipe. Water gushed like a geyser. I also cracked a planter. I was horrified.

The woman inside, Rosie, came out. She made sure I was okay. Then, without anger, she gave me a list of plumbing parts and simply said, “Go to the hardware store. Come back.” She didn’t ask for money. She didn’t threaten. She trusted.

And I came back. We fixed the faucet together. We laughed. She sent me on my way with a smile.

That moment will stay with me longer than any route I climbed.

Final Thoughts

So, I came to Mexico looking for sun and stone. I found both.
But I also found time. Stillness. And a kind of everyday humanity that reminded me why I keep coming back.

So this isn’t a postcard.

It’s a quiet kind of thank-you.
To the woman who trusted me to fix her broken faucet.
To the man who paid my parking meter without a word.
To the friends I made on the limestone walls—who caught my falls and shared their ice-cream.

These moments don’t show up in guidebooks. But they’re why I’ll keep coming back.

Mexico, hasta pronto.

Warmly,

Kush