Dear Friends, Fellow Riders, and Random Stumblers Upon,

As you know I have been on the road for 3 years now. I’ve ridden over 61,000km through 14 countries and 2 continents… and it’s still just the beginning.

Everyone keeps telling me that I should have a Donation button on my site, and for all of these years, through all of the trials and tribulations, I have resisted. I just don’t like asking for money for myself. I would much rather promote other worthy causes. But I’ve come to the realization that a project as expansive as mine is not something I can do on my own. Coming from a teacher’s salary I am far from independently wealthy, and the world is a big place to traverse in my search for Common Bonds between cultures.

In light of my recent crash (story here), and the last few months of Georgia draining my time and resources through countless mechanical failures, I’ve decided to finally put a Donation button on my site. You can find it on the left hand side of any page on my site: Alexander Tolchinsky

Right now I just need to get Georgia fixed, or rather rebuilt, and buy a new helmet and gloves. As for the book I will create a formal campaign when I complete South America, which, with your help, I hope I can do.
Thank you in advance for your support. I hope you have enjoyed the stories, maps and photography from the last few years, and know there is more on the way!

I hope you will take a moment and share this with your friends.

Gratefully,

Alexander Tolchinsky

Here is a little taste, just a peek, of the beauty that is Peru:

















Georgia Before the Fall:

.... and the not so pretty Peru:






Happy Trail Boxes Baby!! The support snapped, again, there were some cracks along the edges... but this is their second time, mostly withstanding hard crashes, at high speed - incredible!!! i love them!

Counting Blessings

I feel the stiffness and soreness in my hands, my neck, my back… I feel the bruises on my legs, my hip, my elbow, my ass… I look at a torn apart Georgia, and my torn jacket and pants and broken helmet… I think back on the cold, the wind, the thin air, the shitty road, the fishtail, the 60mph smash against the ground, and staring up at the sky from the ditch… and eventually to my 4 hour ride after the crash.

The pain I have endured, the time and money lost on repairs and rehab, they are all annoying and troublesome – but I am here to endure it. I can still hardly believe that after being whipped to the ground at such a speed that I was able to ride Georgia out from the middle of nowhere to Arequipa. Even more incredible is that I broke no bones, suffered no concussion (though my head was one of the first points of impact), and am able to write this.

I don’t know whether it’s the wings on my leg, my mother’s enduring presence – in one form or another, the lucky charms I carry with me… whatever it is it’s keeping me here still. I sometimes close my eyes and see the moments of impact, the moments of being separated from Georgia in Guatemala and Peru, and I shake with fear – fear of the road, fear of continuing my journey. After the Guatemala crash it took more than 6 months to start riding normally again. On every curve in the road I saw myself smashing against the wall, every discoloration I thought was a puddle of gas or oil. After the ride from Glacier, when I was almost hypothermic, for a whole year I thought every shadow on the side of the road was an animal getting ready to jump out in front of me. And now I can add being whipped to the ground to the morbid fantasies that crawl into my waking mind.

But in spite of the horror, in spite of the fear, I know I cannot stop. I know that because no matter how bad it seems it could have been worse. I was punished, for what I do not know, but I was not incapacitated. My progress was retarded, but not halted. The ride is not meant to be over.

And so I am left to count my blessings, to mount again my trusty steed, to feel the wind in my face and the roar beneath my saddle, and ride further into the depths of our incredible planet and the amazing people that inhabit it, and hopefully find the books I am meant to write

Hi Steelhorse, I hope that Arequipa is treating you better than it treated me in 1983. I was run out of town by a rioting bunch of out of work miners, shouting, burn the gringo, kill the gringo (saying no gringo, Ingles made no difference) Beautiful city with a very calm and pleasant monastery just off Plaza de armas. shortly before the riot I was drinking tea in the monastery with humming birds flitting around my head.

Stay cool and stay safe.
Canyon

Hey Canyon! Holy crap man! No, the people here have been extremely nice and very helpful. I would not have such a good recovery if it were not for them. Crazy people who protest mining and want to burn gringos (here every white foreigner is a gringo) are not normal Peruvians... they are like rednecks in the states or geezers/(general douches) in England.

Hope you come back some day, Peru has been incredible!!

Sorry to hear of your misfortune, we have all done that but seldom so far from home.
Rob

The stories from the road continue... we pick up in Colombia, the beginning of the South American Odyssey:

Colombia - First Steps


Sometimes it’s hard to believe that I am where I am. Not so many years ago the world was a dream - the world beyond the U.S and Europe and Israel. But now it is revealing itself, one country at a time. I remember dreaming of Colombia without actually considering how or when I would ever come here. But I found myself there, and as the money I had saved up and earned from selling most of what I owned was quickly coming to end, I would get to enjoy the country for more than its beauty and cordiality.

Uncharacteristically we got off on the wrong foot, as, a couple of days after landing in Cartagena I was robbed.

I wanted a better exchange rate than the bank would give and ended up losing $250 to a sleight of hand. The money changer kept taking the wad back after I counted and recounted it himself. I knew not to let him touch it, but he just kept doing it, so I gave it to Eran, the Israeli biker I met while unloading Georgia off the boat, to count it again. Eran counted it, but the guy took the money in hand again, for the 4th time! Like a fool, I let it happen, gave him my $300 and walked away. 10 paces later I stopped, counted the money again, realized that I was missing 500,000 pesos, turned around, but he was gone. He and they guy I met who called him, and his “girlfriend” and “niece” were gone. We ran around in every direction, but they had disappeared.

$250 is generally a huge amount for me, but as I was running on the fumes in my bank account it hurt more than just my ego.

But that was the beginning and end of any unpleasantness. The rest of my time in Colombia was replete with the most friendly and helpful and considerate people outside of Mexico.

After only a few days in Cartagena I had to get on the way as I could not function in the infernal heat. It is hard to describe the heat that permeates the Caribbean coast. Because it is thick from humidity, when the sun is shining directly on you, it feels like the inside of a giant oven. This is not an exaggeration, I literally felt like I was being cooked. Just the act of putting on my pants and jacket drenched me, and the wind did little to alleviate that during the ride. The constant traffic lights and construction stops did not help – I would instantly be covered in sweat the second I stopped riding.

I was fortunate to have a place to stay in Lorica, about 200km outside of Cartagena. It was nice to break up the 700km ride to Medellin. How I came to Alexis’ house is one of those beautiful stories which make me hunger to forever be on the road:
It was around 3am and I was walking back to my hostel after a nice stroll with two pretty Colombian girls. All of a sudden out of the corner of my eye I saw a guy turn around. He looked at me for just a moment before throwing open his arms, and with a huge smile calling my name. I could not believe it, I had to shake my head and rub my eyes to make sure it was all real. I met Lambert about 4 months earlier on the early morning ferry to Utila, Honduras. We talked and drank, and hung out on the island – just a great time with a great guy. A week later I had to get back on the road and he stayed back for a month doing various diving certifications. And then, in the middle of the street in Cartagena, Colombia we met again. But this was just a beginning. Lambert and some friends were with Alexis, whom they met at a small square in the Getsemani neighborhood where I was staying. This happened just an hour before we ran into each other. Alexis proceeded to offer to help me with my job search in Medellin as he has family there, and invited me to stay at his house on my way there.

The ride to Medellin was at first extremely hot, then turned cold and wet as I began to climb into the mountains. But I welcomed the cold as I had not felt it in almost a year. I stopped at a random little station somewhere in the mountains to put on my rain gear, and noticed a man preparing to milk his cows in the field to the side of the gas station. I walked over to him and asked if I could buy some fresh milk and take some pictures. I spent the next hour and a half talking to Livardo, who at the end would not take a penny from me. It was a beautiful moment of cultural exchange between two very, very different people. But we both were open minded and eager to learn, so the time passed quickly and pleasantly as we shared stories from our countries.



By the time I got back on my steed the sun was setting. I hate so much riding at night, but in Colombia where the FARC like to shut down a road every once in a while, it was particularly an unwelcomed necessity. However, experience would show that the FARC rarely do this outside of their zone of drug operation, and for the most part do not bother tourists.

In Medellin I found my host’s apartment packed with guests; one of whom was a girl named Ashley who I had met in Nicaragua some months ago. But the more we talked the more it seemed as though we had known each other before. It turned out we have been on a similar path ever since Belize, so it’s very possible we had crossed paths many times without ever realizing it. There were people from many countries in the apartment and we shared a lovely and lively meal. It was the perfect start, and really set the tone, for my time in Colombia.

LIVE UPDATE

Today is 3 years on the road! 61,000km... and country #15: Bolivia!!




A huge thank you to all the people who have donated - I am back on the road and with a proper helmet because of you!!

Hello Brothers and Sisters of the Road,

There are many difficulties involved in living on a motorcycle for 3 years, one of which is what to do with my photography. Since I am never anywhere long enough I can't have nay shows in galleries, or anything of the sort. And since I haven't had an income in all that time, I need to start entering some contests (to say nothing of submitting my writing for publication).
Since an artist is the worst judge of his own work, I was hoping that I could get some feedback from you guys on which photos I should submit to contests.
You can find most of my photography on my website:
[url=http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/main/?page_id=131]Photography

Greetings Amigos!
As always, I'm sorry for the delay. For those of you who follow my journey, im sure this must be annoying as hell!
But, to make up for it, the photos are going to get much better as at this point in my journey I got a professional camera again!
Tomorrow I will post the next story, and I hope to get one up every week (at least for a while)

Thanks for your patience! Stay tuned tomorrow morning!

-Alexander

Colombia 2: Down to fumes

Medellin is an entire world contained, like so many South American cities, in lovely valley. It has some of the poorest and most dangerous barrios in the world, as well as fantastically wealthy people (on the scale of Pablo Escobar). There is plenty to draw in the tourists – the incredible women, the music and dancing, the museums… but even in La Zona Rosa I never felt inundated by tourists. It’s big enough to draw people from around the world, and has all the comforts of a big city, yet it’s small enough to learn, and start recognizing people on the street, within a few weeks. It is a city of balance, so to speak, and one that is very easy to call home.

Unfortunately Medellin is where my savings, and the money I made from selling everything I owned, came down to fumes. A teacher’s salary and a few bottles of scotch don’t get you too far I suppose, though I did make it through all of North America on it.



My only option, I thought, was to look for a job. Thankfully I am extremely qualified to do what is in the greatest demand around the world: teaching English. This is a very useful skill to have and if you are fortunate enough to do it in Korea or Japan you will make a good amount of money; everywhere else in the world it will be enough to survive, or even live well where you are, but almost never enough to save (so that you can continue to travel – especially on a motorcycle). So I began going to the language schools, universities, international schools and regular schools. I printed resumes (which I had to adjust to fit the Colombian model, which included a full page photo!), and spent my days riding around to all corners of Medellin in search for a job. Of course, given my extraordinary luck with life, this was a few weeks before the holidays, so no one, and I mean no one, was hiring. Ironically, after the holidays were over and I was long gone from Medellin, the offers came pouring in from every place I submitted my resume. I also had plenty of people offering to help, saying they knew people in the field, however, Latinos are often greater in word than in deed. They love to be helpful (whether real or imagined), and never say no, or that they can’t do something. The result, more often than not, is a huge waste of time as you expect people to come through on their word. It’s not done out of maliciousness, rather from a strong desire to be kind and friendly. Still, it is one of the more annoying elements of Latino society.

One of the best job offers I got was from EAFIT, the best private university in Medellin, to teach International Business and Marketing. But, I had another problem – the lack of a work visa. This manifested itself in a few other locations as well. I eventually met a guy at a local pastry I used to go to who had his own company and would be willing to offer me a work visa just because we became friends (a very Colombian thing to do). I got all of his papers and corp. docs and began the long and insane process of going through the Colombian bureaucracy. But as it was getting closer and closer to Christmas, I decided to move onto Bogota because the market was bigger and I would have a greater chance at finding work and a visa. And just as I was beginning to sink into despair, job offers notwithstanding, an angel appeared in my life and changed the course of my journey.

I had met Ralph only a few times when I was living in New York. He owns the Red Hook Lobster Pound, as well as a shop where he makes custom bikes and kitchen tables from entire tree trunks. Before I left on my journey Ralph told me that if I ever needed anything to let him know. I hate asking for money, I’m not even good at receiving gifts, but in Colombia I saw the end (if temporary) of my journey and that prompted a letter to Ralph. To my surprise (and everlasting gratitude) he did not ask anything other than how much I needed. I couldn’t believe I was doing this, and I could even less believe that it was happening. I calculated the absolute bare minimum (which actually was not enough) to finish South America and sent Ralph the amount. A check was ready for me the very next day. If it were not for Ralph I would have had to store Georgia somewhere and go work in an oil field to make enough money to continue this crazy journey. If I were only riding I would have been done long ago, but since the purpose is a book I end up staying places for very, very, long periods of time – which, no matter how little I spend per week, ends up costing more. That and the sicknesses (including dengue), and all the issues with Georgia… it was all a drain on the little I had. But my angel appeared and so this journey, and the book continue.

3 Years and 2 months on the road! 67,000km!!
Currently in Cordoba, Argentina

And tomorrow the next story from the road, with the beginning of the good photos ( to continue from here on out).

12-25-13: Christmas Colombian Style



After giving up the job search in Medellin I made my way to Bogota to search in the bigger market. There I met Catalina and her family and was thrown head first into the novena period before Christmas. For 9 days before, and including, Christmas Eve, people go from house to house of their friends and relatives to hear a novena – the Christmas story. The prayers and songs are festive and mostly the same in every house and every night; but one night is not enough for Colombians because families here are huge and circles of friends are even bigger, and so to ensure that everyone spends some time with all of the hundreds of people they are closest to, we get 9 days of Novenas. And of course 9 days of gorging oneself upon tasty seasonal treats.

Some novenas get wilder than others. It all starts with the prayers and the stories and the songs and psalms from the bible, but then transforms into general Christmas medleys and dancing and drinking and all of a sudden it’s just another party. Latinos have a religious festival for everything, and I mean everything: every saint, every miracle, the beginning of lent, the end of lent, the middle of lent, this virgin, another virgin, the original virgin… and every one is an excuse to get pissed. Tequila, , mescal, fernet, aguardiente, rum, whiskey, chicha… it all flows freely and to the point that most don’t remember which saints day of circumcision they are supposed to be celebrating. And the more indigenous the people, the drunker they get – not only because they generally consume more, which is true, but from what I have gathered, having spent time with dozens of indigenous groups, they may be devout Catholics, but they aren’t happy about it. The songs of their fathers still reverberate in their veins. You can see it in the architecture, nothing is purely “colonial” or gothic or anything else European – every church has secrets of masks and figures of the old gods hidden in the pillars, in the painted ceilings, in the golden altars. You can see angels and cherubs with high cheek bones, darker skin, longer hair. You see Jesus eating what looks more like rice and beans than bread and fish. The celebrations and processions are also a mix of the indigenous, be it Mayan, Zapotec, Inca or Mexica, and the Christian – from the costumes to the dances to the figures and icons themselves. In every holiday there is a little rebellion, a little hate, a little reminder of what was and what was taken from them by cruel force and disease. But looking at it all from a distance they are extremely devout and religious, as most poor people are. The indoctrination was not a failure, only that it left a residual hatred which now manifests itself in mostly subtle ways.

Colombia is a country which stands less indigenous than others. Other than the remnants of African slaves who mostly occupy the coastal areas, and a few indigenous groups in the mountains and jungle, the majority of the country is very white. Like El Salvador and Costa Rica before, Colombian conquistadors did a thorough job eradicating the native populations. Who did not die by the sword, in the mines, or from disease, were properly raped until only a faint caramel in their skin bespoke of ancestry that was not Spanish. And it all continues to this day as FARC takes more and more land to grow coca, and kills anyone who stands in the way. The government is also pretty good about making sure that deforestation keeps the remaining natives on the move and with fewer and fewer options but to convert to the church of jeans, TV and McDonalds.

However I felt none of this animosity, contrarily, I encountered many selfless people who used the holiday not as an excuse to drink, but as an excuse to do more, to give more, to love more.



A few days before Christmas I was walking around Bogota with my camera, looking for I did not know what, until I spotted a large group of people waiting outside a building. Bogota is not a warm place in the winter, and it had been raining for as long as I could remember, but there they were, in various degrees of dress, just waiting. Lines are not uncommon in Latin America, but there was something about this group which drew me in. I approached a few people, said my hello, and began asking for what they were waiting. Because all of these people were from the poorest classes I had a hard time understanding their Spanish, but I did manage to get something about presents, a novena and some food. I knocked at the door where most were gathered and was squeezed inside and the door quickly shut behind. I began asking the young man who let me in what it was all about, and he was good enough to offer to take me on a tour. I had stumbled upon a man, really, who used his old familial house as a refuge of learning for the children of drug addicts. He, and a few private donors, fund this entire endeavor with no help from the government. Hundreds of children make it through those doors at some point during each year, and all are welcomed, all have a safe space, classes, snacks, and love. During the Christmas season the foundation puts on a Novena play for all to see, and provides food and drink and free presents to all those who come. Some are infants, others late into their teens. Those who have been there the longest now help out, like the young man who ushered me in and showed me around. I met the man himself – a quiet gentleman in his late 70’s. We spoke of Russia and communism, of his efforts to improve the lives of children and give them a fighting chance in spite of their parent’s best efforts to consume all hope through needles and pipes. We spoke of the independence of his work and lack of government support, but most of all of the children and the hope he still has. I spent a beautiful hour with this giant mass of people, those who have entered and those still waiting outside, and captured some of the most moving photos from my journey.









My ever present wish to somehow do more was granted to me by Catalina who invited me to go with her to Villa de Leyva to hand out gifts to the poor children from the country side.



5a.m: The cobble stone streets are empty and peaceful, save for the Christmas carols bouncing off the whitewashed walls of perfectly preserved colonial houses. There is no other sound; the birds have not yet started their call of morning glory, people are still warm and tucked in their beds. I approach the main square – a giant space with a fountain in the middle, surrounded on all sides by the same buildings as the rest of the town, with a simple, but large, church dominating one side. The sound of the carols is coming from speakers placed high in the belfry, and it spreads throughout Villa De Leyva, one reverberation, one wall, one stone at a time. What was at first a hint of children’s voices is now a veritable din, punctuated with the occasional bell and firework.



The town lies in the middle of Colombia, in the countryside through which Bolivar passed during his campaign to Liberate Colombia and Venezuela. It looks so idyllic, so peaceful, so stable, and yet beyond the vacation homes and artist retreats lie thousands of acres farmed by people who cannot buy their children Christmas presents. So Catalina, three of her friends, a nun and a monk, and myself, set out to remedy the situation. The first night we went to St. Martin, a community about an hour from Villa de Leyva. We brought the snacks and gifts into the towns meeting hall, which was little more than a barn with some benches around the perimeter. The monk told the story of Christmas, candles were lit, prayers were murmured, the nun ensured the more restless kids kept their seats. Mostly mothers, and a few fathers, sat around with the infants, quietly listening and quietly singing along. There was a moment of silence, when the adobe walls and faces were only lit by the candles flickering in the interminable draft, in which the world shrunk to just that little room, and in the stillness the kid’s faces reflected the entire story of their plight, their hopes, and resignations. It was peaceful and sad and beautiful all at once.







The following day almost 300 children and parents came for the novena at the foundation Ciudad de Dios – a convent, orphanage and home for the elderly. Kids from Villa de Leyva put on a short but lovely nativity play, the traditional songs were sung, prayers chanted… then everyone received gifts and snacks. Not all the kids said thank you (or so it seemed), few were very glad to receive the gifts. Granted they were not stupendous, but most were nice and age appropriate. Still, not as many smiles as one would hope to see. Generally I have found that regardless of how poor the kids are, if they are Latino, they are pretty happy. Guatemala was an exception, and now it seems this too was an exception to the rule. It makes me think of what is really important during this holiday. Is it the gifts? Doesn’t seem like it. Is it the singing and praying? For some yes, but for just as many, no. Are they missing a parent? Are they missing friends from school? Do they feel so acutely their poverty? Why the sadness? On some faces it was so profound that I was taken aback – expressions of calm despair on young children, none of whom should have lost anyone to the war or displacement (the area is very safe)… why did I not talk to the girl who looked so sad waiting for a sibling to receive a gift? It would not have cost me anything, only that I don’t like to intrude on people’s lives, especially when they seem so profoundly sad.













But I still can’t get her face out of my mind – just like the girl in Orizaba making animal figures out of palm leaves on the street. I fall in love with them instantly: the one from Orizaba, Betzaida at the orphanage in Guatemala, this girl… I don’t know what it is, but the love boils up into my throat until I have to choke down the tears. I want to adopt them, I want to take them out of their hell so that their faces never again have to wear those expressions. I want them to dress comfortably, eat good food, study, read books, to know their worth and capacity, to go out with men (eventually) who know how to treat a lady. As much as I doubt having children of my own, there is not a moments doubt about wanting them to be my daughters. Years have passed since these moments and I can still see their faces, my heart still burns from my ineptitude and gypsy life which makes adoption impossible, and a sick misery creeps over me as I think of what their lives must have been like to have brought such expressions to their angelic faces and whether anything at all has changed hence.






Regardless of the pain, volunteering has always been the best part of my journey, and this was no exception. The incredible kindness that I saw in people, the difficulties that children did not give up on, the gratitude and happiness that were still prevalent… those days will remain in my fondest memories from the entire journey.

and this is how it ends my friends... almost 4 years on the road, 67,000 km, 17 countries, 2 continents, 2 bikes, 2 major crashes, dengue, infections... and my camera - $6,000!!! - is stolen, while people stood by and watched.
How can I continue as a photographer, how can I continue at all.
****!