The past week has been of one of much reflection, prayer, decisions, and movement. Two days into my bike ride out of the city of Oaxaca and towards the coast, I began to climb the coastal mountain range that separates the city from the coast. It was on one of these climbs, up a very steep mountain, on a brutally hot day, that my will finally gave out. Dropping off the bike, I began to walk up the peak, only to find myself looking for a ride. I found a cheap ride in a collective van the rest of the 165km or so the ocean pretty easily. That afternoon, I dug my toes into the sand and jumped into the refreshing yet warm waters of the Pacific Ocean at Puerto Escondido. These actions and the scenery felt all too familiar, and I felt that I was at home. That night, I watched the sun set over the powerful barreling waves that hit the beach at Zicatela as I made camp on the sandy shore. In the morning, after a hot coffee with real grain using my new filter, watching the surf, I packed up and decided to move on, trying to escape the touristy stretch of beach I had found myself in. I made it barely five miles before returning.
I had lost the will to continue on my bike. Only several days short of a three month long bike ride, I was tired of living on the move. I was physically exhausted and mentally drained. I spent the day back in Puerto Escondido looking for any sign that would point me south to continue my journey, or back north on a return trip to the States. The only thing that hit me that morning was a mango, which fell from a tree and almost landed on my head. The pulpy fruit is now in season, and picking it up off the ground and enjoyed its lush meat. That afternoon, I was walking/riding toward a southern point on the beach far removed from the bars, restaurants, stores, and clubs, when someone called out to me, mistaking me for an Argentinian. Had it not been for the fact that I had been staying with an Argentinian girl the past two weeks in Oaxaca, I might not have looked. But, as circumstances have been such and the stars have been aligned for me in this way, I was intrigued by the sudden shout of 'Argentino' from the street below, and turned to converse with a man from Argentina carrying a surfboard under his arm and a guitar on his back. Adrian, maybe in his younger thirties and originally from Argentina himself, had been living in Puerto Escondido for three years. Having seen me early that morning, he was intrigued to find out what I was doing with such a heavy load on my bicycle. After telling him of my current situation, he told of some friends he had where I might be able to camp for the night and relax; a place where I could think some more about my current situation and the decisions with which I was faced.
Adrian's friends ended up being an older couple originally from the Bay Area, that had made their home in Seattle and spend their winters in Pto. Escondido, at the little house they had built on their daughter and son-in-law's property. They received me warmly into their small, open-air home. Under the palm thatch roof of their kitchen/dining room/living room, I ate the delicious meals they made for me, drank fresh homemade lime and pineapple juice, cooled off from the hot sun under the shade, relaxed on an Ecuadorean hammock, and talked with these new friends. That night, Adrian and a friend returned, and we all played guitar around the table. The couple, Peter and Grace, offered me a spot on the dirt on the side of the house to set up my camp for the night. It was a hot and eventful night, having to deal with an ant infestation into my food bag just before dawn. Although it was not fun cleaning this up in the pre dawn hours, it did wake me up in time for a sunrise hike up the hill behind their house to a spot where I could look over the entire beach community. It was on this walk that I made a tough decision.
I decided that Part 1 of my journey, the bike ride, was over, but that this was not going to end my trip entirely. I would still continue down to Guatemala, but now by bus, in order to continue my education of the social conflicts that exist there and see if there is a way for me to help. This extra night that my angels in Pto. Escondido provided for me gave me the neccessary time to clarify in my mind the distinction between the end of part 1 and the beginning of part 2. Many times, the mind tells the body that it can not go on, when in reality the body can proceed steadily through difficult times. Thus for me, this was the tough part: to acknowledge that I was not giving into a weak mindset, but that I was trully spiritually and physically exhausted of my bike ride. Also, it was difficult to determine that I did not need to prove anything to myself, of to anyone else, by continuing the ride to Guatemala. My decision had been made.
The next morning, Peter took me out with his spare surfboard to the point for an enjoyable several hours in the surf. Although I caught none and got thrashed by the quickly closing and powerful waves, I lavished the time spent sitting on the board on the blue sea, watching the schools of sardines swim beneath me and nip all around me at the air, with the seagulls and pelicans diving in droves from every direction to get at them. It was a beautiful ocean ecosystem I was glad to be a part of for the moment. After a wonderful lunch prepared by Grace, and some more reflection and prayer with them, I was prepared to make my leave from this gorgeous paradise, and bought my bus ticket to San Cristobal de las Casas, a small colonial town in the southern Mexican state of Chiapas. I spent a day here, enjoying a traditional bull fight (very gory) and an indigenous symphonic performance in the central plaza that night. The next morning I boarded the bus for the border.
At the border I had to get my passport stamped for my exit from Mexico, and then had to bike 4km into Guatemala to the town of Mesilla, where I had to visit the Guatemalan customs. They gave me some trouble because my passport had not been stamped upon my exit from the country during my last visit. This is because I had left from an airport, and they do not stamp your passport. After checking in their computer system though, and after about thirty minutes of slow Central American bureaucracy, they finally let me through. After changing my pesos and some dollars into Quetzals, I caught a four hour bus ride through the northwestern mountains of Guatemala to Cuatro Caminos. From there, I rode the last 15km or so to the city of Queztaltenango on my bicycle.
It it here, in the second largest city of Guatemala, that I plan to set up camp for a little while, trying to learn as much as I can about the city and the country. ..
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Semana Santa Descanso
In two days it will have been two weeks since I arrived in Oaxaca. For me this is hard to believe. During the past three months, two weeks has seemed like such a long time - I usually cover many hundreds of miles and pass through many different towns and scenery. But this last two weeks I have stayed put for the most part, getting to know a city and its residents, and time has flown by.
My very dear friend Leigh Ann came to visit. I was excited at the opportunity to meet her at the airport in D.F. (Mexico City). This meant for me a six hour bus ride, where I sat comfortably inside an air conditioned bus periodically moving my stare from the movies (in Spanish) to the scenery outside - the same scenery I had biked over and through less than a week before. It was quite an experience to cover the same ground by bus; it was nice to be off my bike, but at the same time I felt very far removed from the hills, the trees, the dirt, the sun, and the wind, and I realized how much more connected I feel to the land pedaling over it.
According to the most recent definition agreed upon my state and federal governments, the Mexico City metropolitan area population is 21.2 million people, making it the largest metropolitan area in the Americas and the third largest agglomeration in the world (Wikipedia). I say this only to emphasize my anxiety upon approaching this city - although I grew up only twenty minutes from San Francisco, I am not a city boy. I do much better in dirt than I do on pavement, and especially after almost three months on a bike, I was a little nervous. BUT, I found the metro system of Mexico City quite safe and easy to use. Paying just three pesos to hop on the metro, you can transfer to any of six or seven different lines that take you quickly to a wide variety of stops all over the city. I spent most of my time in D.F. near the zocalo, the central plaza dominated on the north by a the city's cathedral, and on the east by the Palacio Nacional. The entire city, especially the center, sits on the old Aztec capitol of Tenochtitlan, and there are signs of these great ruins all over, peaking their ancient heads out of the subway, in the subway, and in digs on the city's cement floor. The great Aztec temple, in which the most well known Aztec king, Monteczuma, presided, sits just kiddy corner to the back of the cathedral, peaking its destroyed stone head out from excavted cement ground. You can barely get a feel for what it once was though, peering out over a balcony that looks into the ground, and compared to the cathedral which sits just next to it, looks like an abandoned warehouse. The cathedral, on the other hand, sits tall and proud. Inside it is beautiful, almost too hard to describe, so I will let the few pictures I was able to take try to do that. The Palacio Nacional is a work of art in itself, with most of the walls of the second floor painted in murals by the famous Mexican artist Diego Rivera.
I spent the night at the airport, waiting for Leigh Ann's flight to arrive, and had a run in with an old lady trying to steal my sandals while I was trying to sleep (see Comment 2 on the last blog for a more complete story). When the plane finally did land the next day, I was overwhelmed with excitement at seeing a friendly face and having a week to explore Mexico with her. We started our trip with another visit through Tlaxcala. This time, I explored the cathedral on top of the hill. This cathedral boasts a baptismal font where the first four elders of Tlaxcala were baptized. Also inside is the pulpit from which the Christian Bible was first read in the New World - a significant little lecturn, considering how much of North and South America now practice the Christian faith; and yet it is sad in a way to think about how the soldiers and merchants of the conquest of the americas used this good deed of spreading their faith as an rationalization for the destruction and demolition of great indigenous cultures and cities. We revisited Puebla, where performers of a capoeira exhibition in the Casa de Cultura got us dancing on the stage in front of an audience, and we got a good look at the inside of the oldest library in the americas.
We spent the final five days of Leigh Ann's trip in Oaxaca, staying comfortably in the house of my Argintinean host, Caro. Just three miles from the zocalo in the center of Oaxaca, we made the walk or took the bus almost every day into the busy centro, which was alive with the spirit of Semana Santa. People from all over Mexico and the world had come to this medium sized city to enjoy its cobblestone streets, open air markets, and many cultural festivities. During the night, after the sun dropped, the air was still very warm and the gentle breezes created the perfect atmosphere to visit small cafes, bars, and restaurants and walk the streets, where at seemingly every other corner there was some type of performance, whether it be a silent procession in memory of the Passion of Jesus Christ, a symphonic ensemble playing classical music, traditional Mexican dancers, marriachi, or some other type of Latin music in vivo (live). The city has a small town atmosphere, and is not nearly as overwhelming as Mexico City, or even Puebla for that matter.
One day we hopped on a tour bus (the most touristy thing I have ever done in my life) which took us to five different places. The first was Tule, the widest tree supposedly in the world (I've seen bigger). Second, we visited Teotitlan, a Zapotec town, where we sat in on a workshop showing how wool from the sheep was turned into thread, and all the different natural methods of dying the thread, which is then turned into beautiful tapestries. There are only two other places in the americas as well known for their tapestries as the Zapotecas of Teotitlan are: they are the Navajos in the U.S., and another small community west of Mexico City. Afterwards, we visited Mitla, an archeological ruin site, Hierve el Agua, where exists petrified cascades (I don't know how water can petrify - I think its just minerals in the water left behind to form rock structures falling from a cliff in the form of a waterfall), and a Mezcal factory, where we got to taste from at least 15 different type of mezcals and mezcal creams, and see the process of how its made. They say in Oaxaca that drinking tequila is for sissies...
The weekend finished up with a peaceful Easter Sunday, consisting of mass in Santo Domingo, a beautifully decorated church built in the seventeenth century, followed by fine dining at an Italian restaurant on a terrace overlooking the city. On Monday we painted a tarp purchased in town to create a Oaxacan scene, and hung it up on the rooftop terrace of our hosts house to create some shade in which she can relax after we leave. It was a gift to our kind, generous, and fun host, who has been a friend to me now for almost two weeks. Leigh Ann took off yesterday, and I returned to Oaxaca alone again. It was a sad day, and I feel that finally my break is over and it is time to move on.
So, wiping the small layer of dust off my steed, finely tuning several spokes, oiling my chain, and packing my things once again, I pack my house firmly onto the back of my bike, and prepare to hit the pavement on two wheels. I have about a three day ride I believe to Puerto Escondido and the coast of Oaxaca, of which I have heard repeatedly has some of the most amazing beaches in all of Mexico. I have calculated about 1000 km left of biking before I hit the border of Guatemala. That is about the same from San Francisco to San Diego.
So here begins the end....
My very dear friend Leigh Ann came to visit. I was excited at the opportunity to meet her at the airport in D.F. (Mexico City). This meant for me a six hour bus ride, where I sat comfortably inside an air conditioned bus periodically moving my stare from the movies (in Spanish) to the scenery outside - the same scenery I had biked over and through less than a week before. It was quite an experience to cover the same ground by bus; it was nice to be off my bike, but at the same time I felt very far removed from the hills, the trees, the dirt, the sun, and the wind, and I realized how much more connected I feel to the land pedaling over it.
According to the most recent definition agreed upon my state and federal governments, the Mexico City metropolitan area population is 21.2 million people, making it the largest metropolitan area in the Americas and the third largest agglomeration in the world (Wikipedia). I say this only to emphasize my anxiety upon approaching this city - although I grew up only twenty minutes from San Francisco, I am not a city boy. I do much better in dirt than I do on pavement, and especially after almost three months on a bike, I was a little nervous. BUT, I found the metro system of Mexico City quite safe and easy to use. Paying just three pesos to hop on the metro, you can transfer to any of six or seven different lines that take you quickly to a wide variety of stops all over the city. I spent most of my time in D.F. near the zocalo, the central plaza dominated on the north by a the city's cathedral, and on the east by the Palacio Nacional. The entire city, especially the center, sits on the old Aztec capitol of Tenochtitlan, and there are signs of these great ruins all over, peaking their ancient heads out of the subway, in the subway, and in digs on the city's cement floor. The great Aztec temple, in which the most well known Aztec king, Monteczuma, presided, sits just kiddy corner to the back of the cathedral, peaking its destroyed stone head out from excavted cement ground. You can barely get a feel for what it once was though, peering out over a balcony that looks into the ground, and compared to the cathedral which sits just next to it, looks like an abandoned warehouse. The cathedral, on the other hand, sits tall and proud. Inside it is beautiful, almost too hard to describe, so I will let the few pictures I was able to take try to do that. The Palacio Nacional is a work of art in itself, with most of the walls of the second floor painted in murals by the famous Mexican artist Diego Rivera.
I spent the night at the airport, waiting for Leigh Ann's flight to arrive, and had a run in with an old lady trying to steal my sandals while I was trying to sleep (see Comment 2 on the last blog for a more complete story). When the plane finally did land the next day, I was overwhelmed with excitement at seeing a friendly face and having a week to explore Mexico with her. We started our trip with another visit through Tlaxcala. This time, I explored the cathedral on top of the hill. This cathedral boasts a baptismal font where the first four elders of Tlaxcala were baptized. Also inside is the pulpit from which the Christian Bible was first read in the New World - a significant little lecturn, considering how much of North and South America now practice the Christian faith; and yet it is sad in a way to think about how the soldiers and merchants of the conquest of the americas used this good deed of spreading their faith as an rationalization for the destruction and demolition of great indigenous cultures and cities. We revisited Puebla, where performers of a capoeira exhibition in the Casa de Cultura got us dancing on the stage in front of an audience, and we got a good look at the inside of the oldest library in the americas.
We spent the final five days of Leigh Ann's trip in Oaxaca, staying comfortably in the house of my Argintinean host, Caro. Just three miles from the zocalo in the center of Oaxaca, we made the walk or took the bus almost every day into the busy centro, which was alive with the spirit of Semana Santa. People from all over Mexico and the world had come to this medium sized city to enjoy its cobblestone streets, open air markets, and many cultural festivities. During the night, after the sun dropped, the air was still very warm and the gentle breezes created the perfect atmosphere to visit small cafes, bars, and restaurants and walk the streets, where at seemingly every other corner there was some type of performance, whether it be a silent procession in memory of the Passion of Jesus Christ, a symphonic ensemble playing classical music, traditional Mexican dancers, marriachi, or some other type of Latin music in vivo (live). The city has a small town atmosphere, and is not nearly as overwhelming as Mexico City, or even Puebla for that matter.
One day we hopped on a tour bus (the most touristy thing I have ever done in my life) which took us to five different places. The first was Tule, the widest tree supposedly in the world (I've seen bigger). Second, we visited Teotitlan, a Zapotec town, where we sat in on a workshop showing how wool from the sheep was turned into thread, and all the different natural methods of dying the thread, which is then turned into beautiful tapestries. There are only two other places in the americas as well known for their tapestries as the Zapotecas of Teotitlan are: they are the Navajos in the U.S., and another small community west of Mexico City. Afterwards, we visited Mitla, an archeological ruin site, Hierve el Agua, where exists petrified cascades (I don't know how water can petrify - I think its just minerals in the water left behind to form rock structures falling from a cliff in the form of a waterfall), and a Mezcal factory, where we got to taste from at least 15 different type of mezcals and mezcal creams, and see the process of how its made. They say in Oaxaca that drinking tequila is for sissies...
The weekend finished up with a peaceful Easter Sunday, consisting of mass in Santo Domingo, a beautifully decorated church built in the seventeenth century, followed by fine dining at an Italian restaurant on a terrace overlooking the city. On Monday we painted a tarp purchased in town to create a Oaxacan scene, and hung it up on the rooftop terrace of our hosts house to create some shade in which she can relax after we leave. It was a gift to our kind, generous, and fun host, who has been a friend to me now for almost two weeks. Leigh Ann took off yesterday, and I returned to Oaxaca alone again. It was a sad day, and I feel that finally my break is over and it is time to move on.
So, wiping the small layer of dust off my steed, finely tuning several spokes, oiling my chain, and packing my things once again, I pack my house firmly onto the back of my bike, and prepare to hit the pavement on two wheels. I have about a three day ride I believe to Puerto Escondido and the coast of Oaxaca, of which I have heard repeatedly has some of the most amazing beaches in all of Mexico. I have calculated about 1000 km left of biking before I hit the border of Guatemala. That is about the same from San Francisco to San Diego.
So here begins the end....
Saturday, March 27, 2010
History, Frisbee, Mud Huts
A Little History
Hernan Cortez, the Spanish born merchant, landed in Veracruz, in what is now the Gulf of Mexico, in 1519, and soon proceded to conquer a land and an empire. He marched, with his small army, even smaller calvary, and few weapons, through the jungles, over the mountains, west, towards the Aztec capitol of Tenochtitlan, in the central valley of Mexico, on top of which now lies the federal Mexican capital of Mexico City. He used cunning and trickery to make friends with foes of the aztecs taking advantage of the discontent among many of tribes of the Aztec empire, and buidling his army which would take down the empire out of these newly forged allies. The Tlaxcalan population provided countless bodies to exhaust in the front lines of this war. Part of the pact between the Tlaxacala people and Cortez was that the Spaniards could not build a city there, in Tlaxcala. This little pact is reflected today in the two separate cities of Puebla and Tlaxcala. The Spaniards marched just a bit south to build their well thought out, symmetrical city with luxurious buidlings, wide streets, and magnificent feats of architecture in the city of Puebla, just 30 km south of Tlaxcala. Tlaxcala was eventually influenced by the Franciscan monks who came to the city of Tlaxcala and left their mark in the very colonial and beautiful church next to the zocalo. Yet the city remains, quieter, with smaller street, and more humble buildings. Tlaxcala boasts one of Cortez's houses (now the government building next to the zocalo), and the first zocalo built in the New World. Puebla boasts the oldest library on the new continents, as well as many other magnificent works of architecture. Both Puebla and Tlaxcala lie just east of Mexico City, up and over a mountain pass over Cortez marched, that runs in between two snow capped moutain peaks. Both are worth a visit. It is a incredible feeling to stand in such historically significant places.
Exercise in Puebla
My host in Puebla was on an ultimate frisbee team. Finally, after some two thousand something miles, my orange frisbee that I have lugged with me from San Francisco was put to use. Also put to use were muscles that I figured would be in great condition but turns out weren't. The morning after ultimate frisbee practice, I could barely walk, let alone run, but I could sure as hell bike. I guess I am not in as great physical condition as I thought. Maybe what gets in conition condition on a ride like this is your will power...
Don't believe the hype
You would think that someone that spends as much time as he does navigating the dips and bumps, curves and straightaways, of all the major highways in Mexico would know a bit more about what the road does. From Puebla to Oaxaca, I took the federal toll road, Highway 135, which crosses a little over 200 km of hot and dry desert, valley, and forest-covered-mountains before dropping into the small valley in which Oaxaca lies. I knew I was going to have to climb at least the first day, at least thats what they told me... ´Pura subida hasta km 110´ they said. ´Pure uphill until km 110.´ I guess the uphills they knew quite well. And sure enough, I sweat and ached my way up many miles of pure sierra. After km 110 though, I was ensured that it was mas o menos pura bajada - pure downhill. And that is the kicker. Once you get an idea in your head of the road that follows, expectations grow inside you. It is these expectations that ruin your mood and make you feel like the world is against you when you encounter something contrary to what you expected. And yet I had to ask.
So as you can imagine, the road after km 110 was not pure downhill. Sure, it did offer some respite from the pure uphill that I had climbed until that point, but after every short descent there seemed to be an even bigger ascent. I spent the night, after 60 miles of this repitition, on a shepard´s ranch. I helped him corral his herd of sheep into their den and he let me set up camp wherever I pleased. The next morning, when I reached the second toll booth and asked them how the road was ahead, I expected the answer to be pure downhill. At least this man knew what he was talking about and did not lie when he told me I would be climbing the next 40 km. And yet, 40 km later, when I was expecting pure downhill the next 60 km to Oaxaca, you can imagine my mood when I came upon moutain after mountain. Not only this, but the downhills I did receive were ruined by a strong headwind that took all the fun out of descending. 30 km outside of Oaxaca, I was at a breaking point. My legs had no more push in them and I was out of water. I stopped at a small comedor (eatery) on the side of the mountain and downed a couple of drinks. There were a couple truckers there finishing up their lunches. I told them how some other truckers had informed me wrongly of the terrain up to that point. They laughed when I told them I had been told it would be pure downhill after km 110. I asked them how the road was from there to Oaxaca. They ensured me that from there to Oaxaca it was pure descent. I guess they had the last laugh. I struggled, huffed, and yelled to the sky that last 30 km and finally entered Oaxaca after a long, hot 70 mile day.
And now, a poem, a prayer, an offering entitled:
Lord, Thank You for the Mountains and the Wind
I will drink this beer, and drink it well, as I curse those mountains all to hell!
For what should have been an easy day, drained all my sweat 'neath the sun's ray.
As well the wind that cunning whore, can burn in flames for evermore...
For pushing against me as I drop, descent becomes a free ride lost,
and when I need it most the breeze, to cool me off she dissapears.
So falling quickly to my knees, I yell to the God that made these things.
Yet somewhere down inside my soul, stirs a peaceful feeling amidst the noise.
I'm humbled by forces I can´t control, and am simply happy I can enjoy
that I exist amidst all these things, the mighty mountains, the towering trees
the air that moves and shakes the leaves - Lord, thank you for the hills and breeze.
A Tamazcal in Oaxaca
I am a very blessed person. Last night, I was fortunate enough to participate in a very old indigenous cermemony under the leadership of a guide and twelve other companions called a Tamazcal. Tourists pay big bucks to experience this. I am lucky enough to be staying with a new friend who participates in this event periodically and so can enjoy it under the auspices of a friendly gathering and not a money making venture. Briefly, it consists of two hours of sitting, chanting, praying, and singing inside a very short and small dome shaped hut constructed of cane and mud. Throughout the time, volcanic rock that has been basking in a blazing bonfire outside the hut is brought into the hut, two by two, and placed in the center. Water is then thrown over the rocks, creating an intense steam bath. The whole process is very rejuvenating. Your body goes through the same thing it would go through during two hours of sitting in the sauna at you local gym. BUT, participating in this ancient ceremony, with a very spiritual aspect, with thirteen other strangers, a guide, in Mexico, on an almost full moon night, and chanting old inidengous songs, is something else.
Hernan Cortez, the Spanish born merchant, landed in Veracruz, in what is now the Gulf of Mexico, in 1519, and soon proceded to conquer a land and an empire. He marched, with his small army, even smaller calvary, and few weapons, through the jungles, over the mountains, west, towards the Aztec capitol of Tenochtitlan, in the central valley of Mexico, on top of which now lies the federal Mexican capital of Mexico City. He used cunning and trickery to make friends with foes of the aztecs taking advantage of the discontent among many of tribes of the Aztec empire, and buidling his army which would take down the empire out of these newly forged allies. The Tlaxcalan population provided countless bodies to exhaust in the front lines of this war. Part of the pact between the Tlaxacala people and Cortez was that the Spaniards could not build a city there, in Tlaxcala. This little pact is reflected today in the two separate cities of Puebla and Tlaxcala. The Spaniards marched just a bit south to build their well thought out, symmetrical city with luxurious buidlings, wide streets, and magnificent feats of architecture in the city of Puebla, just 30 km south of Tlaxcala. Tlaxcala was eventually influenced by the Franciscan monks who came to the city of Tlaxcala and left their mark in the very colonial and beautiful church next to the zocalo. Yet the city remains, quieter, with smaller street, and more humble buildings. Tlaxcala boasts one of Cortez's houses (now the government building next to the zocalo), and the first zocalo built in the New World. Puebla boasts the oldest library on the new continents, as well as many other magnificent works of architecture. Both Puebla and Tlaxcala lie just east of Mexico City, up and over a mountain pass over Cortez marched, that runs in between two snow capped moutain peaks. Both are worth a visit. It is a incredible feeling to stand in such historically significant places.
Exercise in Puebla
My host in Puebla was on an ultimate frisbee team. Finally, after some two thousand something miles, my orange frisbee that I have lugged with me from San Francisco was put to use. Also put to use were muscles that I figured would be in great condition but turns out weren't. The morning after ultimate frisbee practice, I could barely walk, let alone run, but I could sure as hell bike. I guess I am not in as great physical condition as I thought. Maybe what gets in conition condition on a ride like this is your will power...
Don't believe the hype
You would think that someone that spends as much time as he does navigating the dips and bumps, curves and straightaways, of all the major highways in Mexico would know a bit more about what the road does. From Puebla to Oaxaca, I took the federal toll road, Highway 135, which crosses a little over 200 km of hot and dry desert, valley, and forest-covered-mountains before dropping into the small valley in which Oaxaca lies. I knew I was going to have to climb at least the first day, at least thats what they told me... ´Pura subida hasta km 110´ they said. ´Pure uphill until km 110.´ I guess the uphills they knew quite well. And sure enough, I sweat and ached my way up many miles of pure sierra. After km 110 though, I was ensured that it was mas o menos pura bajada - pure downhill. And that is the kicker. Once you get an idea in your head of the road that follows, expectations grow inside you. It is these expectations that ruin your mood and make you feel like the world is against you when you encounter something contrary to what you expected. And yet I had to ask.
So as you can imagine, the road after km 110 was not pure downhill. Sure, it did offer some respite from the pure uphill that I had climbed until that point, but after every short descent there seemed to be an even bigger ascent. I spent the night, after 60 miles of this repitition, on a shepard´s ranch. I helped him corral his herd of sheep into their den and he let me set up camp wherever I pleased. The next morning, when I reached the second toll booth and asked them how the road was ahead, I expected the answer to be pure downhill. At least this man knew what he was talking about and did not lie when he told me I would be climbing the next 40 km. And yet, 40 km later, when I was expecting pure downhill the next 60 km to Oaxaca, you can imagine my mood when I came upon moutain after mountain. Not only this, but the downhills I did receive were ruined by a strong headwind that took all the fun out of descending. 30 km outside of Oaxaca, I was at a breaking point. My legs had no more push in them and I was out of water. I stopped at a small comedor (eatery) on the side of the mountain and downed a couple of drinks. There were a couple truckers there finishing up their lunches. I told them how some other truckers had informed me wrongly of the terrain up to that point. They laughed when I told them I had been told it would be pure downhill after km 110. I asked them how the road was from there to Oaxaca. They ensured me that from there to Oaxaca it was pure descent. I guess they had the last laugh. I struggled, huffed, and yelled to the sky that last 30 km and finally entered Oaxaca after a long, hot 70 mile day.
And now, a poem, a prayer, an offering entitled:
Lord, Thank You for the Mountains and the Wind
I will drink this beer, and drink it well, as I curse those mountains all to hell!
For what should have been an easy day, drained all my sweat 'neath the sun's ray.
As well the wind that cunning whore, can burn in flames for evermore...
For pushing against me as I drop, descent becomes a free ride lost,
and when I need it most the breeze, to cool me off she dissapears.
So falling quickly to my knees, I yell to the God that made these things.
Yet somewhere down inside my soul, stirs a peaceful feeling amidst the noise.
I'm humbled by forces I can´t control, and am simply happy I can enjoy
that I exist amidst all these things, the mighty mountains, the towering trees
the air that moves and shakes the leaves - Lord, thank you for the hills and breeze.
A Tamazcal in Oaxaca
I am a very blessed person. Last night, I was fortunate enough to participate in a very old indigenous cermemony under the leadership of a guide and twelve other companions called a Tamazcal. Tourists pay big bucks to experience this. I am lucky enough to be staying with a new friend who participates in this event periodically and so can enjoy it under the auspices of a friendly gathering and not a money making venture. Briefly, it consists of two hours of sitting, chanting, praying, and singing inside a very short and small dome shaped hut constructed of cane and mud. Throughout the time, volcanic rock that has been basking in a blazing bonfire outside the hut is brought into the hut, two by two, and placed in the center. Water is then thrown over the rocks, creating an intense steam bath. The whole process is very rejuvenating. Your body goes through the same thing it would go through during two hours of sitting in the sauna at you local gym. BUT, participating in this ancient ceremony, with a very spiritual aspect, with thirteen other strangers, a guide, in Mexico, on an almost full moon night, and chanting old inidengous songs, is something else.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Another Christopher is Born
Finding a campsite.
Leaving the city of Tamazunchale, the sun was already going down behind the mountains to the west. I climbed up and out of the valley where the city lay in the foreground of what would be a beautiful painting of a San Luis Potosi sunset. Not wanting to continue riding into the night, I began looking for places to camp. The steep slopes of the hills surrounding me were covered with small indigenous villages and orange and coffee groves; not the best land for backcountry camping. I resorted to other options. I first past a small elementary school with ample playground space that would have been well put to use. The men inside one of the offices were unfortunately not the school administrators and could not grant me permission to stay the night on the ground. They did inform me that the administrators lived in the next town conitinuing down the road and that I could ask them there. Knowing I would have no chance of finding these school officials on a Saturday night and not wanting to waste any more time on this lost cause, I continued down the road to the next group of houses scattered on either side of the road. Two men looking about my age hovered in front of their house washing their car. I don't think they understood that I wanted to put my tent up in their backyard, and offered me a side road, that led off in a trail of mud and dust to another village somewhere down the hill. The point being to get off of the road, and not onto another, I continued down the main road, thanking them, but ignoring their proposition. I wondered down one side road where some teenagers had just finished loading a truck full of oranges at a dead end. They said I could camp there, by the big pile that had been left behind. After they left I sized up the spot - the slightly sloped road ended in a pile of oranges, which unfortunately were all laying on the only flat ground in sight. I road back to the main road and kept going. One small house down a little slope with plenty of flat space outside looked promising, but when I approached, the woman that was there grabbed her baby and ran somewhere inside her abode. After persisting a bit, I realized she was probably scared of me. Thinking she might soon come out with a gun or machete, I turned and quickly pedaled back up to the highway. Next stop was a little store with a dirt patch in front where a small family stood enjoying the cool night air. When I approached with my plea, the man, drunk out of his mind, mumbled something and pointed down the road. Down the road I went, until I finally found a small church with a sober looking group gathered in front. They kindly said I could set up camp on the grass patches on either side of the church. As I did, busily setting up my tent and cooking my noodles, groups of locals saddled by to stop and stare. I tried to make conversation, but they seemed a bit more interested in just looking. Later on, I wondered back up to the little store where the drunk man had been and shared a few beers with several old campesinos. One seventy year old man rode up on his bicycle after a hard day in the field. His hands were bloody from working in the maize fields. He bought me a couple beers and after I asked him to how to say cheers in his native language, nahuatl, the conversation turned into a mess of spanish and nahuatl none of which I could understand. I went to bed that night, camped on the side of the small church in the small hilly village of Dos Patos, amazed at the generosity of this man, who surely had little, but was willing to share the little he did have with a complete stranger.
Monteczuma's bitter revenge.
Several days later, after some brutal climbing into the Sierras, I found myself in the town of Tlanchinol. Fog crept over the mountains from the east and covered the town in a chilly blanket. Having biked 15 miles in about three hours that day, I was exhausted and had planned on stopping here for a rest. A church stood on the top of the hill, overlooking the small town, with a big park in front of it. While napping in the park earlier that day, I saw the priest walk by and asked him if it would be ok to camp in the park. He invited into a side building that housed several priests and church helpers. He invited me into a dusty classroom full of pews. I pushed two of them together and laid down some blankets to create something resembling a bed and passed out. Some time that night, I began to have fits of pain began to pass through my body, concentrated in my stomach. The next morning, when the priest knocked on my door to call for breakfast, I could barely move let alone respond. I spent the next two days in that little catechism classroom, lying on my makeshift bed, sleeping heavily and lost in round after round of lucid dreams. In between the grogginess, I got to know the priest, Padre Javier, the cook, Lucy, her teenage daughter, Brenda, and her five year old son, Eric. We talked about as much as we could, although my mind hurt from a mixture of dehydration. Lucy told me about her desire to legally come to the U.S. so she could make the money needed to support her daughter in university and her need for a U.S. sponsor to make that happen. Padre Javier told me about the financial support given by the Mexican government to the indigenous men to help jumpstart their small plots of land, and the money that these men squander on their alcoholic habits (of which I had witnessed a few nights earlier). A few mornings later, the fog mysteriously cleared, and thinking that I was well recovered, I decided it was time to head out of Tlanchinol. I made one last stop in the kitchen to say goodbye to the kind family that had taken care of me during my stay at the parish. It was then that Lucy informed me that an indigenous couple that had arrived at the church the night before with their five day old newborn babe, and with whom I shared dinner with and a few simple words, had baptized their baby while I was sleeping. They decided to name their baby Christopher. With this news, I took my leave from Tlanchinol, a little bit shocked, very much honored. I can only hope that the saint after whom I was named will protect this little Indian boy as much as he has protected me on my journey through life. After about ten miles of riding, I realized from the grumbling in my stomach and the chills produced by the mixture of sweat and cold air were going to be no help on my road to recovery. I pulled over and stuck out a thumb, anxious to get to the next city and another bed, where I could spend another couple days relaxing, ensuring my full recovery. A man in a red truck picked me up not long after and drove me the next 100 or so kilometers through beautiful deciduous forest resembling Tennessee in the fall to Pachuca. I barely fit in a few words between this man's preaching about how all you need is to fill your heart with Jesus, which is love, and the rest of your life will come into its proper place. Just like the Beatles said, 'All you need is love.'
For now, in between finding my love and finding my way to the bathroom, I rest in a friendly couchsurfers house in the southern outskirts of Pachuca.
Leaving the city of Tamazunchale, the sun was already going down behind the mountains to the west. I climbed up and out of the valley where the city lay in the foreground of what would be a beautiful painting of a San Luis Potosi sunset. Not wanting to continue riding into the night, I began looking for places to camp. The steep slopes of the hills surrounding me were covered with small indigenous villages and orange and coffee groves; not the best land for backcountry camping. I resorted to other options. I first past a small elementary school with ample playground space that would have been well put to use. The men inside one of the offices were unfortunately not the school administrators and could not grant me permission to stay the night on the ground. They did inform me that the administrators lived in the next town conitinuing down the road and that I could ask them there. Knowing I would have no chance of finding these school officials on a Saturday night and not wanting to waste any more time on this lost cause, I continued down the road to the next group of houses scattered on either side of the road. Two men looking about my age hovered in front of their house washing their car. I don't think they understood that I wanted to put my tent up in their backyard, and offered me a side road, that led off in a trail of mud and dust to another village somewhere down the hill. The point being to get off of the road, and not onto another, I continued down the main road, thanking them, but ignoring their proposition. I wondered down one side road where some teenagers had just finished loading a truck full of oranges at a dead end. They said I could camp there, by the big pile that had been left behind. After they left I sized up the spot - the slightly sloped road ended in a pile of oranges, which unfortunately were all laying on the only flat ground in sight. I road back to the main road and kept going. One small house down a little slope with plenty of flat space outside looked promising, but when I approached, the woman that was there grabbed her baby and ran somewhere inside her abode. After persisting a bit, I realized she was probably scared of me. Thinking she might soon come out with a gun or machete, I turned and quickly pedaled back up to the highway. Next stop was a little store with a dirt patch in front where a small family stood enjoying the cool night air. When I approached with my plea, the man, drunk out of his mind, mumbled something and pointed down the road. Down the road I went, until I finally found a small church with a sober looking group gathered in front. They kindly said I could set up camp on the grass patches on either side of the church. As I did, busily setting up my tent and cooking my noodles, groups of locals saddled by to stop and stare. I tried to make conversation, but they seemed a bit more interested in just looking. Later on, I wondered back up to the little store where the drunk man had been and shared a few beers with several old campesinos. One seventy year old man rode up on his bicycle after a hard day in the field. His hands were bloody from working in the maize fields. He bought me a couple beers and after I asked him to how to say cheers in his native language, nahuatl, the conversation turned into a mess of spanish and nahuatl none of which I could understand. I went to bed that night, camped on the side of the small church in the small hilly village of Dos Patos, amazed at the generosity of this man, who surely had little, but was willing to share the little he did have with a complete stranger.
Monteczuma's bitter revenge.
Several days later, after some brutal climbing into the Sierras, I found myself in the town of Tlanchinol. Fog crept over the mountains from the east and covered the town in a chilly blanket. Having biked 15 miles in about three hours that day, I was exhausted and had planned on stopping here for a rest. A church stood on the top of the hill, overlooking the small town, with a big park in front of it. While napping in the park earlier that day, I saw the priest walk by and asked him if it would be ok to camp in the park. He invited into a side building that housed several priests and church helpers. He invited me into a dusty classroom full of pews. I pushed two of them together and laid down some blankets to create something resembling a bed and passed out. Some time that night, I began to have fits of pain began to pass through my body, concentrated in my stomach. The next morning, when the priest knocked on my door to call for breakfast, I could barely move let alone respond. I spent the next two days in that little catechism classroom, lying on my makeshift bed, sleeping heavily and lost in round after round of lucid dreams. In between the grogginess, I got to know the priest, Padre Javier, the cook, Lucy, her teenage daughter, Brenda, and her five year old son, Eric. We talked about as much as we could, although my mind hurt from a mixture of dehydration. Lucy told me about her desire to legally come to the U.S. so she could make the money needed to support her daughter in university and her need for a U.S. sponsor to make that happen. Padre Javier told me about the financial support given by the Mexican government to the indigenous men to help jumpstart their small plots of land, and the money that these men squander on their alcoholic habits (of which I had witnessed a few nights earlier). A few mornings later, the fog mysteriously cleared, and thinking that I was well recovered, I decided it was time to head out of Tlanchinol. I made one last stop in the kitchen to say goodbye to the kind family that had taken care of me during my stay at the parish. It was then that Lucy informed me that an indigenous couple that had arrived at the church the night before with their five day old newborn babe, and with whom I shared dinner with and a few simple words, had baptized their baby while I was sleeping. They decided to name their baby Christopher. With this news, I took my leave from Tlanchinol, a little bit shocked, very much honored. I can only hope that the saint after whom I was named will protect this little Indian boy as much as he has protected me on my journey through life. After about ten miles of riding, I realized from the grumbling in my stomach and the chills produced by the mixture of sweat and cold air were going to be no help on my road to recovery. I pulled over and stuck out a thumb, anxious to get to the next city and another bed, where I could spend another couple days relaxing, ensuring my full recovery. A man in a red truck picked me up not long after and drove me the next 100 or so kilometers through beautiful deciduous forest resembling Tennessee in the fall to Pachuca. I barely fit in a few words between this man's preaching about how all you need is to fill your heart with Jesus, which is love, and the rest of your life will come into its proper place. Just like the Beatles said, 'All you need is love.'
For now, in between finding my love and finding my way to the bathroom, I rest in a friendly couchsurfers house in the southern outskirts of Pachuca.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
La Ruta Huasteca
'There is a place I know, way down in Mexico, high in the old Sierra Madres. Where many outlaw banned, from across the Rio Grande, have found a haven, a holdout, a hideaway...' - The Waybacks (San Francisco bluegrass)
The words of this song echo in my head as I wind my way through the Eastern Sierra Madres, which separate the middle of Mexico from the Gulf of Mexico. Indeed, it appeared like these mountains could provide quite a safe refuge for people trying to escape the law across the border, or even within their own country. Silhouettes of mountains behind mountains cut the sky with sharp irregular peaks like a used saw. Tropical trees and plants cover these slopes, and where possible, orange trees, coffee groves, and fields of cane have left their mark on the hillsides and foothills. I have seen no sign of outlaws though. Instead, what I have seen is a simple people with indigenous roots strecthing back to 600 years Before Christ, adapting to a modern world that seems to be affecting their culture in definite but harmless ways, living in a landscape that is both astounding to see and humbling to experience. The Huasteca people live an area that covers five eastern states of Mexico. Although their dialect changes from place to place, the rest of their culture is much the same throughout the scattered pueblos that dot the hillsides. The Huasteca Potosina is the area in south eastern San Luis Potosi where these people live, although from what I can tell, it is better known for the immense amount of natural beauty clustered in a very small amount of land. This area is home to huge waterfalls, birthplaces of rivers, surrealistic castles, and deep abysses in the jungle floor. Of the many places to visit in this area, I was able to take my time off the main highway and explore some of them...
TAMASOPO. My first stop off Highway 70, which led from the city of San Luis Potosi to Ciudad Valles, on the other side of the mountains, was a small town 9 km down a mountain slope into valleys of sugar cane, where thick clouds gathered every morning to create hidden, wet jewels. I encountered some cascades just off of the main road that wound its way through the valley. Water tumbled down in several different locations into pools 5 to 8 meters deep and then stepped its way along the valley floor to continue into the river which ran through this valley. A little bit developed, but beautifully done, gardens and restaurants surrounded the pools and there were even stone diving planks and rope swings. The water was perfectly refreshing. I dove off every rock and swam in every pool I could, relishing in the rejuvenating coolness. Above from here, high in the foothills, was the Puente de Dios, where the same river's waters, emerging from caves, fell through openings in the rock walls to create deep pools where caves below created a downward current and pulled the water further down along the slopes. The Puente (or bridge) was hard to discern, as it was the part of land that I descended onto to peer onto the pools, but hardly seemed a bridge. It was at this spot, that after hearing about a cave higher up the mountain but not too far away, I decided to make the journey to see the birth of this river. Having left my sandals with my bike 700 something step up the other way, I embarked barefoot, not wanting to put on my biking shoes. Halfway up the half rock, half dirt path, I barely avoided stepping on a four foot long, one inch thick snake, that slithered away quickly into the bushes. Rethinking my thinking, I descended back to my shoes, and away from the Puente. Upon emerging from the wilderness, one of the locals reassured me that the green snakes were not venemous, but that there were four types of snakes that were. I didn't quite catch his broken Spanish to find out which four those were.
TAMUL. The next morning, I had an amazing ride through the valley. The fog soon lifted enough for me to see cane fields stretching their flowery limbs up into the dense jungle foothills. It was flat, windy, peaceful, surreal. I crossed back up and over the 70, this time going south on a road that I only realized I could due to local maps of the touristic area, printed on huge posters at keys junctures throughout the area. At the small, nothing town of Naranjito, I turned off the paved road for a 10 km trek down a dirt, rock road to the Casacadas de Tamul. Although these cascades are probably the best known of the area, they are harder to get to, and because it was the middle of the week, I was the only one on this path. I set up camp by a field of sugar cane next to a blue green river that ambled its way south east. I walked along a path downstream. Soon I saw the towering cliffside of a mountain that rose in front of a huge dropoff. The river I was following suddenly disappeared, and was replaced with the roaring sound of huge waterfall. Making my way to the side provided panoramic views of the cascades that dropped 105 meters to the river below, which had cut its way through these mountains in much the same way the Colorado River created the Grand Canyon, except to say that this canyon was not wide at all. I sat there, by myself, meditating on the side of this huge natural wonder, humbling myself before creation. That night, a few Mexican guys my age drove up and set up their tent right next to mine. Turns out I had seen them at Tamasopo, and they were doing a little tour of the area themselves, a bit more in style though. That night, we traded songs on my guitar, as we lay on a grassy patch by the river, gazing at the brilliant stars in the sky. In the morning, I returned with my new found companions down to the waterfall, and we descended some ladders to the shore of the river below. This provided new sights that were just as amazing, if not more. The morning fog was lifting. The sun was rising behind the falls. The refraction of light through the fog and water's mist created rainbows that contrasted brilliantly against the blue of the river and the green of the cliffs. Although my next destination only lay about 30 or 40 km southeast, I decided to take up my friends' offer for a ride. They were going to be visiting some archeological sites of the ancient Huasteca a bit east of Ciudad Valles, and then going to my same destination. Knowing that I was running of out cash and that I would probably not find an ATM in these remote villages, and also enjoying the conversation and human interaction they were providing, I decided to take my first car ride in Mexico. It was bitter sweet. I watched the km's fly by, and marveled in the feats of modern engineering. The archeological sites proved to be quite,...., boring. They quite possibly could have been the creation of several school children playing in the backyard. Maybe it was due to my previous experiences in Mayan ruins that belittled these sites. However old and brilliant these new sites were, it was obvious that the Huasteca people never amounted to quite the civlized empire that the Mayans of southern Mexico and Guatemala did. After the ruins, we rushed back west and then south along the 85, towards the Sotano del Golondrinos. Running out of time and light, they decided to drop me off half way up the unpaved road that led to the next natural wonder. Luckily, a couple of ranchers happened up behind us as I was beginning to load up my bike. Barely having time to put myself in the truck bed (with no tailgate), they sped off. At a certain point a few km up the road, I guess they decided they were hungry. They opened up a freshly fried chicken, a packet of fresh tortillas, a few coronas, and a tin of jalapenos and had dinner on the hood of the truck right there on the side of the road. Being the generous type that inhabit most of Mexico, they shared their dinner and refreshments with me, left their trash by their feet and loaded back into the truck. Thinking it was not the best time to lecture my drivers about the proper habits of throwing your trash away in a can and keeping the environment clean, I gathered it up in a pile, placed it on some rocks, and jumped back in the truck bed. Sometime later, the sun had set, and the truck stopped. I unloaded my things, as they said I was at the spot. A local kid, expecting a tip of course, showed me to a spot to camp, and there I camped, knowing only that I was high up in the mountains, in some sort of small town, camped a grass patch on a cliffside. I could see nor get the feeling for not much else. What I did feel was the sadness at having realized that I lost a sandal. This was not just any sandal. This was one of a pair of sandals that I had bought in Telluride the year before and had gotten signed by one of the world's great banjo players, Bela Fleck. Now, somewhere in Mexico, this sandal bumps around in the back of those rancher's truck. Surely it will end up on the side of the road, or better yet in one of the many beautiful rivers in this land.
SOTANO DE LOS GOLONDRINOS. At four thirty in the morning, I woke up (don't ask me how), and walked back down the road towards the touristy looking sign I had seen the night before. It pointed down a bunch of steps into darkness. Using my headlight, I descended down after paying my 20 peso fee (all these places have some small fees) towards the abyss that lay somewhere on this jungle cliffside. I finally arrived, and there was just enough light in the very early morning to make out the boundaries of the cliffs that dropped below into the earth. The Sotano de los Golondrinos is a hole (sotano? not quite sure of the exact translation), 55 meters wide at the top, and 512 meters down to the very bottom that suddenly and surely exists on this mountainside. Every morning, a few families of bright green parrots and a huge population of white necked swallows emerge at dawn, circling their way up the air currents that spiral out of the hole and eventually fly out into the jungle to eat their share of the insects. Every night, they descend back into hole, in much the same fashion. A yellow string of caution tape separated me from the very edge, but a local guide provided a rope, with which he tied one end around my waist and the other around a rock, which gave both him and me the security needed that I may inch towards the abyss' edge and peer over into the heart of darkness. The chill of the morning lingered in the air that day, and the swallows refused to emerge at dawn. Instead, almost four hours later, around eight thirty, finally some parrots came chattering their way out. Following them, in not quite the same herds as I was expecting, were the swallows. More silent, except for the whoosh that you felt as they flew past and over your head, they emerged in droves and flew out into the wilderness. The show was not that spectacular (bats flying out of Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico is a bit more astonishing), but the place was indescribable. I eventually tore myself off of the rocky cliffside and back up to my campsite where I packed up and started the descent down the rocky mountain path. I had to stop every few hundred meters to give my hands and arms a rest from clenching on the brakes so much to stop me from careening recklessly down the rocks and braking my bike.
XILITLA. After getting back to the 85, I continued south about 30 km, and then turned off the road once again to the make the eight mile trek straight up into another mountain side towards the small town of Xilitla. This town had a funky vibe to it. The sun of King James III (I think) of England, Eduard James made his home in this mountainside in the 1960's. Modeling his 'castle' after surrealist art, the place is a trip. I didn't visit the castle that night, instead choosing to find a funky hostel close by. The hot shower and bed proved much needed after a week tromping around the jungle. The hostel was very artsy and was run by some foreign travelers that were very nice. I slept in one of six beds that were placed inside one of the six or so teepees on the hostel premesis. In the morning I visited the castle. Sprial steps led to nowhere. Sprial steps led open balconies and rooms. Staircases zigzagged up the mountain walls to pools from a river flowing through the open air castle. These same staircases merged with jungle pathways that led up and up toward a bamboo tree house with an incredible view of the mountains to the east and the small of town of Xilitla far down below.
I could have spent several days wondering through those rooms and pools and gardens. I could have spent several weeks wading in the pools created by the Cascades of Tamasopo. I could have spent a lifetime marveling in the glory of the cascades at Tamul. Instead, I chose to return to the hostel, pack up my things, and return to the main highway heading south. What took me and hour and a half to climb up the afternoon before took me ten minutes to descend this midmorning. I hit the 85 and continued sounth toward Tamzanchule. Here I sit, telling my story. I am not sure where I will stay the night, but I should probably go figure that out before the sun gets completely blocked by the mountains and sets, casting shadows and night over the tiny cities and villages, the rivers and cascades, and any plush camping sites where me and my bike decide to set up camp.
Follow my story with some sights. I uploaded pictures. Sorry for any boring repetition. I have been amazed.
The words of this song echo in my head as I wind my way through the Eastern Sierra Madres, which separate the middle of Mexico from the Gulf of Mexico. Indeed, it appeared like these mountains could provide quite a safe refuge for people trying to escape the law across the border, or even within their own country. Silhouettes of mountains behind mountains cut the sky with sharp irregular peaks like a used saw. Tropical trees and plants cover these slopes, and where possible, orange trees, coffee groves, and fields of cane have left their mark on the hillsides and foothills. I have seen no sign of outlaws though. Instead, what I have seen is a simple people with indigenous roots strecthing back to 600 years Before Christ, adapting to a modern world that seems to be affecting their culture in definite but harmless ways, living in a landscape that is both astounding to see and humbling to experience. The Huasteca people live an area that covers five eastern states of Mexico. Although their dialect changes from place to place, the rest of their culture is much the same throughout the scattered pueblos that dot the hillsides. The Huasteca Potosina is the area in south eastern San Luis Potosi where these people live, although from what I can tell, it is better known for the immense amount of natural beauty clustered in a very small amount of land. This area is home to huge waterfalls, birthplaces of rivers, surrealistic castles, and deep abysses in the jungle floor. Of the many places to visit in this area, I was able to take my time off the main highway and explore some of them...
TAMASOPO. My first stop off Highway 70, which led from the city of San Luis Potosi to Ciudad Valles, on the other side of the mountains, was a small town 9 km down a mountain slope into valleys of sugar cane, where thick clouds gathered every morning to create hidden, wet jewels. I encountered some cascades just off of the main road that wound its way through the valley. Water tumbled down in several different locations into pools 5 to 8 meters deep and then stepped its way along the valley floor to continue into the river which ran through this valley. A little bit developed, but beautifully done, gardens and restaurants surrounded the pools and there were even stone diving planks and rope swings. The water was perfectly refreshing. I dove off every rock and swam in every pool I could, relishing in the rejuvenating coolness. Above from here, high in the foothills, was the Puente de Dios, where the same river's waters, emerging from caves, fell through openings in the rock walls to create deep pools where caves below created a downward current and pulled the water further down along the slopes. The Puente (or bridge) was hard to discern, as it was the part of land that I descended onto to peer onto the pools, but hardly seemed a bridge. It was at this spot, that after hearing about a cave higher up the mountain but not too far away, I decided to make the journey to see the birth of this river. Having left my sandals with my bike 700 something step up the other way, I embarked barefoot, not wanting to put on my biking shoes. Halfway up the half rock, half dirt path, I barely avoided stepping on a four foot long, one inch thick snake, that slithered away quickly into the bushes. Rethinking my thinking, I descended back to my shoes, and away from the Puente. Upon emerging from the wilderness, one of the locals reassured me that the green snakes were not venemous, but that there were four types of snakes that were. I didn't quite catch his broken Spanish to find out which four those were.
TAMUL. The next morning, I had an amazing ride through the valley. The fog soon lifted enough for me to see cane fields stretching their flowery limbs up into the dense jungle foothills. It was flat, windy, peaceful, surreal. I crossed back up and over the 70, this time going south on a road that I only realized I could due to local maps of the touristic area, printed on huge posters at keys junctures throughout the area. At the small, nothing town of Naranjito, I turned off the paved road for a 10 km trek down a dirt, rock road to the Casacadas de Tamul. Although these cascades are probably the best known of the area, they are harder to get to, and because it was the middle of the week, I was the only one on this path. I set up camp by a field of sugar cane next to a blue green river that ambled its way south east. I walked along a path downstream. Soon I saw the towering cliffside of a mountain that rose in front of a huge dropoff. The river I was following suddenly disappeared, and was replaced with the roaring sound of huge waterfall. Making my way to the side provided panoramic views of the cascades that dropped 105 meters to the river below, which had cut its way through these mountains in much the same way the Colorado River created the Grand Canyon, except to say that this canyon was not wide at all. I sat there, by myself, meditating on the side of this huge natural wonder, humbling myself before creation. That night, a few Mexican guys my age drove up and set up their tent right next to mine. Turns out I had seen them at Tamasopo, and they were doing a little tour of the area themselves, a bit more in style though. That night, we traded songs on my guitar, as we lay on a grassy patch by the river, gazing at the brilliant stars in the sky. In the morning, I returned with my new found companions down to the waterfall, and we descended some ladders to the shore of the river below. This provided new sights that were just as amazing, if not more. The morning fog was lifting. The sun was rising behind the falls. The refraction of light through the fog and water's mist created rainbows that contrasted brilliantly against the blue of the river and the green of the cliffs. Although my next destination only lay about 30 or 40 km southeast, I decided to take up my friends' offer for a ride. They were going to be visiting some archeological sites of the ancient Huasteca a bit east of Ciudad Valles, and then going to my same destination. Knowing that I was running of out cash and that I would probably not find an ATM in these remote villages, and also enjoying the conversation and human interaction they were providing, I decided to take my first car ride in Mexico. It was bitter sweet. I watched the km's fly by, and marveled in the feats of modern engineering. The archeological sites proved to be quite,...., boring. They quite possibly could have been the creation of several school children playing in the backyard. Maybe it was due to my previous experiences in Mayan ruins that belittled these sites. However old and brilliant these new sites were, it was obvious that the Huasteca people never amounted to quite the civlized empire that the Mayans of southern Mexico and Guatemala did. After the ruins, we rushed back west and then south along the 85, towards the Sotano del Golondrinos. Running out of time and light, they decided to drop me off half way up the unpaved road that led to the next natural wonder. Luckily, a couple of ranchers happened up behind us as I was beginning to load up my bike. Barely having time to put myself in the truck bed (with no tailgate), they sped off. At a certain point a few km up the road, I guess they decided they were hungry. They opened up a freshly fried chicken, a packet of fresh tortillas, a few coronas, and a tin of jalapenos and had dinner on the hood of the truck right there on the side of the road. Being the generous type that inhabit most of Mexico, they shared their dinner and refreshments with me, left their trash by their feet and loaded back into the truck. Thinking it was not the best time to lecture my drivers about the proper habits of throwing your trash away in a can and keeping the environment clean, I gathered it up in a pile, placed it on some rocks, and jumped back in the truck bed. Sometime later, the sun had set, and the truck stopped. I unloaded my things, as they said I was at the spot. A local kid, expecting a tip of course, showed me to a spot to camp, and there I camped, knowing only that I was high up in the mountains, in some sort of small town, camped a grass patch on a cliffside. I could see nor get the feeling for not much else. What I did feel was the sadness at having realized that I lost a sandal. This was not just any sandal. This was one of a pair of sandals that I had bought in Telluride the year before and had gotten signed by one of the world's great banjo players, Bela Fleck. Now, somewhere in Mexico, this sandal bumps around in the back of those rancher's truck. Surely it will end up on the side of the road, or better yet in one of the many beautiful rivers in this land.
SOTANO DE LOS GOLONDRINOS. At four thirty in the morning, I woke up (don't ask me how), and walked back down the road towards the touristy looking sign I had seen the night before. It pointed down a bunch of steps into darkness. Using my headlight, I descended down after paying my 20 peso fee (all these places have some small fees) towards the abyss that lay somewhere on this jungle cliffside. I finally arrived, and there was just enough light in the very early morning to make out the boundaries of the cliffs that dropped below into the earth. The Sotano de los Golondrinos is a hole (sotano? not quite sure of the exact translation), 55 meters wide at the top, and 512 meters down to the very bottom that suddenly and surely exists on this mountainside. Every morning, a few families of bright green parrots and a huge population of white necked swallows emerge at dawn, circling their way up the air currents that spiral out of the hole and eventually fly out into the jungle to eat their share of the insects. Every night, they descend back into hole, in much the same fashion. A yellow string of caution tape separated me from the very edge, but a local guide provided a rope, with which he tied one end around my waist and the other around a rock, which gave both him and me the security needed that I may inch towards the abyss' edge and peer over into the heart of darkness. The chill of the morning lingered in the air that day, and the swallows refused to emerge at dawn. Instead, almost four hours later, around eight thirty, finally some parrots came chattering their way out. Following them, in not quite the same herds as I was expecting, were the swallows. More silent, except for the whoosh that you felt as they flew past and over your head, they emerged in droves and flew out into the wilderness. The show was not that spectacular (bats flying out of Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico is a bit more astonishing), but the place was indescribable. I eventually tore myself off of the rocky cliffside and back up to my campsite where I packed up and started the descent down the rocky mountain path. I had to stop every few hundred meters to give my hands and arms a rest from clenching on the brakes so much to stop me from careening recklessly down the rocks and braking my bike.
XILITLA. After getting back to the 85, I continued south about 30 km, and then turned off the road once again to the make the eight mile trek straight up into another mountain side towards the small town of Xilitla. This town had a funky vibe to it. The sun of King James III (I think) of England, Eduard James made his home in this mountainside in the 1960's. Modeling his 'castle' after surrealist art, the place is a trip. I didn't visit the castle that night, instead choosing to find a funky hostel close by. The hot shower and bed proved much needed after a week tromping around the jungle. The hostel was very artsy and was run by some foreign travelers that were very nice. I slept in one of six beds that were placed inside one of the six or so teepees on the hostel premesis. In the morning I visited the castle. Sprial steps led to nowhere. Sprial steps led open balconies and rooms. Staircases zigzagged up the mountain walls to pools from a river flowing through the open air castle. These same staircases merged with jungle pathways that led up and up toward a bamboo tree house with an incredible view of the mountains to the east and the small of town of Xilitla far down below.
I could have spent several days wondering through those rooms and pools and gardens. I could have spent several weeks wading in the pools created by the Cascades of Tamasopo. I could have spent a lifetime marveling in the glory of the cascades at Tamul. Instead, I chose to return to the hostel, pack up my things, and return to the main highway heading south. What took me and hour and a half to climb up the afternoon before took me ten minutes to descend this midmorning. I hit the 85 and continued sounth toward Tamzanchule. Here I sit, telling my story. I am not sure where I will stay the night, but I should probably go figure that out before the sun gets completely blocked by the mountains and sets, casting shadows and night over the tiny cities and villages, the rivers and cascades, and any plush camping sites where me and my bike decide to set up camp.
Follow my story with some sights. I uploaded pictures. Sorry for any boring repetition. I have been amazed.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
A New Religion
Its been a week and about 300 kilometers since Zacatecas. I have been riding through Mexico like a fly trying to find its way out of a glass box (and by this I mean confused and zig-zagging quite a bit, in case my metaphors are a bit off). The road to Aguascalientes was similar to the road from Durango to Zacatecas, although I started passing through towns a bit more frequently. There was the desert, and some cactus, and some desert ranches with some cows, then some crops, then an industrial zone, then the city. Once again, I passed through a military checkpoint, where all of the guards walked over to me with their 3 ft. long automatic rifles in hand, crowded around me, and laughed as I told them them details of my journey. Ignoring the trucks passing by which were headed north, surely loaded with illegal immigrants and tons of fresh cocaine and marijuana, trying to make it across the border, they all thought me quite brave and quite crazy for taking this trip. I apologize in advance for any contributions my distraction may have caused for any trouble that advances north towards the U.S. border.
The morning before I arrived in Aguascalientes, I woke up and was playing guitar on an old stone wall in the cactus filled ranch I had camped in. From the bushes come a herd of cattle, who upon seeing me, immediately freeze. As the rest of the group crowded together to protect the youngens, the two bravest headed towards me, testing the waters. Not knowing whether to run or stay put, I decided to continue with the riff I was playing. The cows did not like my song. They bolt in the direction from which they had come, one getting stuck on a vicious looking cactus. I cringed as the cow wrestled to free itself from the spiny plant, and as it finally did.
Aguascalientes was nothing to write home about, so I didn't, until now. Notable incidents were the hosts I stayed with there. Mane (with an accent on the 'e' - an occupational therapist originally from Argentina), lives with her boyfriend Andres (a web designer originally from Veracruz, Mexico) in a little place about seven blocks from the central plaza. Very nice people, they invited me into their home for the night, and invited their friend Evelina, a flamenco singer originally from Argentina, to join us for conversation over a few beers around the dining room table. I found it very difficult trying to explain how I make my own beer in Spanish, but nonetheless enjoyed all the pleasant conversation and the interesting Argentinian dialect. In the morning, Mane presented me with the gift of a small bag of yerba mate and a bombilla with which I can drink it. I now can get my morning fix off of mateine, and not the caffeine with which I have grown accustomed. Among other things talked about, we discussed the route I would take, and we all decided it would be best for me to head east towards San Luis Potosi. As I head east from San Luis I will have to cross the Sierra Madres Oriental, which will put me in tropical land, closer to the gulf of mexico, and enveloped in more indigenous culture and natural beauty. Sounds good to me. Lets do it.
The two day ride from Aguascalientes to San Luis Potosi took me northeast on a very gradual climb through some mesas and valleys until I came to a river, damned to form a lake. I was impressed with how clean the water looked, as I have become quite used to the filthy sludge that most creeks and rivers look like in Mexico. To say the least, I was quite refreshed. I followed the now trickle of a river into San Luis Potosi, which again boasted beautiful cathedrals and old colonial buildings surrounding central plazas and city parks bustling with people moving in and out of restaurants, cafes, electronics stores, clothes stores, and one stop quicky markets. Here I waited until dusk came, at which point I rode the 2km to meet a friend of my sister from San Francisco.
Braulio, originally from Mexico City (D.F. -distrito federal - as most Mexicans call it here), got his phD in the U.S. in Biophysics and has returned to his home country, unlike many others who study abroad, to investigate the movement of neurotransmitters along nerve cells. It was fun to dork out with a fellow scientist for a little while and talk deep, hidden biology. I was able to go with him to the newly built institute here in San Luis Potosi while he worked on writing for a grant and I wondered around the building and read about the upcoming sights of my journey in a book that he lent me about the Ruta Huasteca (more to come on this area soon...).
Afterwards, we met up with the owner of Braulio's house (who lives and works in Oakland, CA, but was in town visiting his sick mother), Ray, and Ray's nephew Lalo at the San Luis Potosi (brown and navy blue jerserys) and Cruz Azul (white and blue - one of Mexico City's 3 professional soccer teams) soccer game. The stadium seemed small and simple. Made of concrete, it was only two main levels. Of these levels, which circumnavigated the entire stadium, you could get tickets for Cabecero (the heads, at the north or south ends, behind the goals), or Sol Numerados (the sides, where depending on when you arrived, you could get fantastic sideline seats, or not as good, a bit higher). The tickets were 100 pesos for Sol Numerado and 60 for Cabecero, and they were sold out of Sol, so we had to get Cabecero. Ray and Lalo already had Sol tickets, and though the plan was to sneak us two spare Sol tickets so we could join them on the sidelines, this didn't happen until ten minutes before the game ended. The lines to get into the stadium extended into streets and parking lots int the surrounding neighborhoods, and kids tried to bum change as you bought your ticket so they could get a piece of the action as well. After getting inside, we walked up a ramp to the north head end and stood at the top, on a deck that walked around the whole stadium, with checkpoints at the sides which you could not pass without a Sol ticket. The crowd was a bit tamer than I expected. A large cheering section at the north end belted out song after song, led by some horns and drums, and standing, moved their arms to the beat back and forth the ENTIRE game. Vendors walked by with buckets of beer and cardboard boxes with bags of churros, chips and hot sauce, and bowls of peanuts and hotsauce. Instead of pigeons flying in the lights above, there were bats, neurotically chasing insects, and there was no announcers voice or loud music blasting from any loud speakers. In fact, there no was no scoreboard either. For a pro game in a country where this sport is religion, the whole show seemed incredibly down to earth. With no timeouts for commercial breaks and an incredibly weak halftime show, the two 45 minute haves went incredibly quick. As far as the game went, San Luis lost 2 - 1, their only goal coming late in the 2nd half when unfortunately we had finally met up with Ray and Lalo and were making our way down to the second row. Those two seemed to be having a much more livelier time, with beer and chips smothered in sauce flowing pretty steadily.
After the game, we waited around till the crowd cleared and caught a taxi to Lalo's mom's house. Lalo's two older brothers were there with their wives and several small children, as well as his pregnant wife, mom, and dad. The mom fed us tacos with beans, beef, chorizo, cheese, salsa, and sauteed onions, and showed me how to officially make a Michelada (ice, salt, lime, soy sauce, horseradish, and your beer of choice). I learned here at the table that you can tell who is the big eater by the way he holds his taco (pinky up, plate in hand directly below - a little dainty if you ask me), as well as the difference between tequila and mezqual, and aguardiente. Of course I was obliged to try them all. They were fascinated by my trip and thought me a bit crazy to be planning the route east, although they all agreed it will be the prettiest, and much safer than going through Michoacan and Guerrero. After supper we sat in the living room and listened to Lalo's older brother sing and play songs on the guitar. I, of course, forgot all the words to every song I could have played for them. Lalo, the youngest brother, made jokes throughout the night, and his parents happily enjoyed their children, grandchildren, and guests, providing whatever snacks and refills were needed. I felt warm, welcome, and as the night wore on, very tired, so we returned home close to 2:30am and I fell quickly asleep. Today I plan to head east toward Ciudad Valles and to greener sights.
I posted some new pictures...
Tidbits....
I pass by the occasional dead animal on the road. These include foxes, dogs, coyotes, rabbits, cats, skunks, and even cows. You can tell that its coming from the stench that precedes it.
I bought a small guitar in Zacatecas. Small and lightweight, it fits nicely into a case that rides on my bike without very much hinderance at all. It is nice being able to put chords to the songs I write in my head all day long while pedaling through Mexico.
The morning before I arrived in Aguascalientes, I woke up and was playing guitar on an old stone wall in the cactus filled ranch I had camped in. From the bushes come a herd of cattle, who upon seeing me, immediately freeze. As the rest of the group crowded together to protect the youngens, the two bravest headed towards me, testing the waters. Not knowing whether to run or stay put, I decided to continue with the riff I was playing. The cows did not like my song. They bolt in the direction from which they had come, one getting stuck on a vicious looking cactus. I cringed as the cow wrestled to free itself from the spiny plant, and as it finally did.
Aguascalientes was nothing to write home about, so I didn't, until now. Notable incidents were the hosts I stayed with there. Mane (with an accent on the 'e' - an occupational therapist originally from Argentina), lives with her boyfriend Andres (a web designer originally from Veracruz, Mexico) in a little place about seven blocks from the central plaza. Very nice people, they invited me into their home for the night, and invited their friend Evelina, a flamenco singer originally from Argentina, to join us for conversation over a few beers around the dining room table. I found it very difficult trying to explain how I make my own beer in Spanish, but nonetheless enjoyed all the pleasant conversation and the interesting Argentinian dialect. In the morning, Mane presented me with the gift of a small bag of yerba mate and a bombilla with which I can drink it. I now can get my morning fix off of mateine, and not the caffeine with which I have grown accustomed. Among other things talked about, we discussed the route I would take, and we all decided it would be best for me to head east towards San Luis Potosi. As I head east from San Luis I will have to cross the Sierra Madres Oriental, which will put me in tropical land, closer to the gulf of mexico, and enveloped in more indigenous culture and natural beauty. Sounds good to me. Lets do it.
The two day ride from Aguascalientes to San Luis Potosi took me northeast on a very gradual climb through some mesas and valleys until I came to a river, damned to form a lake. I was impressed with how clean the water looked, as I have become quite used to the filthy sludge that most creeks and rivers look like in Mexico. To say the least, I was quite refreshed. I followed the now trickle of a river into San Luis Potosi, which again boasted beautiful cathedrals and old colonial buildings surrounding central plazas and city parks bustling with people moving in and out of restaurants, cafes, electronics stores, clothes stores, and one stop quicky markets. Here I waited until dusk came, at which point I rode the 2km to meet a friend of my sister from San Francisco.
Braulio, originally from Mexico City (D.F. -distrito federal - as most Mexicans call it here), got his phD in the U.S. in Biophysics and has returned to his home country, unlike many others who study abroad, to investigate the movement of neurotransmitters along nerve cells. It was fun to dork out with a fellow scientist for a little while and talk deep, hidden biology. I was able to go with him to the newly built institute here in San Luis Potosi while he worked on writing for a grant and I wondered around the building and read about the upcoming sights of my journey in a book that he lent me about the Ruta Huasteca (more to come on this area soon...).
Afterwards, we met up with the owner of Braulio's house (who lives and works in Oakland, CA, but was in town visiting his sick mother), Ray, and Ray's nephew Lalo at the San Luis Potosi (brown and navy blue jerserys) and Cruz Azul (white and blue - one of Mexico City's 3 professional soccer teams) soccer game. The stadium seemed small and simple. Made of concrete, it was only two main levels. Of these levels, which circumnavigated the entire stadium, you could get tickets for Cabecero (the heads, at the north or south ends, behind the goals), or Sol Numerados (the sides, where depending on when you arrived, you could get fantastic sideline seats, or not as good, a bit higher). The tickets were 100 pesos for Sol Numerado and 60 for Cabecero, and they were sold out of Sol, so we had to get Cabecero. Ray and Lalo already had Sol tickets, and though the plan was to sneak us two spare Sol tickets so we could join them on the sidelines, this didn't happen until ten minutes before the game ended. The lines to get into the stadium extended into streets and parking lots int the surrounding neighborhoods, and kids tried to bum change as you bought your ticket so they could get a piece of the action as well. After getting inside, we walked up a ramp to the north head end and stood at the top, on a deck that walked around the whole stadium, with checkpoints at the sides which you could not pass without a Sol ticket. The crowd was a bit tamer than I expected. A large cheering section at the north end belted out song after song, led by some horns and drums, and standing, moved their arms to the beat back and forth the ENTIRE game. Vendors walked by with buckets of beer and cardboard boxes with bags of churros, chips and hot sauce, and bowls of peanuts and hotsauce. Instead of pigeons flying in the lights above, there were bats, neurotically chasing insects, and there was no announcers voice or loud music blasting from any loud speakers. In fact, there no was no scoreboard either. For a pro game in a country where this sport is religion, the whole show seemed incredibly down to earth. With no timeouts for commercial breaks and an incredibly weak halftime show, the two 45 minute haves went incredibly quick. As far as the game went, San Luis lost 2 - 1, their only goal coming late in the 2nd half when unfortunately we had finally met up with Ray and Lalo and were making our way down to the second row. Those two seemed to be having a much more livelier time, with beer and chips smothered in sauce flowing pretty steadily.
After the game, we waited around till the crowd cleared and caught a taxi to Lalo's mom's house. Lalo's two older brothers were there with their wives and several small children, as well as his pregnant wife, mom, and dad. The mom fed us tacos with beans, beef, chorizo, cheese, salsa, and sauteed onions, and showed me how to officially make a Michelada (ice, salt, lime, soy sauce, horseradish, and your beer of choice). I learned here at the table that you can tell who is the big eater by the way he holds his taco (pinky up, plate in hand directly below - a little dainty if you ask me), as well as the difference between tequila and mezqual, and aguardiente. Of course I was obliged to try them all. They were fascinated by my trip and thought me a bit crazy to be planning the route east, although they all agreed it will be the prettiest, and much safer than going through Michoacan and Guerrero. After supper we sat in the living room and listened to Lalo's older brother sing and play songs on the guitar. I, of course, forgot all the words to every song I could have played for them. Lalo, the youngest brother, made jokes throughout the night, and his parents happily enjoyed their children, grandchildren, and guests, providing whatever snacks and refills were needed. I felt warm, welcome, and as the night wore on, very tired, so we returned home close to 2:30am and I fell quickly asleep. Today I plan to head east toward Ciudad Valles and to greener sights.
I posted some new pictures...
Tidbits....
I pass by the occasional dead animal on the road. These include foxes, dogs, coyotes, rabbits, cats, skunks, and even cows. You can tell that its coming from the stench that precedes it.
I bought a small guitar in Zacatecas. Small and lightweight, it fits nicely into a case that rides on my bike without very much hinderance at all. It is nice being able to put chords to the songs I write in my head all day long while pedaling through Mexico.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Painful Progress
The road from Zacatecas to Durango should have been nothing to me... a little less than 300 km, three days of riding, mostly flat, should have been easy. Yet I found these days to be brutally painful, all for different reasons. The first day, maybe due to the comforts of two nights in a bed in Durango, I was not adjusting back to the bike very well. The last twenty miles of my 60 mile ride through mostly flat agricultural land was very tiring, and I thought my bones might crack. I set up camp behind an unfinished work of stone (possibly a house or store) just off the side of the highway around 4pm, and didn't move until 630, when I made dinner, and then went back to sleep for another twelve hours or so. The sun is rising around seven and setting seven in these parts. Days are generally warm in the sun (which is ample), chilly in the shade. Nights get pretty cold, but nothing like the night before I arrived in Durango. It seems I have made it to a highway (Mex 45) that runs from Mexico City up into New Mexico. It is a historically rich highway, as the construction of this road (or path several centuries earlier) aided in the colonization and habitation of northern Mexico up as far as Santa Fe. Although there were many attacks by natives back in those days on the early settlers, the Mexican nation finally subdued these peoples and in so doing secured a vital agricultural part of the nation. It looks by all means like the central valley of California.
My second day, because of a lack of opportune campsites, was my longest day of riding yet... Seven and a half hours pedaling 80 miles. Mentally, physically, and emotionally drained by the end of this day. There were several highlights though... At one point, about halfway through, as I approached the top of a hill, an SUV pulled over ahead of me at the top and a man got out waiting for me. As I neared he approached me and asked if he could do an interview. He was a sports reporter for a local news station and pulled out his video camera and gave me one of those big news reporter microphones. It was a pretty simple interview there on the side of the road - who are you, what are you doing, whats the hardest part, tell me about your bike, where are you going, etc. He said it would air the next Monday. That night I arrived in the town of Fresnillo just as the sun was setting. After asking a couple policemen for some cheap rooms somewhere, they directed me to the firemen station, where I talked to the bomberos (firemen) for a while and they put me up in one of the dorm rooms that they reserve for the public (homeless, such as myself). They opened up their kitchen and bathroom to me, and it was a pleasure to stay with these mostly young men that night.
I thought Sunday would be an easy 40 miles to the colonial city of Zacatecas, but sure enough, nature would not oblige and I had one of the strongest headwinds I have had blowing against me, limiting my pace to a grueling crawl. When I did finally arrive, I checked out the beautiful city, laid gracefully in between three peaks of somewhat large hills. The streets are laid in stone, and the architecture of the many temples, goverment buidlings, and churches are absolutely amazing. I feel that it is one of the most tasteful cities I have passed through yet on this trip. It is clean, and the houses surrounding the center do not appear as if they have been thrown together in a matter of minutes. It might have something to do with the amount of money that the city brings in through its toursim. I have posted up near the central cathedral in a pretty cheap hostel with a rooftop terrace looking out over the city. It has a kitchen, and I have enjoyed making meals fit for a family, which I happily eat in one sitting.
It has been good to relax a bit here in the town and sit in the central plazas and parks watching the people. There are teenagers rolling around the grass, little kids eating icecream, businessmen trying to sell jewelery - pretty typical.
I am a bit confused at the moment in which direction to go, literally and figuratively. I am getting into the central section of Mexico, where cities are easy to come by, and campsites are a bit harder to find. Although it is nice passing through these cities, it is a completely different kind of trip then what I have experienced so far, and I am unsure how my wallet and tent are adjusting. I feel as though I might be better off returning to the mountains to camp peacefully among the trees, rural ranchers, and beautiful scenery. Afterall, isn't this what I would prefer to do in the states? Maybe cobblestones and museums will have to wait for a different trip. We will see.
Today I head south. I can head west to Guadalajara, directly south to Aguascalientes, or more east to San Luis Potosi. I am tired of planning a trip through land and cities I know nothing about, so I think I will just hit the road and which ever one I find myself on, thats the one I will take.
To infinity and beyond.........
My second day, because of a lack of opportune campsites, was my longest day of riding yet... Seven and a half hours pedaling 80 miles. Mentally, physically, and emotionally drained by the end of this day. There were several highlights though... At one point, about halfway through, as I approached the top of a hill, an SUV pulled over ahead of me at the top and a man got out waiting for me. As I neared he approached me and asked if he could do an interview. He was a sports reporter for a local news station and pulled out his video camera and gave me one of those big news reporter microphones. It was a pretty simple interview there on the side of the road - who are you, what are you doing, whats the hardest part, tell me about your bike, where are you going, etc. He said it would air the next Monday. That night I arrived in the town of Fresnillo just as the sun was setting. After asking a couple policemen for some cheap rooms somewhere, they directed me to the firemen station, where I talked to the bomberos (firemen) for a while and they put me up in one of the dorm rooms that they reserve for the public (homeless, such as myself). They opened up their kitchen and bathroom to me, and it was a pleasure to stay with these mostly young men that night.
I thought Sunday would be an easy 40 miles to the colonial city of Zacatecas, but sure enough, nature would not oblige and I had one of the strongest headwinds I have had blowing against me, limiting my pace to a grueling crawl. When I did finally arrive, I checked out the beautiful city, laid gracefully in between three peaks of somewhat large hills. The streets are laid in stone, and the architecture of the many temples, goverment buidlings, and churches are absolutely amazing. I feel that it is one of the most tasteful cities I have passed through yet on this trip. It is clean, and the houses surrounding the center do not appear as if they have been thrown together in a matter of minutes. It might have something to do with the amount of money that the city brings in through its toursim. I have posted up near the central cathedral in a pretty cheap hostel with a rooftop terrace looking out over the city. It has a kitchen, and I have enjoyed making meals fit for a family, which I happily eat in one sitting.
It has been good to relax a bit here in the town and sit in the central plazas and parks watching the people. There are teenagers rolling around the grass, little kids eating icecream, businessmen trying to sell jewelery - pretty typical.
I am a bit confused at the moment in which direction to go, literally and figuratively. I am getting into the central section of Mexico, where cities are easy to come by, and campsites are a bit harder to find. Although it is nice passing through these cities, it is a completely different kind of trip then what I have experienced so far, and I am unsure how my wallet and tent are adjusting. I feel as though I might be better off returning to the mountains to camp peacefully among the trees, rural ranchers, and beautiful scenery. Afterall, isn't this what I would prefer to do in the states? Maybe cobblestones and museums will have to wait for a different trip. We will see.
Today I head south. I can head west to Guadalajara, directly south to Aguascalientes, or more east to San Luis Potosi. I am tired of planning a trip through land and cities I know nothing about, so I think I will just hit the road and which ever one I find myself on, thats the one I will take.
To infinity and beyond.........
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Where to Today?
If the timing was off by just a few minutes; if I had passed by that spot on the road, ten miles outside of Mazatlan, five minutes earlier, or stayed the night in Mazatlan with a couch surfing host as I originally had planned, I would not have met the German couple biking in the other direction. Its hard to pinpoint exactly the events that led to my meeting this couple; God's good grace, coincidence, destiny - choose your word. The fact is that after not hearing back from the couchsurfers living in Mazatlan that I had contacted, I had decided to start my journey south down the coast several hours after I docked. At the precise junction where I could continue south down the coast or head east over the Sierra Madre mountain range towards Durango, I came across this couple. Our meeting was brief - they were in a hurry to catch the ferry heading to La Paz. Yet in the few moments we did share together there on the side of the road, they convinced me to head east over the mountains.
My ´plan´ had been to continue south down the coast of Mexico, stopping at beaches along the way and finishing my tour of the coastline from San Francisco to Guatemala. They had been warned against this boring route though, and shared the advice they had received from other bikers, with me. They told of the beauty of the mountains and the inland route through Durango, Zacatecas, and beyond, and just like that, for one reason or another, the next part of my life was drastically altered. It is an amazing feeling to be able to be open to the angels sent to you along the way and to try to decipher the messages being sent to you; it my circumstance, these messages can drastically affect the course of my day, or coming weeks or months. For many others who do not have my exact freedom, it can be a little harder to hear and see these things. Yet they are there, coming to your life as small or large coincidences or day or life altering events. For me, it was perfectly clear I was to head through the mountains. Who knows if something terrible would have happened to me along the coast, or if I was meant to be somewhere in the mountains for a particular reason. Go with it, I told myself, and headed east.
The next four days were some of the hardest yet of my trip. I climbed nonstop for about 90 miles, reaching heights of 2500 meters, or 7500 feet. The dense tropical underbrush finally gave way to pine trees and a much clearer forest floor around 6000 feet, and the smell of fresh pine reminded me of the mountains back home. White, yellow, orange, and red flowers reinvorgorated me and I saw and heard birds I had never dreamed existed. Along with the shores, I left the warmth of the coast behind me. One morning on this trip over the mountains I awoke to a freezing morning. My water bottles had frozen, and the dew on my tent had frozen. My fingers were so numb I could not start a fire. That day I battled 45 miles against a biting headwind in order to arrive in the bustling city of Durango, and a few days respite from my jouney. Phyically, I got to points I thought I might break or freeze, but I was able mentally to overcome these moments and have the perserverance to make it to the next campsite, the next town. Lonliness sets in usually as the sun is setting, but leaves when it rises, and will be something I think I will quickly be able to get used to.
Durango is a huge city. There is nothing spectacular or beautiful about its construction. Its sprawls in every direction, and the steeples of old colonial churches define its skyline. It is filled with universities, and students of all ages walk quickly everywhere. The central plazas are a mess of people, vendors, stroes, restaurants, pigeons, benches, and cars. I have met a pair of German exchange students studying biochemistry here that have put me up for a couple nights. Hot shower - spectacular. Bed - I can´t describe the feeling. Stove - the simple pleasures. Toilet - wow. I have much to explore and many people to look at. It is sunny here, but brisk, as we are still high up in elevation, although I´m not sure how high exactly. Time to rest and prepare for my next leg - to Zacatecas - unless of course my plan shifts.
And finally, new pictures have been posted. Between the album ´crossing borders´and ´la paz to durango´ is missing visual documentation of travels through Baja California, which I will try to post as soon as I get the pics from my old traveling mate.
PAZ
My ´plan´ had been to continue south down the coast of Mexico, stopping at beaches along the way and finishing my tour of the coastline from San Francisco to Guatemala. They had been warned against this boring route though, and shared the advice they had received from other bikers, with me. They told of the beauty of the mountains and the inland route through Durango, Zacatecas, and beyond, and just like that, for one reason or another, the next part of my life was drastically altered. It is an amazing feeling to be able to be open to the angels sent to you along the way and to try to decipher the messages being sent to you; it my circumstance, these messages can drastically affect the course of my day, or coming weeks or months. For many others who do not have my exact freedom, it can be a little harder to hear and see these things. Yet they are there, coming to your life as small or large coincidences or day or life altering events. For me, it was perfectly clear I was to head through the mountains. Who knows if something terrible would have happened to me along the coast, or if I was meant to be somewhere in the mountains for a particular reason. Go with it, I told myself, and headed east.
The next four days were some of the hardest yet of my trip. I climbed nonstop for about 90 miles, reaching heights of 2500 meters, or 7500 feet. The dense tropical underbrush finally gave way to pine trees and a much clearer forest floor around 6000 feet, and the smell of fresh pine reminded me of the mountains back home. White, yellow, orange, and red flowers reinvorgorated me and I saw and heard birds I had never dreamed existed. Along with the shores, I left the warmth of the coast behind me. One morning on this trip over the mountains I awoke to a freezing morning. My water bottles had frozen, and the dew on my tent had frozen. My fingers were so numb I could not start a fire. That day I battled 45 miles against a biting headwind in order to arrive in the bustling city of Durango, and a few days respite from my jouney. Phyically, I got to points I thought I might break or freeze, but I was able mentally to overcome these moments and have the perserverance to make it to the next campsite, the next town. Lonliness sets in usually as the sun is setting, but leaves when it rises, and will be something I think I will quickly be able to get used to.
Durango is a huge city. There is nothing spectacular or beautiful about its construction. Its sprawls in every direction, and the steeples of old colonial churches define its skyline. It is filled with universities, and students of all ages walk quickly everywhere. The central plazas are a mess of people, vendors, stroes, restaurants, pigeons, benches, and cars. I have met a pair of German exchange students studying biochemistry here that have put me up for a couple nights. Hot shower - spectacular. Bed - I can´t describe the feeling. Stove - the simple pleasures. Toilet - wow. I have much to explore and many people to look at. It is sunny here, but brisk, as we are still high up in elevation, although I´m not sure how high exactly. Time to rest and prepare for my next leg - to Zacatecas - unless of course my plan shifts.
And finally, new pictures have been posted. Between the album ´crossing borders´and ´la paz to durango´ is missing visual documentation of travels through Baja California, which I will try to post as soon as I get the pics from my old traveling mate.
PAZ
Friday, February 19, 2010
California, The Complete Story
Waking up just before the sun rose on Thursday Feb. 18, we packed our stuff up as quickly as we could, not taking our time to stretch out, warm our bones in the rising sun, munch on some granola, and for me, drink a cup of fresh instant coffee (Mel that starbucks instant is actually quite amazing) as we gotten into the routine of doing in Baja California. Instead, we had decided over the past couple days to try and get riding as quickly as possible so we could enjoy the morning briskness. The farther south we traveled, the hotter and drier the days were getting, and by knocking out a good twenty five miles by 9:30in the am, we were putting ourselves in a much better situation to sink into some shade and take some much needed siestas when the sun was highest and the day hottest without worrying about not covering ground during those daylight hours.
This Thursday morning was a special one for Laurel and I. The only thing that stood between us and the ocean was another fifty miles of road. The night before we had stumbled upon a campsite off a dirt road leading surprisingly to both of us to the Pacific Ocean, on the west of coast of Baja. We had made it to a narrow point on the Baja California Sur peninsula where we could watch a beautiful sunset over the big blue sea to our west. If only we had been a little higher, I think we easily could have seen the Bay of La Paz as well, to our east. Our excitement got us through the incessant and annoying ups and downs of hills and dips for the first thirty or so miles before we had to finally stop and munch on some granola. I ordered a coffee from this little store in the middle of nowhere, and watched as the store owners son played with his toys in the dirt just outside the front door. His toys, by the way, consisted of an old plastic toy car, a bigger piece of styrofoam, and about fifty cigarette butts. If only he knew how in his innocence he was doing the world such a good by reusing others´waste as toys...
Now that I had my coffee in me (i´m actually a bit startled about my habit forming around this morning ritual now - I don´t know how much of it is some much needed stimulant, and how much of it is the feeling of being civilized, but either way I never drank coffee so much before), I was amped to get to the coast and La Paz. Pedalling another mile or two around a bend and past a microwave tower (these towers are pointed out on the map I have and actually make decent landmarks - also, you know you´ve reached a top elevation when you hit a tower because they only build them on certain key peaks) the Bay of La Paz came into site. Its light blue waters looking so clean and refreshing compelled me to pedal faster than I had in a long time. The next twenty miles flew by and we rode into La Paz triumphantly around noon.
For me, this city signaled the end of my trip down California - Alta California, Baja California Norte, and Baja California Sur. After seeing all of it the way I have, I am still pretty convinced that the north bay area is one of the most beautiful in California. Sure, I have now seen amazing beaches up and down this coast, but nothing compares to those beaches sitting next to mountains lush with trees and lakes filled with fresh water and rivers flowing into the ocean abundant with fish. Baja California carries on the rich tradition of Southern California - it is a desert. Not to take anything away from the desert. It is absolutely quiet at night. No crickets. You can see just about every star you would ever want to at night. There are no city lights to dull the beauty of the heavens. And the plants and animals that do live there are quite amazing living things. But the desert is no place to live, at least not for an animal made up of two thirds water.
That day was also the last ride that I would share with Laurel, and I felt pretty good about that as well. For having met Laurel two and a half weeks earlier online and spending every minute of our days together since in pretty extreme circumstances, I could not have asked for a better traveling partner. She was respectful. She was knowledgeable. She could name almost every bird we saw and tell me a little bit about the species. She shared my love for the earth and the world. She spoke decent Spanish. She did not fuss over camping in the desert, using holes for bathrooms, and not showering for a week. And she knew how to ride a bike - well. But for the last week or so, I had been getting a bit irritated by having a partner. I had been feeling like it was time to move on on my own, and create my own personal experiences. As great as she was, when she arrived at a store before I did, the people there already had some feeling as to who I might be, and this bothered me. I was ready to experience on my own. She was a bit more needy to stay with me, as she felt uncomfortable camping alone in the places we did at night, so I had made a tough decision to stay with her till we got to La Paz. So it was a bit freeing for me to ride into La Paz, knowing that my next rides would be by myself. I am sure I will miss having someone to talk to at night sometimes, but when you are by yourself you sure do learn to listen to yourself. Laurel will continue on down to the cabos, and then fly back up to California, where she will pick up her car and head back to Oregon to start work the beginning of March.
I have been welcomed here in La Paz by a young women named Azareth, who a couch surfing host. She lives with her sister (who is out of town doing ecotourism), and her three year old son, Cesar. Azareth is a law student, and is also trying to convert her place into a daycare center. Her home is certainly a work in progress, but there is plenty of space for people such as myself to hold up for a few days. Cesar is a bundle of cuteness and joy. I was surprised to see Azareth give Cesar a cup of coffee in the morning when he saw us drinking ours and asked for our own. Responding to my inquiries about whether or not this young child needs any more stimulants than he already has in his life, Azareth simply says: "This is Mexico." I love it. I don´t think Cesar is smoking cigarettes yet, but apparently he is no stranger to tequila, even though he hates the stuff. In his mothers opinion, if you keep something away from a child, that fuels his desire to get at it even more, and so by giving it to him he is tempered and never gets the wrong idea. I appreciate this little rule of thumb, as I feel that many young people in the U.S. that are kept away from alcohol for so long often go wild once away from home, finally free enough to get their hands on whatever it is, but not having the experience to know how to handle the responsibility and liability that comes with it.
Also staying here is Laurel for the time being, and another couch surfer named Damien who is orignally from Atlanta, GA, but has spent the last couple years traveling through Mexico. He buys and sells online, which gives him the security financially to fuel his habit of seeing the world. He is definitely a character and adds a lot of flavor to the household. Since last night the four of us have had many interesting talks, as Cesar runs around playing and sitting on laps and Azareth cooks us food and serves us Tea de Jamaica. Azareth seems very knowledgeable about the history of Mexico and the current economic and societal situation it is, and it is interesting to bounce preconceptions that I have off of her to see what her response is.
I have taken care of a few things here. For starters, I visited a bike shop and got a new tire lever, a new spare tire with extra long stem for my back tire, and a new pump. I feel pretty good about my bike sitch now. Secondly, I visited a local marina and tried to schmooze with the gringo sailors that lounged about driking coffee and smokinbg cigarettes. I am not a good schmoozer. I am no good at making senseless conversation and trying to rub elbows when all I really want is a ride on your yacht to get over the mainland. I ended up writing a note, posting it on the bulletin, and going on my way. Tomorrow I will see about hopping aboard the cargo ferry that takes truckers and their cargo from here to Mazatlan. Hopefully I will board the ship as some type of worker, and be able to work my across the sea. Other than that, I finally was able to spend some time on a gorgeous beach and refresh myself in that crystal clear light blue water that had been calling my name from the desert. The water is just cold enough to be refreshing, but does not take more than a minute to acclimate to. Who knows, maybe I´ll stay here just a couple more days...
oh yeah. got a new camera too. so expect some picture soon. and i´ll eventually get the ones taken on laurel´s camera of baja california so i can show those as well. i think about everyone who might be reading this often, and hope you are all doing well.
This Thursday morning was a special one for Laurel and I. The only thing that stood between us and the ocean was another fifty miles of road. The night before we had stumbled upon a campsite off a dirt road leading surprisingly to both of us to the Pacific Ocean, on the west of coast of Baja. We had made it to a narrow point on the Baja California Sur peninsula where we could watch a beautiful sunset over the big blue sea to our west. If only we had been a little higher, I think we easily could have seen the Bay of La Paz as well, to our east. Our excitement got us through the incessant and annoying ups and downs of hills and dips for the first thirty or so miles before we had to finally stop and munch on some granola. I ordered a coffee from this little store in the middle of nowhere, and watched as the store owners son played with his toys in the dirt just outside the front door. His toys, by the way, consisted of an old plastic toy car, a bigger piece of styrofoam, and about fifty cigarette butts. If only he knew how in his innocence he was doing the world such a good by reusing others´waste as toys...
Now that I had my coffee in me (i´m actually a bit startled about my habit forming around this morning ritual now - I don´t know how much of it is some much needed stimulant, and how much of it is the feeling of being civilized, but either way I never drank coffee so much before), I was amped to get to the coast and La Paz. Pedalling another mile or two around a bend and past a microwave tower (these towers are pointed out on the map I have and actually make decent landmarks - also, you know you´ve reached a top elevation when you hit a tower because they only build them on certain key peaks) the Bay of La Paz came into site. Its light blue waters looking so clean and refreshing compelled me to pedal faster than I had in a long time. The next twenty miles flew by and we rode into La Paz triumphantly around noon.
For me, this city signaled the end of my trip down California - Alta California, Baja California Norte, and Baja California Sur. After seeing all of it the way I have, I am still pretty convinced that the north bay area is one of the most beautiful in California. Sure, I have now seen amazing beaches up and down this coast, but nothing compares to those beaches sitting next to mountains lush with trees and lakes filled with fresh water and rivers flowing into the ocean abundant with fish. Baja California carries on the rich tradition of Southern California - it is a desert. Not to take anything away from the desert. It is absolutely quiet at night. No crickets. You can see just about every star you would ever want to at night. There are no city lights to dull the beauty of the heavens. And the plants and animals that do live there are quite amazing living things. But the desert is no place to live, at least not for an animal made up of two thirds water.
That day was also the last ride that I would share with Laurel, and I felt pretty good about that as well. For having met Laurel two and a half weeks earlier online and spending every minute of our days together since in pretty extreme circumstances, I could not have asked for a better traveling partner. She was respectful. She was knowledgeable. She could name almost every bird we saw and tell me a little bit about the species. She shared my love for the earth and the world. She spoke decent Spanish. She did not fuss over camping in the desert, using holes for bathrooms, and not showering for a week. And she knew how to ride a bike - well. But for the last week or so, I had been getting a bit irritated by having a partner. I had been feeling like it was time to move on on my own, and create my own personal experiences. As great as she was, when she arrived at a store before I did, the people there already had some feeling as to who I might be, and this bothered me. I was ready to experience on my own. She was a bit more needy to stay with me, as she felt uncomfortable camping alone in the places we did at night, so I had made a tough decision to stay with her till we got to La Paz. So it was a bit freeing for me to ride into La Paz, knowing that my next rides would be by myself. I am sure I will miss having someone to talk to at night sometimes, but when you are by yourself you sure do learn to listen to yourself. Laurel will continue on down to the cabos, and then fly back up to California, where she will pick up her car and head back to Oregon to start work the beginning of March.
I have been welcomed here in La Paz by a young women named Azareth, who a couch surfing host. She lives with her sister (who is out of town doing ecotourism), and her three year old son, Cesar. Azareth is a law student, and is also trying to convert her place into a daycare center. Her home is certainly a work in progress, but there is plenty of space for people such as myself to hold up for a few days. Cesar is a bundle of cuteness and joy. I was surprised to see Azareth give Cesar a cup of coffee in the morning when he saw us drinking ours and asked for our own. Responding to my inquiries about whether or not this young child needs any more stimulants than he already has in his life, Azareth simply says: "This is Mexico." I love it. I don´t think Cesar is smoking cigarettes yet, but apparently he is no stranger to tequila, even though he hates the stuff. In his mothers opinion, if you keep something away from a child, that fuels his desire to get at it even more, and so by giving it to him he is tempered and never gets the wrong idea. I appreciate this little rule of thumb, as I feel that many young people in the U.S. that are kept away from alcohol for so long often go wild once away from home, finally free enough to get their hands on whatever it is, but not having the experience to know how to handle the responsibility and liability that comes with it.
Also staying here is Laurel for the time being, and another couch surfer named Damien who is orignally from Atlanta, GA, but has spent the last couple years traveling through Mexico. He buys and sells online, which gives him the security financially to fuel his habit of seeing the world. He is definitely a character and adds a lot of flavor to the household. Since last night the four of us have had many interesting talks, as Cesar runs around playing and sitting on laps and Azareth cooks us food and serves us Tea de Jamaica. Azareth seems very knowledgeable about the history of Mexico and the current economic and societal situation it is, and it is interesting to bounce preconceptions that I have off of her to see what her response is.
I have taken care of a few things here. For starters, I visited a bike shop and got a new tire lever, a new spare tire with extra long stem for my back tire, and a new pump. I feel pretty good about my bike sitch now. Secondly, I visited a local marina and tried to schmooze with the gringo sailors that lounged about driking coffee and smokinbg cigarettes. I am not a good schmoozer. I am no good at making senseless conversation and trying to rub elbows when all I really want is a ride on your yacht to get over the mainland. I ended up writing a note, posting it on the bulletin, and going on my way. Tomorrow I will see about hopping aboard the cargo ferry that takes truckers and their cargo from here to Mazatlan. Hopefully I will board the ship as some type of worker, and be able to work my across the sea. Other than that, I finally was able to spend some time on a gorgeous beach and refresh myself in that crystal clear light blue water that had been calling my name from the desert. The water is just cold enough to be refreshing, but does not take more than a minute to acclimate to. Who knows, maybe I´ll stay here just a couple more days...
oh yeah. got a new camera too. so expect some picture soon. and i´ll eventually get the ones taken on laurel´s camera of baja california so i can show those as well. i think about everyone who might be reading this often, and hope you are all doing well.
Friday, February 12, 2010
The Education of Chris Morales
I awoke after a frosty nights sleep to a beautiful sunrise over the desert. It would be forty miles to Santa Rosalia and the Sea of Cortez and maybe a bit more to find decent camping on the beach - no problem. I envisioned a quick ride with plenty of time to set up camp on a sandy beach; also possibly a swim to rinse off the sweat and dirt covering my body. Before loading up, I decided I´d flip my bike over and lube the chain. While spinning the rear tire around, I heard a funny climking noise with every rotation of the wheel. Upon taking off the tire, I noticed also one of the spokes no longer attached to the rim. Uh oh. I pulled the rim tape off and found the culprit - a broken nipple making the sound, along with another nipple, free and unused, that must have accidentally been left in the crawl space (between the place where the tube goes and the underside of the rim) during the making of the wheel. I used this new nipple to fasten the loose spoke back to the rim and marked it with some tape. While pumping the tire back up with Laurel´s pump, I somehow broke the valve stem on the tube. I had pumped it up most of the way though, so I finished setting up the tire, put it back on the bike, loaded up, and we set off.
I was now in a very precarious position. As I think I mentioned previously, about a week before in the desert my rear tube had mysteriously blown up. I had replaced with the only spare tube I had for my rear, which requires a long stem valve since the rim is a bit longer. This replacement had gotten a tiny puncture in it from the spine of a cactus the that night, and during the patching of that the next day, I had managed to brake my tire tool that aids me in getting on and off the tire, as well as my only pump. So now, I had just broken off the only way to pump up my last remaining long-stem tube. I had no tire wrench, nor even a bike pump, and I was unsure of my mechanic work fixing the spoke as it was my first time doing so. I felt as if the whole wheel might collapse at any moment. I felt like I was teetering on a sharp mountain ridge. On one side was joy, on the other pain. If one thing were to happen to that back tire, it could ruin my day, and possbily the next couple days depending on how long it might take me to figure out the situation. I rode on - into a fierce headwind and a slow, gradual rise in elevation. Ten miles into it, my chain wasn´t hitting the cassette right and was skipping as I´d make strong pushes down on the pedals, trying to push my way up the steeper hills. I pulled over to adjust and kept moving. Not a couple miles later on the next hill, the same thing. Knowing that eventually I was going to be climbing quite a bit to get the coast, I pulled over, unloaded my bike, turned it over, and made the serious adjustment needed for my derailur to work correctly.
Already the morning was turning into noon. The strong headwinds had made what should have been an easy climb into a fierce battle with the street. We were only traveling at about 5-7 miles per hour, compared with our normal 13 or so average. We were working twice as hard to go half the distance. Trucks would fly by at either side and we would get pushed around in their air wake, like moths and butterflies in the wind. At that moment on the side of the road, I was tired and frustrated. I felt like leaving my bike right where it was after a couple of swift kicks and sticking out my thumb to get me to the closest beach. I wondered why this was all happening to me. What had I done? I´d been leaving my campsites cleaner then they were when we arrived. I´d been sharing my food, my water, my tent. To my knowledge I hadn´t been mistreating anyone. So why me? Laurel asked if I thought the chain problem could have been related to the wheel problem. The answer, mechanically, was no. And yet I suddenly realized that they were absolutely connected. I had gotten it wrong so far. It was all happening to me exactly because I asked for it - by going on this trip; by putting myself out here trying to cross continents on a bike under all the elements. How could I do this, do anything, live life, and expect things to always go the right way, then flip my lid when they didn´t or don´t? I can´t expect that - the world owes me nothing - this is a test and exactly what I asked for. How am I going to react, how will I resolve these issues?
Before leaving on this trip, I had consulted a good friend who had taken a similar trip on bike down the middle of Mexico to Guatemala the previous year. On the mental experience, she said that I would see whether of not the things that I thought about myself were true. Putting yourself on the line, you see if you can walk the walk. As for me, I have realized that I can´t keep on living the illusion that things are supposed to go my way. I feel sorry for the people that have been close to me and suffered the wrath I have taken out on them when something went wrong. That´s no way to live. It makes people tip toe around you - that is if they still want to be around you. But who knows, they may grow tired of that leave you alltogether eventually. I don´t want that. So how am I going to react? What will I do? Its a simple lesson, but one that continues to slip my mind in moments of frustration when nothing seems to be going my way. Will I frown, yell, kick, and give up, OR will I yield, reflect, think, smile, and move on, like water around a rock...
I finally did get to the coast. Santa Rosalia was a nice, small town, full of mechanics and tire shops, clothes stores, restaurants, hotels, markets, and fisheries. The shore was mostly rocky, the water a deep blue. After getting directions to a bike shop, which sold wedding gowns and bike tires (??), it was closed, as it was siesta, and the lady sweeping the front porch that she´d open it back up the next day, or at five. Feeling a bit confused, I asked for another shop. There happened to be one on the way out of town right off the main highway. Although he had no innertubes my size with the long stems, he gave me a few little pieces that turn a presta valve into a shrader valve (which most tires in the world have). These little pieces, when attached to the valve stems of my spare tires, will give them the extra bit of length needed so that when I replace my rear innertube, I will be able to pump them up. Now, seemingly off the of the precarious ridge I had been riding on, I am a bit more confident and able to relax. Although I still have no pump, I will be able to use Laurel´s until I pick up a new one, and now I have plenty of spare tubes to go around. We just got to Mulege, thirty miles south of Santa Rosalia, and headed a bit further south, to camp somewhere along the coast of the Bahia de Concepcion. It is supposed to be warmer, with sandier beaches, and plenty of palm trees.
I was now in a very precarious position. As I think I mentioned previously, about a week before in the desert my rear tube had mysteriously blown up. I had replaced with the only spare tube I had for my rear, which requires a long stem valve since the rim is a bit longer. This replacement had gotten a tiny puncture in it from the spine of a cactus the that night, and during the patching of that the next day, I had managed to brake my tire tool that aids me in getting on and off the tire, as well as my only pump. So now, I had just broken off the only way to pump up my last remaining long-stem tube. I had no tire wrench, nor even a bike pump, and I was unsure of my mechanic work fixing the spoke as it was my first time doing so. I felt as if the whole wheel might collapse at any moment. I felt like I was teetering on a sharp mountain ridge. On one side was joy, on the other pain. If one thing were to happen to that back tire, it could ruin my day, and possbily the next couple days depending on how long it might take me to figure out the situation. I rode on - into a fierce headwind and a slow, gradual rise in elevation. Ten miles into it, my chain wasn´t hitting the cassette right and was skipping as I´d make strong pushes down on the pedals, trying to push my way up the steeper hills. I pulled over to adjust and kept moving. Not a couple miles later on the next hill, the same thing. Knowing that eventually I was going to be climbing quite a bit to get the coast, I pulled over, unloaded my bike, turned it over, and made the serious adjustment needed for my derailur to work correctly.
Already the morning was turning into noon. The strong headwinds had made what should have been an easy climb into a fierce battle with the street. We were only traveling at about 5-7 miles per hour, compared with our normal 13 or so average. We were working twice as hard to go half the distance. Trucks would fly by at either side and we would get pushed around in their air wake, like moths and butterflies in the wind. At that moment on the side of the road, I was tired and frustrated. I felt like leaving my bike right where it was after a couple of swift kicks and sticking out my thumb to get me to the closest beach. I wondered why this was all happening to me. What had I done? I´d been leaving my campsites cleaner then they were when we arrived. I´d been sharing my food, my water, my tent. To my knowledge I hadn´t been mistreating anyone. So why me? Laurel asked if I thought the chain problem could have been related to the wheel problem. The answer, mechanically, was no. And yet I suddenly realized that they were absolutely connected. I had gotten it wrong so far. It was all happening to me exactly because I asked for it - by going on this trip; by putting myself out here trying to cross continents on a bike under all the elements. How could I do this, do anything, live life, and expect things to always go the right way, then flip my lid when they didn´t or don´t? I can´t expect that - the world owes me nothing - this is a test and exactly what I asked for. How am I going to react, how will I resolve these issues?
Before leaving on this trip, I had consulted a good friend who had taken a similar trip on bike down the middle of Mexico to Guatemala the previous year. On the mental experience, she said that I would see whether of not the things that I thought about myself were true. Putting yourself on the line, you see if you can walk the walk. As for me, I have realized that I can´t keep on living the illusion that things are supposed to go my way. I feel sorry for the people that have been close to me and suffered the wrath I have taken out on them when something went wrong. That´s no way to live. It makes people tip toe around you - that is if they still want to be around you. But who knows, they may grow tired of that leave you alltogether eventually. I don´t want that. So how am I going to react? What will I do? Its a simple lesson, but one that continues to slip my mind in moments of frustration when nothing seems to be going my way. Will I frown, yell, kick, and give up, OR will I yield, reflect, think, smile, and move on, like water around a rock...
I finally did get to the coast. Santa Rosalia was a nice, small town, full of mechanics and tire shops, clothes stores, restaurants, hotels, markets, and fisheries. The shore was mostly rocky, the water a deep blue. After getting directions to a bike shop, which sold wedding gowns and bike tires (??), it was closed, as it was siesta, and the lady sweeping the front porch that she´d open it back up the next day, or at five. Feeling a bit confused, I asked for another shop. There happened to be one on the way out of town right off the main highway. Although he had no innertubes my size with the long stems, he gave me a few little pieces that turn a presta valve into a shrader valve (which most tires in the world have). These little pieces, when attached to the valve stems of my spare tires, will give them the extra bit of length needed so that when I replace my rear innertube, I will be able to pump them up. Now, seemingly off the of the precarious ridge I had been riding on, I am a bit more confident and able to relax. Although I still have no pump, I will be able to use Laurel´s until I pick up a new one, and now I have plenty of spare tubes to go around. We just got to Mulege, thirty miles south of Santa Rosalia, and headed a bit further south, to camp somewhere along the coast of the Bahia de Concepcion. It is supposed to be warmer, with sandier beaches, and plenty of palm trees.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Valle de los Cirios
We have crossed the 28th parallel and have entered Mountain Time Zone. Even though the sun still sets at exactly the same time here as it did yesterday, it is now an hour forward. We are in Guerrero Negro, at the very northern end of Baja California Sur. Guerrero Negro is well known for its salt processing refineries and the lagoons just west where grey whales come down in the thousands to give birth and nurse young little whales into life. Although I will not go on any tours to see the whales out in the lagoon, I did get the chance to see a huge whale skeleton. Quite impressive. Other than these few things, there is not much in Guerrero Negro. There are many hotels and restaurants catering to this tourism, but it is a hard time for tourism, and much of the streets, shops, hotels, and cafes remain dusty and empty.
I was hoping to fix my bike pump in this town, which broke one frustrating morning on a desert road several days back. I have visited every mechanic and the one store that sells bikes in town, and no one seems to know how to fix it, or to want to help me fix it, even after explaining to them the dire circumstances I will be in if one of my innertubes pops or goes flat out in the desert. They simply tell me that its broken, to which I respond, thank you for telling me the obvious and I walk away confused as to why no one wants to help me. Luckily, Laurel has a pump, but I do not like to rely on other people, and seeing as how I eventually will leave her, I am quite pressed to try and find a solution to this problem. I will most likely end up leaving this town without a solution, and will try to find that solution in a bigger town with better bike stores...
Since the last post, we headed east and up. We climbed a couple thousand feet (between 2000 and 3000) and rolled up and down hills on a plateau in the Valle de Los Cirios, a nature preserve here in Baja. It was pure desert, but quite beautiful. There was every type of cactus there you could imagine, including one, the Cirio, which only grows in this place, even though scientists have tried to reproduce it in labs and greenhouses outside of this environment. It got cold at night, and one night howled with wind and some rain and kept me up most of the night. We would ride miles and miles without seeing any civilization, and when that finally came, it would be one store in the middle of nowhere - a rest stop for truckers to change a tire, grab some chips and soda - and move on. It was in these one store towns that we would fill up our water bottles and move on to find the next campsite. We finally came out of the valley yesterday and rode into Guerrero Negro after thirty miles of the flattest, plainest road I have ever ridden. This straight road cut a path from the desert back to the coast and had no scenery except for small shrubs, sand, and one electric pole after another, lining our way toward...
Besides the pump, another brutal loss was my camera. It took a fall one day four feet to the ground and refused to turn on since. I tried my best to fix it, but to no avail. I salvaged the batteries and the memory card, and threw the rest away in a trash bin in Rosario. I have been adament about having Laurel take pictures, and when we finish our time together, there has been some talk about her passing on the camera to me, which was in itself passed on to her by a friend. So for the time being, Im sorry to say there will be no more pictures for a little while.
I have been biking a lot, and although my body still feels fine, it is tired. We slept last night in a cheap motel room, and I loved every second I spent in the bed. Even though we were promised hot water, there was none. And I mean no water, not even cold, until this morning, which added to my disappointment of this meager village.
I look forward to moving on, and relaxing by the warm shores of the sea of cortez. We will most likely hang out the rest of the day, rest our bones, and camp somewhere just outside of town tonight, and then start moving again in the morning.
Until next time,
Chris
I was hoping to fix my bike pump in this town, which broke one frustrating morning on a desert road several days back. I have visited every mechanic and the one store that sells bikes in town, and no one seems to know how to fix it, or to want to help me fix it, even after explaining to them the dire circumstances I will be in if one of my innertubes pops or goes flat out in the desert. They simply tell me that its broken, to which I respond, thank you for telling me the obvious and I walk away confused as to why no one wants to help me. Luckily, Laurel has a pump, but I do not like to rely on other people, and seeing as how I eventually will leave her, I am quite pressed to try and find a solution to this problem. I will most likely end up leaving this town without a solution, and will try to find that solution in a bigger town with better bike stores...
Since the last post, we headed east and up. We climbed a couple thousand feet (between 2000 and 3000) and rolled up and down hills on a plateau in the Valle de Los Cirios, a nature preserve here in Baja. It was pure desert, but quite beautiful. There was every type of cactus there you could imagine, including one, the Cirio, which only grows in this place, even though scientists have tried to reproduce it in labs and greenhouses outside of this environment. It got cold at night, and one night howled with wind and some rain and kept me up most of the night. We would ride miles and miles without seeing any civilization, and when that finally came, it would be one store in the middle of nowhere - a rest stop for truckers to change a tire, grab some chips and soda - and move on. It was in these one store towns that we would fill up our water bottles and move on to find the next campsite. We finally came out of the valley yesterday and rode into Guerrero Negro after thirty miles of the flattest, plainest road I have ever ridden. This straight road cut a path from the desert back to the coast and had no scenery except for small shrubs, sand, and one electric pole after another, lining our way toward...
Besides the pump, another brutal loss was my camera. It took a fall one day four feet to the ground and refused to turn on since. I tried my best to fix it, but to no avail. I salvaged the batteries and the memory card, and threw the rest away in a trash bin in Rosario. I have been adament about having Laurel take pictures, and when we finish our time together, there has been some talk about her passing on the camera to me, which was in itself passed on to her by a friend. So for the time being, Im sorry to say there will be no more pictures for a little while.
I have been biking a lot, and although my body still feels fine, it is tired. We slept last night in a cheap motel room, and I loved every second I spent in the bed. Even though we were promised hot water, there was none. And I mean no water, not even cold, until this morning, which added to my disappointment of this meager village.
I look forward to moving on, and relaxing by the warm shores of the sea of cortez. We will most likely hang out the rest of the day, rest our bones, and camp somewhere just outside of town tonight, and then start moving again in the morning.
Until next time,
Chris
Friday, February 5, 2010
Just the Beginning
Greetings from Rosario, Baja California, norte
Well, I have made it halfway down BC norte officially today. We have been averaging about 50 miles a day, which seems to be plenty. The road has been pretty good so far - not so bumpy, not so sandy, except for a couple sections where we had to walk our bikes across about 1km of sand. I would rather have backtracked and biked an extra 20 miles than do that. Lesson learned. Crossing the border was no problem. We crossed at around 8 in the am, and although we tried to find the free road to Rosarito, we ended up on the busy toll road. This put us in quite a predicament, and trying to cross to the other side of the road with cars flying by at 80 km/hr and a five foot ledge in the middle of the road was scary and comical at the same time. We got through there though, and after navigating through some pretty poor parts of Tijuana, found our way toward the coast. The stretch of road from Tijuana to Ensenada is what I remember of it from road trips down - it follows the coast, and there are little developments and big developments all along the way. Most of the big construction has been stopped for the past couple years, and the cement and steel frames of some huge resorts look the same they did several years before. Most of the access to the beach is restricted or private and unless you want to sneak under an old barbwire fence or pay some money, you don´t go to the beach. Our first night we spent in La Mision, 60 km down the coast. We stayed with a couch surfing friend who treated us like kings. He took us to a friends trailer on the coast who barbequed hamburgers with all the fixins´ and we sang old Mexican ballads into the early evening. After that we headed inland a bit on the toll road in a beautiful stretch of hills and plains covered with low lying green vegetation. The road took us back to the coast at Ensenada, and we traveled a bit further for our first night camping in Mexico. Unfortunately, dusk came before we could find a real good spot, and so we settled on a little piece of land just down an embankment from the main road. It was a little sketchy, and could be seen by the road if they were really looking, but no one bothered us and we woke up ok. Our third day took us again away from the coast and up some hills. We ran into a couple from Quebec who was returning on their way back from Panama. They started their trip down to Panama on the east coast a year ago. Yesterday was the worst day by far. Long stretches of flat road rolling by dusty farmlands with crowded roads. Also, our third rider, Jordan, decided to leave us so he could go a bit slower. So now its just Laurel and I. Laurel is proving to be quite a good mate though: She is a well experienced camper, a tough rider, her Spanish is pretty good, and she makes decent conversation at night. Although I would rather be sharing this journey with countless other friends or relatives, she is keeping me from what would surely be some pretty lonely feelings down here.
We made it just south of the farmland and were able to camp in a spot a bit inland from the coast. Today has been some pretty good riding - very few cars. The scenery gives me an impression of what southern california would have looked like before development. Lots of low lying shrub on marsh land. Lots of shore birds, rabbits, squirrels, etc. We have just started to head inland, and will spend the next several days at a higher elevation as move down in the middle of the peninusla, before again returning to the coast at Guerrero Negro. Spots for water seem less available on this stretch according to the map, but we should be fine. I have had no trouble filling my water bottles at little pure water filling stations inside semi large stores at the major truck stops.
The road, although shoulderless, is as I said in great condition. Most people give us space enough, and we get honked at quite a bit. Most honks our enouraging gestures from friendly truckers or travelers, and the occasional one is a pissed off driver urging us to bike in the gravel and sand. Dogs often awake and run after us as we pass by, growling, barking, and trying to bite our legs and bags. A couple dogs befriended us last night at the campsite. In the morning, we found that some of Laurel´s clothes had been dragged off and chewed up. I couldn´t find my sandals either, but after a bit of searching, I recovered both pair, seemingly untouched. The weather has been amazing. Partly cloudy, sunny, warm. It gets a little cold at night sometimes, but nothing too bad. The cloud cover for the most part has been amazing during the day. Today I climbed the steepest hill I ever have on my bike, and then got to ride down the steepest hill as well.
It is interesting for me to travel this way. It is much different than my time in Guatemala, where I spent four months in one spot. Traveling this much everyday, you don´t get the same interaction with people. I could be traveling anywhere really. Except for the occasional converation at a store, I am not interacting much with the locals. I guess it is more of a tour of the scenery, which has its own perks. Sometimes I feel like I could be anywhere in the world.
All in all, things are good. It is weird to be traveling further south everyday, further away from all that I know, with no welcoming party wherever I end up. My bike is still kicking strong, as am I, and I look forward to the new scenery every day.
Well, I have made it halfway down BC norte officially today. We have been averaging about 50 miles a day, which seems to be plenty. The road has been pretty good so far - not so bumpy, not so sandy, except for a couple sections where we had to walk our bikes across about 1km of sand. I would rather have backtracked and biked an extra 20 miles than do that. Lesson learned. Crossing the border was no problem. We crossed at around 8 in the am, and although we tried to find the free road to Rosarito, we ended up on the busy toll road. This put us in quite a predicament, and trying to cross to the other side of the road with cars flying by at 80 km/hr and a five foot ledge in the middle of the road was scary and comical at the same time. We got through there though, and after navigating through some pretty poor parts of Tijuana, found our way toward the coast. The stretch of road from Tijuana to Ensenada is what I remember of it from road trips down - it follows the coast, and there are little developments and big developments all along the way. Most of the big construction has been stopped for the past couple years, and the cement and steel frames of some huge resorts look the same they did several years before. Most of the access to the beach is restricted or private and unless you want to sneak under an old barbwire fence or pay some money, you don´t go to the beach. Our first night we spent in La Mision, 60 km down the coast. We stayed with a couch surfing friend who treated us like kings. He took us to a friends trailer on the coast who barbequed hamburgers with all the fixins´ and we sang old Mexican ballads into the early evening. After that we headed inland a bit on the toll road in a beautiful stretch of hills and plains covered with low lying green vegetation. The road took us back to the coast at Ensenada, and we traveled a bit further for our first night camping in Mexico. Unfortunately, dusk came before we could find a real good spot, and so we settled on a little piece of land just down an embankment from the main road. It was a little sketchy, and could be seen by the road if they were really looking, but no one bothered us and we woke up ok. Our third day took us again away from the coast and up some hills. We ran into a couple from Quebec who was returning on their way back from Panama. They started their trip down to Panama on the east coast a year ago. Yesterday was the worst day by far. Long stretches of flat road rolling by dusty farmlands with crowded roads. Also, our third rider, Jordan, decided to leave us so he could go a bit slower. So now its just Laurel and I. Laurel is proving to be quite a good mate though: She is a well experienced camper, a tough rider, her Spanish is pretty good, and she makes decent conversation at night. Although I would rather be sharing this journey with countless other friends or relatives, she is keeping me from what would surely be some pretty lonely feelings down here.
We made it just south of the farmland and were able to camp in a spot a bit inland from the coast. Today has been some pretty good riding - very few cars. The scenery gives me an impression of what southern california would have looked like before development. Lots of low lying shrub on marsh land. Lots of shore birds, rabbits, squirrels, etc. We have just started to head inland, and will spend the next several days at a higher elevation as move down in the middle of the peninusla, before again returning to the coast at Guerrero Negro. Spots for water seem less available on this stretch according to the map, but we should be fine. I have had no trouble filling my water bottles at little pure water filling stations inside semi large stores at the major truck stops.
The road, although shoulderless, is as I said in great condition. Most people give us space enough, and we get honked at quite a bit. Most honks our enouraging gestures from friendly truckers or travelers, and the occasional one is a pissed off driver urging us to bike in the gravel and sand. Dogs often awake and run after us as we pass by, growling, barking, and trying to bite our legs and bags. A couple dogs befriended us last night at the campsite. In the morning, we found that some of Laurel´s clothes had been dragged off and chewed up. I couldn´t find my sandals either, but after a bit of searching, I recovered both pair, seemingly untouched. The weather has been amazing. Partly cloudy, sunny, warm. It gets a little cold at night sometimes, but nothing too bad. The cloud cover for the most part has been amazing during the day. Today I climbed the steepest hill I ever have on my bike, and then got to ride down the steepest hill as well.
It is interesting for me to travel this way. It is much different than my time in Guatemala, where I spent four months in one spot. Traveling this much everyday, you don´t get the same interaction with people. I could be traveling anywhere really. Except for the occasional converation at a store, I am not interacting much with the locals. I guess it is more of a tour of the scenery, which has its own perks. Sometimes I feel like I could be anywhere in the world.
All in all, things are good. It is weird to be traveling further south everyday, further away from all that I know, with no welcoming party wherever I end up. My bike is still kicking strong, as am I, and I look forward to the new scenery every day.
Friday, January 29, 2010
I Just Can't Wait to Get On the Road Again
Partly cloudy, 65 F, Barely a breeze -
I sit on a comfy recliner in a friend's house in Pacific Beach, San Diego, finishing the coffee I got on my four block walk down to the ocean to gaze at the surf, soak up the morning sun, and play some frisbee with my brother this morning. After a 12 day bike ride down the PCH from San Francisco to San Diego, where we faced inclement weather (supposedly one of the worst set of storms the California coast had seen in two decades), and cold nights in and out of the tent, Leigh Ann (my girlfriend of nine months, dear friend, and hearty and well-tested traveling companion) and I finally arrived in San Diego last Sunday. The first leg of the trip was a bit trying. It tested my patience and Leigh Ann's tolerance and mental toughness. Although we were blessed with good weather up until Big Sur, our pocket of sunshine did not hold up the second week. As we carefully plotted our course from Gorda, on the southern edge of Big Sur, to Los Angeles, it was stressful trying to cover distance in between rain storms. The looming threat of rain was a constant thought in the back of our minds. Although we got thoroughly soaked at some points along the way, the sun always came out for short bursts of warmth and light, and the green hills and swampy farmlands never looked so magical, glistening with their raindrop jackets. We found hosts to take us in on three different nights during this leg. It was great to feel welcome in these towns and made me feel part of a community bigger than anything I had known. That these people would open up their hearts and their homes to two weary travelers on bicycles is something special. Thank you Richard, Terry, and Leslie. Even when we did not plan it, we would find kindness from people along the roads, in parking lots, along the cliffs of southern california.
A couple highlights along the way: an organic strawberry and kiwi farm just north of Santa Cruz where we were able to do some jam tasting, and where payment for coffee and other goods was on the honor system - put your money in the box, take what change you need, with no one to govern it. It was nice soaking up the sun in a red chair in front of the store, overlooking the PCH, a field of yellow wildflowers, and the ocean beyond. Our last two days of riding was in pure, unhindered sunshine - a nice welcome to so cal. A beautiful sunset, and even more glorious sunrise on top of the ridge at San Onofre St. Park, our last campsite.
Since arriving in SD, there has been a lot to take in: sight seeing, old friends, old coworkers, and some taking care of business (application to USD grad school, and fixing up the trusty steed for its next leg through Baja), but it seems as if things have finally slowed down, at least for the day, and at least enough for me to sit here in silence, reflecting on things accomplished and things to come. I am enjoying all the amenities of societal living (stoves, refrigerators, chairs, beds, shelter, computers, cars, friends) while I have them. I got two responses from people that have shown interest in riding with me as far as the tip of Baja. One response was from a 20 yr old guy from Manitoba, Canada, who started his trip in early September. His name is Jordan. We met the other day and he seems like he will make a good companion. He managed to plant enough trees for the Queen last spring to finance his trip south. The other response was from a girl, Laurel, who is 26 and from Oregon. She is a field biologist and works during the spring and summer and has the winters off. I will meet her in just a few short hours. I have secured two places to stay my first two nights in Mexico. One will be in La Mision, a small town in between the beaches of Rosarito and Ensenada, and the next will be in Ensenada. These hosts should make for a smooth transition to Baja. After Ensenada, we will be far enough away from the chaos and congestion of the border towns that I will feel much more comfortable camping out. I am excited to get to know my two new traveling companions and for the sights, experiences, and adventures that await south of the border. My legs and rump are primed, my gear is tested and restocked, my bike is cleaned and tuned, my health is great, my spirit is high. Plans to depart are set for Monday, Feb. 1. A big thanks to the family, friends, and strangers who have helped me make it this far.
I am ready and open for whatever awaits me...
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