Thanks
 

Lovely descriptions, inspiring photos and always too good to miss. Thankyou

Thanks Canyon, I'm glad you're enjoying the ride along!
And I promise the pictures will get better... I was down to a point and shoot for a while...

Chiapas: Relics
 

Chiapas: Relics

Miramar

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Laguna Miramar is one of those rare places in the world which has not yet been raped by man. It lies in the middle of the jungle, and though there are villages on its farther shores, there is no road that leads to it, so people coming to and from their home have to hike 6km, then row for a few hours. And just to make sure no one is too enticed to come, the hike is over unsteady farm land, with almost no signs at all that tell you where to go. And as a further precaution, the road that leads to the nearest village connected to the rest of the world, Emiliano Zapata, is mostly sand and dirt, which requires a good off-road vehicle, or a bit of craziness, to traverse. Georgia and I being accustomed to the difficulties of being in the middle of nowhere made it just fine, if a little tired from the riding and hiking, and wet from the constant rain.

Though I had to hide under a tree once or twice while the rain was particularly heavy, and my back was in pain from carrying my gear and food in a duffel rather than back pack, I put the 6km behind me in a matter of a few hours. It was almost dark by the time I arrived to the lightning and storm-cloud framed sunset. I smoked a joint which made the water look like it was vibrating, and watched the rain drops dance on the crystal clear lake, as the rolling thunder, the hum of insects and growl of howler monkeys, became my lullaby.

There were no mosquitoes, and the previous day’s rain dropped the temperature mercifully. I sat in the perfectly clean and warm waters of Miramar for hours on end – never hot, never cold. The sounds were incredible! Howler monkeys sounded like roaring dinosaurs, some birds like car alarms or mechanized pumps, while others sang like a choir of bells. The rain came and went again, and the lake returned to its perfect stillness, with the evening brought forth the sounds of animals theretofore asleep. It was a peace I wanted to hold on to, but as always there was something beckoning me to ride forth - in that instance it was my quickly expiring visa. I thought I would have finished Mexico within a month, but at that point was left with only 12 days on my 6 month visa.

After another day of sharing food and rocking in hammocks with some locals, I began the sweaty trek back to my steed. More lightly laden I made it in only a couple of hours, reluctantly put on my gear, and began the arduous ride back to civilization.

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Palenque

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The jungle kept changing as I rode along, as did the dresses and dialects. No matter where I went it was the women who donned traditional clothing. As the men attempt to be worldly, it is the women who more often speak their native dialects. It’s often hard to tell from which part of Mexico a man comes, but with a woman it is much clearer. Even within the state of Chiapas, the dialects and dress changed, sometimes as often as village to village. The villages of women and children walking up dusty inclines with huge bundles of wood on their heads, could always be identified by the patterns in their skirts.

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The sun and air were very hot which made for a lugubrious day of riding. The road remained dirt for a couple of hours, but thankfully stretched enough so that I could put Georgia into third gear every once in a while. I often had to pass little 15 seater vans – the only official form of public transportation. As a rule in Mexico, if it’s a 15 seater van, you can be sure there will be at least 25-30 people in it, which may or may not include people on the roof. In truth every type of vehicle is used for transport: cars, vans, small trucks, dump trucks, tractors, scooters… and each one will carry at least twice the normal capacity, with a good amount hanging-on precariously off the vehicle.

Eventually the pavement returned, and with it the joy of finding 4th and 5th gear. As per the usual I chased the sun into my little camp at the foot of the ruins at Palenque, and the following day I entered some of the most beautiful ruins I had yet seen. Set right in the middle of jungle, in the first hills which come out of the gulf coast plain, Palenque is one of the crown jewels of the Mayan empire. The architecture here is quite different from the rest of Mexico. Mexicas, Zapotecas and Toltecas have much more in common with each other than with the Mayans, and even an untrained eye like my own could tell. The whole site is quite impressive, not the least because everything that was built was done so without the assistance of the wheel or metal. I wish I could have seen these relics as they stood gleaming in bright reds and yellows against the deep green of the jungle in the back, and the brilliant blue of the uninterrupted sky of the plains in front. What a shame there are not many color drawings from the days of the conquest – only descriptions of how things were. In lieu of drawings, I walked around the entire site (no easy task in the jungle heat). I Took a bath and had a drink in the brook which ran alongside the upper part of the ruins, then went to the lower part which are set even deeper in the jungle and have two rivers running along the sides, with waterfalls, and snakes, and iguanas and butterflies…

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After 4 exhausting hours I walked another 30 minutes to my tent, which had by then been sitting in the sun all day. Everything inside was so hot I could barely touch it, the soap almost melted completely. I’m amazed I hadn’t lost everything on my computer - because it burned me like a skillet out of the oven. Apparently jungle sun is no joke. I had to bring everything into the shade to cool before packing it away.

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Campeche

The ride to Campeche is one I would like to forget. Besides Georgia’s misfiring, which made the ride all the longer and painful (clogged carb), the road was flat, straight, with a scorched monotonous landscape on either side. At one point it got so hot that riding did not cool the air around me, instead it became hotter, like riding into a hair drier, or sitting in a sauna. What should have taken 2 hours instead took 5 as I had to constantly stop to drink, or retire to the few and far between gas stations with A/C. But as always, my stops brought me in touch with wonderful people. I met Victor, Jesus, and Daniel at a random stop on the road to Campeche near the gulf coast. It was a little shack serving fresh seafood, and the three truckers invited me to join them. We talked and laughed for a good hour, and then they bought my dinner! Just like that! I didn’t even get the chance to argue the point. It was not the first time that random kindness has been shown me by way of conversation and the fact that I am traveling alone, but that made this occasion no less special or memorable.

After a night’s rest in Campeche at a yoga center, I continued on the long dusty road to Merida, and a reunion with Ida. I was down to just over a week on my visa and could hardly bear the thought of leaving this magical land called Mexico.

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Mexico - End of the Line
 

Mexico: End of the Line

Though people would look at me askance whenever I told them I left on the day my visa expired, there was really no other way. I couldn’t bring myself to leave any earlier, I couldn’t bear to depart from Mexico. My last week there, on the Riviera Maya, was one of awe and mechanical difficulties. Though I had by that point recovered from my 3 weeks of illness, Georgia took up the banner readily and kept me in constant fear of stalling in the middle of nowhere.

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In Merida I was reunited with Ida, which was not only pleasant but quite fortuitous. Through her I was put in touch with one of the best mechanics I had ever met. Though I had tried to fix Georgia superficially, it required a masterful eye and experience to get her purring again, and Jorge was such a man. He diagnosed my problem quickly – which was a dirty carb – but not the main part, a smaller, air related diaphragm. He took it apart, cleaned it, checked the spark plug, cleaned that and the engine, replaced a bad rubber ring on a different part of the engine, cleaned and lubed the air filter, cleaned and lubed the chain, cleaned most of the bike… all for 300 pesos ($25). As always I spent the day with him while he worked, trying my best to learn something. His brother and father, also mechanics, kept me company. Moments like that really stand out for me, for one because I spent so much time with mechanics, but also because I was never kicked out of the shop, instead I was always given food and drink and invited to learn. And of the dozen or so mechanics that I visited, less than half charged me anything, the rest only something nominal – they were supporting me and my journey as best they could. I was a nobody, but I took the time to get to know them, to hear their stories and share my own, and so they chose to become an integral part of my journey’s success, and to them all I shall be forever grateful.

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With the time on my visa ticking away rapidly, and an entire day dedicated to the mechanic, I was left with little to enjoy the incredible beauties, natural and historical, of the Yucatan Peninsula.

Ida and I began the day at a cenote (sinkholes in the lime-rich soil, mostly in Yucatan, but also present in Quintana Roo and Merida, which sometimes connect to underground cave systems and underground rivers). The water was perfectly clean and clear and of the kind of temperature which makes you want to stay in there forever. This one was mostly for locals as it didn’t appear on any cenote list that a tourist would see. The edge of the sinkhole was right over the water, so I was able to dive and cannonball in, enticing the kids to do the same. We dove into the depths of the cenote, perfectly visible in the crystal clear waters, and swam to the far reaches of the cave where stalagmites stood guard to a world which required scuba gear to behold. It was a perfect morning and early afternoon! We then came back to the city and walked around eating coconut, coffee and chocolate ice cream, churros, kibis, panuchas... We tried on some guayaberas and hats which made me momentarily long for the suits I could no longer wear. The next day we walked through the paseo Mantejo and the rest of the fancier parts of the city. It, along with Avenida Colon, is full of enormous, and I mean enormous, mansions - greatly ostentatious, but still appealing - built with new money at the turn of the 19th century. They imitate Greek and French architecture, with bright Caribbean colors. We walked along, talking and joking ( I still find it amazing how many inside jokes we share having only known each other a short time), and stopped for some food and cocktails at a place called La Bella Epoca. We sat on a balcony overlooking one of the main streets, plazas, and churches of Merida. There were horse-drawn carriages on the street, someone was playing a guitar and singing trova in a restaurant on the other side, the waiters were super polite, the tables clothed, the paintings of a dreamy time long since passed…

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The following day I bid Ida yet another farewell, and rode through the perfectly paved, perfectly flat, perfectly straight, and perfectly monotonous, road to the Riviera Maya. The only other ride I can remember in the last 10 years that was as mind numbing was when I crossed the Dakotas. Except, at the end of this road lay the pristine, white sandy beaches of Tulum.

I only had a couple of days left to enjoy this Caribbean paradise before making a last minute run to the border with Belize. I did the requisite bit of snorkeling and touring around ruins, but mostly spent time reflecting on the last 6 wonderful months.

I had ridden through 20 of the states (2/3rds) and ended up the better traveler, the happier man, and a friend many times over, for the experience. I still, and forever shall, think often of the food and art in Michoacan, the mountains of Puebla, the music and dancing of Veracruz, the people of Oaxaca, the landscapes of Chiapas, the great desert, isolation and fish tacos of Baja, the mystical journeys of Morelos, and the insanity of the capital. I have never felt such freedom as I did in Mexico. It was so clear as to why there is so much great art and music, and why so many writers have at some point lived here – the freedom lets you breathe, it lets your creativity be inspired without constraint. And the people, with their open, kind hearts, who always have the time of day for you, make you feel welcome no matter where you are and no matter where you’re from.

A truly magical place.

Belize - An Oversight
 

There is little I can say about Belize because I never gave it the chance to give me something to say. Belize is an expensive country and that scared me right away. I hadn’t found too many people on couch surfing, and was generally not interested in the beach or any water based activity. There are some very lovely and interesting caves, but they too are very expensive. What is intriguing about Belize is the amalgamation of people who live in that little country, and though I only had a few days I was still able to notice to beautiful hodge-podge of languages and nationalities.

Chinese groceries and restaurants and general stores; Indian clothing stores; Lebanese Ice cream parlors… Creole, Spanish, English, Chinese and Indian dialects… Europeans, North Americans, Latinos, Indians, Chinese, Caribbeans, Middle easterners… and the insane mixes of the above. The lovely patua and Caribbean accented English is something I always loved, and was very happy to find on every dusty corner in every dusty town.

Most roads pass through low jungle, orange plantations, and tiny, unassuming villages. The landscape is not breathtaking like in Chiapas, but the tropical jungle of palms, fruit trees, furry hills hidden under a tangle of canopy, are restful on the eyes, and pretty to contemplate. It was too hot to stop for too long, so the roads, like Belize itself, are only a fleeting memory.

It was unjust for me to come and go so quickly, it is a mistake many travelers make at some point, and unfortunately it would be one I would repeat a number of times yet.

Live Update
 

Greetings, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year Friends!
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Though I returned to Venezuela almost a month ago with the intention of continuing rapidly to new countries, I am still here.
I can never stress enough how incredibly beautiful this country is, let alone the warmth and camaraderie of the people. But at this point it is Georgia who is keeping me at bay. She lies in many pieces, in need of a serious engine rebuild. The piston head, rings, gaskets, valves all need work and replacement.
I was losing a liter of oil every 500km!
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I think I should be back on the move shortly after the new year, in case any of you crazy cats are in the vicinity of Venezuela or Colombia.

I hope the new year bring you the time to ride, the health and strength to do it, and the wisdom and fortune to always return home.

I will post the next story - from Guatemala!! finally right? next week.

Fraternally,

Alexander

Guatemala - Sweat, Blood, and Books
 

Guatemala - Sweat, Blood, and Books

Maria

A few years ago, while still teaching in New York, I helped a friend with a fundraiser for a Guatemala based NGO, which for some reason sparked a desire to come and see things for myself. If nothing else, this crazy journey of mine has made so many of my dreams come true – which included experiencing Guatemala. I say experiencing rather than seeing because there are two ways of going about being present in this country: one is staying on the Gringo Trail, which will bring you to beautiful places and colorful markets, but will ensure that you see practically nothing of the real Guatemala or life there; the second option is to dive head first into one of the poorest countries on earth with a bloody history that began with the conquistadors and ended only a few years ago at the end of the last civil war. Travelers love Guatemala for the beauty of its lakes and volcanoes, the vibrant colors of dresses and markets, and the pennies it costs to stay here. But few dare to venture beyond the Gringo Trail, and giving them the benefit of the doubt, the danger is what keeps them at bay. Extreme poverty, to a large extent brought on by American corporations and the CIA (as in most of Central America), means a high prevalence of armed robbery – on buses, on the roads, and on the streets. Recently unemployed guerilla fighters with little to do is another good reason to hug that trail. But I am no tourist, and so I sought the poorest corners, the most dangerous roads, and was rewarded with moments and people I will always hold dear.

Coming in from Belize, I entered El Peten – the largest state, the poorest state, and the most replete with incredible Mayan ruins. My mind being saturated by the ruins of Mexico, I sought only the people, only the more recent history of Guatemala. And, thanks to couchsurfing, I found it right away, and to an extent and intensity of which I never dreamed.

My education began on my very first days in El Peten. My host, Maria, who works as a women’s rights and education advocate in a newly formed municipality, helped me see what few others could. Maria belongs to a club more exclusive than the richest Spanish clubs of the capital – she is an educated woman from the country. In a land where the majority of girls are married by 16, and well into motherhood by 18, Maria stands out as a shining beacon to the power of reading and education. In a homophobic, fanatically catholic, patriarchal society, Maria loves all, centers her faith on humanity, and works actively to empower and educate women. And I met her, I stayed in her home, I bore witness to what is possible.

A few years ago one of the neighboring mother’s died, leaving a 9 year old girl in the “care” of her older siblings. After a few years of using Tarol as a maid and servant, they decided they no longer wanted her around. Maria, barely in her 20’s at the time, adopted Tarol, and gave her not only a home, but the opportunity to go to school, to have a life and a real future. Soon after, Maria graduated with her B.A, in spite of the financial difficulties of sustaining her adopted daughter, and went to work at Las Cruces – a recently formed municipality built to represent 42 indigenous communities from the far reaches of the Guatemalan jungle. I offered to volunteer at Las Cruces, to help her and the community as best I could, and spent the next week living there.

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Las Cruces

When you think of poverty, of dusty ill-maintained roads, shacks built of whatever material is available, often with sheet-metal roofs, poorly equipped schools, and staggering survivors of civil war massacres… one of the places you can picture is Las Cruces. When the last civil war swept through Guatemala, the poorest of states, as usual, suffered the most. El Peten saw many massacres and much bombing. One horrific day, in the fields not far from Las Cruces, 650 people were massacred. Many children were dunked in wells until they drowned, many more never saw the light of day. I met with a would be mother of 12, Doña Hortensia, who lost two children to complication revolving around being thrown to the ground to escape the blasts of bombs, and another, a 5 year old girl, to complications from the shockwaves of those very bombs. I sat listening to her and her husband, to one of her daughters, while a granddaughter played happily, completely unaware of the miracle of her existence. Her face, so young, so pretty, held a strength and intelligence which is so fragile in these circumstances that it hurts to think about it.

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Las Cruces still sees a shocking number of girls as young as eleven impregnated. The roads are bad which limits aid and access, there are too few school and almost no books, the farming produces little variety and little more yield which keeps the economy from ever expanding. That her parents survived to have her is one miracle, but if she somehow manages to learn and grow and be a force of change and growth (like Maria), it will be a greater miracle yet.

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Beside my time at the municipality, I went to visit some of the schools in Las Cruces; as a teacher it is generally the first place to which I am drawn. What I saw gripped me with an intense sadness and fear for the future. The schools were all built of concrete with tin roofs (deafening when there’s rain). For windows there are gaps in the concrete with chain-link fencing for windows. There are no books – no books! At most the teacher will have a single text book for each subject from which they read while students copy down the information. Besides not having books teachers have to find and make all the materials they want to use in the class. The eefectiveness of this is further diminished by a lack of teachers who specialized in the subject they are teaching. This is particularly true of English teachers – those who bother to master the language don’t go into teaching. Most of the teachers are just high school graduates who themselves never read a single book. That means that a recently graduated high school student will teach current high school students who wish to become teachers, reading from the same book he just finished copying, and relaying absolutely no new information onto the students… and thus the cycle continues year in and year out. It is the reason almost nothing has changed since the conquest 400 years ago. Those in poverty remain in poverty and have almost no legal way by which to escape.

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Still, there are some libraries, and when I was not answering the student’s questions about the U.S and Russia and my own crazy life, I was encouraging them to read, giving them the titles of my favorite books, and doing what little I could to make them aware of the cycle in which they are stuck and giving them hope of becoming the change. It felt so good to be in a classroom again, to share ideas with bright, eager minds, of seeing hope and excitement and even a little learning. If becoming a teacher was the hardest thing I have ever had to do, then leaving the classroom was a very close second.

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In the hours I was not volunteering, I sought the pure and cooling waters of the source of a river a few miles from town. Sure the flies, and ants and wasps, and gnats aren’t too pleasant, but they are more tolerable than a breezeless heat. There was nothing else that could cool the permanent state of sweat in which I was living. The jungle heat in El Peten is otherworldly. The lethargy that overcame me is difficult to describe – I was so hot and exhausted that I could barely think. I would sit in front of pen and paper and no thoughts would come, only the burning of sweat dripping into my eyes would recall me from the stupor into which I would fall dozens of times a day. The local padre took me in and gave me a room in the little cement cube adjacent to his house. We moved the sacks of corn and beans to the side and threw down a mattress. There’s electricity, and a bathroom, but the water doesn’t work right, so it’s to the bucket I go to wash myself and flush the toilet. In that little room I spent my nights tossing and turning in the heat, kept awake by the crashing of mangoes on the tin roof, and the buzzing of flies and mosquitoes around my head.

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Padre

For the first month or so I couldn’t understand Guatelmateco (The Spanish spoken in Guatemala). Entire sentences rushed past my ears with often not a word understood. The form of speech sounds more like barking – quick successions of phrases that grow louder from the first word to the last – like graphs of exponential equations. I feel stupid as I look into people’s mouths, and search in desperation for some sort of context clue to help. I find myself asking people to repeat themselves, and use other words, in almost every conversation. Sometimes they do, and it still doesn’t help, at others they just repeat what they said before, and I am left nowhere.

Talking to the padre while swinging and sweating in the hammock, with eyes dried out from the dust no rain has calmed in months, the lights went out for the 3rd time this week, leaving the village in complete darkness. It was harder to see his face, and therefore harder to understand, but we don’t give up because we each feel the importance of our moment together. We laid in those hammocks for a long time, talking of the state of Guatemala, the natives, the church, education, agronomy, Italy, communism… I was hoping he would agree to host me for exactly this reason. Speaking with locals can be an interesting process: they may know well the things that occurred to them, but are often incapable of placing the events in a larger context because they know little outside their own lives. Those who have TV more often watch Novellas, soccer matches, and sometimes the news – but the news does little to teach people about what actually occurs. The padre was a local, but had traveled outside Guatemala, had been educated, and therefore was able to bring that local knowledge into the greater context of our world, which made him all the happier that I could bring a little more of the world to him.

That night was one of the worst in my life – doubled over and writhing in pain. I then took my second dose of antibiotics in 30 days. Before this, I can’t even remember the last time I took antibiotics, or had to go to a doctor – the road is a cruel mistress… but my mistress nonetheless.

I wish I could have stayed longer, but the heat made me function at a quarter capacity and I could do little good. My week volunteering at Las Cruces, however, served to remind me of how much I love volunteering and working with kids, and so I made it a point to keep my eyes open for another opportunity to do so (perhaps in a place slightly cooler and more suitable for a Russian). Guatemala and fate did not disappoint me, and the following week I was presented with the opportunity to volunteer at an orphanage. It would be the most satisfying weeks, followed by the single saddest day of my journey.

Thankyou again
 

Your posts are a refreshing view on the realities of the road, I salute you and also envy you, keep up the good works and writings.

Map update
 

Hello Friends!

A quick break from the alternate timeline. Here is my map of Venezuela.
I'm now back in Colombia and in a few weeks will enter Ecuador!

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Thanks Canyon! I'm glad someone reads along with my journey :)

and the photos will get better, i promise...

What a very descriptive trip
 

Have been reading your dialogue of your adventures. and hoping your health is back to normal. Your discriptions of your travels is very inspiring. will look forward to your future comments, and hope everything goes in your favour.

Thanks Lectron!

My health is back to normal! It was a very long recovery, but it seems i'm cocked, locked and ready to Rock.

By the way, you are reading from about a year and a half ago, I am actually much further along... i needed time to develop the notes I took so I did not post for quite a while :)

Guatemala - The Crash
 

Guatemala – The Crash

After a month of living in the “real” Guatemala, I finally hopped on the Gringo Trail – Quetzaltenango (Xela). I came to the center of NGO activity and volcano excursions to give myself the chance to work or volunteer again, and to see the famed, lava spewing, volcanoes. And though I got close to achieving both goals, in the end I came away with little more than myself intact, and even for that I was thankful.

I was staying in a place with no sink (the shower being the only source of water, and only cold water at that). The single room has no window, and smelled of old brie. It’s kind of Willy to share such a small space with me and give me a place to stay, but I could not see myself inviting someone to stay if I lived in such a place. This brought me to a rare decision to move to a hostel, before finding a fellow photographer who become the best part of Xela.

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Other than an artist party and an excursion to a rare, underground Gay bar (they have to pay off the cops to stay open), Xela had been relatively uninteresting. I had not brought myself to climb a volcano yet, I wasn’t doing enough writing, and no NGO’s had piqued my interest. I spent days playing chess with a French guy I had met, or hanging out with my photographer friend and his sister.

Finally I decided to go to the famous market in Chichecastenango (one of the biggest and most colorful markets in the world). I needed something to get me out of Xela and feeling like I’m doing something. I decided to take Caroline, a Chinese-Canadian girl I met a few days before. We started in the morning, and were soon on a beautiful, twisty, well-paved, mountain road. The weather was fine and cool – a perfect day for a ride. The 4 lane highway wound up and down the mountains, with big curves that begged for speed. The road itself was in excellent condition – well marked, clean, with side barriers and few cars. The first hour was some of the best riding I had done in a very long time.

I had just finished a series of tight curves which threatened to scrape my pegs, and began yet another descent down a slope which begged for my usual speed of 75 mph. We crested a rise and were approaching a gentle curve and for some reason I decided to slow down a bit. We were going no faster than 50mph, when all of a sudden I saw Georgia drop and slide away from me. Apparently the whole curve was covered in gasoline/oil. I can still see it in slow motion as I was suddenly flung to the ground, at first facing my bike as she slid down the hill, then the top of the curve as I got turned around. I decided not to roll for fear of hitting the barrier - before which I stopped only a few feet away (had I not dropped my speed there is a great possibility you would not be reading this right now). By the time I stopped sliding I heard Caroline’s voice asking if I was OK. I wasn’t sure, but had enough sense to ask her if she was alright as well. She said yes, and so I allowed myself to drop back for a few moments to recover from the shock. Thankfully there was a car just behind us. The man and his wife pulled over, called to some people up the road, and rushed to help me. I told them I was fine for the most part, and was then urged to go get the bike upright as it was leaking gas. I struggled to my feet and saw Georgia lying upside down, pressed against the barrier. The man pulled her off the rail by himself, and by the time I hobbled over, a few others had joined us and helped set her upright.

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Of course I was not wearing my motorcycle jacket or pants. So my one pair of jeans, my shoes, my gortex jacket, fleece, long sleeve, and t-shirt were torn to shreds. Thankfully I kept most of my skin, and suffered only bruises as opposed to broken bones – a real possibility had I hit the barrier. The pain was pretty bad, but slowly I began to realize just how lucky I was.

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The cops came quickly, called an ambulance to get us cleaned up and a truck to bring my bike back to Xela. The alcohol on the burns was not too pleasant, but was still better than the 900 QTZ (talked down from 1500) I had to pay to get my back to town. I didn’t even want to think about what it was going to cost to fix everything.

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However, though Georgia’s windshield, instrument panel, cell phone mount and panniers were smashed, the gas tank was in one piece, and the engine suffered no damage. Though there was a car so near to us that they immediately pulled over, it was not so close that we slid into, or under, it, or it into us. Though my clothes were torn, the bags with our cameras strapped to the back were perfectly fine. My cell phone, though it flew off the bike, appeared as though nothing happened to it. And finally, regardless of the pain, swelling and bleeding – both Caroline and I were alive. In fact she barely had a scratch on her.

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It is a horrible and stupid way to learn a lesson, considering how long I’ve been riding and everything I know about riding. But it took that crash to make me wear all my gear, all the time, no matter how hot it may be.

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By the time I had finished recovering from the crash the rains had finally arrived. My opportunity to hike the volcanoes disappeared with them, and the dry season would not come for many months yet. I had found a couple of interesting possibilities for writing, volunteering, and even directing a school, but nothing panned out in the time I expected. Between the school not being ready yet, and people disappearing for days on end in the country (where they run their NGO), my impatience got the better of me and I decided to leave. I regretted missing the chance to write about uniquely developing multi-cultural villages along the coast, but my preconceptions of Guatemala were interfering with my perspective and patience. It is a great fallacy of travel which I have since managed much more effectively, but by then it was too late and I made my decision to ride on.

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Guatemala: Perspectives
 

Guatemala: Perspectives

The Beautiful Truth


To those who have any thoughts at all of Guatemala, crime, poverty, corruption and malnutrition tend to stand at the forefront of their image of the country. These overpowering, and very real, elements are usually softened by experiences of great color of native dress, stunning volcanoes, the beauty and peace of Lake Atitlan, and the infectiously chaotic markets and buses. But this is only the airy foam atop the rich and flavorful palate of the country’s spirit.

The realities of everyday life in Guatemala are so much more intriguing and beautiful than even the most brilliant, volcano framed, sunsets of the highlands. No one can deny the horrible circumstances in which Guatemalans find themselves, but if it’s all we see then we have failed to learn the very important lessons, and see the true beauty, of this nation.

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For good or ill, Mexico tends to overshadow its neighbors to the south. It is a wildly diverse land which had the benefits of being the center of New Spain – it’s richness of culture is truly blinding. But crossing the border into Guatemala, if you have left your preconceptions behind, can be a mind blowing experience as well.

Though mostly impoverished, the native Mayans have ensured that they are an intricate and inseparable part of modern Guatemalan society. I don’t mean the empty flaunting of pride from the upper echelons of society, I’m referring to the very ethos of the country, which has remained rooted in the family. The regard for family and ancestors is prevalent on all levels of society, and as a result some of the simple mannerisms which are taken for granted in the west, are alive and well here. Because multiple generations continue to live together, the continuity of tradition is better preserved. What parents can never teach kids, grandparents happily and effectively impart on the next generation.

Language has been one of the greatest beneficiaries of this close nit family system. To this day, even with all the modernization and global attempts at simplification and homogenization of cultures within a country, most Guatemalans who live in a village or small town still speak their native Mayan dialect – some can even speak two or three. In more rural parts it is not uncommon to encounter people whose Spanish is little better than that of a tourist who came to Antigua to study it for a week. With language come traditions – some many hundreds of years old. There are still sacred spaces which serve to host ceremonies performed long before the first Spaniard set foot on this land. There are still medicine men and women who command a knowledge of hundreds of plant species and the medicinal use for each. Communal relations, farming, food preparation and oral histories which allow us a glimpse into pre-Hispanic Mayan culture (an invaluable tool for anthropologists and archeologists), remain intact in the majority of the country. Few parts of the world that have experienced the wrathful extermination of native culture by colonial European nations have preserved to such an extent their native traditions. Sadly, the colorful dress for which Guatemalans are famous, is the product of the Spaniards desire to modernize and keep track of native populations. But even that, in a world where jeans and mini-skirts are the uniform of the young, remains a testament to Guatemalan’s perseverance in the face of unnecessary and homogenizing change. There are even parts of the country where men continue to wear traditional pants, shirts and hats (men usually being the first to modernize their clothing). All of which owes its survival to the strong, multi-generational family structure preserved here.

Another beautiful aspect of Guatemalan culture is common courtesy and respect. This is not reserved for friends, family and colleagues – it is shown to everyone a Guatemalan encounters. I have rarely passed a person on the street without receiving a smile and a salutation – a “Buenos Dias”. I have never completed a meal without being wished a “buen provecho”. I have never departed from a person without receiving a blessing, or the wish that I go well and safely, and that I may pass the night happily. The most beautiful phrase of all is “estas en tu casa” (you are in your home). Whether I came to stay with someone or was simply visiting for the day or a few minutes, I was informed immediately, not that I was welcome in their home, rather that I was in my own home.

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This common consideration is almost unheard of in the United States or Europe, and is sufficiently rare in the East as well. But here it is as natural as breathing and serves to include everyone in the lives of everyone else. People do not feel isolated here, they can’t, everywhere they go people remind them that they are worth something, they are worth acknowledging, they are worth just a little effort to make them feel part of the society. This says something very fundamental about Guatemalans, and it is a worthwhile lesson to the rest of us. Smaller towns in the U.S and Europe are closer to this standard, but beyond Main Street it is as likely that you will sit in a café for 8 hours without anyone wishing you a good day or a good appetite, as standing next to someone eating a bag of chips and not being offered a bite.

For a country full of impoverished people, there is no lack of generosity. If one person eats, everyone gets to eat. No matter how little the amount, no matter for how many hours a person had to work to buy that bottle of coke and bag of pork rinds, if he has it he will offer it to you. And there is no distinction between your position and their own; a poor farmer who can barely afford to feed his family will offer what he has to a wealthy land owner if the latter happens to be visiting his house. People here don’t suggest that others eat with them, rather they “invite” others to eat (meaning they are going to pay for it). There is rarely haggling over the bill at the end of the meal - nothing to spoil the pleasures of shared food and company.

As a rule, situations which could potentially spoil the beauties of spending time with friends and family are avoided unilaterally. When life is difficult, when every meal is not guaranteed, you are less likely to rain down on those moments when nothing else, but the people around you, matters. That in and of itself is such a wonderful and noble aspect of Guatemalans: the ability to continue to struggle and enjoy the little they have knowing full well that their situation will likely never change. What to many in the West would be cause to become depressed, turn to drugs and alcohol, and give up, in Guatemala is taken for what it is – reality – and is dealt with day by day, penny by penny. That perseverance, the faith in what human beings are capable of achieving by the sheer will to live, is more than a lesson – it is inspiring. Some people are fascinated by the amount of Joie de Vivre in Guatemalans; I haven’t found them to have any more than other Latin Americans – what is incredible is that they still have it in spite of their circumstances.

These realities are sometimes ignored, but more often are never even seen by those cruising along The Gringo Trail. Tourists whose purpose is to climb a volcano, buy some colorful clothes in a market, take a dip in Lago Atitlan, cruise the beautiful streets of Antigua, climb the enormous pyramids of Tikal and take a Spanish course in Xela, will likely never be moved by the true beauty of Guatemala. People love this country like most people love actors: they are enamored by the superficial. And to be fair, the superficial here is quite lovely indeed. But Guatemala also has one of the biggest NGO markets south of the American border – hundreds of opportunities to stay and volunteer, learn more than just Spanish, meet real Guatemalans, discover the depths of this ancient culture, and be forever changed for the experience.


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The Harsh Truth


Perspective is important to understanding Guatemala. From a distance it is very distinct from the up close reality you experience if you ever get off the Gringo Trail. From afar, the land is lovely, the people and dress are colorful, the mountain villages bucolic. The idea of Guatemala, with its variety of dress and spoken indigenous languages, the countless ruins, and striking nature, is beautiful and enticing. But upon closer inspection, the reality reveals itself to be wholly different.

Those bucolic looking villages dotting the hill and mountain sides, are falling apart, withering under the rains, and in need of repair which never comes. When the roofs are not just large pieces of sheet metal and actually have shingles, in the Mediterranean style, there is a false hint of prosperity from afar, but even those roofs are cracked and are often missing a good number of tiles. The lush country side, with a large variety of trees and climates, upon close inspection is eroding at an alarming rate. Lack of proper farming technique, the slashing and burning of forests, particularly on slopes, has caused almost irreparable damage to the land, to say nothing of people’s source of food and income. The women with colorful dresses, who proudly speak their native language, sometimes not even bothering to learn Spanish, who seem proud and gay, have a different look about them when up close. The faces smile at times, but the mouths are often toothless or full of metal. The bodies stooped from years of hard work in fields, kitchens and roadsides – carrying huge bundles of firewood for endless kilometers.

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The causes of these differences are many, but the majority are easily traced back to the US of A. Between corrupt contracts for huge swaths of land which allowed giant corporations to create and control entire markets (i.e. bananas), and the CIA’s undermining every revolution which sought to rebalance somehow the equilibrium between some of the worst poverty in the world, and the 1/100th of 1% who controlled the country and its wealth, Guatemala is left in a veritable abyss of irreversible poverty which must be seen to be believed. Few who travel to this colorful nation see this truth because the Gringo Trail winds its way through colorful markets, sandy beaches, towering ruins, idyllic lakes and smoking volcanoes. And though there is now a latent pain in my heart, I’m glad I took the road less traveled, I’m glad I could witness the results of the depravity of corruption and greed. I know why so many people from Central America come to work in the U.S - because our “need” to pay 30 cents for a banana is more important to us than the livelihood and lives of others. And now I hope, in the most humble way, that those reading my words will too awaken to the reality we impose on peoples around the world, and perhaps one day we’ll decide that we can in fact be the change, and that injustice on this scale is an affront to humanity.

“None of us are free, if one of us is chained, none of us are free”

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Update from the Road
 

Hello Friends!
Just a quick update from "real time":
In Ecuador - country 13!! 2 years, 9 months, and 51,000km!!!

Guatemala: War and Farming
 

Guatemala: War and Farming

Semilla Nueva

Good things come to those who wait: as I was getting ready to leave, Curt from Semilla Nueva finally got in touch with me to give me the opportunity to meet the farmers his NGO works with. I was in Guatemala City battling with the pain of the inflammation in my hand, when I boarded a chicken bus to Ritalhuleu.

The insanity which is the chicken bus! There is a fine line between people and cargo in Guatemala. The bus rarely stops for long. The driver keeps moving while the “conductor” keeps packing people and cargo in – then runs after the bus to hop back on. Seats for two are filled with 3. The music blasts, the isles are impassible – how anyone ever manages to get off is a mystery. But for all the craziness, the bus will always stop to pick someone up or drop them off – no matter where.

After missing a connecting bus and spending a night in the middle of nowhere, I arrived it Reu and met and incredible person: Trinidad (Triny). He brought me back to his humble home to meet his family and to share breakfast before heading out to the farms along the pacific coast. Triny is the farmer liaison for Semilla Nueva and is one of the reasons the organization has made such an impact on the farming practices in Guatemala.

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Triny’s work is neither simple nor easy. His job, along with Curt, is to introduce new and better farming techniques, and better seeds, to farmers who fight any change, no matter how reasonable, logical, or promising. Starvation and poverty are not motivators to change, rather they are reasons to never try anything new for fear of making a bad situation worse. But Semilla Nueva has not given up, and even though change is slow and hard to come by, and though its foundations are always a matter of the ebb and flow of resources, a difference has been made and its effects are growing every day.

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It’s hard to change old, ingrained methods of farming. Even though they are bad, it’s what the farmers know and though it’s not perfect they get a steady and guaranteed result without the fear of a possible loss of crops (due to infestation, or any other reason they imagine may result from changing methods). And it is even harder when the reason some farmers give to continue slashing and burning is that they like to sow barefoot, and when you don’t burn the old stakes they are sharp on the feet; or that a field that is left unburned looks “dirty and unkempt” and that’s embarrassing in front of the neighbors.

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Experimentation which at one point saved and catapulted Europe, is avoided here. Change, the inevitable engine of growth, is avoided. And the fact that the Maya declined because of over-population and land mismanagement, changes nothing for their modern descendants. The “poor” or “3rd world” mentality of considering only today – instant results from invested money and labor – stands in the way of rapid change. Which considering how many of the poor die, from war or starvation, it only makes sense to think of today - the day you know you are still alive.

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When Triny was looking to communicate with farmers about improving techniques, he thought of which note would resonate with the farmers. Money, as always, was the right key. The #1 argument against change was the need to make money right away, and eliminating any possible risk, including trying new techniques which may hinder that. Triny gathered the farmers of a community together and piled up the old stalks and leaves of corn which they generally burned after harvest. He then lit the pile on fire – this is not out of the ordinary as that is what the farmers do anyway. He then took out $1 and threw it in the fire. People were a little taken aback but did not say much, he then took out $50 (about a week’s wages) and was about to throw it in the fire when the farmers really reacted. He said: it’s my money, I can do what I want with it. He then explained that when they burned the stalks of their crops (instead of letting them decompose) they were burning money. Allowing the stalks to decompose saves a good 30% of fertilizer cost. He did not talk about the benefits of decomposition, only about the fact that when they slash and burn they are burning up their own money.


Farmers who have tried the new methods (i.e. not slashing and burning their fields after harvest) for just one year have a glint of excitement in their eyes when speaking about the new method and the success they have seen. They in turn speak to other farmers about their experiences and enact change from within the community.


Though the effects may be subtle at first, the signs of continuing success and the absence of plagues (a major concern) breeds a tangible optimism. The approach is slow but intended for the long term. Convincing farmers to try new methods, take on risk with no security, is a hard sell, but the transition, via trial and error, is an organic one and is less likely to be rejected once adopted (there are multiple instances when NGO’s came to Guatemala, set up excellent systems for change and growth – all of which were dropped the second the NGO’s pulled out).

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Many of the farmers Semilla Nueva works with left their homes from around Guatemala at the opportunity to start farms along the coast. The communities are tightly knit, maintain their (predominantly) native language of Mam, and vote democratically on most things involved in commununal life. They took one of the greatest risks they could by leaving their homes, so it is understandable that more risk may be unwelcome. And that is why Triny is so patient, why he works one on one with the farmers and utilizes new crops and technologies to not only help change the methods of farming but also give the farmers the opportunity to access better foods.

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The importance of this work goes beyond the communities of farmers. Guatemala is one of the poorest countries in the world, with huge problems with erosion and starvation. Improving farming techniques and using better seeds is something which will help fight the hunger and erosion plaguing the country. On a personal note, this is an organization I personally support because I know that every penny goes directly to help the farmers and in turn the people of Guatemala. I hope you will take the opportunity to look at their website and find a way in which you can support Semilla Nueva.





Triny’s War

Though most Guatemalans over the age of 20 remember something about the last civil war, not everyone was so personally touched as Triny. During the many hours we spent driving from farm to farm, he shared some of his experiences with me. War is not something that is easy to talk about, and I feel quite honored whenever a person opens up to me about their experiences. It not only gives me the opportunity to learn about a very dark aspect of the country, but it gives me the chance to share with the world a truth about our nature that I hope someday we will eliminate. And as attention grabbing as the horrors of war can be, what I always come away with when hearing or reading about these experiences is of what strength and fortitude we are possessed, of what we are capable, what we can survive, and of the depth of our humanity.

The war was at its height when Triny was still in school. He was in school, in a nearby town, when soldiers came to his village to “look for Guerillas”. The whole village was gathered in the church, and when the soldiers were left dissatisfied with the fact that there were no guerilla fighters in the town, they burned down the church – with everyone inside. Triny and his friend were just coming back from school when they found the emptiness and desolation. The soldiers heard their screams and began shooting at them. His friend was hit in the shoulder as they ducked into some bushes for cover as bullets continued whizzing around them. They made it to a hospital, but the soldiers eventually came there to look for them. When they came into the room where his friend was being treated they saw only two kids, not the guerilla fighters they were looking for and moved on.

Soon after, in a nearby village, 2 guerilla fighters were caught and the whole village was lined up on the soccer field. They were ordered to identify the other guerilla fighters in town. When they refused, 5 people were chosen at random and brought to the top of a tall tomb near the field. The officer in charge cut the throat of one of the guerilla fighters and drank his blood in front of the villagers. When everyone remained silent, the other fighter and villagers chosen were shot.

Years later when Triny was coming back from University his bus was stopped at a check point. During the questioning a soldier started feeling up his sister. When Triny asked him to stop the soldier began beating him with his rifle. When everyone’s papers were being returned, Triny and his sister did not get theirs back. Triny thought he was dead. He knew that those who did not get their papers and were told to disembark disappeared. When he came outside he recognized the officer from his school days – which saved him and his sister. The fact that I was sitting there, in the stifling heat of the coast, talking to Triny, was a matter of great luck. And yet life goes on, and Triny works hard and does not ask on which side you were on. Though he has witnessed the incredible horrors of war, he understands that peace is not attained with vengeance, rather with forgiveness. That he remains the wonderful human being he is is a miracle, and an example to us all.

Stories like this are nothing new to most people around the world. Only in the West and North America are people oblivious to the rape and carnage of civil war. What is for us a long forgotten history, and an atrocity we cannot imagine, is a recent memory or daily life for hundreds of millions of people.

My stay with Triny was one of the most impactful of my journey, and a fitting end to my 3 months in Guatemala. I had witnessed great contrasts in Guatemala, which included having both wonderful and despicable experiences. I had committed the mistake of assumption and preconception, which Guatemala helped me remedy. I met people I’m lucky enough to still call my friends, and was touched to the very depths of my heart – and all because I got off the Gringo Trail.

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scent of a woman
 

Scent of a Woman

Gliding through valleys, around fields, up and down hills covered with wild flowers, I am engulfed in the scent of nature. When coffee trees bloom, their tangy smell overpowers me; when through strawberry fields I ride, the sweetness of the fruit penetrates to my very first memory of eating it. The salty sulfur of the shore, and slightly dank mist spraying from the distant waves, takes me again to the Black Sea and the languid, peaceful summers of youth. Farms, that unmistakable smell of hay and manure, brings a sense of home – regardless of where you grew up. The freshness of passing by a river or a lake, the air slightly cooler… the refreshing cleanliness of earth after rain – I smell it all because I ride through it exposed, no roof or windows to bar my experience.

When I ride through a town I am made hungry by the smell of bread wafting from bakeries, and the succulent smell of meat being grilled on the corners and in the park. I don’t have to look at the trees of the forests through which I ride – I can smell them. And no matter where I am in the world when I smell pine I think of the north, of tramping through the woods and hiking up mountains. The sweltering tropics bring the sourness of sugarcane fermenting on the side of the road, and the lushness of jungles the overwhelming smell of a thousand different plants growing in a single acre. Then again I am so often chocked by the black plumes of diesel obscuring the sky and screening my way, by the brake dust of a million trucks struggling over endless mountain curves. Sometimes it is the rankness of factories that line the plains, or are tucked in gorges, that make me reach for a mask and bandana. Or the putrid decomposition of dogs, horses, cows, snakes, iguanas And the mixed feelings about the oddly sweet pepper smell of garbage or grass burning on the side of the road. All these burn into my memory, and I can lay in a hammock thousands of miles, and many years, away from those moments, close my eyes, and again find myself flying on my steed and experiencing those places anew.

But every now and then my heart skips a beat because it is the scent of a woman that embraces me as I rush along the world – and time slows to a crawl. Sometimes she just washed her long, luscious, black hair, and the smell of citrus and flowers flows behind the car she’s in. Sometimes it’s her perfume, freshly dabbed on her neck that I sense as she walks out of her house. I never stop, my momentum carries me forward even though I’ve long since released the throttle, and the scent of her passes and I awake again in the rushing world. But like the strawberry fields, like the lilac of parks, or the wild herbs along a canopied alley, her scent lingers in my mind and I forget in which country I am, I forget why I’ve ridden so long and so far, and I can only remember the love I have left behind, and the joy of burying my face in her neck – knowing that sweetness is all mine, and there is nowhere any momentum can take me.

Words
 

For a man whose first language is not english, ?? (I think). Your writing is so good, thankyou and keep up the fabulous writing/words.

Thanks Canyon!
English is actually my 3rd language... now if I could only learn to write better in Spanish so that my friends in South America would stop complaining :)

Honduras - Love or Death
 

Honduras: Love or Death

The little strip of Honduras that separates El Salvador from Nicaragua is only 132km. That’s no more than a couple of hours riding. I thought I would stop in Choluteca for a couple of days just to meet a fellow biker and get a little taste of Honduras, and then move on. Fate, it seems, had a little more in store for me.

Mario was a rare find in Central America – he was planning to ride his motorcycle all the way to Tierra del Fuego from Honduras. Though most cross continent riders are European or North America, there are occasionally Latinos that make the big trek, but they are few in number and usually from South America. But Mario was determined not to let the low wages and conservative culture of Honduras stand in the way of his dream. In fact, as of this writing, he has completed his journey and is returning to Honduras having done what no other Honduranean has done (as far as I know).

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I had no intention of going up north to Tegucigalpa, Sand Pedro Sula (two more of the world’s most dangerous cities), or the islands. But Mario had some family with whom I could stay on the way, so I decided to make an exception and check out the island Utila – one of the best places to scuba in the world. I don’t scuba but I do love the sea, and a few days in paradise did not sound so bad.

Most of Honduras is not very good riding. The condition of the roads is some of the worst in Central America, with potholes so big I was afraid if I rode into one i would never ride out. And outside the mountains, which are of course beautiful, and offer incredible views of the neighboring countries and the Pacific, the landscape is impressive only in how hot and humid it gets. Of course I did have another brush with death in the shape of a semi trying to pass another semi around a blind curve so as to make two walls of metal rushing toward me down the mountain. How I manage to get out of the way, and squeeze past on the non-existent shoulder is still a matter of miracles.

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As in El Salvador, Honduraneans are very typical of Central America, and there was little to no indigenous culture to be found. However the mixes of Spanish, Native and Negro bloods have produced some incredibly beautiful women. Every country has its share of mixing, but I have yet to find such interplay of the 3 races in so many people – very striking. On my ride from Choluteca to La Ceiba (for the ferry to Utila) I must have almost crashed a dozen times looking at the beauties selling fruit on the side of the road.

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Utila sits on the world’s second largest barrier reef, and when I say “sits on” I mean I walked off a dock, swam for about 20 seconds and was on the reef. Considering the wonders I saw while snorkeling, I can only imagine what can be seen scuba diving here! The reef, the fish, the stingrays… so many colors and forms, and swimming in and around them and their world felt like what I imagine flying around our own world would be like. Of course on shore and in the midst of humans there was no escaping the petty drama that follows us wherever we go, and sitting on the beach, sipping a fresh juice, I could not help but hear about the petty bickering which mars what would otherwise be paradise. I did however meet a guy named Sergey at one of the bars, who, after many hours of drinking and joking on his boat, turned out to have worked for the same company as me - 8 years ago in New York. I always love the feeling I get of a shrinking world whenever I meet people that I have known so many years ago and on the other side of the planet.

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After a few days of “paradise” I took the ferry back to the mainland, picked up Georgia, and hauled ass back to Choluteca. One of the biggest festivals in Honduras was taking in place in San Marcos, in the mountains, and I did not want to miss the rare opportunity of actually being somewhere when some important event was happening (it seems that all the cool festivals are always months away, no matter where I am or what time of year it is).



Mario, Emerson and I drove up to San Marcos and threw ourselves into the thick of music, people, and food. It felt like all of Honduras was packing into this tiny mountain village. There were a dozen music stages with everything from ballenato, salsa, reggaeton… Emerson knew half the town so we spent half of our time greeting people. And ask quickly as we got there did everyone else disappear when I met “chinita”. I don’t know what it was but there was something about her that made me want to dance with her, and only her. But, being the tit that I am I chatted for a few minutes and went on my way with Mario – regretting my own spinelessness. But fate intervened and threw her into my path again, and this time I did not let it slip. We danced and laughed and talked for an all too brief moment before she had to go, but it was enough for me. I became blind to everything around me, and extended my stay in Honduras just to see her again.

I was infatuated. I offered to give her a ride back to Tegucigalpa just to spend a few more days with her. I knew I could not stay, but I wanted to see where it would all go. And it went to many beautiful places and moments, including a national reserve in the mountains outside the city. We went for a hike in the forest, during the rainy season, in the epicenter of the world’s dengue epidemic. And because I could think of nothing but her I neglected to put on sunscreen, or bug repellent – it just all seemed irrelevant. We had a lovely time, and a couple of days later I brought her back to Choluteca.

We arrived in the evening and went straight to a softball game that her dad was umpiring. I was instantly deep into the game, focusing more than I thought I could on something so trivial. And then suddenly I felt really tired. It made sense considering the long, hot ride I just had, and it was getting late. I decided to lay down for a few moments and take it easy. The next thing I knew I was being shaken awake by chinita and her family – the game was over. I opened my eyes but could not move, my stomach was killing me and I felt like a giant, heavy blanket was covering me – I couldn’t even lift up my head. But everyone was leaving and I couldn’t just stay there in the bleachers, so I had chinita help me up. My head began to swim and I stumbled alongside her toward Georgia. It must have been quite a sight! Her family thought I was drunk, but all I could say was that I was very tired. I mounted Georgia and followed chinita to Mario’s house. I don’t know how I did not fall over – I couldn’t see straight, everything was swimming, I was too weak to stay upright or hold Georgia straight… but I did, and somehow made it back to Mario’s house. There was none home, but I told chinita to go on.

Eventually someone came home and let me in. I stumbled into Mario’s room and went to bed. A few minutes later the headache and fever began. It was hot, humid and miserable. I started taking Advil and Tylenol and even a Percocet, as nothing was helping. I had enough sense to find a rag and get some ice water in a cup. The problem was the ice would melt instantly and I would have to get up every few minutes to get more, along with more water. The whole night I spent going to the bathroom, getting and drinking more water, making ice and applying the cold compress. All I wanted to do was lay there and rest, but there was no one to take care of me. Finally toward morning the fever broke, but the headache persisted, and a general feeling of discomfort and weakness settled over me, and would not leave me for 7 days. Every minute felt like an hour. No position was comfortable, my skin was irritated by everything, I had no appetite, and every time I would close my eyes I had to get up again.

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It was not until a few days had passed like this that I finally saw a doctor and got a blood test which confirmed my platelets and white blood cells were dropping rapidly - which confirmed that I had dengue. Finally chinita came to be with me for a few hours. In fact, during my week of hell I only had someone to bring me something and be with me for less than 24 hours. Sometimes there wouldn’t be anyone to take me to the lab, so I would get in a cab to go the 5 blocks to get my blood tested. At least in the evening someone would bring me to the clinic for my IV of electrolytes. At night it would always be worse, and my body would spasm out of discomfort. The doctor prescribed coconut juice, fruit juices, and the like… but it took so much to beg people to help me find it. Sure, they were nice enough to let me stay, but I never thought people could ignore so much someone who was potentially mortally ill. I can’t imagine someone staying at my house and me not doing everything I could to make them feel better. I never felt so alone.

By the end of the week my platelet and white blood cell count was down to almost zero. At this point if someone sneezed in the same room as me I may have died from the cold. I kept waiting for the numbers to stop dropping (which would be a sign that the worst was over). Eventually they did, as I am here to write about it, and after a day they slowly began to rise. I had faced death yet again, and somehow survived. But the toll the dengue took on my body would not go away for a very long time. I left Honduras a few days after I was officially out of the danger zone and rode into Nicaragua. But I was not the same man – I was weaker, generally nauseous, had a constant headache, and barely had the strength to ride.

But I had no choice but to continue my journey - I was dammed if a mosquito and the blindness of infatuation would be what put an end to my book.

Live Update
 

Hello friends!

Just a quick live update, and a reminder to some who have recently joined my crazy adventure (at least virtually): I just arrived in Peru! 55,000km and almost 3 years on the road brought me to country number 14!!

The stories on here are a bit backlogged :) but they will catch up in the next months i think :)
If you ever want to know exactly where I am you can check my website:
www.alexandertolchinsky.com

Maps!
 

Hello Friends,
I have been remiss in posting what, to us, is most important: maps!
In the next days I will post my maps from Central America, starting with Mexico:

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Belize
 

And this is what a fast week through Belize looks like:

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Guatemala Map
 

3 Crazy months in Guatemala:

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El Salvador
 

The flash of El Salvador:

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Nicaragua - Costa Rica: Circumference of the World
 

Circumference of the World

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Nicaragua was only the 8th country on my journey, but it had taken 2 years and 40,015km (the circumference of the earth) to get there.

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As El Salvador and Honduras before, Nicaragua proved to have little to offer which could not be found in Mexico or Guatemala. After leaving Mexico people have been progressively less friendly and open, the food less tasty, roads less curvy, and the landscape less impressive. Maybe it was because I had been on the road for so long, maybe it was the loneliness, or perhaps the residual weakness of dengue that plagued my time in Nicaragua, but whatever it was I had to work at staying alert, staying interested and engaged in what was going on.

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Nicaragua flew by in the glimpse of a couple of weeks. There were a few highlights, but little to keep me there for long. Ometepe Island, with its twin volcanoes was a lovely retreat. I finally found good food, and passed the time with other intrepid travelers. San Juan del Sur was an exceptional place, with some of the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen. It was my last stop in Nicaragua and I treated myself to a nice hostel, with nice food, and a view of the Pacific from the top of a seaside mount.

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And as quick as I had surfed down a volcano in Leon, walked the colonial streets of Granada, rode around Ometepe, and played with the resident monkey at the Oceanside hostel, I was heading for the Costa Rican border.

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Costa Rica

I was caught in the rain again upon entering Costa Rica, and by the time I arrived at my host’s place near the beach I was sick. The dengue destroyed my immune system and any tolerance for strange food that I had developed so that every bit of rain made me sick and every meal made me nauseas. I was in for a rude awakening when I went to the market to buy some fruit and ended up paying $40 for a bag barely big enough to last a few days. It felt like being back in New York. Costa Rica is in fact the most expensive place in Central America. Once I was healthy there was little else I could do but ride around as park entrances and activity fees were astronomical (for me). If you are on a 2 week vacation, and going back to a decent job, Costa Rica is not expensive, but when you live on a motorcycle with no income for years on end the lovely tourist trap is a huge drain.

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Costa Rica is a lovely country, with some of the biggest bio-diversity in the world. It is a tiny strip of land that is home to thousands of species of flora and fauna. I wanted so badly to go on tours and see incredibly colorful, and rare, birds and reptiles and sea mammals, but the budget only allowed me a glide through the canopy. In truth I’m not sure I could have handled anything more. By the end of the first week I knew I had to do something to recover from the dengue, so I bought a ticket to fly to the states and recover at my mother’s house.

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On my way to stay with David, a guy I had met during Dia de los Muertes in Mexico, my clutch cable broke while riding up a hill. I managed to flag someone down and use his phone to call David. Within an hour he, his father and neighbor were there to pick me up with a truck. We lifted Georgia up (no small feat – she’s a big girl) onto the back of the truck and brought her to David’s place where she would await my return from the states. David’s family welcomed me in as though I were a lost son, and all my pain seemed to disappear while staying with them. David’s brother gave his bunk and went to sleep with his parents. It was a tiny, humble house which did not represent the hard work of David’s father rather the persistent inequity between the classes in Latin America. The medium standard of living in Costa Rica is higher than other places, but for those who do not work in tourism the gap between the lower and middle classes still appears insurmountable. Of course that was not something I was made to feel while staying with them, they allowed no sign of poverty while we ate and passed the time together.


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After a few days with my new Costa Rican family I boarded a plane to Minneapolis to recover and visit my mother. I wish I knew then that it would be the last time I would see her, the last time I would hold her face in my hands, the last time I would listen to her stories and eat her incredible cooking. I wish I knew…

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Honduras Map
 

Dengue Country Map:

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Nicaragua Map
 

The Land of Gorgeous Skies:

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Costa Rica Map
 

Panama to Colombia: Life on the High Seas
 

Life on the High Seas

Panama City

A month in the states went a long way to my ultimate recovery from dengue. I was a few pounds heavier from my mom’s cooking, and my soul was satisfied with nights of jazz bars and the New York Philharmonic. I flew back to my Costa Rican family, fixed the clutch cable and hit the road to Panama.

Costa Rica would save some of the most beautiful riding for my last days just to make sure I knew well what I was leaving. Giant, almost unbelievably colorful, parrots flew over me whenever I would pull over along the coastal road. Rolling hills, interspersed with mountains to the east, and gorgeous bays of the pacific coast to the west. I never knew there were so many shades of green! Tiny strips of beach, not yet victim to development, lined the coast, with palms throwing a cooling shade over ceviche vendors, inviting me to stop and pitch my tent at every turn. The peace and simplicity were so inviting, the hope of a reprieve from the scorching heat kept loosening the throttle, but I had a boat to catch to Colombia, and missing it would mean having to pay $500 more for another one.

Norm welcomed me to Panama and his home – my first time staying with someone I met through motorcycle clubs (I met a MCY gang on a ferry in Nicaragua, and they put us in touch). His home was a tiny paradise of fruit trees and flowers and monkeys and tropical birds – all there by choice, but who knew as well as I the rarity of such a place. It was a short stay, but filled with proper cups of tea and stories from the road. The following morning I was on my way to the disappointment of Panama City.

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I ‘ve always had an image in my head of what Panama City would be – linen suits, panama hats, cigars, business done in cafés with handshakes. What I found was a mostly abandoned old city, filled with tourists and surrounded by dangerous slums. There were still some intact remnants of the French and Spanish colonial buildings, and some lovely Art Deco ones as well, but they quickly receded into hurricane and time damaged ruins, and eventually slums. I decided to at least see that part of Panama City, but was accosted on every corner by police and soldiers who would tell me to turn around and not enter the slum. My friend and I persevered and entered the periphery, but were eventually forced to leave by the soldiers armed with dual pistols and machine guns.

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The Panama Canal was of course the highlight. Watching a ship the size of a large village rising and falling right before my eyes left quite an impression. The locks at Miraflores are not to be missed! As impressive and formidable as nature is, every once in a while man manages to control it – and that is always a sight to see.

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After a couple of days in the city I rode to my last point in Central America, Porto Bello, to catch my boat to Colombia.


Portobello

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In Portobello I met the 5 other riders who would share in my illegal crossing into South America – my second continent.

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500 year old canons point out to the bay at sailboats floating on the crystal clear and lake calm water of the Caribbean. 300 years ago they were pointing at hundreds of Spanish galleons waiting to be filled with silver and gold which had to be stored outside in giant heaps for it could not all fit inside the customs house. And as many years ago they were firing on countless pirate and buccaneer ships sacking the city.

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The night before sailing we loaded 6 motorcycles onto the Canadian ship, flying a U.S flag, commanded by a Dutch sailor (of sorts). 3 KLR’s, 2 DR’s and an F800GS. Loading the bikes was easy but nerve-wrecking. Loading them first into little dingys was scary as the little boats moved and swayed from even a wink, then came the ride to the Mother Ship, and finally hand pulling the boom to get them onto the boat. We worked with bated breath knowing that a mistake would mean an inglorious end to a journey. But all 6 steeds made it on board, were sprayed with oil to keep off the rust, covered in tarps to keep off the spray, and winched down to keep them from diving overboard. All was left was to load the food and ourselves, find a flat surface on which to sleep (as there were enough bunks for only 2), and wait for the sunrise.

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3 Australians, a Canadian, an American and myself, along with the Dutch captain and his Slovak lesbian ex-girlfriend – quite a crew! We were an interesting collection of characters, with wildly diverse, and often illicit, histories. Our reasons for being on the road also varied greatly. One other was a veritable gypsy like myself, others just seeking the thrill of the road and the embraces of Latina beauties. However we all shared the joy of the ride, the wind, and the inevitable lessons we learn about ourselves. We all got along instantly and the following days passed pleasantly in the company of new friends. We passed the time telling stories, playing cards, watching movies, but mostly lounging on deck – in a hammock or in the bird’s nest – enthralled by beauty and immensity of the sea.

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Life on the High Seas

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Our boat sighed and swayed with the indifferent swells of the Caribbean. I climbed the mast to look over miles of water – in the distance the ocean looked calm, almost glassy. But as my eye was drawn closer the water began to take on more character: occasional white caps from breaking swells; the apparent chasm between the swells as the ship dropped from one and faced the wall of another; the countless ripples covering every inch of the water’s surface. The day too played its hand upon the ocean and changed the bright, silvery shimmer of the morning, to a deep denim at midday, then a slow return to the mercury of evening and the final, inky black of night.

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Dolphins raced against us, darting right in front of our bow, leaping in the happy knowledge that they were faster and more agile. And then, as unlikely as it was beautiful, a hawk came to perch on our mast, 100 miles from the nearest land. He came and inspected us and scared away the sea gulls who, just as unlikely, came right before him.

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Our boat and her passengers had their lives in my hands 4 times as I took my place behind the wheel in the pilot house and attempted to hold a true course towards Cartagena, despite the wind’s and current’s best efforts to drive us into the Darien. Because the boat has no real crew it was up to us to rotate every four hours and take the helm – day and night.

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Of course I had a cold, was seasick for 2 of the 3 days, and barely managed to string together a couple of hours of uninterrupted sleep.

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We stopped by the San Blas islands for a quick dip and some snorkeling in the crystal clear waters which surround the idyllic palm and white sandy beaches of the Kuna people. We then left the calm waters of the bay and embarked on a slightly nerve wrecking, and painfully slow, cruise towards Colombia.



We were fortunate enough to avoid the storms which we saw passing all around us, and only twice felt the drops of relatively light rain. The six steeds stood firm and true throughout the journey and were not the worse for wear, unlike some of their riders. Really only two of us, including yours truly, were sea sick. Even the questionably cooked lobsters we bought off some Kuna divers, minutes after they were brought to the surface, failed to induce the rest of the crew to rush towards the rails.

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I was feeling the effects of 4 days without a shower, after constant sweat, and the remnants of our salt water dip. We were all feeling it I suppose, but as we are all bikers, and are accustomed to grime and sweat, no one complained – though quietly and anxiously we all awaited or first shower in Cartagena.

3 days later we were safely in the bay looking longingly at the shores of Cartagena. Because we were not on an official passenger carrier we could not dock and had to wait for some more dingys to come bring our steeds to land. I’m not sure I can describe the sensation of sitting atop of Georgia, my feet keeping her steady on the sides of what is little more than a canoe with a motor, praying that the waves from passing boats would not topple us into the bay and put a sad end to my journey. But all 6 of us landed safely in Colombia and began the next phase of our journeys through the wonders of South America.



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Panama Map
 

Last stop in Central America:

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Still on the Road
 

2 years, 10 months, 56,000km and still on the road!
Currently in Huaraz, Peru looking up at 6800m glacial peaks, and jade glacial lakes, trying to breathe as the place leaves one breathless, literally and figuratively.

Though I am still only as far as Panama on ADV, if you want to see some photos of where I am now, check out my website:
www.alexandertolchinsky.com

Now that I have finished with my tales of Central and North America, I will commence with South America, but it may take a bit before the next story. Thanks for your patience guys, as some of you may know living on the road is a crazy thing and moments of writing often must be wrought from the insanity of quotidian happenstance which is often completely absorbing.

A Few weeks shy of 3 years on the road, and after 61,000km crash #2 puts a screw in it all!
I was hoping to start posting stories from South America, and all the great pictures I have now that I have a real camera again, bu that will have to take a little time as the body heals and the work on Georgia begins.

It was one of those stupid days, full of stupid decisions, and then an encounter with a deep patch of gravel - the only one on the road. And at about 60mph I went flying, and Georgia went tumbling.
The picture doesnt look as bad because you cant see that, broken as i is, the front end is actually 45 degrees off, and the radiator is blown. The helmet too is done and I'm not sure how to replace that.

It was bitter cold on the high plain, around 10k ft, but slowly I got the bike up with the help of a local who happen to be passing this middle of nowhere stretch. I loaded her up again after gathering up my scattered goods, and rode her to Arequipa (Peru).

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I hope to start posting real soon as there are some great stories and shots from South America.

A lot of people have told me to put a donation button on my site for the last 3 years, and I always resisted, but I finally broke down as a project of this undertaking is not something I can do alone... especially if I have to rebuild the bike every 6 months.
Thank you all for your support!

www.alexandertolchinsky.com

The crash - 2
 

Here's the whole story of the crash:

Travel Log: May 17th, 2015
Arequipa, Peru

The Crash - 2
I wasn’t looking for adventure, just the highway. I left Yauri, half way between Cusco and Arequipa, with the idea that I would be in Arequipa in time for lunch. I had gotten off a nice paved road to spend the night in Yauri, and for the life of me could not find it again. Looking at the map I figured I would eventually join with it again, so I picked a road and started off.

I was on the high plains, and I mean HIGH: 4400m (14,500ft). It was an overcast day, with a bitter wind, made all the worse by the fact that I was riding. Even with my warm gloves and heated grips my hands were freezing within minutes. I rode along cursing the fact that I was not on pavement. Usually I seek out the back roads, the interesting twisties, but my legs were still sore from Machu Picchu and I just wanted to get to Arequipa, again, I wasn’t looking for any adventure.

I was freezing and in a crappy mood and the desolate highland landscape was not making it any better. I kept riding and riding, and still no pavement – just dust, gravel, dirt, ruts, and construction. I was in the middle of nowhere and the few and far between towns I passed barely had a dirt street let alone a place to eat. After a couple of hours, I saw a town large enough to maybe have a restaurant, so I pulled over. I found a little place, downed a thermos full of mate de coca, warmed up slightly, and got back on the road. The cold gripped me instantly again, and yet pavement was nowhere in sight. I needed to relax, I needed to accept it, and from time to time I did. But every time I ran into a construction stop the frustration came right back.

And then, on a perfectly flat gravel road, in the middle of nowhere, Georgia started to fishtail. I had no idea why, the gravel did not look deep at all, so I didn’t really even think of trying to move her over. It got bad in an instant and I saw myself flying off of her, so I had to make one of three (or so I thought) decisions: ease off the throttle, gently apply the rear brake, stand up and keep a constant throttle, or speed up a bit to try to stabilize. I chose the last and I chose wrong. The very next second I was whipped to the ground at about 90kph (55mph). I eventually stopped about 30-40ft away and Georgia stopped right next to me (thankfully not on top of me).

I can still see it, just like I can still see the moment Georgia slipped from under me on a mountain curve in Guatemala. I knew it was going to happen, I was almost ready for it, but the fall was so hard there was nothing I could do to control it and for the first time I actually hit my head. I always prided myself on being able to fall well (and considering I have never broken anything (tfu, tfu, tfu) maybe I still I can) and never letting my head hit the ground. But that all changed with my cracked helmet.

As I came to a stop I began to quickly analyze my condition. My head was throbbing, but the helmet was still on it and I could (barely) move my neck. Good. It took a few seconds but I got my arms and legs to move as well (again, barely). Good. Nothing severed, nothing broken, maybe a concussion, some lacerations, bruising, some inflammation, whiplash… the normal stuff. Good. But I still couldn’t get up. Everything hurt, everything was stiff. I could see Georgia out of the corner of my eye – she was on her side in the small ditch. Maybe she was leaking gas, but I couldn’t move. It was hard to breathe at the high altitude which made everything all the more difficult.

I eventually unsnapped my helmet, got to my feet and stumbled down the road to get my phone (which flew off), then stumbled back to get one of the bags that flew off, and the GoPro that snapped off my helmet at the point of impact 30ft away. I then stumbled back to Georgia and collapsed by her side.

A few minutes later someone actually drove by and stopped. In the following minutes a few more trucks drove by, no one stopped, and then it was deserted again. I couldn’t talk at first, I just moaned and pointed to my water bottle. One of the guys helped me up, I stumbled back to one of my bags, found a bottle of Aspirin, and swallowed 4. Of all the pain the head was the most debilitating and intense. We then unstrapped the bags and got Georgia on her rubbers.

The key was bent, so I got out a spare, pressed the starter and Georgia came to life! The front fender (or what was left of it) was bent 45 degrees to the right, most everything on the front end was smashed to bits though. But the wheel was in one piece and seemed more or less straight, so I figured I would ride her out. There was nothing else the guys could do so I thanked them and said they could go.

To the shame of all Peruvians, they asked me for a tip. I still can’t get over it. Forget the fact that they were only there for 5 minutes and only helped me lift up the bike (which is very easy for 3 people), that is not important. They stopped to help out a human being who had survived a crash, and they wanted money for it. I don’t care how poor you are, that is disgusting. I always stop to help people, and even if I use up things that I have that cost money I never ever, ever, even think of asking for anything. I’ve also been saved and helped by people just as poor as these guys, and when I offered something (mind you they have never asked), it was adamantly refused – always. I know what it’s like to be poor, but I could never even dream of asking someone for money for giving them a hand – I see it as a privilege to be there for another human being. Shame on them. And sadly this is a relatively accurate reflection on the poorer classes in Peru – but that’s for another time.

I had no choice but to pack Georgia up again and be on my way. It was a painfully slow process as I lifted one bag at a time onto the bike, stumbling back and forth from the little pile I had made. I don’t even know how long it took, I was dizzy and weak and running on auto-pilot. If only I were not sore from Machu Picchu, if only I was at a lower altitude so I could breathe… if only I had made a different decision when hitting that patch, if only I had asked more people about where the paved road was…

Every movement hurt, and my left hand was swollen from the impact which made shifting quite an effort. I managed to get my leg over the seat and set Georgia straight. She started right up again and I began the very long and very cold ride to Arequipa.

At first I kept her in first gear to make sure she could go straight without falling apart, but eventually got her going normally. The funny thing I noticed about the road I was on was the fact that there was no deep gravel anywhere else, just right in the line of my tire. Nice. It took a lot of effort to not pass out and to keep my eyes open and focused. Snowy peaks eventually appeared around me and the desolation became a little lovelier. Of course I could not enjoy it at this point, and could only focus on the road, the pain, and the cold.

I eventually did find the paved road, and cursed it and my maps. I stopped at a truck stop for a giant bowl of mutton soup to warm up. Every movement cost me, every moment of not lying down seemed like torture. But I could not give up, because I knew Georgia was doomed, and if I were to lay down I would not get up for days, so I had to make it to a friendly place.

It took another 4 hours to get to my host in Arequipa – 4 hours that I remember much less clearly than the moment I was slammed against the ground. But I made it. I don’t really know how Georgia or I made it, but we did. As I shut off her engine she dumped her coolant as the oil and gas boiled away – her sign that she got me to safety but that was as far as she was going without some serious TLC. We were both done I suppose, and so I took my turn and collapsed on the bed in a daze of frustration, confusion, and gratitude.

Sorry to read about the crash, sh!t sometimes happens. Glad youre OK though.

Good luck!

Support
 

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

Images of Peru 1
 

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

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Georgia Before the Fall:
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...and the not so pretty
 

.... and the not so pretty Peru:

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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!

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Counting Blessings
 

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

Arequipa
 

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:thumbup1:

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

Colombia - First Steps
 

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

Colombia - First Steps
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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.

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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.

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Live Update: Bolivia
 

LIVE UPDATE

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


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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!!

Feedback
 

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.

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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.

Update from the Road
 

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

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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, beer, 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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.
****!

4 weeks ago my tank bags were stolen, 2 days ago my camera was stolen, and last night they tried to take Georgia from me...
this marks the end of this phase of the journey and I fly back to the states this sunday.
I hope to return to the road some day, I hope to raise enough dough to get my camera back, I hope this is was only the beginning of my book...

I will continue to post stories on here though, as I've only written as far as Colombia 2013, I just need some time to get back on my feet.
I started a campaign to help with the camera recovery if you guys want to check it out, or share with other riders:
In Search of Common Bonds: Camera by Alexander Tolchinsky - GoFundMe

Adventures in Cocuy
 

12-31-13: Adventures in Cocuy


After Villa de Leyva and the wonderful pre-Christmas volunteering, I was overwhelmed by the constant presence of people. I could not remember the last time I had actually been by myself, and so I decided a few days alone in the mountains was just what I needed. And though I was surrounded by wilderness on all sides, this would not be such an easy task to accomplish.

I left Villa de Leyva on small 1st and 2nd gear roads going north. The gnarly dirt road was a rainbow of colors – the mud changed according to the mineral deposits from which the road was carved: gold to grey to red to tan… always shifting, always mixing to form a dynamic guide along the fertile valleys. Giant waterfalls lined the mountain faces and quenched the thirst of endless gullies – thick with bush and tree, capped by a tireless fog.
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After 6 hours of riding (which only brought me 60km) and a fall in the mud, I decided to spend the night in the tiny village of Gambita, which sits in the middle of Igague National Park – there I passed Christmas, mostly alone.

From Gambita I made it as far as Mogetes (only 140km away) 6 hours later, where I got Georgia thoroughly cleaned (from the dump in the pretty, yet very slippery mud) and got the fuse replaced for the headlight. With rain clouds gathering again, I was only too happy to get off the road then and there, knowing I would not make it to Cocuy that night.
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The ride to Mogotes was excellent! I had the pleasure of hitting 3rd, and even 4th, gear! Beautiful mountain-scapes, more bucolic valleys (though every once in a while wild and uninhabited ones too), and an excellent twisty road – almost completely devoid of cars. Shifting colors in the mud were replaced by undulating smells – sugarcane, both fermenting on the road and being cooked; pine and the sharp smell of a northern forest; and that glorious smell of nothing at all – just clean air.

I found a route on the map which cut diagonally to Cocuy, but everyone who I asked (who knew what Cocuy even was) said that the road doesn’t go there. But I decided to take a leap of faith and trust google maps on this, even though it has put me in the soup more than once before, and rode on.

The next day I broke my rule of not driving at night yet again, to make it to Cocuy. It was worth riding 30 minutes in the dark to not pay another 15,000 pesos for a hotel. Most of the 4 days it took me to get there were spent off-road, only briefly, and very rarely, ever hitting 3rd gear.
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When I finally got to El Cocuy I was informed of a fact which I had conveniently ignored before: that they are at the height of tourist season. My dream of being alone shattered within 5 minutes of arriving at what should have been the jumping off point to peace and quiet. I wanted the absence of colorless fireworks, blaring music, ceaseless barking of dogs, the screaming of children, and the constant drone and roar and choking exhaust of motor vehicles.

On my way there I had encountered a dozen places I wanted to make my home, if only to camp and be alone for a little while. It is some form of great stupidity that I never did – that I chose to neglect the perfection of those spots – just off the side of almost deserted roads – and continue to the touristy mess which is El Cocuy.

Though I had found a place to stay for less than anywhere is town, I still went to the hostel to see about their prices and possibly meet other hikers. There was no one there really (groups just having left for the lakes and glaciers), but I thought I would try my luck and see if the owners knew of a place I could be alone. At first they repeated what everyone else had said, but then they pointed to a lake far off to the east, which looked to be almost outside the park. They said the views were great and that I could possibly leave my bike with one of the last farmers on the road before hiking. I didn’t have too much time to think as the next day the town’s fiesta was starting, and the last thing I wanted was more people and more noise.

By the time I had packed the following day it was past noon. There was a horse parade to start off the fiesta, and more than a hundred riders from the surrounding villages came to participate. Of course they were on the road I needed to get out, so my late start was delayed even more. As I was leaving I saw a group of pretty girls and for a moment my heart seized, as it usually does, in doubt and regret for leaving. Trying to get to the end of the road before the hike meant dropping Georgia 3 more times. I dropped her as much for her being underpowered and heavy, as for my own lack of off-road riding skills. I truly am a road biker playing at the adventure rider. Thankfully there was a farmer, Jose, the last farmer on the road before the wilderness, who saw me and helped me to right Georgia. All of that, just to be alone for a few days. By the time I got to the end of the road, repacked my backpack, tucked away and covered Georgia, it was already 3pm. Jose walked with me as far as the river, which is the boundary between his land and the park which stretches all the way to the border with Venezuela – encompassing both glacial peaks and jungle.

I continued across the river and began the slow climb to the lake. My bag was heavy and poorly packed (the sleeping bag hanging off the back) because it’s too small to fit everything for a solo trek. It made breathing even harder, and brought a mind-numbing pain to my neck and shoulders. In a dozen years of hiking I cannot recall ever having the right backpack and having it properly packed. As much as I love the mountains every trip has been more trouble, almost, than it was worth – particularly at elevation.

What is said to be an hour’s walk took me about two. When I finally huffed and puffed my way to the last peak, I discovered there was no lake – at best it was a bog with patches of water – tiny ponds perhaps. What was told to be a lake by 3 people, and what looked like a lake on the map, was nothing to look at, no view of anything else, and no place to camp. But because of my late start it was already growing dark and I had little choice but to look nearby for a place to break camp and abandon the idea of finding the lake. Between two years of smoking, lack of cardio, and the altitude, every step cost me what seemed to be an ounce of life. But I managed to set up camp and boil a cup of tea before dark. I then settled in to read, but was asleep by seven – only to wake up two hours later and spend the rest of the night in the contemplation of my own death.
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Riding ever further from civilization never ceases to bring forth awe inspiring beauty. At night there is no light pollution and the sky is littered with millions of stars. The sun setting over mountain peaks sets them, and the truant fogs, ablaze, while casting the valleys in rich purple hues. The days bring vistas of mountains stretching for what seems to be a hundred kilometers to the horizon; of bucolic valleys with cows and sheep lazily grazing their days away; and rivers meandering noisily through fields and glades, snaking their way into distant dreams of the simple life.
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As I sat there, alone, in a place which only in part met my hopes, I was keenly aware that I was in fact running away. This whole trip, regardless of every good reason, purpose or possible outcome, was, at its heart, a fleeing. It may sound silly, and I thought I was intelligent enough to know better, but in the end it’s not about intelligence, and the truth is that I was running away from myself.

How can one run from themselves? The very you you wanted to leave behind? I realized this when I spent yet another sleepless night, though alone in the wilderness like I wanted – the place I was supposed to be most at peace - thinking of my own death. Though I am “living the dream”, as everyone likes to tell me, easily a third of my thoughts are spent in the contemplation, and desperate attempt at prevention, of killing myself. What is ever more troublesome is how much closer I’m getting again to that moment. When I was 16 I didn’t think, I just went for it (in a stupid way I’ll grant you). My biggest regret to this day is that I did not research it and do it properly. Since then the thought of my actions destroying my mother’s sanity and life has brought me back time and time again, but that torture is never-ending and it makes a big part of my life a living hell.

There is some irony in the fact that Love seems to be the cure for this. Of the last 24 years of the hell, about 5-6 were spent relatively free of these thoughts – the years I was in love. For one reason or another, real or invented, I parted ways with the three loves I had known. And now though I know the medicine I need, I fear of committing myself to someone. I didn’t want to be wrong: get married, have some kids, and discover that love was not the answer after all and that I am doomed to this torture forever out of the responsibility I would have for my wife and kids (to say nothing of my mother). And so I ran, and I ran, and I ran… until I found myself in the middle of Colombian wilderness no better for it, with no new hope to light my way forward.
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On the second day the fog came rolling in again – the sun, no matter how intense, seems to be no match for it. But I could not lay and wallow any longer so I decided to explore my little isolated haven. I found the elusive lake, further away, and higher, than what my phone map showed. It was good that I did not seek it the other day as I would have lost a lot of day light in my search and dry, flat places were scarce.
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Colombia’s version of an alpine plain is a lovely landscape of mosses, bushes, and a particularly pretty plant which, from a distance, looks like a mix between a cactus and an agave. Up close it looks like tiny sunflowers rising up from a vase of furry leaves growing up, and dryer, pineapple like, ones growing down. The colors of the flora are intense and bright when they are concentrated on furry little leaves that cling to crevices and cracks in mountain walls. But some patches of plants are eerie and wispy, they stand almost like ghosts in the distance, their silvery leaves and sunny heads taunting the senses from their foggy shrouds. There were bare rock strata of many colors running at various angles along the mountains. They threaten of a rougher, more desolate place than what this part of the valley actually is.
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Darkness came quickly, as it tends to do in such places, leaving me under a giant bowl of stars, and every so often a distant meteor would streak the sky for a brief second, and I would unwittingly smile.

The next day, rather than burning up the fog, again, the sun boiled the steamy basin of Colombia’s northern rainforest and sent clouds to cover the valleys and peaks of Cocuy for the majority of the
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I began my hike though part Alps, part Middle Earth, at 6am. By 10:30 I found myself on a ridge that snakes from the snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada down to my humble and foggy little valley. To the north-west nothing but endless, and unexpectedly snowy, mountain peaks dissolving into the familiar distant hues of deep purples and blues. To the east the gradually descending mountains, with unmeasurably high cliffs that form tears in the earth, that lead to the rainforest.
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After such a difficult start with my fear of crowding, not finding a place to camp, my physical and mental weakness, the view destroying fog, the elusive lake, the crashes with Georgia, and overweight pack, I was sure this would be a wasted trip. But as I sat alone on the soft, mossy ridge, with a commanding view of all cardinal directions, the sun and wind taking their turns burning and freezing me, I was finally content and happy.
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But as always in the mountains the hard-won view was short lived. The fog began engulfing my return route and slowly obscuring the snow and dream filled horizon. I had no real map or GPS and could not see any of the landmarks I had remembered on my way up. I had my phone and was able to see my location relative to the lake – but in the high wilderness “relative” can mean the difference between life and death.
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Descending blind in the thick fog I misjudged how far I had to go down and ended up descending more than I remembered climbing. I found myself on a ledge overlooking a cliff with nothing but white in front of me. Eventually I realized that I had traversed to far as well and was on the wrong side of at least one ridge.

In moments of clarity I could see the vertical wall behind me and the 90 degree drop in front of me. I knew I had to traverse back from where I came but I knew not to what end as I would be as blind there as I was on the edge of the precipice where I realized the gravity of my error. The thoughts of slipping and falling hundreds of meters, or being stuck in the open, exposed to wind and below zero temperatures were my constant mental companions. However, I stayed calm. It’s probably the most important things one can do. The second, is to go back up, gain elevation and to re-orient yourself. This however would be fruitless in this case as the peaks would be just as engulfed in fog as the rest of the range. I knew, or rather hoped, that it would clear up as the sun would set, and if I just followed my instincts, the brief, short range, clearings in the fog and the compass on my phone, by the time it would begin to clear I would be within close range of my tent. Walking at night was not an option as I did not have my light, nor would it be very useful as there are no trails and many rises and falls which could obscure my tent even from a few dozen meters distance.

I began my scramble up the mountain in the direction which seemed the least steep and where a brief lull in the fog revealed what looked like a pass over the ridge which would not require professional rock climbing gear. As I made my way in that direction the fog closed in again. For the next three hours it would be the same over and over again.

I stopped often and sat in doubt – was I actually going the right way? At what point should I start to climb down again? There was only so much strength I had for going up and down at that altitude, would I have enough to keep going?

Brief “clearings”, instinct, and a lot of luck finally revealed the side of a ridge on the other side of a narrow valley, and I knew it to be mine. For brief seconds the sun would appear as a perfect, hazy circle in the fog, which confirmed my direction, and in one of those moments it cast enough light on a familiar slope to let me know I would make it before dark.

But all was not yet won as the fog kept coming and limiting my ability to move on immediately and to plan the overall path. I eventually did make it down to the valley and began recognizing landmarks. I couldn’t see my tent and the thought that it had been stolen gripped me as much as doubt over my orientation. Then there was more climbing ahead as I had ventured too far downhill and too far west. As the sun’s rays grew weaker behind the western range, further dimmed by truant clouds, I finally saw the peak of my little gecko colored shelter. I was saved! And that is not an exaggeration as the likelihood of my surviving with no warm clothes or shelter at night, at over 4000 meters, would be quite slim.

The following morning my head continued to throb, as much from the altitude as from the lack of water and sleep during my 3 day solo excursion into the wilderness of Cocuy. The walk back to Georgia was mostly downhill, but it was still exhausting, and the farmer’s dogs, without their master to keep them at bay, barked and bellowed and gnashed their teeth at me for a good half hour.

It was New Years Eve and I wasn’t sure I would have a place to stay when I returned to the town. I rode to my last little unheated hovel and was warmly welcomed again. I almost decided to not leave the room, but could not bear to be alone on New Year’s for the first time in my life, and so I got dressed again in my dirty clothes and went to the town’s square. I met some people from before my trek and we spent the night dancing in the cold mountain air and making fun of the mediocre band. I was in bed by 4am, with no headache, and ready to continue to the first country which actually gave me cause to fear and doubt: Venezuela.

01-02-13: Colombia: Ups and Downs - the end of the first Colombian chapter
 

01-02-13: Colombia: Ups and Downs - the end of the first Colombian chapter

After my adventures in Cocuy I was looking forward to some calm and relaxing days of riding to Venezuela… this of course was not meant to be. I think so far peace has been the hardest thing to find on my journey, as its occurrence is rarer than any other single element.

The day before leaving the town of Cocuy I met a Colombian biker. We chatted for only a few minutes about his time in Europe, the bikes we’ve ridden and parted ways. The following morning, out of nowhere, he asked if he could borrow my bike to go see the glaciers. I am still not sure why I did it, but I said yes. I didn’t even know his last name! But I let him borrow my…. Everything. I wasn’t yet recovered from the mountains and wanted to give myself another day, so leaving was no longer an issue. He’s a biker himself, so I was not concerned for him knowing how to ride, but then again… it was one of the craziest things I have done, but I was thinking of good bike Karma I suppose. To my shock, and dismay, a few minutes after he mounted Georgia, he came back around the block with a backpacker who he picked up to take up to the base camp. I had barely a moment to frown and voice my opposition when he took off. The shocks, the tires, the oil… I was not happy about this turn of events… but all I could do at that point was hope. New Year’s Day is a tough day to get rides as everyone is either still drinking or passed out, so I did not want to leave the backpacker stranded... good karma, that’s all was thinking, good karma.

The next morning I finally left Cocuy for my way last stop in Colombia: Cucuta. I was on the road only a few kilometers when I came to a small village where Georgia suddenly died. She wouldn’t start with the electric starter, nor jump-starting (no easy feat when fully loaded). Eventually she did rumble to life but thereafter threatened to die again if I dropped the throttle. Through at least three villages, down one side of a mountain and up another, I had to keep the engine revved. On slow, tight turns I kept the clutch in and the throttle wide open. I can only imagine how much gas and oil I burned up. I wasn’t sure where I could get this fixed and it was hard to ask for directions with the engine screaming. I got to the last village before the main road north, and managed to find the only mechanic there – who was of course out to lunch. As the day slipped away, so did my hopes of making it to Cucuta that night. As always, however, I spent a wonderful few hours with the mechanic and his family. He cleaned Georgia’s carb and air filter, along with a few other quick fixes and I was ready to go the next morning.

The ride from Soata to Cucuta, along the still in construction highway 55, was one of the worst and best rides so far. For the first 130km and 5 hours the road was nothing but 1st and 2nd gear. I could feel the gas, the oil and hydraulic fluid burning away as I slowly traversed, climbed and descended endless mountains and ridges. As annoying as the ride was, the scenery was unparalleled. I am never so happy – smiling like an idiot while I ride along – as when I’m in the mountains. As the sun rose to its zenith and then began its long journey to rest, the mountains revealed themselves and the little secrets they held at a given point in the day.

Long shadows of the cool morning cut deep grooves in the gullies running down both ancient, and still growing, slopes. As I rode, kicking up the dust, so too I passed through the clouds left behind the trucks – their shimmering particles lodging deep in my eyes and nose. Eventually I had to open my jacket as the temperatures climbed along with the morning star. The farms perched at precarious angles along the mountains began to lose their definition, and waves of heat and haze began to obscure the distant ranges. But bucolic farmland slowly gave way to more and more arid land, as the temperature began to drop, as I continued to climb. Until, and it felt like a single moment, the rounding of a single curve, that I beheld a cold and desolate high plain, where only low shrubs and the ubiquitous frailejones grew, close to the ground, tucked away from the chilling wind which drove a dense fog to lap and engulf the buttes and hillocks of the plateau. I trudged along in 1st or 2nd gear, mesmerized by the contrast of the lushness I had just left, and the desert like emptiness, and eeriness, of this side of the range. The fog seemed to move slowly, but as my eye wandered elsewhere for a moment, and then returned upon a spot or peak, it was gone. There were no cows anymore, not even sheep, only the hardy goats braved the cold and made the tough shrubbery their meal. A couple of horsemen in the traditional ruana and hat, with the rosy marks of windburn on their cheeks, would stare solemnly as I rode slowly past – on my way to easier climates. Clouds hung low and thick, standing guard and warning of rain, as I entered the plateau, and then again appeared as I dropped down to yet another river, and began my rise up another face, of yet another mountain. Finally the clouds began to disperse as again, I saw taller trees, evergreens, and more farms. The air began to warm, and eventually grew thicker with moisture and the bugs that are indicative of a more tropical climate. I eventually ended my constant drop and climb, and began the slow descent into the foothills of the Andes, leading towards a lush valley which could eventually bring me to the Caribbean. The day that began with a shiver, turned to heat, turned to freezing cold, and again returned to warmth, was now burning hot.

Approaching Cucuta felt like a return to the coast: people walking in shorts and tank tops, the heat of the air, the buzz of the numerous cafes along the road, the more languid movement of the people… it all reminded me of Cartagena. But Cucuta is far from the coast, and is more characterized by the undulating prosperity of Venezuela than anything else. The border town grew in response to the growing wealth and buying power of Venezuela, and continued to have its booms and busts according to the Venezuelan economy ever since. The people are of course Colombian, though different in a slight way, like every other region in the country. The women are as beautiful as ever, the people in general are friendly and open and helpful, but still there is something different – perhaps it’s not for me to tell, perhaps it’s only a difference they truly understand.

So far I have noticed that there is a distinction between people of the Atlantic coast, the Pacific coast, Antioquia (Medellin), Bogota, the northern mountains, and Cali in the south. I have not met too many indigenous peoples from the jungled regions of Colombia, like Putumayo, but I can only assume they are different as well. What’s interesting is the continued parallel of people from a given type of landscape across countries/cultures. Farmers in Guatemala and Colombia and Virginia will have more in common with each other, than people from the city in their own country. Mountain folk here are very reminiscent of those in other countries; and of course those from metropolitan centers carry similar common threads, particularly the haughtiness, obsession with fashion, and a certain worldliness, similar to big city residents around the world.

I got an unexpected, helpful and pleasant surprise when Omar invited me to stay with him in Cucuta. It made my ride shorter and meant I would not have to cross the border at night. What was to be a day turned into 4, as usual, with day trips, friends, family and food. It also gave me the opportunity to prepare myself for Venezuela.

Not only did I have to bring my own toilet paper and a stock of basic hygiene products, I wanted to bring some extra tooth paste and flour to give to my hosts along the way. This is my first time, since leaving my native Russia, entering a country where there are lines for food, for the bank, for basic services. A place where running water and electricity are not guaranteed, not because there is no infra-structure but because communist mismanagement of it means constant cuts. Never-the-less I tried not to think too much of what was to come so that I would not contaminate my experience with prejudice and false expectation. And I’m glad I didn’t as the 3 months I would spend in Venezuela would be some of the most breathtaking of my journey, and the people I would meet would become some of my closest friends.

Much has happened since my last post! I've had to abandon Georgia to Argentina, and made a return to a place I have not lived in 11 years (Minnesota), and it's all because of this:
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But I can't wait to start writing again as there is so much more to tell yet, so many adventures in so many more countries I have not written about, but soon...

Please do tell!!