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.
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