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Around the World in... as Long as it Takes
Greetings Fellow Nomads, Vagabonds, Ramblers, Dreamers, Riders!
http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...67-559x559.jpg I will use this page to as a link page to articles later on, so as time goes by check the bottom for added links. Also, if you ever want to see more pics, maps, other writing, or my live location, fee free to visit my website: Alexander Tolchinsky Where I am Now:Loja, Ecuador Time on Road: 2 years, 9 months # of Countries:13 Distance Traveled:54,000km What the hell I'm doing: On August 8th, 2011, after a decision made 3 weeks prior, I bid farewell to my cousin, my niece and the last 7 years in New York City, and hit the road on my 1999 Honda Magna VF-750 (to be swapped for a 2005 KLR later ). In the weeks leading up to the day I had given up my apartment, sold most of what I owned, shipped a few boxes to my mom, and said good bye to all my friends and students. I set out to circumnavigate the globe, via 100 or so countries. I knew better than to predict how long it would take, or to pretend I knew exactly why I was going. The only thing I was sure of was that I needed to go. My 29th birthday was approaching, I had finally found my calling as a teacher, and also realized that I would never write the books I wanted to write as long as I taught public high school. As much as I loved what I was finally doing with my life, there was no room for writing, not after 12 hours of teaching and planning and grading and just being there for the students. I saw what happened to Frank McCourt (worked 40 years as a teacher, retired, wrote 3 amazing books, and promptly died), and I didn’t want that to be me. I also knew that as I was getting to be the age where I should start thinking about marriage and kids, and there was no way I could ever leave them for however many years it would take to go on this journey. So it was now or never, and I chose now. With every passing day the purposes of my journey reveal themselves. My writing and ideas take shape, and the stories and messages I want to share with the world become more and more apparent. The following blog is a record of my journey. Mexico Starts here, at the bottom of page 3: http://www.horizonsunlimited.com/hubb/ride-tales/around-the-world-long-takes-72622-3 http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...-1-399x600.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...ker-6s-300.jpg |
So have you been on the road for two years? It will be great to read about your adventures. Are you still travelling or have you 'made it'?
Welcome and congrats on your first post! PN |
Quote:
I've been on the road for almost 26 months now, and am still at it! Though currently I am taking a month recovery in New York because the last year has been... ummm, lets just say dengue was involved, and that wasn't all. But I will be back to Georgia (my steed), who I left in Costa Rica, on the 29th of October. Thanks for asking!! |
The Why
Why The Motorcycle?
Though a lonely endeavor by virtue of space, motorcycles function to bring people together. It doesn’t matter whether you ride a sport bike, cruiser or enduro, or whether it’s a Honda, BMW or Harley, as long as you ride you belong. On the loneliest road, after hours of solitude you will pass a biker and he will extend his hand in greeting, engulfing you in a wave of warmth and camaraderie. A thousand unspoken words pass through that hand, and there is only one way to hear those words: buy a motorcycle. Then, as you make your first fall, soak during your first unexpected downpour, blow a tire in the middle of nowhere, have your marrow frozen by the damp and wind, become happily lost on precipice framed switchbacks… then all of you will be shared in the wave and as the other passes he too will know and share your story. This sounds like owning a motorcycle is an exclusive pursuit, but I would argue that it is one of the most inclusive activities in the world, capable of bringing together people from every corner of the world. A motorcycle is the cheapest form of mechanized transportation available, and the most ubiquitous throughout the world. This means that rich or poor, 1st or 3rd world, you have access to the club. Doctors will ride next to teachers, and plumbers, and fruit vendors. Unlike so many other pursuits, regardless of whether you are seasoned or a novice, you are welcome in the club, and no grizzly rider of 30 years will scoff at the youth on his first steed when he waves “hello”. The motorcycle is the great equalizer; it eliminates the divergence of peoples that society inflicts on us. The motorcycle also means access. Access to parts of the world where cars cannot reach, access to people who are generally more empathic towards the traveler for whom safety and comfort are not a given. That degree of shared danger, like that of wars or other worldly struggles, creates a bond between riders, and those who understand their challenges. Invariably motorcycles pique interest, arriving in a town or village on a motorcycle brings out the children and the locals. You are more likely to be invited into a home, more likely to be told stories and dreams of travel. You are therefore more likely to discover the underlying veins of similarity between yourself and the strangers you have met. In that manner a motorcycle functions to create ties of peace and understanding that few diplomats can achieve. You don’t need to go to college to learn how to ride a motorcycle and to understand the people you meet. All you need is an open heart and an open mind. And it is meeting real people which is the best weapon against ignorance and hate. Futbol (soccer) has had a similar unification of peoples, as has art. But motorcycles offer even more as they bring people together who are further apart geographically, as well as financially or socially, and engage them in a shared struggle and joy which binds them ever firmly together. In the past, war has served as the great unifier, the creator of lifelong friendships. But these ties rarely cross borders, and the world pays a debt of millions dead for those sacred ties. Whereas bikers from every country will meet and share stories of their adventures, and open the door to sharing their lives, and friendships flourish quickly as people discover otherwise hidden similarities. No death, no hate, just a shared love of the road and of our world’s great natural gifts. A secondary influence of motorcycles is that of natural preservation. The average motorcycle is as fuel efficient than the most advanced hybrid, at a fraction of the cost. The average biker seeks the road to witness in person our glorious mountains and forests and lakes and sunsets. This exposure, this removal from our encasement in houses and offices, makes bikers appreciate our world and work all the harder to see it preserved for future generations. I would argue that if every person on the planet were to spend just one weekend in a place like Glacier National Park, or in the Alps, or in the Serengeti, they would think twice before throwing something out the window, or voting to remove protections on wildlife refuges, or waste water. Bikers are witnesses to our nature’s beauty more often than most people, and if they are not environmentalists at first, they quickly become so. The travel informs, the struggle unites, and the passion infects. Motorcycling is truly the next step in cultural understanding, the creation of the bonds of peace, the promotion of sustainable travel, and preservation of our planet. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...24-600x400.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...78-600x399.jpg Why The Pen? It took a long time to figure out that the purpose of my journey should be discovering the common bonds which unite us as a people. We always focus on differences, and even try to “celebrate” them, but we are still so far from unified. What we have in common is often harder to see, but I believe that if we can find these common bonds we can truly start to appreciate the fact that we are all human beings - beyond race, culture or borders - and respect each other for that simple fact. I don’t always write about this in my blog, as it will take me the world before I encounter most of our cultures and am able to draw any conclusions, so for now I hope you just enjoy the ride. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...ticker-4-s.jpg (trying to put a sticker together, any thoughts, suggestions or help is greatly appreciated, as my creativity starts and ends with the camera :crying: ) Next up: First days on the road! |
Well written Alex!
Thank you for sharing your story and thoughts! Because i`m also looking for a good timeframe to "go" for an undefined amount of time - i`m very interested how do you look&feel about traveling after a good amount of time! suscribed :thumbup1: Surfy |
Hey Surfy,
I'm glad you like it! Let me know if you ever have any questions, I will be happy to help any way I can! -AMT |
First Days
And so it begins...
New York City to Eastport, Maine The first hours of my journey served as a good reminder for one of the reasons I was hitting the road in the first place. It took me almost two hours just to get out of the city. Once beyond the great span of the RFK Bridge the road was highlighted only periodically by moments of free riding, the rest of the way to Boston, small road or interstate, was riddled in traffic. It was not until after Boston that I really began to feel as though I had left the city. My goal was Rockland, Maine, where I had arranged to stay the night. Unfortunately the wealth of excellent riding roads in Connecticut, Rhode Island, Massachusetts and New Hampshire, do not lead to anywhere near Main, so I was stuck on the coastal roads which offered no view of the coast. As the first day slowly descended into night, I got my first taste of just how unprepared I was for this particular August, and perhaps, I thought, for such a journey. It was unseasonably cold, and when packing I had completely disregarded just how cold the coast, and the forthcoming mountains could be. Though I have been riding for close to 10 years, and though I have ridden through every kind of weather you could think of, I still managed to overlook the most important reality of motorcycle travel: the variability and unpredictability of weather. I may have also forgotten my toothbrush. The damp cold of the coast has the wonderful capacity to penetrate layers of clothing, so that by the time I arrived in Rockland my chattering teeth made it hard to formulate sentences. I spent the next day wandering along the piers, visiting a lighthouse, looking for an affordable lobster roll, and diving in quarries turned swimming holes. There is an inexplicable grasp that Maine has on those who were fortunate enough to visit its shores. Maybe it’s the crisp, salty air, the sound of tugs, sails flapping in the wind, the friendliness of its residents, or perhaps that familiar draw of a simpler life. Whatever it is, it was hard to leave. After a couple of days of shaking off the initial shock of actually having left everything behind, I was back on the road. I stayed along the coast on HWY 1, and detoured to go around Mt. Desert Island and Acadia National Park. In retrospect I should have camped, but instead I only dismounted briefly to breathe the air of our nation’s first national park east of the Mississippi. From Acadia I continued on HWY 1 to Eastport, Maine, where I would catch a ferry to Deer Island, New Brunswick – a brief venture into Canada, before I would begin the world’s second biggest country in earnest a few days later. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...bw-600x399.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...34-399x600.jpg |
Kindness
I was only a few days in, but was miserable, and experienced something that would change things forever...
Kindness From Eastport, Maine, the eastern-most point of the United States, I, and my Magna, caught a ferry to Deer Island, New Brunswick, Canada. It was getting late, and as usual I was planning on catching the last ferry out. I pulled up to the dock just in time to witness the boat pushing back from the dock! I crossed a time zone, a half-hour difference, without knowing it. I had but a moment to be distraught before I witnessed something I never thought happened in the “Screw you the doors are closed, you cannot get on the plane which is still sitting 30 ft. away” society we live in – the ferry started coming back - for me! I was only a few days into my journey and had yet to learn the magic of the road, and the kindness people have for travelers. The ride was quick and surprisingly painless. This was my first time putting a motorcycle on a boat, and I imagined every wave knocking it over. But the boat was steady and the steel horse didn’t even tremble. By the time we arrived on the island dusk was upon us in earnest so I made my way to the closest campground. I pitched my tent facing the water and the sun setting over the bay. The time passed easily with whales, porpoises, jumping fish, and whirlpools. It was a stark northern beauty softened by the colorful warmth of the setting sun. It is exactly the kind of place one would come to to write in peace and breathe the crisp, clean, inspiring air of the north. But as I was still new at long-term travel and felt eager to get back on the road. Sadly I could not make myself stay for more than a day. The rain fell steadily, and the fog horns kept me awake, for most of the night. In the morning there was a brief lull during which I rushed to pack everything and race around the misty isle, losing my bike cover in the process, to the northern ferry to mainland New Brunswick. And just like the one coming to the island, the ferry, which had already departed, reversed engines and came back for me – saving me from having to wait another hour in the rain. The rain picked up after we arrived on land and stayed with me for the next 8 hours – soaking and chilling me to the bone. I had made the mistake of assuming that August would be a warm and dry month, and did not bring the proper long-distance riding gear. I hoped the rain was localized to the northern coast so I decided to take the shorter route to Montreal by way of Northern Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont (as opposed to riding north and switching back south-west by way of Quebec City). I took the uneventful highway 1 to Saint Stephen and crossed the border back into Maine where I caught highway 9 to Bangor. Fog rolled heavily along hilly, sparse, granite plots of farmland. There was a deep smell of pine from the endless sea of evergreens through which the road cut long, sleepy curves. It was easy to see why most of the population lives along the coast – where the sea shares its bounty more rapidly than hardened northern soil. I passed few people on the road, there was no hint of traffic, not even in the towns, unlike the coastal road which came to a halt every 30 miles. The rain I was hoping to escape further inland only continued to intensify the closer I got to Bangor. From Bangor I took highway 2 to highway 26 which brought me to tiny Errol, New Hampshire, 300 miles from Deer Island. I was still a few hours out of Montréal, somewhere between the White Mountains and Northern Woods, when I simply had to get off the bike. It was hard to see anything, the road was curvy and slick, and I was wet and freezing. Though it was August, this was not a warm summer rain wet, this was a suck the heat straight from your heart wet. So I pulled into a gas station across from which was a diner, and made my way, if not to warmth, than at least to food and a precipitation free environment. It was already late in the day so I couldn’t afford to stay too long, lest I would have to ride to Montreal in the dark. To complement the weather perfectly, I was “greeted” by a waitress who stole no less warmth from the room than the rain from my bones. I needed some patience and understanding but instead found rudeness and curt backtalk. So I sat there, miserable, eating my mediocre burger and drinking my mediocre coffee, and feeling no less mediocre myself. And then a fine example of conversations I would have across the continent began with a jolly faced, goateed young man who sat down a couple of stools away. “Where ya from?” It is usually pretty obvious that I am not from wherever I happen to be. “Well”, I said, “I started in New York. But since I no longer have a home or job there, I’m not sure I will return”. “Ha, ha!” He had a most peculiar laugh, a “ha, ha” with an emphatic stress on the second “ha”, such that it rang throughout the diner. “Where ya headed?”, a couple of older guys joined in, Harley riders on days better than this. “Tonight, I’m just trying to make it to Montreal”. In a moment when New Englanders drop their typically laconic façade they become quite hospitable, and allow a glimpse into how their ancestors might have acted 400 years ago. The whitewashed colonial houses which are still the predominant structures lining the tiny Main streets and mountain roads of the great nor’easter land, help complete the picture. Though still cold, I was beginning to warm up as we continued chatting about the curse of the rain and the joy of riding. In turn we started talking about books and the joy of holding and smelling a particularly old one. Mark, the young man, mentioned that he had found a history book from the 1870’s, and noticing my obvious and immediate excitement invited me over to take a look. I was eager to make it to Montréal, but dreaded continuing to ride in the rain, so I accepted his offer. We finished our burgers and drove a mile down the road to a beautiful estate where Mark was the groundskeeper. Marks little cottage was sparsely furnished, with little more than two beds and a toilet (the shower was a house outside), but he managed to make me feel so at home. Still, he saw that I was still cold and dreading getting back on the road, so he offered for me to stay the night. He had a spare bed and said he would appreciate the company – he made it seem as though I would be doing him a favor by staying! That is true kindness and altruism: making the recipient feel not as though they are a burden and should be humbled by the granted favors, rather as a fellow Man being treated as one should. I leafed through the beautiful, red leather bound book for a while, then Mark and I talked, as long time friends might, before I was finally overcome with the fatigue of riding. I have rarely been so comfortable or slept as soundly as I did that night. I left that day feeling the warmth that only making a new friend can bring. The rain continued, but thankfully was much lighter than the day before. I kept to HWY 2 which skirts the White Mountains. The slickness kept my speed down, and the mist and clouds kept me from seeing the beautiful mountains. On a clear, autumn, day this is one of the most beautiful rides in New Hampshire. Eventually I had to get onto the interstate in order to cross the border back into Canada. Those few minutes on Int. 91 reminded me why I never take interstates: they are straight, impersonal, and with the exception of a few stretches, very ugly. It did however mark the beginning of my ride across the world’s second biggest country. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...86-600x399.jpg |
Canada: The Ride Part I
Canada: The Ride Part I
Montreal, QC to Lethbridge, AB Crossing the world’s second biggest country felt like a daunting task: more than 4000 miles through at least 6 climate zones, the inevitable rain, wind, and snow, and incredible stretches of solitude. This was certainly no “easing into” my journey around the world. But I had to start somewhere, so off to the Great White North I went with the hopes that succeeding would mean a great beginning rather than an end. Once past the border, the ride to Montreal, on HWY 10, was a pleasant jaunt through European looking country side – smaller farms, wooden fences, small groups of cows grazing peacefully. There was nothing breathtaking, but also nothing jarring like the sight of massive feedlots. On the approach to the city I was quickly thrust back into the realities of city riding: the final 20 miles took almost as long as the ride from the border. I spent only a day in Montreal, long enough to dry everything that was wet, which was everything I had. I was too eager to keep going and was already late for the couch surfing I had foolishly set up beforehand. I had lined up almost all of the couches I would need before even setting out from New York. I was too novice to know that plans inevitably change, that time takes on a different meaning on the road. To those unfamiliar with Couchsurfing.org: this is an on-line community of over 3 million people across the globe who open their homes to travelers. It is free of cost, and full of gain. The people I have met from Couch surfing have been some of the most incredible in my life, and I am friends with a good number of them to this day. There is no better way to learn about a place, its people, history and culture, than by staying with people, not tourists, and learning from them. Using Couch surfing has changed my journey completely, using the website and becoming part of this community was the single best decision I have made so far. At Montreal I hopped on what would become my guide for most of Canada: the Trans-Canada highway (TCH). This is Canada’s great artery. Though mostly not interesting, it does have its breathtaking stretches, and serves the invaluable purpose of bringing people to the smaller roads which lead to Canada’s great natural bounty. At first, between Montreal and Ottawa, the TCH was as most interstates are in the U.S, long, boring and riddled in traffic. But as you emerge from the ugliness which is city and suburb riding, the grandeur of lake country embraces you into its vast and glorious self. I got off the TCH near Renfrew, and caught route 60 which cuts through Algonquin National park and heads straight for the shores of Lake Huron where it meets with the route 69 branch of the TCH. Most of this 300 mile day was spent cruising along the shores of small lakes and swaths of pine forest. The road had few straightaways, the weather was cool and conducive to riding, yet always threatening with ominous clouds in the distance. The following day I began my ride along the shores of Lake Huron and Lake Superior on my way to Sault Ste. Marie. I started on the 69 and then joined the main branch of the TCH, highway 17, heading east. East of Thunder Bay the Trans Canada is a beautiful road that curves and hugs the landscape. Her wide, windy lanes beg for speed, but the earthly granite sculpture garden, the vaporous heavenly one, the silvery endless waves of the great lakes and the deep green waves of pine and fir, arrest the throttle and calm the growing adrenaline. Time has little meaning along this road. The 350 miles passed quickly, as they always do when you are surrounded by beauty. I wanted to stop frequently to just sit and stare at the great expanse of the lake, but night riding is cruel to the biker and the sky was no less threatening than before. If it were possible, the road from Sault Ste. Marie to Thunder Bay was even more breathtaking: 450 miles of Lake Superior falling away into the horizon to the south, and endless forest, undulating on the wavy hills left by receding glaciers, to the north. The road was in exemplary condition: well-marked, smooth, free of debris and potholes, full of curves from 30mph to 80mph, with plenty of shoulder space and scenic outlooks to stop and gaze. The shore, with countless little, rocky beaches, begged for my tent. As I approached Thunder Bay at dusk I was treated to a fiery performance of the sun’s battle with the cloud’s futile attempt to block its last hurrah. It was one of the most moving and memorable sunsets I have ever seen – the perfect end to 800 miles of awe-inspiring, lake country, riding. All of that changed, however, as the road straightened, as if by giant pliers, going westward from Thunder Bay. Manitoba, Saskatchewan and most of Alberta give the eye and soul nothing but bitter wind, endless fields, and what seemed like eternal flatness. Until the Rockies rise at the border of British Columbia, Canada becomes an endless prairie the second you leave the great watered mass of Ontario. Its winds sandblast your mind and leave it blank for the 1300 of straight miles across Big Farming’s backyard. In Saskatchewan I rode for a good 200 miles leaning my bike so far over to counter the cross winds, that had there been no wind I would have ridden in a giant circle for 4 hours. Not a thing to stir the imagination, the only landmarks were gas stations, and giant grain silos with Cargill signs reminding you of how long ago real farming ended. Whatever joy and impressions Quebec and Ontario may have left, the plains and prairies drained them and I felt as though I have forever trodden upon this listless, endless field. My only positive memories of those endless days of riding, is the time I spent couch surfing with wonderful people in Thunder Bay, Winnipeg, Regina and Lethbridge. It is on these stretches of empty, monotonous road, where we truly begin to face ourselves and the demons that have lain deep behind the veil of stimulation produced by city life. With nothing to inspire us, and no twisty roads to pump up our adrenaline, we retreat into the recesses of our minds. From here come our doubts and fears, and we begin to question our ability to go on, the wisdom of having begun such a journey, and so many memories of mistakes and regrets and losses come flooding to the surface. Thus I found myself on a bed in Regina, Saskatchewan, in pain from riding over 3000 miles in a little more than a week, and questioning everything. These are the true moments which test a person’s resolve to continue. Many people think that it is the difficulties which we encounter with riding or weather which make people turn back, but that is not the case. Difficulties, after they are overcome, are valuable lessons, and we feel pride in having succeeded. But when there has been nothing but a straight line of tarmac heading into the endless horizon for the last 3 days, it is our internal weakness which poses the greatest threat to our continuing. Thankfully I recognized this, said “screw the pain”, got on my steed and rode through another day and 450 miles of nothingness, knowing that I would end at the foot of the great Rocky Mountains. I had planned on camping in the mountains, but neglected to set up a place to stay between there and Regina. My plans to camp in Cypress Hills Provincial Park were aborted due to yet another day of rain, so I continued on to Medicine Hat, Alberta. Before reaching Medicine Hat I had to pull over at a motel along the road, as I was freezing and starting to get wet from the endless rain. I asked the owner if I could use a room to take a hot shower – as that is the only way I could warm up. Surprisingly she said yes and gave me a towel and a key. It was yet another act of kindness from a stranger, which at that point I still felt was a rare thing to find; later on I would know better. It was getting very late in the day by the time I reached Medicine Hat and as a last minute resort I went into a hotel to use a computer in order to try and find some people on Couchsurfing.org. I wrote a few last minute requests, and got back on the road full of hope – my goal was to only camp or stay in people’s homes while on this Journey, and I can gratefully say that I did not stay in a hotel once. I began to ride west as the sun was setting behind the still distant Rockies. I had no idea where I would sleep that night or where I could pitch a tent since there were no campgrounds or parks on the way. All of a sudden, as the last rays of light disappeared beyond the horizon, my phone rang and a sweet voice on the other end told me I was more than welcome to stay in their home in Lethbridge, Alberta. Yet again, I found myself in need, and someone stepped up to make things right. This would prove to always be the case on the road – people will always step up to help a traveler. Kindness and generosity rarely shown to those close to them, is selflessly given to the weary wanderer (especially if he or she is on a motorcycle). That phone call and stay in Lethbridge would prove to be quite fateful. From Lethbridge I ended up going to Glacier National Park in Montana with one of my hosts and his friend, meeting a wonderful girl who I would meet again in Oregon, witnessing mind-blowing natural beauty, and having my life threatened by moose, bear, rain and my own stupidity. But that story, Adventures in Glacier, will come later. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...01-600x399.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...24-600x399.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...58-399x600.jpg |
G'day from central Queensland Australia
You write with such eloquence ,you most definitely have a book in you ,i agree whole heartley with your sentiments, will follow your posts with interest.Noel
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Canada the Ride: Part II
Lethbridge, AB to Vancouver Island, BC
After returning to Lethbridge from Glacier, I spent a few days recuperating before heading off into the Canadian Rockes. From Lethbridge I took HWY 3 west to HWY 22 north, before connecting with the TCH west into Banff National Park. The road was no longer straight, in fact a straightaway of more than a couple of miles would not come again for a very long time. As I climbed ever higher into the Rockies, my little 4-cilynder Honda made no complaints regarding altitude (I wish I could say the same of my KLR). With every passing mile the landscape became more arresting. By the time I reached Lakes Louise and Moraine in Banff National Park, I found it difficult to ride more than a quarter mile without wanting to stop and stare at the majestic granite peaks, turquoise and jade colored lakes and rivers, and ancient, quickly disappearing, glaciers. The silt from glaciers turns many of the rivers a milky jade color. No matter how many shades of green and blue you have seen, it is shocking to witness a river of milk. I spent the first night with a friend of a friend in Canmore and got a scary taste of a ski resort town out of season. I then continued north on highway 93 (Icefields Parkway) into Jasper National Park. The roads of the parks are very well preserved and twisty, lending them an irresistible draw to go fast, but just like the TCH around the Great Lakes, that is impossible to do without missing everything. So I continued north slowly, stopping often, until I found a cozy spot, opposite a glacier, for the night. As the wind howled from the slopes of the surrounding mountains, there was little my sleeping bag and tent could do to defend against the sub-zero cold which blew through the campsite. I shivered and couldn’t fall asleep – it was one of the coldest nights of my life. But my fortitude was rewarded when I met two other riders at that camp site – they are my good friends to this day. The following day brought more riding through this granite heaven which also helped make up for the sleepless night. I kept itching to go fast, I would lean on the throttle for a minute or so and just as my adrenaline would begin to surge, the road would open onto a valley and wildflower strewn field with a babbling branch of a river passing through, which would inevitably arrest my ride. Thankfully there was plenty more excellent riding to come. Once the Rockies start in western Alberta, the mountainscape doesn’t end until you hit water at the far end of British Columbia. The next day I went as far north as the town of Jasper before turning around and heading south on 93, and again west on the Trans Canada into British Columbia (BC). This is one of single best tracks of riding I’ve ever done. Between HWY 93 where it meets HWY 1 (TCH) and Kamloops, BC, you pass the heart of the Rockies, numerous national parks, and slowly descend into the foothills and valleys below. While in the Rockies the 4 lane tarmacs are of impeccable quality and the curves large enough where you can easily go 40-60mph on some, and an exhilarating 80mph on others. The road begs for you to scrape pegs, overloaded steed or not. The scenery is no less beautiful than on HWY 93, but after so much temptation I could not help but open the throttle up full… 45mph speed limit – check. 60mph actual riding speed – check. Back and abs tight, slight forward lean, arms loose, hands tight, big breath in, slow exhale… go! Road curving right, position on far left of lane, the road falling away 1000 ft off the sheer face of the cliff, weight on left foot, leaning right into the turn, breath, throttle back – 65mph. Leaning closer to the ground, right hand pushing the bar away, ass lifting off, adrenaline spiking, breath, neck tight, head up – looking for the end of the curve – 70mph. Still can’t see the end of the curve, body off the bike entirely – getting closer and closer to the ground, breath, leaning on the throttle – 75mph. Still no end in sight, heartbeat matching the trance in the eardrum – 100bpm…110bpm…120bpm, breath, knee almost to the ground – 80mph. Face burning, the flush of adrenaline soaking me, beads of sweat running into my eyes, the sparks flying as the right peg scars the blacktop, I see the end of the turn, breath, almost there, throttle back, on the far right of the lane, stone wall of the cliff barely a meter away – it too is soaked from the tiny waterfalls covering its face, breath, throttle – 85mph. G-forces subsiding, slowly sliding back onto the seat, pushing the bar back to the right, heart growing lighter, snow covered peaks revealing beyond – draped with skirts of pine, the sun slowly disappearing beyond a mass of granite… road curving left, speed – check, breath… By the time you reach Kamloops, BC you are essentially in a giant valley between the Rockies and Coastal ranges. It is flatter, but the roads continue to stick to natural rises and falls of the earth as well as the shores of rivers, so the excellent riding continues. So much of the eerie rivers, with islets and bits of fog, reminded me of the western part of Scotland: big, rocky hills on one side of the road, the shares of misty rivers and lakes on the other. Once you are down from the Rockies, and well into the Coastal range, the roads are lined with fruit stalls and dairies. You can pass one or two, but eventually their omni-presence becomes too enticing to not stop. The dairies are filled with local cheeses, milk, chocolate milk, and ice cream! The fruit stalls are also replete with the bounty of British Columbia, most notably – peaches. When in season, the right kind of peach can be the size of your face, but, unlike other fruit, the size only adds to the juiciness, sweetness and flavor. I have eaten many excellent meals in my life, but I still remember vividly the peach I had by the side of the road in BC… and now my mouth is watering. There are two ways out of Kamloops if you are heading for Vancouver: Big Highway 5, which goes south and enters Vancouver from the east; and the longer, smaller and more breathtaking highway 99 (linked by highway 97 to Kamloops). You can guess which one I took. HWY 99 enters the coastal range, and slowly meanders along the mountain passes, valleys, lakes, national parks and more fruit stalls. I want to say it is some of the best riding you can do in North America, but honestly, riding anywhere in BC is going to make you wish you were a motorcycle gypsy. There simply are no straightaways, it is a province of twisty roads and mountains, most of which are in excellent shape which allows you to take turns faster than what might be recommended. By the time I passed the world famous Squamish, Blackcomb and Whistler (you haven’t skied until you have skied there), I was right back on the western shores of Scotland as HWY 99 began to skirt the Howe Sound, on the way south to Horseshoe Bay and Vancouver. It was some of the best riding I have ever done. There was, however, a slight detour, to avoid construction, which strained me and my Magna a little more than we liked. Waiting for a road to re-open, another biker, on a DR, pulled up next to me and said he knew a short-cut around the construction. Because I am generally impatient I agreed even though he said it would be a little off-road. “A little off-road” turned out to be a heavily rutted single track which soon brought my bike and me to our knees. The stranger having ridden ahead was of no help as I struggled to lift the heavily burdened beast back to a vertical position. The ruts and slick mud and grass did not help, but, as often is the case when one is alone, I managed to get her back up. The rest of the ride was hairy, but I stayed up and eventually managed to get back to pavement. With Vancouver came traffic and the general annoyances of riding through a city. However, as every person you will ever meet will attest, it is simply too wonderful a city to stay angry. The people are great, the food is excellent, and the nature is unparalled. My fondest memory of Vancouver is Stanley Park – a proper rain forest, which faces the waters of the Strait of Georgia. It was there, with new friends form Couch surfing, that I decided to tip back a bottle of vino and watch the sun set for 3 hours, while lying on the beach, surrounded by bikes, boats, someone blowing bubbles, and the slowly changing vista of colorful sky, water, islands, hills, and container ships the size of cities lighting up in the growing darkness. I spent the next few days taking in the food, the positivity and the expense, before hopping a ferry to Vancouver Island to complete my trek across Canada. From Horseshoe Bay to Nanaimo: the ferry slides across the calm, teeming with whales, waters of the strait. I spent a few pleasant hours gazing at the tranquility of islands, fishermen, sail boats and dolphins. On Vancouver Island I hopped on highway 19 heading north before taking highway 4 west. HWY 4 is a wonderfully curvy road which passes a number of lakes – each more enticing than the other. It was hard not to stop, pitch a tent and find a fishing pole with which to lounge away days and days on the shore. But I continued forward, taking care not to slip on the ever present moistness of the road. BC is many things, dry it is not. After traversing the Island, HWY 4 turns back north and becomes the Pacific Rim Highway, which ends at the Western Terminus of the Trans-Canada Highway in Tofino. It was a cold ride along the shore, but that did not detract from the stark beauty of pine forest set against a steel gray sky, with the tumultuous crash of waves ever present on the rocky coast. I went into Tofino to find the end of the TCH, then found a nice place to camp with some friends I had made in Jasper a couple of weeks back. We enjoyed some of nature’s stimulants and contemplated the risk of being mauled by the prowling wild cat somewhere in our park. The following day we spent walking along the beach, climbing rocks, and listening to the song of the sea. It is one of those activities which I find never gets old – watching and listening to the ocean. The rhythm is soothing and almost regular. The crash of waves reminds you of the immense force contained in the ocean, the sight of the endless horizon frees dreams of sailing on the open sea, the smell of salt, the great sensation of being surrounded by water with no land in sight – freedom. I was not prepared for the constant cold and wet, so the following day I headed back south to Victoria and the ferry to Anacortes in Washington. I repeated the ride of a few days before, but continued south into Sydney (just north of Victoria). I again found kind people who gave me a roof and a delicious meal – friends of someone with whom I stayed in Winnipeg. It is true that the more you travel, the smaller the world becomes, the more interlinked your life becomes with humanity as a whole, and the more likely are you to find help the further you go. The next day I set off to the terminal at Sydney to catch the ferry to Anacortes. I spent a few hours writing in the beauty which is the crossing into Washington, past countless islands, yachts, schooners and whales. It was the perfect end to the unforgettable 4000 mile crossing of the world’s second largest country. Without pause I can easily say that this is a place to which I wish to return. The roads are impeccable, the natural wonders are the stuff of dreams… and I still have dreams of that peach. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...94-399x600.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...-1-600x399.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...-1-600x399.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...42-600x399.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...83-600x399.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...-1-399x600.jpg |
Losing My Sense of Urgency
The next few posts will be about some particular moments from my ride across Canada, starting with Thunder Bay:
It was one of those carefree summer days that made you wish the season had no end. I met Kyle and Evan, two musicians from Thunder Bay, and Damien, a couch surfer from France, at local diner. The accoutrements were of the 50’s and 60’s, the service at times so lacking that you had to get up yourself to fill your coffee cup, or even make your eggs, but no one left without a hug from the owner. We continued to Evan’s father’s home, which his father built with his own hands – already symbolic of, what I’m sad to say is, antiquated behavior. We then went to a cliff overlooking Silver Bay and the Sleeping Giant Peninsula, on Lake Superior. The frigid waters of northern Superior were no match for our audacity, which we proved by flinging ourselves from the cliff and falling 30ft into her icy body. A dull and persistent pain in my left leg and butt cheek was a healthy reminder of our flights. To further soothe whatever malice life in the city brought me, we continued to live the dreamy Finnish summer day by buying smoked fish and going to a sauna on the shore of the lake. Once good and toasty, we ran into the cooling waters of Superior, and floated, staring for indeterminate amounts of time at the dancing clouds. Then we returned to heat, then water, and heat… again and again. If ever I dropped any latent sense of urgency, it was certainly there. Being in a state of peace is becoming more consistent as the soot of the city is slowly dissipating from my soul. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...58-399x600.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...SC_0149-1s.jpg |
Adventures in Glacier: Parts I-II
The following posts will be about the little detour I took to Glacier National Park with my new found friends from Lethbridge, AB!
Adventures in Glacier: Parts I-II Part I: Glacier National Park By the time I arrived in Alberta I was feeling very alone, and shaken by a week of crosswinds while riding across the middle of Canada. The many riders I passed on the road were going east. We extended our arms in greeting, quickly taking in each other’s steeds, the mounds strapped on the sides and rear, the stories that our gear told of where we had been and where we might be headed. We did not need words in order to share each other’s journey, and I was not in need of long conversations, rather I wanted someone riding by my side, going to the same place as I, someone with whom I could sit after the ride and without saying a word relive the deer that got in the way, the shock waves from trucks that almost knocked us off, the tight curves around which we scraped our pegs, the incredible colors of the sky at dusk, the glory of peaks rising out of the horizon as we approach the Rockies. My plan had been to continue north from Lethbridge and into Banff National Park, and then onward to Jasper and then again west. Glacier National Park in Montana was to be one of my stops on my way back east. But in Lethbridge I met some kindred spirits who, knowing little more about me than the color of my Honda Magna and the fact that I was from New York, invited me to ride with them to Glacier. This was completely out of my way. Though my plan was flexible, going straight south at this point made no sense at all. I knew, however, that a true journey is not one that you take. So I let my journey take me where she saw it best and I accepted their invitation. Luke and Mitch had been friends for most of their lives. Both, as any good Alberta man must, put in years in the oil fields of the north. They each bore signs of the rougher life – the one most of us neither know nor wish to know. Luke kept his head shaved, wore earrings and prominently displayed his tattoos. Mitch on the other hand had a full beard and, like myself, kept his desecrations of the flesh well hidden. He was more readily recognized as a lumberjack with his flannel shirts, large cumbersome build, and hearty, honest laugh. Luke’s toughness was not feigned, it was simply of another kind – one more often associated with the city and its rapid pace fueled by cocaine and easy pleasures. These differences were irrelevant to the two friends because each saw beyond the clothes and the flash of carnival masks. They have seen each other fly and fall, laugh and cry, fight and run. We three were an unlikely match except for our mutual love and need for the road – another magic that the black top holds: it brings together more than cities with freight or people with money, it brings together and allows us to understand people foreign to our nature – thus broadening on a greater scale our acceptance of each other. (See my essay on the motorcycle here The Motorcycle � Alexander Tolchinsky) http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...78-600x399.jpg I arrived in Glacier some weeks ahead of schedule and with 2 new friends. It was nice to travel with some fellow bikers, if only for a couple of days. The following morning they left, and I met Sarah. She was also alone in the park and looking for someone with whom to hike. Within 10 minutes of meeting we were on the back of my bike cruising down the windy park road to get back-country camping permits. A couple of hours later we were on our way to Snyder Lake for a warm-up day hike, Sarah’s sweet southern drawl accompanying us along the way. The more she and I talked the more similarities we found; though from backgrounds as disparate as our gender, she growing up in the Appalachian mountains of Virginia, we found an uncommon amount of parallels in our thoughts and ways. Sarah and I shared an incredible amount about ourselves, but it seemed as natural as we had known each other for years and not just a few hours. The following day we found ourselves in the back-country of south-eastern Glacier, around Cobalt Lake. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...71-399x600.jpg Part II: The Calm Before the Storm Glaciers, draining their purity into hundreds of streams and falls, hug the mountainsides. The peaks along massive ridges stand tall, but are reminiscent of fortress ruins rather than granite towers. One side of the valley stretching ever further toward the sky, the other crumbling away having served its term of glorifying our humble terra firma. Alpine meadows with Beargrass, Indian Paintbrushes, Fireweeds, Asters and Lilly’s dancing in the breeze, glowing in the un-hazed sun. Huckleberry bushes as far as the eye can see, more than one could ever eat – though how we tried! Rose Hips, Blackberries, Salmon berries, currants, blueberries and thimbleberries – an amazing site, but I could not help but feel as though I too were on the menu when walking through endless acres of bear snacks. Giant boulders, once part of towering facades, cleared chutes along the skirts and bases as they rolled like Juggernauts down the slopes killing hundreds of trees, and now lie peacefully with the offspring of the dead firs growing atop them, as if in defiance of their destruction. At every turn of the path there lay a new wonder – another monument to patience and time; a delicate expression of color and perseverance; a sweeping view that makes it all but impossible to consider littering, strip-mining, or deforesting our precious home. But most do not come to see it, do not go beyond the safety and comfort of their dry walled nests; and so we waste and waste, and now our ears won’t hear the song of hundreds of songbirds known to our forefathers. I wondered how those within a few days drive could live out their lives never having seen the very best of what this world possesses. That night we broke camp at 6500ft. above sea level on the shores of Cobalt lake. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m.../DSC_0083s.jpg |
Where I am
Hello friends!
I have been remiss about where I actually am... On the very first post, there is a small section which gives you my live location, as well as the amount of time and distance I have traversed. Here it is: http://www.horizonsunlimited.com/hubb/ride-tales/around-the-world-long-takes-72622 I return to Georgia, my KLR, on the 29th of October. She is resting comfortably in Costa Rica, while I am on recovery in New York ( I needed a month or so to get over the myriad of infections I have had over the last year). Thanks again for enjoying the ride with me! |
Adventures in Glacier: Part III
Adventures in Glacier: Part III
Part III: Of Moose and Bear We began the following day with a hike up to Two Medicine pass where three valleys opened themselves before our eyes. Mountain goats flanked the west side, a wolverine kept guard over the east while hawks and eagles patrolled the endless sky, and glaciers and lakes for endless miles in every direction. Before heading out to camp 2, after we returned from the pass, we decided to take a dip in the glacial lake, on whose shores stood our tents. Naked and free we ran into its chilling waters; within a few seconds we felt its icy grip at our throats and bones, and so quickly re-emerged, gasping for breath. But that half minute in the lake shot more life into us than a syringe of epinephrine to the heart. And so enveloped in Joie de Vivre we went along the valley to our second camp at Upper Two Medicine Lake. We stopped often on the way to gorge on huckleberries, and prayed the bears would not gorge on us. Within a couple of hours we discovered that our prayers were answered. As we continued along the sunny path to our second camp, around a peaceful bend in the trail I heard the galloping of what sounded like horses. I yelled to Sarah to get out of the way of what looked like two horses. Within a split second she was running towards me and I realized they were not horses but two very large grizzlies, now within 30 ft of me. What I discovered about myself at that moment is that when faced with danger, I stay pretty cool, and, am kind of stupid. I stood there with my bear spray in my left hand as my right was clicking shots off the camera hanging from my neck. After three shots, the second of the two beasts gave me a doubtful look, at which moment I ceased shooting. I looked him straight in the eye, something you are not supposed to do (nor are you to run away from them because they will think you are prey). I wanted to show him that all was well and that I meant no harm. After briefly considering us an aperitif, the two grizzlies disappeared into the bush, and the realization of how lucky we were reverberated throughout our entire being. Never the less, for the next hour I walked with bear spray in one hand and my army knife in the other. From that moment, every sound of grass rustling in the wind gave us a start. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...66-600x490.jpg As we walked through thick patches of berry, my mind kept wandering to only a few hours before when Sarah and I found ourselves, once again in only what nature gave us, sitting on a gently sloping rock that lead into an upper, tucked away, terrace of a waterfall. The peaceful moments when my hands were on her shoulders, then her hair… I felt free and blissful, and as the sun re-emerged from behind the cloud, our lips met and I felt her warmth and softness against my chest. Oh the ease with which a mind can soar when bodies thus enveloped surrender the artificial chains thrown about them, and suffer freedom to enter once again… My heart was slowly resuming its normal rhythm as we began approaching our new camp site. Along our traverse we saw a moose emerge from a small lake nearby; at that moment it seemed a perfect scene – our witnessing the natural order and routine of Glacier and its residents. We reached the site shortly thereafter and found the three girls who camped near us the night before, along with two guys from Chicago, gathered in the cooking area – an unfortunate coincidence of groups meeting in an otherwise isolated part of the park. We were very hungry and the day was quickly drawing to a close, so after quickly breaking camp we joined the rest of our neighbors. Minutes after our food was ready we noticed the very same moose we saw earlier, grazing within 60ft of us. This could have been the beginning and the end of that encounter, however, the gentlemen from Chicago thought it a good idea to approach the moose for some portraits, you know, keepsakes and all that. The rest of the night went rather quickly into the abyss of fear and uncertainty. At first the cow (female moose) started huffing and pricked up her ears, but the guys did not heed this obvious sign of hostility; by the time they did, she was in full territorial mode – mounting posts and rubbing her scent on the bushes and trees. Then, as we sat nervously watching her and eating our supper, she charged us. If you can imagine for a moment what 1000lbs of territorial tank like mass rushing at you, against which running, knife, or spray no chance, then you will understand fear. We ran so fast – but we knew there was almost nowhere to go, nor could we outrun a moose. We took “refuge” on some logs lying by the shore of the lake and behind some small trees and bushes. These served little purpose other than to give our minds the illusion that at least we were safer there. Breathless and shaking with fear we decided to see if she was still there, so the other two guys and myself snuck up to a nearby tree – she saw us and charged again! This time we retreated for good. She continued sniffing around, taking her time, all the while it was getting dark and cold in that rapid manner particular to the mountains. We stood around shaking for some time, but soon realized that we must ascertain her intent before it got too late. The three of us again ventured out to see where she was. We only had one good headlamp between us, so we crept slowly, barely breathing, knife and bear spray in hand – knowing full well that they are useless. I looked like a bad combination of Rambo and Elmer Fudd. By the time we got access to two of three campsites, night was well upon us. By then our nerves were well worn, but staying up was not an option, it was getting very cold and we needed to get to our tents – though they offered no degree of safety, or, as it turned out, sleep. We finally found the moose bedded down for the night – right on the path to and directly opposite the three girl’s tents. We decided that we could not risk them sleeping alone in such proximity to the cow, so we formed a four person raiding party to recover their bags and mats. We could not take the path, so we skirted the lake edge and crawled up to the tents with barely a breath between us. Now we had the problem of figuring out who would fit where. My tent is barely meant for two people, and I already had Sarah, one of the guys had a one person tent – both of our tents are for mountaineering, so when it says one or two person, it means there is no room between shoulder and wall. The other guy had a two-person, so he was able to take one of the girls with ease. Sarah and I squeezed Elizabeth into our tent and managed to stuff the two of us into my single sleeping bag, so we had 2 bags, 2 pads and 3 people in my little shelter. Between the grizzlies, freeze dried food, soreness from hiking, fear of being trampled, and stiffness in every joint and muscle from lack of motion in the tent, we passed the night with moments of shallow drifting and startling at every noise. Around midnight the wind started to howl and we emerged in the morning (alive) to find the mountains covered in a heavy fog with the imminent threat of “weather”. Thankfully the moose was gone and we were able to pack up and hike out within a few hours. On our way out we saw her, and a few others, again at the smaller lake. Needless to say we did not stop to admire and take photos this time around. |
Adventures in Glacier: Parts IV-V
The end to 4 days, which felt like a lifetime...
Adventures in Glacier: Parts IV-V Part IV: The Big Mistake After a sleepless night spent in fear for your life, one is not in a position to make wise decisions about anything. I knew the weather was going to be bad for a couple of days, and though I did not yet do everything I wanted in Glacier, I decided I needed to take off and sleep in a bed – alone, sans 1000lb beasts. I called my guardian angels in Lethbridge, Alberta and got the go ahead to spend another night in the warmth of their company. I knew I had a wet ride ahead so I decided to take a nap with Sarah under the single patch of blue sky in Glacier. An hour later the patch had closed; the clouds seemed to be moving in from the east, the interior of the park. At the time I thought nothing of this fallacy. So I packed up my bike and, against the suggestion of my GPS and the campground host, turned west to leave the park. That one turn, that one moment when I could have double checked the time and distance of the road I was going to take… I did not want to go east because that meant crossing the Rockies over a road potentially clogged with slow driving tourists, and over Logan pass on the continental divide (elevation 6646 ft.) which would potentially mean snow. And for some reason, which I cannot to this day explain, I thought that if I first went west, then north, I would not have to cross the Rockies when I went back east to Lethbridge!!! I thought there was some magical flat area in the middle of the range between Glacier Park and Height of the Rockies Park in Alberta!! This thought, along with my decision to first go west, was based on a vague recollection of a map I had seen some days earlier which I thought showed the road going just slightly west before turning north and then back east. All of these assumptions would have been extinguished had I taken a moment, just a single moment, and checked a map or my GPS. That one moment would have saved my traversing the razor thin ridge between life and death which was my nighttime, freezing and soaked, crossing of the Rockies. As it turned out, the route I had chosen would take 270 miles over the course of 6 hours, instead of the 130 miles over 4 hours it would have taken otherwise. So I made my turn west (remember that my destination is north-east), and decided to ignore my GPS’s pleas for me to make a u-turn as soon as possible. But I was sure, with no actual confirmation, that my way was quicker and free of snow. Within 20 minutes I was driving through a wall of rain, at just a few degrees shy of turning to hail. For a while I had to keep my left hand over my face to keep the “rain drops” from busting out my teeth. When the rain let up for a few minutes I was able to fully see (not grasp) the magnitude of my mistake. The western sky was a solid charcoal wall past which no mountain or forest was visible. The rest of the sky put on a full display of the beauty of clouds in all their shapes and styles, but I could not contemplate them for the imminent storm about to engulf me and the Rockies. To my great dismay the eastern sky, over the road I should have taken, showed no evidence of snow or even a downpour the likes of which I just crossed. I continued west and north and began to feel the cold that would be my companion for the rest of the ride. At this point it would still be faster to turn around, but I felt committed to my mistake and used the possibility of snow over the pass and the fact I just passed a massive downpour to justify my continuing on the wrong path. This was the first compounding of my initial mistake. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m..._n-600x511.jpg Part V: Dancing With Death During the next two hours, as the sun continued to set behind the dark mass that followed me on my trail, and my body began to freeze, I cursed the atrociousness of my decision. By the time I was half way through the Rockies, which I initially thought I would not have to cross, my feet were soaked and frozen, my body shivered non-stop and my hands shook harder and harder with every passing mile. By that point, every hotel I passed should have been my last stop for the night. But I saw the Moe’s house (my destination) as my salvation and my tunnel vision kept narrowing upon it, making it impossible to stop. When I started getting small waves of warmth and seeing things along the road that were not there, I realized I needed to pull over because hypothermia was setting in. I pulled into a 7-11 somewhere along the Crowsnest pass. I staggered inside and managed to get to the bathroom to run hot water over my hands. I was delirious with cold, my bloodshot eyes sought the coffee pot. As I stood by the glass enclosed trays of chicken laying under heat lamps I could not help but press my face against the warm glass. Coffee in hand, body shivering, face against the bubble of warmth, I began to cry. The enormity of my mistake overcame me and I could not hold back the tears. Almost 10 years of riding and I was still capable of such stupidity! Not only should I have checked the route before leaving, I should have stopped at a hotel long ago. The tears, sadly, did not make me cross the road to the motel located across from the 7-11. Instead, my tunnel vision tightened further and I began preparing for the road. I found some small hand warmers that I put in my boots, along with a ski mask, and some gloves that were slightly less wet than the ones I had on. The two kids and woman running the 7-11 were very kind to me. They put my gloves and mask under the heat lamps and gave me a piece of chicken to chase the 5 Advil and 2 muscle relaxers I needed to take in order to continue down the wrong path. A few minutes later I was back on the steed and for the first 20 seconds felt good and could feel the warmth of the facemask. But that feeling fled as quickly as it was painstakingly found. By now I was engulfed in darkness and could only see clearly about 10ft or so in front of me. It did not help that every passing car lit up the little droplets of water on my glasses rendering me blind for a few seconds – every half minute. If there were a few cars in succession, I could only pray that I would stay on the road. And pray I did! I invoked the Great Mothers mercy; I begged only that she not let any animals in my path. The cold I would somehow bear, but there would be no chance for me if a big horn sheep, deer or moose were to wander in front of my steed. I tried taking off my glasses so that I would not ride blind half the time, but the rain would hit me right in the eye-balls, and I was forced to replace the shades. And so I had no choice (or so I thought) but to ride on, half blind, freezing, shaking and thinking every shadow or dark patch on the road was a beast running in front of me (hallucinations I continue to have to this day). I still had more than 100 miles to go – my speed kept shifting from 50mph to 80mph, depending on the amount of fear I had at the moment regarding the unknown darkness. 80 miles – I’m praying; every two minutes I prayed, again and again: I can handle the cold, just don’t let an animal come in my way. 60 miles – I’m getting colder and colder and am starting to shake more violently; I’m less and less sure of my ability to handle the cold. 40 miles – I see lights in the distance, a town, if I can only reach that town… 30 miles – The tears are coming back; why did I put myself through this?! I could have stopped, I could have checked the map, I could have been warm… 20 miles – I’m shaking and delirious and can see nothing but the Moe’s house… 10 miles – I can die at any moment – either an animal, or a car I can’t react to quick enough, or running into something because I’m blind half the time… 5 miles – So close, within Lethbridge city limits, so close, don’t let me die now, it can still happen, it can happen within 20 feet of the house… The garage… the door opening… inside… off the bike… staggering into the basement… must untie boots, unzip jacket, unbuckle belt, slide of shirt and underwear… Garret staring in amazement: “oh my god, oh dude, holy shit, oh my god, bro…”… must warm up – shower! WARM UP!… hot, wet, not cold, warmer and warmer and warmer… dry off, breathing stabilizing, shins and feet still cold… bed, covers, more covers, a bowl, darkness… http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m.../DSC_0362s.jpg |
My New Sticker!
For any of you crazy cats whom I may meet on the road, here is what I have for you:
http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...sticker-6s.jpg |
USA: The Ride - Part I
I return to the land from which I began my journey... on the opposite side of the continent
The Great North-West I can’t think of a better way to leave Canada than on the ferry from Sydney, on Vancouver Island, to Anacortes, WA. The heavily laden behemoth slowly tugs through the very heart of the San Juan Islands, passing countless changing currents of the Puget Sound, and finally revealing the great, snow-capped, peak of Mt. Baker. It was nice to have the opportunity to reflect on the difficulties I had faced, the wonderful people I had met, and the breathtaking things I had seen over the last 5000 miles. What could be more conducive to reflection than the rhythmic rumble of the engines; the cool salty breeze on the deck; the jumping fish, porpoises and whales, in denim colored water; bright, white sailboats lazily rising and falling with the swells; countless islands – inhabited or deserted, thickly covered with evergreens; and of course the majesty of the lonely mountain in the distance. Though sore and tired, I was never the less excited to mount my steed when we landed in Anacortes. Down highway 20, 536 and interstate 5, on the northern outskirts of Seattle, live Jay and Dionne – fellow bikers, artists and hikers whom I met in Jasper national park in Alberta. This would be the first of many reunions I would have as I slowly made my way around the states and down to Mexico. I was looking forward to some rest, good food, great company, and provocative, politically charged, art. After a few restful days, and nibbling on the grape vines in Jay’s backyard, I returned the call of the road and headed south to the Olympic peninsula. Fortunately the disgusting traffic of Interstate 5 beheld me for only an hour, before I could cut across on HWY 16, over the Tacoma Narrows, and enter the peninsula. I followed the coast north, switched to HWY 3 and then HWY 104 over the Hood Canal Floating Bridge and finally connected to the famous Route 101 (El Camino Real). The road took me north around the peninsula, past towns with multiple churches on every block, Olympic National Park, and finally turned south along the Pacific coast. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...-1-600x400.jpg Where 101 hugs the coast, it is difficult to ride: all progress becomes retarded by views of the endless sea, fog covered cliffs, and moss laden coastal high plain. Thankfully, El Camino Real veers often inland, which allowed me to coast, hugging the curvy road, for countless miles without ever feeling the boredom of a straightaway. I spent a couple of dreamy nights on the coast before taking a sharp turn east, toward Corvallis, OR, on the inspirationally curvy HWY 34 (out of Waldport). Through mostly secondary and tertiary forest, 34 winds eastward with curves so tight you forget to breathe for what seems to be miles. Every once in a while a giant truck and trailer stacked with trees will ask to share this tiny road, and in those moments you simply pray there is no leaf to slip upon, no stray rock to make you tumble under any of the 18 wheels flying a few feet past your face. The Magna sits pretty high for a cruiser, but with all my gear, and wont to take curves at 200% recommended speed limit, sparks were flying and adrenaline was pumping for most of the 65 miles from coast to town. In Corvallis I found refuge with the family of a good friend from New York. Their home was like a dream: with gardens, fountains, blackberry bushes, bee hives, and an absolute feeling of isolation from the world. It’s hard leaving a place you wish was your own home, but, as usual, I could stay for only a few days before returning that ceaseless call of the blacktop. Now that my wheels were pointing east, that feeling of urgency intensified as I saw every day bringing me closer to my mother’s home, and the end of the first stage of my journey. Out of Corvallis I took HWY 20, through the Cascades and onto Bend for a reunion with Sarah. Our Adventures in Glacier bonded us for life, so I was eager to share some brews, and some mountain views, with her again. Bend, OR is one of those magical places replete with local breweries made delicious by mountain springs, views of those mountains, and easy access to them, but without all the crazy weather of mountains. I again spent just a few days in a place I would like to have remained for a long time. I took HWY 97 out of Bend, which took me through the heart of Oregon Trail country, where settlers came 200 years ago with the thought of finding new, and rich, soil, but which in fact turned about to be a dry pocket in an otherwise fertile area. Regardless of the frightening and desolate expanses of dry tall grasses, I managed to find the best raspberry pie I’ve ever had on one of the few Main streets I passed before hitting the Columbia River Gorge. Interstate 84, where it runs along the Columbia River, is one of the few exceptions to the general ugliness of interstates. Here, it curves with the river and offers spectacular views of what was once, before the extensive damming, one of the mightiest rivers in the world. I rode along, tossed to and fro by the powerful gusts of the river, and equally powerful ones from passing semis, until HWY 730, which brought me back into Washington State and quickly connected me to HWY 12. This magical road begins from the Columbia River Gorge, skirts the Snake River, passes Walla Walla wine country, traverses the magical expanse of the Palouse in the Colombia Basin, and continues through Idaho with stretches of 100 miles without a straightaway! This road is by far one of my favorites in the country, and one of the best motorcycle roads I have ever been on. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...53-600x399.jpg Highway 12 dropped me off in Missoula after 2 days, with a stop in Walla Walla, of excellent riding. The constant changes of scenery, from rolling hills (formed by the breaking of an ice dam during the Ice Age), to river valleys where you can visit campsites left by Lewis and Clark, to magnificent waterfalls, mountains, and enormous stretches of forest, left me in absolute awe. Arriving in Missoula, which is situated in the Rocky Mountain foothills, was no reprieve from the magnificence which kept bringing America the Beautiful into my mind. But it was here, after 8000 miles of mechanically smooth riding, that I encountered my first trouble with the Magna. And it all started with a burger… |
Live Location Update
Greetings Friends!
I just wanted to give an update as to my location: San Juan, Costa Rica! :thumbup1::scooter: Next stop: Panama to find a boat to take me to Colombia (hopefully for less than $1000!!) |
USA: The Ride - Part II
USA: The Ride - Part II
Adventures in Mechanics After riding hundreds of miles without repose or nourishment, one is want to be quite ravenous when pulling into a Sonic Drive-Thru. I was in such a state, and was so busy contemplating whether I would order fries or tots, that I neglected to turn off my steed – which dutifully drained my battery. This happens every so often, and the solution is simple: push the bike to a trot, jump on, kick her into second gear, cough, choke, jerk… and you’re off! However, as I had 200lbs of gear on the bike, I was in for quite a workout and test of balance. Usually once you get the bike going the alternator will recharge the battery, but for some reason my alternator decided to take a vacation, so a jump-start was how I had to start… every time. A few days later I found myself alone, in the middle of a huge prairie – The National Bison Range in Montana. The cool of the mountains from my morning ride had turned to a blaring late summer heat in the vast golden expanse of the range. All was fun and sweat, until a fateful moment when I heard the clanking of a chain and felt the loss of forward velocity. I quickly engage both brakes and sat breathless for a moment trying to figure out what the hell just happened. I looked over my shoulder toward where my chain should have been snuggly resting on my sprockets, only to find it dangling like a wilted flower. Suddenly the grandeur of the mountains, and the breathtaking expanse of the range, were but shadows in the light of this small catastrophe. If I let go of the brakes the bike will likely roll down the hill and go tumbling into a herd of horned beasts; if I shut it off I will have to kick start it up a hill (not possible); and yet I couldn’t sit there in the hopes of being discovered, as I was utterly alone. I put out the kick stand and prayed that the friction would be enough to keep the bike from rolling back. As I laid down beneath the four pipes blasting their heat and exhaust in my face, I contemplated what would happen if the bike were to fall over onto my face. Within a minute I started to feel a little sick and light headed. I was trying to reach around the pipes in order to hook the chain onto a few sprockets, but those pipes stood guard against my efforts with a thousand degree heat that instantly and permanently brands skin upon contact. I tried desperately not to think about being in a place full of rattle snakes, spiders and bison, none of which I could hear because of the pipes. But calm is always the order of the day when on a motorcycle or in the wilderness, so I very calmly, with only occasional exclamations, and prayers that the bike wont slip and burn my face off, wriggled the chain onto one sprocket tooth at a time. I could only attach 3 links as the rest of the sprocket was inaccessible. I climbed back on the bike which had so graciously not gone rolling down the hill, said another quick prayer, and curse for the mechanic who did not adjust my chain, put her in gear and slowly, very very slowly, rolled back on the throttle. I started rolling back slowly, then a little forward, about half a foot, before the chain fell off again. My racing heart, and neglected breathing made it very difficult to stay calm. Did I really have to do that all again? Will the steed stay upright again as I try to re-hook the chain? Will I have to walk God knows how many miles for help? With all the to do, I completely forgot to remove the, what felt like a thousand, layers of clothing I was wearing, and was drenched with sweat. Still dizzy from the pipes, more dizzy from the heat and dehydration, I climbed off to do it all again. 10 years of venturing into mountains, wilderness, the open road, and streets of New York, have ingrained the necessary calm that allowed me to get under the bike again. You only truly fail when you stop trying. As I remounted and rode over that hill, through the rest of the range, and to the nearest shop to replace my battery and alternator, the overwhelming beauty of the West re-emerged from the shadows of memory, and I was again overcome with gratitude for being able to do what I am doing and continue my journey. |
USA: The Ride - Part III
USA: The Ride - Part III
Last Leg Leaving Missoula meant entering again the ungraspable vastness of the Great Plains, and prairies, of the central part of the continent. Those very winds which forced me to lean, as though making a giant turn, for 250 miles stretches of Canada, returned as I traversed eastern Montana, Wyoming and the Badlands of South Dakota. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m.../DSC_0062s.jpg I stuck to HWY 12 out of Missoula, made a quick connection onto 212 which brought me into Rapid City. The mind numbing ride was relieved by a visit to Mount Rushmore, which is worth every mile you drive to get there. It’s hard to explain the sensation of gazing upon a mountainside carved by human hands. Looking at a Michelangelo or Donatello is one thing – they are statues you can behold and contemplate within a graspable parameter of confined space. But an entire mountain is something different altogether. And that it displays the visages of our nation’s greatest presidents – true men of honor, true statesmen - is enough for a grown, bearded, periodically bathed, man to choke up and need to walk away from his friends for a moment. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m.../DSC_0514s.jpg Mount Rushmore and the adjacent Badlands were the end of the first leg of my journey. For the rest of the ride to Minneapolis I decided to take I-90 so as to avoid the flooding up north, and to more quickly pass the monotonous landscape. The bike, however, was not done with me. Just 100 miles from my mother’s house, my headlight blew out. As sure as Minnesotan’s love fishing, I was pulled over by a state trooper, who, along with the ticket, gave me directions to the nearest Wal-Mart. It was already dark and the store about to close, but as I was lucky enough to have a fellow rider stop to help me on the side of the highway, so I was to make it before closing time. That very same kind soul helped me install the light, and gave me good company for the ride to the Twin Cities. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m.../DSC_0519s.jpg I arrived in Eagan, MN late on the night of the 10th of October – 2 months and 9500 miles after leaving New York, and 2 days before my 29th birthday. I gave my mother a hug, ate a bowl of soup, and passed on my old bed, in my old room, and slept a long, long while – knowing this was only the beginning. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...70-600x399.jpg |
Live Update
Entering Panama, country #10, on monday! :scooter:
The boat leaves on saturday for Colombia...beer:taz: |
USA: The Ride - Part IV
USA: The Ride -Part IV
A New Bike After completing the first stage of my journey – New York to Minnesota, via 9500 miles of Canada and the US – I decided to visit my father in Israel for a few months. I am a writer after all, and he had a lot of material I need for one of the historical fiction novels I’m working on. Having sold my Magna, when I returned to the states four months later, I found myself in a difficult position: find a motorcycle without a form of transportation, in one of 48 states, get there somehow with all of my stuff, and have the bike actually be worth buying. A friend of mine was getting married in Oregon, so I was at least in a part of the country where dual-sports rule. And sure enough I found a beautiful KLR in Washington State. I hitched a ride from Corvallis to Kennewick, and spent the night at Mitch’s house (the guy who sold me the bike). This was my first time meeting someone from the ADVrider.com community, and it was enough to feel that I had come home. I chose the Kawasaki KLR 650 (2005) because, frankly, it was the cheapest dual-sport I could find, and it was easy to lower (it came with a lower seat too!), both things being vital for me. Since my method of financing this journey was to sell everything I owned, I was not left with a lot of cash to buy, and subsequently repair, fancy bikes. I also did not like the idea of computers on my motorcycle, which, if malfunctioned, would stall an otherwise perfectly working machine. The KLR, mainly because of its affordability and the fact that they made the same bike from 1987-2007, is a very popular motorcycle across the Americas and has a club or community in almost every country from here to Argentina. For someone who has been mostly a city rider for 10 years, it was important to be able to find others who were more experienced, and mechanically inclined, to help me learn this new type of bike. The problem with living in large cities and riding cruisers is that there is always a shop to do things for you. This sad fact, and my own lack of initiative, meant that I didn’t even know how to change the oil on my KLR. So it was not without a great deal of trepidation that I mounted her for the first time, and, though incredibly uncomfortable on this completely foreign ride, made the decision to buy it on the spot. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...0/md_0003s.jpg The next day, I christened her Georgia, tied my little backpack to the luggage rack, and began the long ride back to Corvallis. On that very first day, I decided to try out some of the off-roading skills I had seen on a video which Mitch had shown me the night before. You can guess how long it took before I was thrown over the windshield, while Georgia was left straddling a fallen fir tree. For most of the ride, on or off road, I was engulfed in doubt. Riding straight up, not being able to plant both feet flat on the ground at a stop, the single (compared to 4 on the magna) cylinder, the longer handlebar… it was just so different from the cruisers I knew. I started thinking about all the gear I would have to mount on this beast, how high it would be, how much less control I would have… But there was nothing I could do, I was committed and would have to stop being a pussy. I got back to Corvallis, packed my backpack and duffel, stuffed the leather saddle bags, and began the long ride down the Oregon and California coasts. With every passing mile I became more and more comfortable, and less and less scared. The 101 wound its way along the coast, past beautiful, isolated homes with wine country valleys behind them and the ocean outside their front doors. The mists and fogs framed the jagged rocks, floating like islands along the coast, and crept up the cliffs and mountains of the coastal range. So often it felt like riding through a fairy tale. And then at once I entered the redwood forests. There are few places on this planet as humbling as the redwood reserves in northern California. These giants are so tall that you cannot see their entire trunk standing at the base. They are so massive that even after a wildfire ravages them and hollows out their core, they continue to stand tall. Say what you will about the damage roads and cars cause, there are few stretches of road in the world more brilliant than the 101 as it passes through these forests. I would, in fact, argue that stretches of road like this are what bring so many people to the side of environmental conservation. Our ability to witness first hand, in an accessible manner, at least a fraction of our nature’s bounty, is more impactful than a thousand speeches, photographs or videos of these places as presented in classrooms. Eventually the 101 brought me to the Golden Gate Bridge and America’s second greatest city: San Francisco. A full blown metropolis, with museums, opera and ballet companies, brilliant poets and musicians, massive industry… which sits at the foot of 2 mountain ranges, the Pacific ocean, forests, and wine country – all of which are within a 2 hour drive from the city center. I spent a pleasant time visiting friends and getting good advice. I had not really considered sponsorship before, particularly because I wanted to see whether I could even do something like this, but now on my second steed and confident of my ability to boldly go where few have gone before, I began looking into getting sponsored. The parents of a good friend in Irvine graciously offered their home as a base, so I left the dream that is San Francisco for my pre-South American-assault base camp in southern California. |
Live Location Update
Tijeras, Panama.... with Panavalk from our own Horizons!!!
|
USA: The Ride - Part V
USA: The Ride - Part V
Unexpected Journeys I have made the drive from San Francisco to Los Angeles at least 4 times along the PCH (HWY 1 – Pacific Coast Highway), and yet I never cease to be amazed by it. Though it is not what it once was, with traffic being a constant burden on what is otherwise an excellent driving road, it still threatens to send you flying over a cliff as your attention is constantly drawn from the road to the spectacular pacific coast. Though less rugged looking than the Oregon coast, in reality it is no less stark and awesome. Gnarled Cyprus line the way, shaped flat and forced to lean inland by the constant wind, their leaves spread in a wide brim to take advantage of brief moments of sun when the ever-present fog disperses. The cliffs are jagged, steep and high, yet the crash of the ocean is only a shutting off of the motor away. And though the hum of passing cars is always in your ears when you pull over to gaze over the distant horizon, there are a few (and hard to find) spots where you can pull over, walk down the hill a few seconds, and become completely engulfed in the wind and waves, sitting hundreds of feet above the ocean, completely unaware that there is any mechanical world at all. I know of such a spot, and it is the reason I never make it anywhere on time when traveling the PCH. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...-1-321x600.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...53-600x400.jpg Monterrey, Big Sur and Santa Barbara flew by. Their seafood, museums, parks and mansions, blurred by the rain, obscured by the fog, and overshadowed by the road itself. I stopped in L.A to meet some other travelers, and continue looking for sponsors. With only a few days rest after traversing almost 2000 miles in a couple of weeks, two friends from Minnesota flew in, rented a couple of hogs, and took off with me up to Yosemite, via HWY 395, back into Monterey, and down the coast yet again. I road more in 3 weeks than most people do in a year, but I could not complain as every mile made me more comfortable on Georgia, and the rewards of Yosemite and the PCH are worth every sore I had on my ass. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...27-600x400.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...24-600x400.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...43-600x400.jpg 10 days later I found myself in Malibu, at a wine tasting room along the PCH. My friends had returned to their jobs, lives and fiancées, so I was alone yet again, but this did not last long. “Tree” was working at the wine tasting room, and it was all of two seconds after walking in that we had become friends. One conversation lead to another and another, until someone mentioned Burning Man. I had always wanted to go, but thought tickets were unavailable, and did not know how to go about getting there with all of my stuff. As fast as we had brought it up Tree invited me to join him and his friends in their camp and trailer. It was so kind of him, and I still had no ticket, but was confident that I could find one on Craigslist (as per Tree’s suggestion). The next day I got online, found a ticket, had it fedexed to me, went back to the tasting room, gave Tree a hug, moved all of my stuff to his tiny one bedroom apartment (in which another friend was already crashing), and a few days later found myself riding shotgun in a Ford F-350, with 6 people and a huge trailer on our way to Burning Man. My dream became reality in a single week, with not a day to spare before the start of the festival. What happened at the burn I will relate some day. It is sufficient to say that I found absolute joy there. When a person is surrounded by 50,000 people who accept him for who he is, and do not judge him, that person will feel true freedom – and it is then that they are able to feel pure joy. We lived a lifetime in those 8 days, from birth to death, and it was the happiest lifetime I could have imagined. Though it cost me money I did not have, and set me back almost 3 weeks, going was one of the best decisions I have ever made. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...ot-315x466.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...92-600x400.jpg We came with 6 people, we returned with 7. On the last day, just hours before leaving, Tree’s and Jadee’s eyes met. They stood there just looking at each other in silence for what seemed like eternity, then spoke in whispers for hours. She did not even bother looking for her things or the people with whom she came, she just got in our truck and began her new life. Though she eventually had to go back to Australia, it did not take long for Tree to follow her, bring her back, and marry her 6 months later. I almost feel like I was present at the birth of a star. |
USA: The Ride - Part VI
Gearing Up
It was the four of us now who shared Tree’s tiny apartment when we returned to L.A. But I was not destined to continue sharing in their happiness, as I had a bike to equip, and a journey to continue. I finally made it to my base in Irvine, from which I managed to secure 4 sponsors. 3 weeks later I came back to L.A where I had found 2 shops who would sponsor my tune ups and installation of the panniers, gas tank, chain and sprockets…. In L.A I had found yet another kindred spirit with whom I stayed for 3 weeks while gearing up. In those stressful final moments of leaving the known world, I felt the comfort of home while staying with Olga. The craziness of receiving packages, installation, calling and writing to more sponsors, was all softened by pleasant nightly chats, tennis games, shared stories and great food. Georgia was now fully equipped. She went from a skinny little dual-sport to a formidable beast. The small leather saddle bags where replaced by 9” panniers; the 6 gallon tank with a 10 gallon tank; shocks, chain, bolts… everything upgraded. And thanks to Happy-Trail.com and Burbank Kawasaki it only cost me an arm. All I had left to do was the doohickey and tires, and I was going to save that for my final stop in the U.S – San Diego. That was the plan. I was all ready to go. All bags packed, all bike work finished, I had just picked her up from the shop, was on my way to Olga’s for my last night, when I suddenly felt the full impact of 3 people’s procrastination. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...04-600x400.jpg Breaking Down – The Doohickey If you just bought a KLR and it has not had the “doohickey” replaced – the first place you need to go is to your mechanic, or your garage, and replace it. Don’t say “screw it” and go to the movies first, don’t say “I can’t afford it”, the truth is you can’t afford not to. The genius from whom I bought the bike did not do it, and the genius from whom he bought the bike did not do it. This is fine – the doohickey may not break for thousands of miles, even hard riding, but then again, it can break as you are leaving the dealer’s lot. I am not going to go into what the doohickey is because all of that is available online, but I will tell you what may happen if it breaks. There are many possible scenarios, but of course I found myself face to face with the worst. I was smart enough to buy a replacement from Happy-Trail, I was even smart enough to make an appointment with a mechanic in San Diego (my last stop in the states). But I was not smart enough to have the mechanics installing the gas tank and doing a tune-up in Los Angeles change it for me. I spent a long time looking for shops to sponsor me and managed to get a little from a few shops, but not the doohickey. So I figured I would try again in San Diego and if it came to naught I would have them do it at my expense. My last night in L.A, I picked up my bike from the shop and was going to where I was staying to pack my stuff for the next morning departure to San Diego. I had already spent more than a year traveling in the states and Canada and could not wait to get across the border where life would be a lot cheaper. As I was exiting the freeway, the engine suddenly shut off. Thankfully I was able to coast to the bottom and onto a sidewalk. I tried to start the engine but got only a weird rattle in response. I was furious! I had just left the mechanics, they seemed to give me a good deal on all the work they had done, and now it seems as though, through a mistake or maliciously, they have damaged my bike. But I was wrong. What happened was the doohickey snapped in half and sent the spring around the timing chain and into the cylinder shaft, damaging at least two valves. What normally costs $30 if you do it yourself, or $110 if you go to a shop, ended up costing me $650 and 7 extra days of staying in the country. By the way, $650 was what they charged me, the actual cost was around $1000. I had to replace two valves, the seals, the doohickey and the cam chain just in case there was damage to it. So, as I said, don’t go to the movies, go to your garage and get it done. Just so you know what $650 means to me: almost a month and a half on the road. This includes fuel, food, museums, camping, beer… http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...wn-374x600.jpg Final Breath Between Burning man, equipping the bike, and repairing it, my wallet was a lot lighter than I would have hoped when entering Mexico. I spent almost 3 months in California, which put me about 2 months behind “schedule”. I have been travelling my entire life, but for some reason I saw the crossing into Mexico as a significant step in my life and journey, and it was not without fear that I departed my cousin’s house in Sand Diego and pointed Georgia southward. I was 16 when I took my first solo trip, and have been alone and far from home many times since then. But this time I felt even more alone, more vulnerable with my entire life strapped to the back of a motorcycle, about to enter not only a foreign country, but a foreign culture and tongue. Europe, Israel, the Caribbean, Eastern Europe – none of them ever felt foreign, they never felt otherworldly. I knew Mexico was immense and special, and it brought a fear I was ashamed to admit. Thankfully fear has never stopped me from doing anything, so to the border I went, breathed my last breath of “free” air, and took my first breath of truly Free air in Tijuana. |
Live Location Update
Setting sail to Colombia!
This will be our home for the next few days: http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...14-800x531.jpg |
Live Location Update
Finally the dream has come true: I am in Cartagena, Colombia!
Country #11, Continent #2 |
Concluding North America
Concluding North America
I set out to find myself and my place in the world. I set out to quench the wanderlust instilled in me when I was torn from the life I knew and loved and relocated to a country where I would feel out of place for 23 years. The message I have carried is that of peace and understanding, of the joy of motorcycling and the importance of seeing the world and the abounding natural wonders. 12,000 miles over the North American continent has brought my message to many, but what’s more important is the messages I received from others. Though I would not trade a moment of the hours spent beneath turbulent skies, surrounded by towering mountains, with songs of majestic lakes and rivers, in awe of endless oceans and prairies and forests, it was the people who made the foundations of my journey and they who have given me the vision for its continuation. What I knew was true of Russians, I have discovered is also true of many others. I remember growing up in a place where every meal was not a given, where grocery stores were more empty than full. And yet I never recall not being offered food and drink whenever visiting a home, whether friend or distant acquaintance. The less people had the more adamantly they would offer. Like desert peoples not letting you leave without a cup of tea or coffee. This was something about which I thought little in the states. Being on the road, meeting people, staying in countless homes, I rediscovered this truth: the less you have, or at some point had, the more likely are you to welcome someone into your home, rather than just let them stay. There are exceptions to this, but they are only exceptions. Time and again these individuals and families helped restore my waning faith in humanity and America. Time and again they infused me with the strength to go on. In this Christian nation I have rarely met true Christians, but crossing North America brought me in contact with people who could teach the priests, preachers, popes and reverends a thing or two about what it means to follow in the footsteps of Jesus. For an atheist who is sickened by the thought of religion, these people helped to restore my faith in the good that spirituality can bring. North America was the try-out, the testing ground for my will, skills, desire and fortitude. Could I face myself through the hours of solitude, could I reflect on and appreciate the natural wonders of the diverse expanses of two of the three biggest countries in the world? Could I find the people and have the patience and wisdom to listen to them? Could I overcome the many weaknesses of my nature which so often subdue me into a functionless entity, devoid of purpose or benefit? I wish the answer to all of the above were a resounding yes. I did survive the road, mechanical failures, nature’s guardians of her diminishing wilderness, and even myself. Though bruised and far from victorious in every battle, I did emerge from my wanderings the better for them. Regardless of my failures I believe my successes were great enough to justify my continuing on this journey. If I can suffer the hardships of cirmcumnavigational travel by motorcycle, if I can endure with hope and positivity the challenges that will lay before me, if I can survive the trials of the unknown and the dangerous knowns, and then return and share the world with those who are afraid, or for whom circumstances have not allowed, to fly free, then it will have been worth it and the scars will not have been for naught, and the world will be a better place for the knowledge of those wiser than I that I will disseminate throughout. I am eternally grateful to those who have supported me thus far. You are too numerous to list, and too humble to desire me to do so. But you know who you are, and so again I say thank you. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...th-America.png |
Live Location Update
Finally in Medellin, Colombia!!
Here I hope to stay for a while - work, catch up on writing, dance the nights away with beautiful women, and do some of the amazing rides near by! |
Sponsors
So I wish I could sit here and tell you that I could do this all on my own. The fact is I've had some great help along the way, from truly excellent companies, so I would like to take this moment to give them a shout out, and officially endorse their stuff.
First up: Happy-Trail Panniers These guys were my first sponsors, who really helped me get in the saddle and on the road with my first dual-sport. Not only are their boxes bullet proof, and high speed crash resistant, they are actually water and dust proof - this fact has been tested under some very hairy conditions (i.e. tropical storm, sand storm, beach riding, dozens of drops into sand, mud and dust). In fact, Happy-Trail panniers are one of the reasons I was able to walk away from the big crash in Guatemala (story coming, don't you woory :) ), is because the panniers kept the bike from trapping my leg underneath - so it just slid off me. Not only did I stop short of hitting the rail, I actually walked away from the crash! Thanks Happy-Trail, I sure do love my legs, you know, all attached to me and stuff! Lots of love for Happy-Trail.com http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...-signature.png If any of you guys have questions about which panniers I have, or more details on how great they are, feel free to message me anytime. |
A Few More Shout outs
Before I continue, I would like to mention a few more companies whose sponsorship of my journey has allowed me to make it this far.
In retrospect I wish I did not have problems with accepting money, as I am now stuck in Colombia and must find work. But these companies did allow me to purchase at a great discount, or have donated, some invaluable items, so that I could save that money for, you know, food, and stuff. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...go-640x273.jpg IMS gave me a great deal on their 10 gallon tank! It looks and feel ridiculously big, however it has been the number one icebreaker for me whenever I stop anywhere, as it, not my KLR, draws a crowd! I would also like to add that through all of my drops and the accident, the tank barely shows a scratch! Because it's a single piece of plastic there are no seams to crack and break upon impact. It's durability never ceases to amaze me! I'm also looking forward to not having to strap a million gallons of extra gas to the rear of my bike when I go to the high deserts of Chile and Argentina, or to Tierra del Fuego! http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...go-640x259.jpg Grand Trunk donated a hammock! I know, it doesn't sound like much, but this is one of my favorite things to have. Not only is it comfy, extremely light and compact, but it also comes with a sewn in mosquito net!! This, my friends, is invaluable! I have enjoyed many beautiful nights cradled in this hammock, and awoke without the need to tear off my skin just to stop the itch from the bites of the millions of insects which hover in wait of human prey in Central and South America. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...eUse2500-s.jpg These guys have been rooting for me from day one. They donated a helmet cam, which, because it was not a GoPro, broke before I could get any good video. So if you have any electronic recycling, or asset management needs, these are the guys to call - not only because they were so good to me, but because they actually do a great job and offer the best price for the service. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...uipment_01.jpg These guys said, no, sorry we can't sponsor you right now, but here's a $500 motorcycle jacket. They may not be an official sponsor, but they deserve a shout like all the rest. And I don;t know what Andy, the owner, had been through to create a jacket like the Darien, but it must of been hairy 'cause this thing is built like a tank. Whenever I put it on I feel like I'm ready to ride into battle - and that's a good feeling to have from your protective gear! http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...ader.logo_.jpg Another great company who got on board in a heart beat. These guys sent me their best alarm, free of charge! It has a tilt sensor, a shock sensor, an ignition censor, a two-way pager so you can know what's happening even when out of hearing range... wow! And it works! A curious person tried to lift the cover from Georgia and the alarm got very upset - it was great! And a very special shout out to Burbank Kawasaki, who helped me install all the great stuff from Happy-Trail and IMS, as well as giving me a tune up, and some great gear as well! |
Live Status Update
This is why poor people don't write books that involve a lot of travel... financing this amount of time without work and only research for the book is insane - and apparently impossible.
Why am I saying this? Because I actually got a job offer in Medellin, but they cannot sponsor me for a visa. To find a reputable company who can sponsor you and pay you above minimum wage takes months, not the 2 weeks I have to do it. And I would have to stay here for at least a year for the contract and to save enough to continue. On the bright side I met a Photographer and we did a photoshoot together, I didn't get paid, but there might be something there in the coming months. It felt so good to work professionally again! It's been 6 years since I have shot a model, but getting back in that saddle felt like I had never left it. The City of Eternal Spring is not without it's daily dose of rain, but it is lovely, and sits in the midst of a thousand little villages and mountain road. If any of you scallywags get the itch to come down to south America, whether for the roads, food or women, I know of a couple of places you could rent steeds around here, or come on your own... it looks like i'll be here for a while. |
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More pics!
Before I continue, I thought another picture set would be in order... this is from the second part of the North America ride, this time with the KLR.
Sorry in advance for the crappy shots and bad organization, I'm still trying to learn this whole forum thing. By Mexico (next) I will have my shit together, promise! First, the transformation of Georgia: http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...0/md_0003s.jpg All shiny and skinny on the day I found her. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...-1-600x400.jpg All weighed down and ready to cruise California http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...wn-374x600.jpg The first of many visits to the doctor - see my post about the doohikey. She looks so... empty and sad http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...04-600x400.jpg Back together, overloaded, and ready to cross the Mexican border. If you think that looks like a lot of weight, you are right. I dropped her so many times, just from not being able to find the perfect level of ground on which to stand her. It couldn't be angle up, nor could it be flat, nor could the angle be too downward, it had to be about 5% down grade going away from her left side, otherwise she would topple. Yeah, this is my first dual-sport :) http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...88-400x600.jpg At the burn http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...92-600x400.jpg Fire walking - I could literally feel my clothes starting to melt - good times http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...ot-315x466.jpg Made the cover of the Black Rock Yearbook! I did not take too many shots while at Burning Man because I was too buys finding happiness - which I did. I wrote a little about it in my last post... http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...-1-600x600.jpg The road has done many things for me, my favorite being reuniting me with friends - this particular one I have know for 24 years http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...24-600x400.jpg CAlifornia was full of reunions! This time two friends from Minnesota came over for a 1000 mile loop around California http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...31-400x600.jpg A tree in Yosemite. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...27-600x400.jpg We look happy at Yosemite... but underneath those smiles are the remnants of a hard lesson learned - don't drink whiskey at 10,000ft. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...35-600x400.jpg Glacial lake with water temperature of 30 some degrees? No problem! Umm... dude... where did my balls go?! Aah, no worries, they'll be back... they always come back. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...43-600x400.jpg Granite Flows http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...53-600x400.jpg The secret spot along the PCH which I wrote about. Right off the road, but not a hint of car noise - only the ocean. Wish I could describe exactly where it is - it's literally one of the pull-offs, where you park your bike, walk to the wooden fence and look for a little path that will take you down the cliff a bit. Once below the level of the road, the rocks will block all the noise, and you can enjoy a beer and a pipe http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...92-400x600.jpg The California coast http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...-1-321x600.jpg I have yet to find a road sign which makes me as happy is this (this type of sign - in Idaho, on route 12, there is one which says "Next 100 Miles") Now, onto Mexico (and better pics :) )... |
South America Packing List
I’ve received many questions about what one packs for a motorcycle journey around the world. In reality it is only possible to partially pack for a continent. No matter how experienced a traveler you may be, the contents of your pack will always fluctuate the further you go on your trip. The following is a list of things I started with. Eventually, what was extraneous was tossed, and what was missing bought.
Packing list Clothes Boots (x1) Sandals (x1) Water Sneakers (x1) Flip flops Underwear (x5) Socks (x4) T-shirt (x2) Sweater (x1) Collared shirt (x1) Tie Vest Long sleeve (x1) Warm hat (x1) Balaklava (x1) Rain Shell (x1) Down Jacket (x1) Long underwear (x1) Waterproof pants (x1) Swim trunks (x1) Bandana (x2) Handkerchiefs (x2) Hiking gear / gear Emergency bag – survival kit Poles Backpack Rain cover Waterproof duffel Compression sacks Gaters Watch Cell phone Leatherman Knife (x2) Gurkha Knife sharpener Headlamp Gps / radio Mp3 player Headphones Kindle Sunglasses saw Camera Camel back Water filter Water bottle Whistle Batteries Survival book Firestarter Lighter/matches Rope/harness Compass Flint Magnifying glass Zip-lock bags Duct tape Camping Tent Hammock Sleeping bag Sleeping pad Inflatable Pillow Cooking Jetboil Gas Spoon/fork Cup Small pot Tea filter Tea Salt/pepper Emergency bars Emergency freeze dry packs Motorcycle Jacket Pants Helmet Gloves (x3) Chain/lock Cover Alarm Tire/tube repair kit Tool kit GPS ROK straps/bungees Spare: battery, chain/sprockets, tires, tubes, tires Writing Laptop Notepad Pen Pencil Voice recorder Laptop bag Smoking Pipe (x2) Tobacco Lighter Matches Tamper Cleaners Stand Medical Aloe Arnica Tiger balm Pain killer Advil Activated Charcoal First aid kit Antibiotic cream Snake bike kit Malaria pills Diarrhea pills Hygene / personal care Towel Soap Deodorant Toothbrush Toothpaste Scissors File Tweezers Sunscreen Lip balm Wet wipes Prep H Cold sore medicine Condoms Razor/blades Now, I know what some of you are thinking, "is this guy out of his mind?! An extra battery?!", and other thoughts to that effect. And, yes, you are right to think it, and yes I was crazy to bring it, along with a few other things which I did get rid of along the way. In fact I got rid of something or other every other week. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...P1000908-s.jpg |
Mexico: First Days
Mexico: First Days
I'm finally across the border! After endless delays due to mechanical issues and sponsors, I’m in the fabled land of Mexico. The poverty is apparent the moment you cross the border. The people in the street, the men running back from a failed attempt to cross the border fence, the dilapidated houses, all came at the snap of a finger. Surely not everyone is poor, or at least not that poor, but the contrast came so quickly that it was hard to ignore. The first thing I did when I got to Tijuana was drop Georgia, twice, both within 2 minutes. The second landed me in front of an oncoming car – which, thankfully decided not to prematurely terminate my journey, and life. Both times I was instantly surrounded by half a dozen men who helped me get my tires back on the pavement. though my leg was bleeding and Georgia’s engine flooded, I felt very welcomed in Mexico. This latest drop further shook my confidence in being able to ride off-road,e specially when fully loaded. The bike is heavily laden, way too tall for me, with overly aggressive off-road tires – which make my ride unstable whenever there is a gust of wind or a change in pavement. I keep thinking of what I can get rid of, and still cannot bring myself to part with anything. It all seems vital, or at least tolerable. After all, my entire life is on the bike, there is a limit as to how little I can have. Right? Within a couple of hours of arriving in Ensenada, Carmen, my host from couch surfing, and I, had dinner with her entire family. We then went dancing for 4 straight hours. The women were beautiful, the beer cheap and good, the music an excellent variety of cumbia, bachata, merengue, salsa, blues and punk. Carmen is a professional Arabic style dancer, so she knows how to move to say the least. It was the perfect way to start Mexico. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...5-1024x683.jpg Wine Country A few days later Carmen and I went to Mexican Wine country. The landscape reminded me a lot of northern Israel – boulder studded hills, dark green shrubs, and endless rows of olives and grapes. Who would have thought that Mexico has delicious wines!? We began at the La Cetto winery, with the intention of visiting others… The Tempranillo was not very good, the whites and rose’s were bland as well. However, the Petite Syrah was excellent – simple, dry, not a varied palate but very good in the flavors it had. The Bordeaux blend was off the charts! Cab, Merlot, Petite Verdot and Cab Franc. Dry and aromatic, juicy and fruity – but not jammy or sweet. It was a 2008 so still very young, but you could tell it will be an excellent wine in a few years. There was a little smoke, a little wood, some dried fruit – pronounced in a hearty palate and lots of cherry and plum at the top – extremely well balanced, nothing screamed over anything else. We then tried the straight cab, which was very good also – not on the same charts as my favorite Cali cabs, but very good indeed. The Nebiollo was also excellent – dark fruit, a little pepper, a little smoke, a rich, full mouth feel with a balanced dry finish. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...7-1024x683.jpg We went on a small tour with two other visitors, cousins from far flung parts of Mexico. This turned into a multi-hour festival. After trying the first few wines, Carmen’s friend came with the special wines that are not normally available for tasting (the blend and Cab mentioned above), and we proceeded to talk and taste for a while. Then the two cousins invited us to drink a bottle of the Petite Sirah. A bottle turned into two, with bread, aged cheese, olive oil and olives. We sat for hours talking and laughing on the veranda outside the tasting room. A famous Mexican singer, Reyli, came by for a few toasts, photos and insults. Mexico just kept getting better and better! http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...8-1024x683.jpg Celebrating Life We spent the following night at a ranch, about an hour outside of Ensenada. In the mountains there are no lights, the nearest Pueblito has not more than 100 residents, which brought a snugness to this gathering of strangers. Olive oil and olives, cheese, bread and wine – all made on the ranch – were served on tables normally used to feed the many ranch workers. There were a few bare bulbs giving us light, and we sat close to each other for warmth. In this tiny space there were two groups of musicians, neither professional, just people who knew how to sing and how to play. Something about the moment reminded me of Russia – the tiny table in the tiny apartment with 2 dozen people miraculously fitting in, singing, reading poetry, laughing. It is the best part of Russia, and it felt so good to experience it in Mexico. Upon request (which I receive every time people find out I am from Russia), I sang Katyusha (accompanied by a northern Mexican guitarist – the contrast was not lost on anyone) and gave a few steps from a Kozachok. My birthday followed a few days later, with 3 nights of parties. Carmen threw a party for me at her mother’s house. We knew each other for not more than a week, and yet I found myself surrounded by family. They cooked and baked and decorated the yard. One of the brothers came with band mates to sing for us; the girls wore traditional outfits. We sang into the wee hours, full of delicious food, hibiscus water, cake and joy. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...1-1024x768.jpg My streak of nights dancing for more than 3 hours began on my first night in Mexico, went right on through my birthday, and continues to this day. On the first night of my birthday Fabricio, my second host, and I went to hear a Cuban salsa group. I was lucky enough to be snatched up by a girl with whom I could dance as though we had been partners forever. Though I still make the occasional mis-steps and know only a few spins, we tore up the floor! What a difference it makes to dance with someone for whom dancing is as natural as breathing. When the band found out it was my birthday (and that I was a Ruskie), they got the whole place to sing me happy birthday, after which I had to return the favor by showing some Russian dance moves and teaching them a few words. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...0-1024x768.jpg The very next day I went out with all of my hosts and we spent another night dancing until the sun came up. Salsa and Cumbia, Irish and Jewish and Russian, we threw it all down. I was plied with beer as though I were in Russia – in that Mexican’s understand the word “No” about as well as Russians. By the time we got to the next bar, I was more light footed than usual, but at last I was confronted with a dance I just could not pick up. I don’t remember the name, but it is typical of northern Mexico. With a trip to a 4000 acre ranch which stretches from mountain to sea, I concluded my stay in Ensenada. It was a time of passion and learning, singing, dancing, eating and the setting up for an unforgettable trek through the incredibly varied places and peoples of Mexico. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...4-1024x683.jpg |
Live Update
How I wish I had a couple of GoPros so you guys could witness the hairy soup through which I drive every day!
Thank god for my 7 years of New York training - which prepared me for most of the worst I have been through. Georgia is easily 2-3 times bigger than most bikes and scooters on the road here, but I go where they go, I squeeze through places which bring looks of shock and awe when they catch up and pull up next to me at a light :) Posting the first story from Mexico made me think of the fact that I have spent half of my miles riding between lanes, ever since crossing the border. |
Live Update
28 months on the road today!!
42,000km, 11 countries, 2 continents, 2 steeds, too many brushes with death, too many sicknesses... but lots of friends and laughter and love! |
Baja Riding
Baja Riding
Mechanical Difficulties – Natures Rewards The day I decided to set out after 2 wonderful weeks in Ensenada, I discovered my bike was leaking gas. As horrible as it was to find out yet another thing had gone wrong, at least I was in good company. A little research revealed that there was something stuck in the carb – probably a grain of sand from one of the times I had dropped Georgia in the mountains. With no other choice Fabricio and I got to work taking the bike apart. As usual nothing went smoothly: from not having the right size tools, to parts not fitting correctly. Eventually we prevailed in removing the carb, taking it apart, cleaning it, putting it back together and putting Georgia back into one piece. It took only a few hours all together, but it was already too late for me to leave that day. Delayed again. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...3-1024x683.jpg It seems from the very start of this journey there has been something keeping me from leaving when I wanted to, and always something going on with the bike. For a machine that is so highly reviewed as the standard for long distance adventure travel, it has surely behaved like a finicky little bitch from day one. To say nothing of the fact that she is too tall for me – a confidence shattering reminder every time I drop her (7 times now). The weight is not helping, and yet I am not sure what I could possibly remove from my luggage. I need the mechanical extras and tools. I have few clothes. The camping and hiking gear does way a ton, but I cannot be sure to always have a place to stay, nor can I afford to rent things every time I want to go up a mountain. At the same time the weight is killing me. To top it all off, this thumper (my first) vibrates so much that my hands feel as though I am still riding hours after I have dismounted. But that was all during the day. That night, however, I was rewarded with a beautiful spot along the coast on which to set up my tent. I was riding by as the sun was starting to set and noticed a truck with a camper top parked far down by the shore. There was something “Rocinante-esque” about the way it looked, so I turned around and headed into a development site (with a few model houses and a sales office). There was a sign which read “Beach Access, which I followed away from the homes and towards the truck. The guy standing in the sales office booth came out hopefully, but we just exchanged waves and I drove on. I spent the night in the pleasant company of a guy from Alaska, who comes down to the Baja every year to surf and escape the perpetual dark of the northern winter. He offered to share his food, and I my tea, and we passed a pleasant evening chatting, eating, listening to the waves and watching a billion stars slowly emerge around the grand arch of the Milky Way. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...4-1024x683.jpg I stayed up for a few hours after dark and received the gift of a shooting star. The weather was perfect, the ocean was calm and steady, the stars bright and cheerful. And I was lulled to sleep by the sound of lapping waves. The good omen of the shooting star, however, was only good for the night… In the Middle of Nowhere I woke up to the sound of the ocean; herons migrating south, pelicans surfing the waves. It was an easy morning of waiting for the dew to dry off the tent. I set off on Highway 1 by 10:30am to a bright day, with a thick marine layer to the west and a wispy fog to the east. Exactly 15 minutes later the day turned gray when I ran out of gas in the middle of the desert. My so called 10 gallon expedition tank with internal pump which is supposed to bring up all the gas from the nether reaches of its hold, decided it would not bring up said gas and I puttered to a stop in the middle of nowhere. I could see gas in the tank! It was far from empty, but the pump was not bringing the gas up. I pulled onto a flat, sandy patch on the side of the road. The GPS, in a rare moment of accuracy, said there was a gas station just 18 kilometers to the south. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...5-1024x683.jpg The first 10 cars did not stop for me. Considering there is not much traffic, this was very disheartening, and the clock on daylight was ticking. Finally a nice man pulled over and took me down through the military checkpoint and onto the gas station. There, they wanted 100 pesos for a 1 gallon jerry can, but when I looked doubtful the attendant went over to the trash pile and found an old anti-freeze jug to use instead. Another reason to love Mexico! Finding a ride back to my bike proved even more difficult. Miguel was trying to do the same, so we decided to combine our fortunes and share a ride – if anyone would ever stop. Dozens of trucks and cars drove past as my concern began to grow: not only was daylight slipping away, but Georgia was sitting on the side of the road with no one watching her or my stuff strapped to the back. It is not hard to get a motorcycle onto the back of a truck and make it disappear forever. Miguel and I eventually found a ride, he to San Quintin, and I to KM 37 south of the town. By the time I gave Georgia a drink and crossed the military check point for the 3rd time, it was past 1pm. That left me very little time to ride the 350 km I needed to get to the next big town. The way to Guerrero Negro, along Highway 1, lies through a national park of surreal constitution. A dozen varieties of cactus grow here, in some places so many that it looks like a forest. One beautiful variety looks like a long wispy stalk, from which delicate, thyme looking, stems and petals grow. Another is the grand Cardon cactus which rises to over 60 ft. Add to that about 500 more varieties of bush, tree, shrub and weed, as well as a plethora of wild life. The surreal ride turned majestic as the western sky lit up, as if ignited, while the eastern took on a mellow pink hue with a complete double rainbow. The cacti became silhouettes as the sun broke through the clouds to cast its burning beam over the expanse of the desert. And so, captivated by the fierce glow of the west, the gentle pink fluffies of the east with the rainbow frame, and boulder strewn cactus forests, I ran out of light before making it to Guerrero Negro. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...8-683x1024.jpg I made my way to the nearest pueblito and began looking for a place for my tent. I found a lot on which stood a tiny house, attached to what could have been a motel, with some trees and bushes closed in by a fence. It did not look like anyone was home, and I was too tired too look any further, so I pitched my tent there and then. I laid in my tent for a long time, praying that the proprietor did not have vicious dogs and that no snake or scorpion would find its way into one of Georgia’s crevasses or a briefly unattended article of clothing. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...2-1024x683.jpg Desert Storms I awoke in the desert no worse for wear, but lacking of sleep. Butterflies and vultures; a lizard doing push-ups in the sun; rustling palms in the wind which was fiercely blowing away the night’s rain. And then a fluttering ball of bright orange singing in the baby blue of the morning. In the night it rained and my tent decided to longer be waterproof; the fear of the family dog and of being disturbed for camping on someone’s property did not let me rest either. I fell asleep only at day break, but within a couple of hours the rain had turned to high wind, and sand was whipping the tent and covering everything inside and out. Packing in a sandstorm is not fun, neither is driving through one. By the time I got to Guerrero Negro it was clear that rain was coming again to replace the blowing sand. I was stuck with a choice of whether to stay in a town in which I have nothing to do and have no place to stay (since I cannot afford a hotel on my own), or to brave the tropical storm and ride east through the desert. I decided on the latter. Though I do not recommend anyone do this, and though I was in the middle of nowhere, mostly alone, so if anything went wrong I would be quite ****ed, I was gifted vistas that come to the desert only once every few years: Silhouetted monoliths floating through misty cactus forests. A green desert – almost lush, with endless bushes and cacti rising off beyond the horizon. At one point flat and dry and empty, then all at once, mountainous with an endless sea of cacti where a minute before there was nothing. The stitch of the road running to the end of the earth, at times flat, at others a wavy ribbon of black in a sea of brown and yellow. Cacti posing as candelabras, or vases with full bouquets; giant single pricks and motherly stalks with tiny offspring clinging to their cores; gesticulating human-like figures – at times exclaiming or dancing, waving and trying desperately to be understood without words, at others bowed with shame or sinking to rest after a valiant battle against the unforgiving sun; young and vibrant green; grey and dying – limb or whole, dry like their home, waiting to become dust again. From the dust and sand, to the whipping rain of the tropical storm, from the dry and mutinous desert to an endless oasis of green grasses and palms, to the calm lapping of the Sea of Cortez: A ride I will not soon forget. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...0-1024x683.jpg |
Live Location Update
With Job prospects meek in Medellin, I'm off to Bogota!
Looking forward to mountain riding and meeting some of the great bikers there! |
From Desert to Sea
From Desert To Sea
I ‘m staying with Hiram, whom I met in Jerusalem, in a hostel, earlier this year. His invitation to stay with him in La Paz was not an empty one. Not only have I been sleeping in a bed and eating delicious food, my days have been filled with great conversation and learning about much of Mexican culture, politics and history. To cap it off he set me up with a snorkeling tour to Isla Espiritu Santo! http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m..._n-720x960.jpg In the morning we set off in a skiff over water so clear that the bottom could be seen at a depth of over a hundred feet! Yannick, a fellow couch surfer I met on my first night in La Paz, was there. Yannick is a Frenchman who married a Mexican girl, lives in Monterrey and teaches French half of the year in Martinique – a long lost brother! We spent yesterday at the beach, swimming in warm clear water and drinking beer – we were basically a Corona commercial (a couple of French girls helped). http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...-2-960x540.jpg Whether on a motorcycle or boat, all I need is some wind in my face to be happy. Snorkeling, swimming with sea lions and eating fresh ceviche, help too. Our first stop was snorkeling around some corral near Isla Espiritu Santo – a volcanic, UNESCO protected island off the coast of La Paz. Perfect, calm water; schools of fish and solitary crustaceans; a living reef; birds diving for their lunch; the water a wide palate of greens and blues. Afterwards we went to the sea lion colony on the island. Hundreds and hundreds of sea lions, swimming, sunning, playing, fighting, singing, grunting and roaring (perhaps even belching). Seeing the 600lbs bulls is a little off-putting, but they never came over to interrupt our fun. The babies, teenagers and even older males and females swam with and around us. Some played with each other, others played with us. There is an indescribable magic about a wild animal acknowledging your presence and taking a part in your life, if only for a short time. After hours of snorkeling, swimming and discovering tunnels and caves, we went to another island for fresh ceviche and some relaxation. The ride back to mainland was tinted with the warm glow of the setting sun, over a now denim blue sea. It’s getting hard to keep up with so many excellent days. Other than a couple of days of tough weather in the desert, so far, Mexico has been one endless smile. There is, however, a new development which is disturbing to say the least: my left hand feels like it is tingling, vibrating, or slightly numb. This sensation is normal after many hours of riding, but usually passes within a couple of hours. It has now been a few days during which I have not ridden for more than an hour, and the sensation has not gone away. I’m not really sure what I can do. I don’t want to spend money on a doctor who will tell me that he doesn’t know why this is happening and just tell me what I already know: lay off the bike for some time. Nor am I willing to do that. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...1-1024x683.jpg I ended Baja by crossing on the ferry with a number of other riders, one of whom I met in a café and with whom I rode for a few days hence. We managed to get a cabin on the ferry which made the 16 hour crossing of the Sea of Cortez and the Tropic of Cancer so much easier. We talked, drank beer, and watched the sun set over the mountainous horizon of the Baja. Some people sat inside, others spread out blankets on deck and sipped on what seemed to be an endless amount of beer until the sea lulled them to a starry sleep. It was like a mini cruise: with provided meals, a movie in the main salon, a crossing of a sea, and entertainment provided by the tambourine man. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...1-1024x683.jpg |
KLR
Sorry to hear that you are having trouble with your KLR. I really enjoy mine. In fact, I liked my first one so much I bought a second. I live in Kyrgyzstan and enjoy riding through the mountains. Our roads are trashed and a street bike is murder to ride here. The KLR has so little electronics it makes it real easy to work on. The hardest thing for me here with my bikes is keeping drunk, idiots, and cows out of the way. Been hit by a drunk driver, had a lot of trouble with just plain idiots, and one black cow in the middle of the dark night. :(
Great r\r and good photos. Keep riding and updating. If you get to Kyrgyzstan look me up. If you need parts for the KLR I will probably have it. Plus I have a good place to work on it. :scooter:: Mac |
Thanks Mac!!
I know how you feel about the animals... after my episode returning from Glacier National Park - I had hallucinations for more than a year that every shadow on the side of the road is an animal waiting to jump out at me! It will take me some time to get to where you are, but in a few years we will go for a ride for sure - though I'm pretty sure I will have a different bike by then :) |
wild life?
Here it is not just animals on the road. Had some drunks jump out in front of me in an attempt to stop me. People here have no idea what it is like to drive. They think "he has a light, he can see me." Then you have bright lights in your eyes and they are wearing all black! doh
When you get here look me up. Enjoy the ride and keep your head on a swivel. Mac |
Sinaloa to Michoacan
Sinaloa to Michoacan
Colonial towns dotted the serpentine road around a luscious landscape: hills, mountains and volcanoes covered thickly with trees and bushes. Fields of sugarcane and blue agave; palms and cacti… everything grows and in abundance. The air is thick with moisture and billions of insects and butterflies. Every village with its own specialty: Noni juice, honey, dried shrimp, a style of bead art or ceramics… no village the same, no product repeated even if the places were but 50 miles apart. Every town now looks like it was built from one 450 year old colonial blueprint: main plaza; church on one side, a park with a pavilion in the center; arched single or double story buildings, one of which is the municipality, on the other three sides of the plaza. The verisimilitude is great because I need not bother to stop. Mexican states vary greatly from each other, but internally one or two towns are generally representative of the rest of the state. And so Sinaloa, Nayarit and Jalisco flew by. I gave Tequila its due by sampling some fine, aged tequila – which duly blew my mind – I never knew tequila could be so delicious: it had all the silkiness and complexity of a fine cognac. As I was in a hurry to make it to Patzcuaro in Michoacan for Dia de los Muertos, I stayed in Guadalajara (the capital of Jalisco) for only a few days. I regret that decision to this day. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...4-1024x683.jpg In three days Guadalajara managed to entice and excite me to the point that I would think of it every week for the rest of my 6 months in Mexico. Every day there was live music; on the street, in bars and on the October Festival stage. The streets were filled with delicious food and beautiful women. The festival provided a great variety of music, from traditional Mexican music like Mariachis, to pre-colonial, to a modern folksy pop. People dancing and singing along – a great joy was spread throughout this international hub. It was hard to leave, but I could not miss the Day of the Dead in the place where Mexicans form every corner of the country come. Dia de los Muertos I got to Morelia just in time to drop my things off and rest for the night. The very next day, about 30 couchsurfers and hosts from around the world and Mexico boarded a van and a bus to go to Lake Patzcuaro and the surrounding villages for Dia de los Muertos. For more pics from Nat. Geo Click Here Wikipedia info Here The party started right away and we drank and sang and laughed. I met a Russian with whom I could talk – it felt so wonderful to speak Russian again. I always feel so comfortable with people who speak Russian, and so quickly. Kostya’s grandparents were forced from a border area in Korea into Russia at the start of the Second World War, and have lived there ever since. It was a buffer zone created by the Russians for the war with Japan. Yet another example of how horrible Russia is, and yet we feel so good when we find each other abroad – no matter our background. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...us-960x720.jpg I got drunk. It has been a while since I have been so – it was great fun, but thankfully I had the sense to stop in time so as to observe the holiday and what was going on. The day of the dead is not a sad time, or so I‘m told. There are many tourists who flock to see the graveyards decorated with marigolds and deep red flowers, fruit, bread, candy and candles. People sit vigil all night at the graves of their loved ones. They answer questions and tolerate the tourists, but I did not see joy in their faces, I did not feel festivity in their souls – only in the drunk tourists who abounded. I’m told one thing, but I see another. I’m told it’s festive, and yet the people there did not seem so. I felt intrusive, and sickened by the presence of drunk tourists taking pictures. I did not see any disrespect for the grave sites or towards the locals, yet I could not help but feel that we did not belong, that we should not be there. Though most of the tourists were Mexican, I still feel as though this is no way to intrude upon others. If you do not want to go to the graves of your family, then stay in the city – party, get dressed up, paint your face, have a good time. Why bring the hoopla to a sacred place? You want to see the beautiful decorations, come the next day, or the next night when the families of those past are not there. I know that we have a different tradition in Russia (and in the U.S and as Jews), and that I should understand and accept others – and I do, but I cannot reconcile what I am told and what I saw. We did not belong. Mexican or otherwise, we should have been somewhere else. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...4-1024x683.jpg I did my best to stay out of the way, I did not laugh or sing or take pictures or disturb the people there, and perhaps that is a happy medium, but I still felt like we should have just stayed on the bus and gone to the city for a good time in the streets and bars. A Magic Moment A few days later I again found myself in the magical city of Patzcuaro, sitting in a hotel lobby, full from soup, simmered pork, rice, pasta and tortillas (all for $2). The rain was coming down yet again. I don’t remember a day without rain since I have gotten to Michoacan. I wrote to some couchsurfers in and near Patzcuaro – to no avail. A friend from Morelia tried to contact his friend in the village – nothing. It got dark, the rain was still coming, and I had nowhere to go. I decided to walk around the market again because sitting in the open hotel lobby was too cold and waiting for nothing makes no sense. I picked a lane in the market and started walking, looking at all the beautiful crafts brought from many parts of Mexico for the holiday. As I looked up from yet another table of brightly colored skulls and skeletons, I saw a familiar face. Not familiar in that we have met, but in that I have seen it somewhere before. Right away the name Lupita came to my mind and I came up to her. “Lupita?”, “Sii…” she responded with a bit of shock since she has never seen me before. She was the person to whom I wrote on couchsurfing weeks ago asking if I could stay with her for the holiday. She had to decline because she had too many requests as it was. I explained who I was, which put a beautiful smile on her face, and she offered for me to stay with her! I went from wet, cold, nowhere to go in the dark, to a clean bed in a rustic adobe house near a tiny village on Lake Patzcuaro! Another magical moment in Mexico! http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...6-1024x683.jpg |
Tumblr
Hello Friends!
I know that I am way ahead of my Ride Report... so I want to make an effort and post things which I do more in the now, until I catch up with the ride report... to that end I started a Tumblr blog some time ago, and starting now am going to try to post something that is going on RIGHT NOW, a couple of times a week. Here is the link: http://motorcyclejourneys.tumblr.com/ Thanks again for following me on this crazy ride! |
An Explosion of Art in Morelia
Every once in a while a person gets a bad feeling about a place, and is unable to explain why. Sometimes this turns out to be intuition, at others it remains a mystery as the feeling gets proven wrong over time. I felt this way about Michoacan (the state) and Morelia (its capital) at first, but at the same time I could not bring myself to leave. It was like two opposing internal, subconscious, forces vying for the ultimate impression of the place. I ended up staying for 3 weeks, and could not be happier that I did – Michoacan turned out to be a wonderful place, full of art, music and the best food I had in Mexico.
http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...-1024x1024.jpg A random entrance into a room in a museum brought me in contact with some local, country wide, and international artists. They invited me to the opening of the exhibition which I accepted. Something about one of them struck me and I followed her downstairs and began a conversation. I did not invite her to join me that day, which I should have done, but instead planned to meet her at the opening. The next day though, in the hopes of seeing her there I came back to the not yet ready exposition, and was invited out for a drink with one of the artists. That night, at the bar, not only did I meet her, I met a girl from couch surfing who had gone salsa dancing with us a couple of weeks ago, as well as 3 friends of Lupita and Christof (my hosts near Patzcuaro)whom I had met the week before in Patzcuaro. Then Ray (my host in Morelia) came by with some friends in the hopes of catching the game. I was at once surrounded by a dozen people I knew. What is even more fascinating is that most of them new each other as well. We sat and talked and laughed... it felt like we had been friends forever. The soul of the artist truly knows no borders: Mexican, Argentinian, my own ****ed up combination of identity, we all vibed and understood each other immediately. Earlier that day I met a girl in a café, who, after a couple of hours of excellent conversation, invited me to a party that night. We arrived at a beautiful house, and the first thing we noticed was the incredible abundance of art on the walls. It turned out every person there was either a painter, sculptor, photographer, musician or actor. I felt like I was back in New York. It was yet another party where no more than 5 minutes into it we broke out in song… and did not stop till four in the morning. What began as a wonderful party, turned, on a dime, into a domestic dispute for the ages. Neither I nor Cass knew how or why it started, but singing turned to silence as the last guests left, and silence turned to violent screaming and pleas to be allowed to leave from the wife of the host. She did not look drunk, yet he locked the gates so she could not leave. He did not seem like a violent person (and he is not), yet he did not want her to leave. Fierce screaming and wailing for hours on end did not bring forth complaints from neighbors or cops. She was literally screaming bloody murder at some point, and yet no one came. Perhaps they knew, perhaps it was not new to them, and they were aware that he would not hurt her. But such screaming! And then the breaking of a glass. And then another. Then more screaming, and his calm pleas for her to calm down. And then things began to shake and shatter as she broke more and more things of greater size and mass. My friend and I hid away in the spare bedroom upstairs and could only imagine what was being destroyed – it sounded like the entire house, including windows. The whole day, from the café, to the bar, to the party, and it’s horrific end, all felt like we were in a Woody Allen film. The next day I went to the opening of the exhibition. The theme was “art inspired by music”, and every one had headphones with the musical pieces that inspired each work of art. What made it all the more interesting were 2 painters and a ballerina between whom I was rather desperately trying not to choose. To top it off I met again a rather famous artist who had invited me to stay in her studio, but whose phone number I lost. This fateful meeting brought me to her studio and to a lovely conclusion of my stay in Morelia. She is a nice person, but, what is more important is that I really enjoy her art. She is self-obsessed, as most artists are, but if you overlook that, you will see the skill and beautiful vision of her work. In her breaks from self, she asked to see my photography and poetry, which, if she is to be believed, is very good. She stopped every few lines to express her love of a line, an image, or an idea. She was very moved and excited and said she would like to do something with me – for me to write a poem for a painting she made for a show in Paris. I know better than to believe anything is a surety until after it occurs, but what do I have to lose by writing a poem for a piece of work I like anyway. Staying in her studio was like a dream. When you walk in through the massive gates, to the left is a long building with virtually no internal walls – her studio. Filled with works, old, new, and incomplete – each better than the previous. Just beyond the studio is an abandoned Studebaker – to give it that antique charm that only old cars can. At the far end of the cobbled path between the studio and the tree-filled green space, is a tiny house with giant windows for walls. A beautiful little bedroom, with an exquisite bed, to the left; a sitting/dining room to the right; and a small kitchen in the back. It was too perfect. I forced myself to leave after a few days, fearing if I did not I would stay forever. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...-1024x1024.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...-1024x1024.jpg To end my stay I went to see a display of flower art. Carpets of petals, flowers, twigs, cones, and other parts of trees and flowers, flowed for 3 blocks under a canopy of elms. Such beautiful work, it was almost unreal at times – that such things, from various patterns to three dimensional pieces, could be made from just petals. And just like the incredible works of art at Burning Man, all of this would be destroyed after only a few days on display. So much time, energy and creativity put forth only to be enjoyed for a brief moment. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...-1024x1024.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...-1024x1024.jpg Perhaps that final display was what helped me leave. No matter how wonderful Michoacan turned out to be, I still had the whole world ahead, and it was time to move on. |
Live Update
Hello You Adventure seeking Scallywags!!
Happy New Year, and may you find the road - open, clean of debris, and free of idiot drivers! I'm off to Venezuela - Country #12, in my 29th month, and 45,000th kilometer! |
A Poem from the Road
So I know it's not part of a normal ride report, but since I do dabble in poetry, being a writer and all, I thought I might share this with you manly men out there - just some things that the road, the steed, and the mountains inspire...
I will start with one, and if you guys don't want to see more, let me know, and I will stick to the roads, grub and women. Our Road The road forgives Our use and wear, She grips us tight When death we dare. She listens closely To our wail, She bears with patience Our angry stare. When we are lost She helps us find the way, She may be tough But with her we will stay. Though sometimes barely there, And often filled with ruts, We seek her still, And take the wisdom of her bumps. When on her, The going may be slow, But when she’s gone, There’s no where left for us to go. And if we sit Too long in place, We lose our selves And are like holes in time and space So always forward we will ride, And throw the throttle back a nigh. And let the wind make clear our head, And let the road our suff’ring mend. Dedicated to J.L and D.H of Seattle |
Live Location Update
Country #12: Venezuela!
2 years, 5 months and 45,000km on the road!! |
hiya, really enjoyed reading your ride tales,the up's and downs, lots of rain it seems.:( You seem to be getting alot of surfing done on your trip, ( couch ). My trip is not far away now, but it has been nearly 5 years in the planning not like your 3 weeks. I start in Halifax on the 29th April, and heading for Ushuaia with a friend on two teneres one newish and the other 20 years oldish. So should be interesting which gets on better. 2 years 5 months, well done keep going, look forward in reading updates. We won't be down your way till August time. Never know, might see you on our travels.
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Hey there BigPete!
Welcome to the road brother! Considering how slow I go, it is more likely than not that we will indeed meet :) bier I do indeed do a lot of couch surfing - I have to say it is the best part of my trip - the people have really made it (considering I'm writing a book about common bonds between cultures, that's quite important and useful, no?). I hope you are on ADVRider as well, as there are lots of guys from there along the way who will invite you to stay - great folks!! Good luck! I hope you go through all of Canada - what a country!! Cheers! |
Couch surfing will be a great way of learning all about different cultures. I find the unplanned things that happen in life turn out to be the best experiences you'll ever have and those memories are one's that are so vivid. Great that you will be sharing this in a book.
I'm not on ADVrider, you say its worth joining as well? Yes, going through all of Canada, well thats the plan. Staying in Canada till we get to Vancouver, then we will have 90 days to get to the other side of Mexico. Thought it would take about 2 weeks to get from San Diego to out of Mexico. What do you think? is that reasonable? And could you tell me where you crossed? Safe riding. |
ADV is def worht joining as there are more ADVRiders in the US and Canada - and will often offer their couch, or yard to pitch your tent.
I crossed into Mexico at Tijuana, and rode all of the Baja until the ferry crossing at La Paz into Mazatlan. I got the standard 6 month visa, and left on the day it expired. Mexico is one of the most amazing countries I have ever been to - the food, music, people, architecture, art... everything is incredible, and it all changes every 100km or so. I went to 22 states (out of 31) and still feel like I am missing something. It is the country I think about most. Canada was incredible too though. Everything west of the Rockies is breathtaking! No straight roads, only curves, good ice cream and the best peaches in the world. |
Thanks for all the info, much appricated.
Just had e-mail from our old neighbours and they live in Halifax now so have offered us to stop there for first few days. Have just joined ADV, another site to have a look at. That is what i'm looking forward the most in Canada, no straight roads. Safe riding. |
Live Location Update
Merida, Venezuela!
It has been a month of the Andes, and now I am at their end... only to return to them and ride to their beginning in a few weeks :) |
Calm in Guanajuato
Calm in Gunanajuato
Upon first glance, Guanajuato (the state) is not very impressive. The rolling hills are pleasant, but are not as breathtaking as other parts of Mexico. The food is good, but not exceptional and does not rank among the best in the country (though I had the best steak quesadilla ever in a no-name shack along the highway). The towns are pretty, in a typical colonial way, but at first glance do not stand out. The people are calm which helps Guanajuato have the least amount of violence of any place in Mexico. The weather does not swing wildly, and mostly stays around a comfortable medium in the 70’s and 80’s. It sounds like the perfect place for retired expats to come – and they do! San Miguel de Allende, a town in Guanajuato, is more than 30% expat, and is accordingly 30% more expensive than the rest of the country. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...3-1024x683.jpg Upon closer inspection Guanajuato (the city), is quite a feat of engineering, with lovely, bright colored buildings, a good University, café’s, bars, clubs, theaters and museums. It seems unprepossessing, but in the end it is a beautiful town build on, in and around mountains. It was also the place of one of my warmest memories from Mexico: I was walking by one of the churches when an old woman called to me from the front seat of a pickup. She asked me whether I could help her out of the truck. There was a man in the driver’s seat, but for some reason he did not want to get out. After I helped her down to the curb I proceeded to walk down the street, but as I turned to look at the church I saw the woman was still standing where I left her. I came back to her and asked whether she wanted to go to the church (which meant some steep steps, crossing the street in traffic, then more steps). She said yes, and so we slowly made our way down, across, down, and into the church. She kept thanking me profusely, but I kept saying that it was nothing. But that was a lie. The little time and trouble to help her was nothing indeed, but the effect it had on me was priceless. There are few things I enjoy more, or which make me feel as good, as helping an elderly woman. Every time I feel like it is my grandmother (long since passed) – that by helping the stranger I am somehow helping her, spending a few more moments with her. And inevitably I am drawn to tears (though I shed none). I wrote a poem the other day called “Abuelas”. It is about almost every old woman I know – particularly Russians, and what I have seen so far of those from non first-world countries. It is about my grandmother, and the woman I saw in the street selling nuts, about the woman in the market who clutched at her cane with a gnarled hand, the one less gnarled than the other, but walked on, and worked her day somehow. It is about the women I see with bent back carrying loads that few men would undertake to carry, with baskets as big as themselves resting atop their heads. Women who do not give up, survive the impossible, who work until their dying day – not only because they have to, but also because they would never allow themselves to earn money by beginning. They inspired me to write, and I hope for many more opportunities to do what I can to them. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...9-683x1024.jpg Before heading for Mexico City I decided to stop by San Miguel de Allende. I normally avoid tourist towns like the plague, particularly the thought of being in a place with so many ex-pats where prices are significantly higher, usually makes me go the other way. But I heard so many great things about the place I could not just skip over it – excellent decision! The town was incredibly beautiful – a perfect picture of colonialism. Though typical in many way, it was excellent in each of those ways: the streets were clean; trees, flowers and bougainvillea everywhere; the houses freshly painted; stone fountains and sculptures everywhere; the churches small but surprisingly beautiful. The town just did everything right – it got better around every corner I turned. A magical place indeed. My host welcomed me into her beautiful home overlooking the whole town, and to the most comfortable bed and hottest shower I’ve had since leaving California. It was Thanksgiving, and instead of tortillas, tacos, quesadillas and the like, I had a traditional Thanksgiving meal – replete with turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberries, and pie! The 7 bottles of wine helped bring that old, familiar feeling of coziness and satisfaction. The seven bottles were an avenue to yet another situation in which I found myself at the threshold of an encounter with an older woman. Had I pursued it I would have found myself knee deep in a Daniele Steele novel: the exotic, Mediterranean looking, setting; a young lover come to quell the passions of a woman who never stopped being consumed by the fire of carnal passion; fine foods and excellent wines to lure him in, dancing provocatively to Latin rhythms… The presence of her young nephews helped me make the right decision though. It was a place I where I could have easily stayed to write for a while. But the more perfect it was, the more I felt the itch to keep moving. I was slowly starting to see the fallacy of my decision to travel in order to have the time to write. Abuelas The column slowly returns to the earth from which it came. Curves and plump lips, a deep copper hue, Stand in relief of the life and roads traveled. Strength of one side supporting the weakened other. Well-worn and oiled wood helps keep the column from Sinking to its eternal rest. Lenses of knowledge, only shimmer, only reflect, And yet spark to glow every so often. What will! What undying flame! Try the winds as they may to extinguish, Try the rains to drown and the dust to bury, But the column only grows stronger as it curves – Like an arch to support the greatness and vastness of creation. The fire only burns more fierce in its little flame. They came and went, and will come and go, But she sings with the time, and only sighs At the hubris of the burning needle without an ember To give it substance and perseverance. There comes no heat from the quick brightness of the needle, It catches fire easily and burns bright for it is hollow - It took no time to grow and see and become, And so every spark sets it ablaze. But that column of the ages stands, though catch fire it might, Though it may burn from the inside and be left hollow and charred, It still stands and sees and will not fall. Only with time will it return to feed again the countless who will come after, Just as she did those who came from her. She has earned her name and her place – Abuela. And though we may pass her by with barely a glance, she remains. But when we do pause and heat ourselves for a moment On her ember, we do not forget, And are forever transformed - Forever loved if we receive her gift of Deepened valleys around burning lenses, And a gust from her oracle’s chamber. |
Climbing Pico de Orizaba
Climbing Pico de Orizaba
Part I: Getting There The climb to the 3rd highest peak in North America, began in Orizaba, Veracruz (1200m). http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...1-1024x683.jpg The morning I was set to leave I went to rent an ice-axe to the only place for such equipment. It turns out they only rent at 2 day intervals, at 150 pesos per rental, and I needed 4 days. I have never heard of such a thing – a 2 day rental for climbing equipment! Even when I’ve taken a 3 day rental, and brought it back on the 4th , I was never charged over. It is just not how the community works. I lost 2 hours finding this out and decided not to rent. The southern slope has no snow anyway. After buying food for the mountain I went to Miguel’s (my host) house where his mother fed us an enormous and delicious breakfast of Eggs, beans, chilaquiles and coffee. Then, as I was packing Georgia a neighbor came up and asked where I was traveling. He had a pretty heavy gringo accent, so I switched to English. It turns out Dave came here 14 years ago, found a girl, married her, and has been here ever since. He is now the father of 2 beautiful daughters. The ice-axe incident at the store came up and he offered me his! The playa provides – even when far from it. He then invited me for a beer upon my return. All of this delayed my departure more than it should have so I decided to see if Google had a more direct route than the one normally taken – which it found. However, what looked like a large road turned out to be a farmer’s road – made for horses, trucks and tractors – full of sand, rocks, ruts and holes. I ended up off-roading for almost 3 hours! I can’t believe this road was even on Google. After a few hours, and yet another dump of poor Georgia, I arrived at the park. The first thing I did upon arrival was go the wrong way – I took a horrific road which lead nowhere. I spent an hour navigating the most off-road and difficult riding in my life. It alternated sand, deep sand, boulders, rocks, mud, ruts and gravel. At one point I had to stop and clear boulders from 200ft. of road – which in itself is not the most difficult thing to do, except at 3900m, where it is hard to breathe for lack of oxygen, the activity takes on a whole other light. I can’t count how many times I almost dumped the bike as the wheels slipped on stones, stuck between boulders or in the sand, or simply due to my in-experience with off-roading. But miraculously I didn’t drop Georgia once. I eventually came to an impassible part and heard a whistle from behind. I stopped and saw some people on the slope to my left. I wasn’t sure if they were hikers and I had found the path, or if they were workers. It turned out to be the latter and they proceeded to inform me that I had made the wrong turn at Albuquerque. All I just went through I had to do again, and I had to do it without thinking or groaning because the sun was setting. So I rode back, almost crashing the bike and smashing my head against boulders yet again. By the time I made it to the workers hut at the actual start of the trail, the sun was below the mountains, and Georgia had officially reached 3905m! http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...8-1024x683.jpg As I was unpacking I realized the ice-axe had fallen out! I quickly dumped my gear and started to ride back again! It was not my ice axe to lose. About a quarter mile down the road, before the tough parts began, I saw the workers walking toward me. One of them had my ice-axe in hand! I rode back to the workers hut where I had left my gear. I asked the two older guys if they would not be bothered by me pitching my tent next to their hut. Instead of consenting, they invited me to sleep inside the hut. I hesitated at first, not wishing to cramp anyone’s sleep, but it turned out that there was room for at least two more. The night was getting bitter cold, and only promised to turn to freezing, so I gladly agreed. Shortly, the workers I had met on the trail arrived, and we all crowded around the fire. They put on a couple of kettles to make a punch from dried fruit and we talked and joked – huddling very close to the dancing flames. They offered me some punch and bread, and later when they heated a pot of meat and potatoes with some hand-made tortillas, they offered that to me as. It never fails that those with the least are always willing to share what they have. We then had a smoke and played cards. They taught me Hispaniola (a game similar to hearts or spades), to which I caught on, but still lost. By 8:30, as it was pitch dark and freezing, we retired to the hut where a fire was desperately trying to heat up the unsealed and un-insulated hut. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...8-1024x683.jpg As usual I had a hard time sleeping and only managed a few uninterrupted hours. The rest of the time I spent going from sweat to cold, tossing and turning and going out to take a piss at midnight – always an adventure in the mountains. Never the less we all got up at sunrise – they went to work, I heated a cup of tea on the remnants of the fire, and wrote, before packing up and heading for the Albergue hut (my high camp before the summit bid the following day). http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...4-1024x683.jpg To be continued… |
hiya, how's things?
Just wondering what you are using to do your write ups on here? laptop,ipad? thinking of what is best to bring on trip. |
Hey Big Pete!
I use a Samsung laptop - incredibly thin and light. I love it! And its a fraction of the cost of an Apple, with more features, and the advantage of Windows. When you have lots of pictures, and editing, and typing to do - you want a real screen and a real keyboard. If you dont write much and dont edit your photos - an ipad will be fine. |
thanks for that, i'll be doing alot of photo's and writing so i'll be getting a laptop then.
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Climbing Pico de Orizaba: Part II
Climbing Pico de Orizaba: Part - II
The Climb 5pm: Climbing Pico de Orizaba (Citlaltepetl) began at the workers hut at 3900m, from which it took me 6 hours to reach the Albergue hut (my high camp) at 4633. I can’t count the amount of times I stopped, removed my overweight pack and just sat there starring off into the misty valleys below. At around 3000m breathing becomes a chore. This effect grows exponentially with every passing 100m. Sometimes I would even stop after taking only 3 steps. By the time I reached the hut I had only the strength to collapse and stare up at the 45 degree slopes of Citlaltepetl. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...9-1024x683.jpg The path, hut and surrounding area were littered with people’s trash. Like so many other parts of Mexico, the mountain suffers from Mexican’s disregard for nature. People don’t think twice about tossing their soda cans and chip bags out of car windows, or on what could be a pristine path in the mountains – the concept of “leave no trace” has yet to make it south of the border. 11:30pm: The wind, which brought a deadly chill to the evening had vanished, leaving a starry sky and a rare calm. For a mountain it didn’t even feel particularly cold. After lying in the sleeping bag for hours I managed a mere 20 minutes of sleep. Add to that the broken hours of the previous night, and I could count on one hand the amount I have slept going on 3 days. At least the headache, which kept me from sleeping, had gone. Even my breathing felt a little less difficult. But still, I couldn’t sleep. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...3-1024x683.jpg A group of 5 Mexican climbers came up around midnight. Within minutes they built a fire, and threw some tortillas and potatoes thrown on the first embers. We chatted for a while, talked about the mountain, climbing, Mexico, the filth of the hut… they offered me food and to summit with them later that night. This is just what I wanted – to not climb alone! But they needed to rest first and I couldn’t sleep. I figured I was a slower climber anyway, so I would depart at 1:30am with the hopes they would soon catch up. 1:30am: It was just light enough that I opted against using my headlamp, and set off to an occasional gentle breeze and the helpful spotlight of the almost full moon which lit up the mountain. Pale silvery glow of the rocks; hard shadows thrown from every minuscule pebble; shadows from larger boulders leaving in obscurity great swaths of path. 3:00am: Based on my observations from 4600m, I determined what looked like to be the right path: a quick north-westerly traverse of a small boulder field to a rocky ridge leading up to the summit pyramid. The south side was nothing but a giant sand/dust and scree field – impossible to climb. The only options were the ridges and their relatively more stable ground, so I chose the one to the west – the closest to camp. The final approach on the south is entirely a scree field, but I would deal with that later. There was no snow or ice anywhere to help me. Whatever accumulation from a 3 day dump the previous week, was all gone. As usual my going was slow, but it was not only the lack of oxygen which made me stop often to look around. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...8-1024x683.jpg Directly south of Pico de Orizaba is another volcano, with an observatory at the top. To each side the valley is revealed and framed by two southern ridges of Pico. The stars in a cloudless sky, and the lights of the tiny pueblos, sparkled above and below. Hills to the far side of the valley retreated gradually into the ever-present mist. At that moment the whole world felt tranquil. I wanted less to go to the peak, than to remain in that contemplative calm. Every step higher, as I rose above the ridge lines, revealed more and more of the valley. With every new twinkling pueblo I felt the warmth of a hearth and the comfort of a home. That it was 3a.m and I was alone on a vast and cold mountain, made no difference. Lights were on in the tiny clusters of civilization, which, by some miracle, remained in the fertile valley of Mexico’s section of the Pacific Ring of Fire. Conquest and disease, corruption and drug wars, French and American invaders, a dozen active volcanoes… all failed in displacing and snuffing out the lights below. Sadly, what mountains are best for – contemplation, is not something they allow. No matter how fine the weather, more than 5 minutes of inactivity is the catalyst for a state of cold which is hard to get rid of. I remember the views from every peak on which I have stood in the last 16 years. I also remember that every time I wanted to remain, to contemplate the great vastness, the insignificance of our hubris, the glorious testament to time and patience before me, I was always run off by the setting sun, 80mph winds, impeding frost bite, threatening cold or rain. As a matter of fact, in the last 16 years I have never spent more than 20 minutes at the summit of a mountain. But only today did I realize that no matter the splendor of that view from the roof of the world – above clouds and pettiness – it is the presence in the mountains, whether in a valley or on a ridge, which is most gratifying. It is there, around, as opposed to on top the mountain, which lends one more time to observe and contemplate and listen to the great secrets which long ago every person knew. And though I realized this, and with ever growing weakness from hunger, sleep deprivation, lack of oxygen and thirst, I still kept moving forward and higher. But with every step my head grew more faint, my stomach more uneasy (more info here). As the water in my camel pack froze and wind began to pick up, every step became harder, and every time I would stop I nearly fell asleep on my feet. With the dehydration and increased altitude the headache returned to add to my joy. I began to feel dizzy and to stumble on the uneven and constantly changing path. What I thought would be a steadier climb turned out to be an alternating field of sand, scree and boulder. But in the moonlight I could not have known that traversing along the east side of the ridge would have allowed for a more constant, and therefore easier, assent. Why, oh why did I not go to the north side where there is snow and ice and climbing makes more sense? The problem with sand and scree is that so often you need to take 2-3 steps in order to move forward 1. The constant sliding back and near rock slides which are avoided by draining spurts of energy, are the inglorious end to many a summit bid. For every 10 second burst of energy I needed a 4 minute rest. My fingers and toes grew more numb, and because I was not moving fast or continually enough, my body temperature kept falling. 5:30a.m: I have now stopped and urged myself to turn around a hundred times. But after shacking myself from sleep and looking up to see how close the summit seemed to be, I would again venture a few steps. A few steps closer, a few steps higher, and the cycle repeats. I wished the sun would rise already and chase away the ominous shadows, but it remained bleak and dark and cold. An agonizing hour later the grayness of the east began to take on a reddish hue. Finally the light is come! I stood gazing at the peak above and at the valley below. What splendor am I about to witness with the rising sun! I turned again toward the peak, took two steps, and in a moment realized I am still alone – the other climbers had not even started yet. My vision blurry, my head swimming, my water inaccessible; if I collapse and hit my head on a rock… I am alone. Even if the sun lights for me a golden path, that path would still take me through unstable ground at 30-45 degree angles. And if now I barely take 3 steps before almost falling from weakness… With the summit so close I could taste it, I took out my GPS, marked my elevation at 5200m (my personal record), turned around and headed back to the hut. Either as a consolation, or mocking, the sun rise was resplendent. I did not waste the opportunity to stop and gaze for as long as the wind would allow me. As I approached the hut at 7:30a.m, the 5 Mexican climbers met me on the trail a few hundred paces from the hut. I told them about the trail, wished them luck, stumbled into the hut, made a cup of instant soup and passed out. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...1-1024x683.jpg |
Steelhorse wonderful to learn about your ride. Do come to India. Be my guest anytime.
Sent from my GT-I9082 using Tapatalk |
Thanks Kayjay!! I am certainly coming to India... it will take me a while as I am still in Venezuela, and am very slow (both physically, and mentally is seems).
Thanks so much for the invite! I hope to meet you there... or somewhere else on the road...? :scooter:bier |
live status update
It's not a good day when the camera and GPS, on which you spent your last pennies, break!!
The camera took a fall from Georgia and off Canelo (the actual horse I rode in the plains), and the GPS was destroyed by batteries leaking from the excessive humidity. Already got lost in the mountains due to heavy fog, and found half of my pictures out of focus. No bueno. Off to cross the entirety of Venezuela in pursuit of the last drops from Angel Falls. Cheers! |
Posada Don Carlos is a real nice place to base out of in Cuidad Bolivar run by a German expat named Martin, also has a KLR, he has nice underground parking garage, good place to do any needed maintenance before heading into the Gran Sabana
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I hope you get the camera sorted out. You've been taking some amazing photos so far! :thumbup1:
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Live Location Update
Just got back from Angel Falls!!
Now going to Mount Roraima! Back in 8 days, and then 10 days of fishing in the jungle. I will try to post before going fishing, otherwise, see you in a few weeks! |
Live Status Update
Two and a Half years on the road today!
47,000km. 12 Countries. 2 Continents. 2 Motorcycles. 1 New Language... Back in Ciudad Bolivar, Venezuela. Next stop fishing in the jungle! |
congrats on the mile stone of 2 half years.beerbeer
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Mexico City
Mexico City
Mexico City is everything one would expect from one of the biggest and most populated cities in the world. No matter how much I love and long for nature, there is an undeniable pulse, which only a big city has, toward which I am drawn – like a drug addict seeking his next high. The saturation of culture, the abundance and excess, the variety, the opportunity, the food, the women… a big city seems to have everything, and when you are deep within its cage it is easy to forget, for long periods of time, that you have not taken a deep breath in months. This is particularly true in this sprawling bowl of exhaust which we call Mexico City, where carpets of gray crawl ever higher upon the surrounding hills. Greens and Golds and Browns, all turn to gray with the continuous onslaught of a population which refuses to curb its reproduction for outdated Catholic bans on birth control. Every now and then a bright spot of pink, orange or red, but they are mere blips in the countless miles of gray concrete buildings. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...3-1024x683.jpg Jorge, a brother of a friend from Ensenada, welcomed me into the frenzy on the very first night, and there we stayed until I left 3 weeks later. Most nights someone was over at his apartment, or we at one of his friends’, and with every gathering came drinking, smoking, singing, dancing and guitar playing. For countless nights we stayed up until the sun came up singing and laughing our hearts out. I have never been so reminded of Russians! http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...8-1024x683.jpg I have noticed this parallel between Russians and Mexicans before, but in Mexico City it was truly solidified. The large presence of communists, past and present, serves to further accentuate the parallel. During the height of Mexican art, in the 20’s, two of its foremost artists – Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo – were staunch supporters of communism (and even sheltered Trotsky in his exile). This means that so much of Mexico’s public art works, particularly murals, are of the Socialist Realism kind. Frida even decorated her corsets with hammers and sickles. No matter the style, art in general stands at a very high level in Mexico – less for its collection of world masterpieces, and more for what it produces. Few Mexican artists have made it to worldwide fame, even of the 4 great muralists only one is truly known outside his country. But that says nothing of the quality of art found here. From little Ensenada, all the way to Oaxaca, I was constantly impressed by what I saw. Even modern artists in Mexico produce phenomenal work. There was, however, a strange dichotomy: as excellent as the art was, the curation and organization of the museums was generally quite poor. The organization of the pieces often made little sense; the lighting, with few exceptions, was horrible; and the amount of mislabeled and un-labeled pieces, or mistranslated labels, was astounding. This, however, did not stop me going to dozens of museums – all of which were treasure-troves of expression, color, evidence and history. Some excellent examples of museums which are an absolute must, and not to be missed: Museum of Anthropology, Museum of Modern Art, Frida Kahlo House, Dolores Olmedo Museum, Templo Major, and Teotihuacan. The enormous pyramids of Teotihuacan are an incredible sight. To walk down the ancient streets is to experience, in part, the grandeur of a society which flourished even before the Mexica (Aztecs). The site museum has excellent artifacts, and they are constantly revealing new buildings. Plaza Major, to the side of the cathedral, is the original center of the Mexica empire, from which pyramids the stones were taken to build the cathedral and plaza. You can literally look through layers of pyramids and see how the culture slowly grew and expanded in magnificence. The museum of Anthropology contains artifacts from the earliest settlers of the country all the way to the conquista. It’s breadth is overwhelming, as it covers every native group to have occupied the territory over the last 10,000 years, and therefore requires at least 2 days. The Dolores Olmedo museum is a treasure of Rivera’s and Kahlo’s smaller works, as well as a plethora of ancient artifacts. The grounds alone are worth a visit as they are beautifully groomed, and teeming with peacocks, geese, ducks, birds, hairless Mexican dogs… and other free roaming animals. The Frida Kahlo museum speaks for itself, and sometimes has special exhibitions of the family’s personal effects which give some insight into this spirited and revolutionary woman. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...3-1024x683.jpg There was little else I could do besides go to museums as the city is quite expensive (for me). The wide range of fine food was as out of my range as it is for the average Mexican family. Luckily the markets serve delicious meals, and fresh squeezed juices, for around a dollar. The one thing I did splurge on – I could not help myself – was a concert at Bellas Artes – a theater worthy of its position in the capital of New Spain. I knew that it would be a very long time before I heard classical music again, so I had to go – another excellent decision! http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...5-1024x683.jpg For a person so rooted in European culture, big cities are a very real need. Most smaller towns in Central America do not have ballet or opera or art exhibitions or jazz. No matter how much I rather stay in the mountains, I’m inevitably drawn back to cities. I was also curious about one of the biggest Jewish communities in Latin America and decided to make my annual, random, trip to a synagogue. In a rare moment, I was unwelcomed somewhere, and of all places it was a synagogue. You can find the detail here. I normally do not stay anywhere for too long, but in this case it was fate that I should. Jorge’s aunt was fighting breast cancer, and because I have experience with my mother’s two year battle, I readily offered to help. We spent most of a few days running from store to store looking for all the things she would need to follow the diet that in part cured my mother, and in part allowed her to withstand 2 years of chemo! I translated the diet into English, set her up with the food, and brought her a great book on how to help the fight with your mind (as most cancer is stress related). The whole family got together in the valiant effort to save her. This was all around Christmas – a perfect time to have everyone together, to feel the positive energy from those who care most about you. (For more information on how my mother beat her stage 4, spread throughout her breast, lungs, bones and lungs, cancer, please email me directly) Christmas in Mexico City was a beautiful, if a little strange, time. The family kept most of the traditions, like the procession, call and response prayer of Mary asking to come into the home, the piñata, the traditional dishes like Bacalao, and of course singing and dancing. What gave it a kick was Jorge’s uncle, a chef who likes to make an occasional foray into producing gay porn films, who decided to stuff the piñata with little penis straws, condoms, lube, a ball-gag… you know, the traditional Christmas piñata stuffing. But the whole family had a blast – surely it was not his first time doing that. His greatest contribution was his artisanal Mezcal. Made from agave that can only grow wild on mountain slopes (all efforts to cultivate it have failed), it was the earthiest, most delicious Mezcal I have ever tasted – and I spent 3 weeks in Oaxaca (where Mezcal comes from) proving it. It was another night which lasted well into the morning, and was full of deliciousness of many kinds. I was truly beginning to feel that I had found another brother in Jorge. But, inevitably, I was torn away with my need to continue. It is always hard to leave good people, but every once in a while it feels like a tearing apart. I’ve been fortunate enough to have made friends for life on my journey, and unfortunate enough to have had to leave every single one. I only pray the road, or the world, will bring us together again. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...0-1024x683.jpg |
Hello friends.
My mom just passed away. I'm flying back to Minnesota from Venezuela tomorrow, so the book, the journey... all is put on hold for now. I will get back to updating, as I am still only in Mexico according to the RR, as soon as I find reason to live again. Thanks for following me so far... Alexander |
Sorry to hear about your mom. May memories of her help you find peace
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so sorry to hear that. My thoughts are with you and family at this sad time.
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Im sorry about your loss!Is very sad!
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The Return
Greetings Friends and Riders!
The world is slowly returning to order after my mom's passing, and I am ready to post again, if not get back on the road. It will be a few months yet before i feel the leather of Georgia vibrating beneath me, but I will continue my ride report from the great state of Minnesota in the great north of the USA. ... and now that the snow has melted here I am so badly itching to ride - but Georgia is in Venezuela :( Maybe I will even get to meet some of you scalawags while i'm here! Stay tuned... |
Condolences for you, glad you are back! If your flight back to Venezuela takes a stop at Tulsa International, let me know ahead of time, I'll treat you to a nice meal for the appropriate time of day and a coffee or beer if I am in town!
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Malinalco Mexico
Malinalco, Mexico: A Homecoming for the Soul
Malinalco is a magical place tucked in a small valley just south of Mexico City. Back when Mexico was the land of the Mexica (Aztecs), warriors came to this place to cleanse and prepare for battle. The ruins of their council chambers still stand, and fortunately it is still possible to find an authentic Temazcal here. I’m fortunate enough to know a shaman here. This man has spent his life in the study of his ancestors and the pursuit of life as seen honorable and worthy by native custom. His home, the cabins surrounding it, the caves running along the middle of a side of the mountain (which he owns) at the back of his property, were all build and made livable by his own hands. He is full of the kind of wisdom only people who have lived close to, and alongside, the earth possess. His authenticity did not have to be sold, he is a shaman not because he calls himself one, rather because others grant him the title. I came here for some release from the tumultuousness which is Mexico City, and in the hopes of participating in a real Temazcal ceremony. A Temazcal is a native sauna of sorts: it should be cave like, with a carved out floor, so that you walk down slightly from ground level, and a clay roof; in the middle there should be a deep pit for the stones; the door should be made of hide. The ceiling should have flours and herbs appropriate to the ceremony. Like a sauna, a Temazcal is used for purification, and stones heated by wood are the source of heat, however, this is where the similarities end. The Temazcal last around Six hours, with no food or drink or rest; there is no relief from the heat; songs, chants and stories are used to drive the mind, the heat to test the body and will. The purpose is not to clean oneself, relax and open pores, the purpose is to cleanse and purify, to struggle and become stronger for it – to confirm your worth as a warrior. But I’m not a warrior, you might say, and I would disagree. Every one of us is a warrior, though our battles may not always be physical, nor may they always be external, but we must fight for what we hold sacred and true and real, and to succeed we must be the best we can possibly be. A Temazcal is therefore as relevant today as it was 600 years ago. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...7-1024x683.jpg I was Malinalco for a few days when I realized that I may not get to experience this – I caould not afford to do it alone, and there was no one else showing up. I was about to pack it in and head dejectedly to Puebla, when the shaman invited me to the market for some food. I hesitated knowing how long it would take, but agreed to go. Our food was barely in front of us when he received a phone call from a group of 9 people wanting to do the ceremony. Fate, it seems, stepped in to make sure I left a little wiser for my time in Malinalco. My time in waiting had not been for naught. While waiting for the people to show up that weekend, I put in a few hours work as a stonemason of sorts. A worker of his and I were chipping away the floor of a cave that the shaman was expanding in order to possibly have people stay there. I duly earned a blister, and it in turn duly popped. This does not look well for working the next day, but I will give it a go. This adds a whole other level of shit I have done for food and roof. Then I swept the ceremonial area, and carried buckets of stones away from the work site, just to make sure I have done a little of everything. All the while the shaman was training his eagle. It looked very much like training a dog, except it was a freaking eagle. The danger here was not her pooping on the floor, rather the possibility that she would not return, or, you know, mistake your eye for a tasty snack. Waiting for the day of the ceremony afforded me more time with the shaman, and more opportunities to listen to him. I’m not sure how to share what he said contextually, so I will instead share two things he said which can be applied to anyone: “Whatever life you lead, as a Christian, a Jew, a Mexican, a Philosopher, and Idiot… whatever it is, live it intensely”. “You can go around the world, but when you are done take a look at your feet. The feet will be the same, you will be the same – the ground may change but your feet do not” “Those who leave, eventually return, though it may not be to the place they are from in this lifetime” By the time the day of the Temazcal I was a bit worse for wear from the manual labor – but no less happy, or excited. I still cannot put into words what is it that’s magical about Malinalco, but I have written more poems in the last few days than I have in the last year. So much had awakened inside of me, so much has come into doubt… I was no more sure of where I was going, or why, but I was somehow more content in the unknowing. The Temazcal and poems coming next... http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...1-683x1024.jpg |
Temazcal Ceremony
Temazcal Ceremony
The ceremony of warrior purification before battle – to withstand the heat one must first become stronger than himself, his force of will must become stronger if he hopes to conquer his foe. An herbal soup is prepared for splashing the rocks. Flowers are stuck into the roof of the Temazcal. Large logs are stacked in the giant fire pit outside. Each log is placed with purpose – the fore-knowledge that it will serve to heat the rocks which will cleanse us. Then the volcanic rocks are placed in a giant pile on top of the timber. Again, each stone is placed purposefully. Then logs are placed vertically on the outside of the rock pile, and finally small, fragrant, pieces of wood are used to light it all. Herbs are sprinkled atop of the flames. The shaman begins to explain the importance of the ceremony, how we seek to be connected with the four directions: earth, wind, fire and water, and their meeting in the center. He leads us in song and breathing and dance. We sing of the Mexica gods, of our warrior selves, of the eagles, and earth of which we ask to be a part. We offer cacao to the fire as we present our names and our purpose. Then we sing again – sometimes in Spanish, and at times in Nahuatl. We stretch and flex. The shaman brings us in contact with the warriors and Mexica beliefs of a time long past, but which are still alive in the blood of many Mexicans. He tells us of the Mexica alignment of the universe – their belief of the structure of nature and our part in it. As all natives he is in touch with the earth – he gathers his strength and sense of being from it, and shows us how we can possibly do the same. His eagle sits perched on his shoulder and flaps wildly at the crescendo of the songs. We are now dripping in sweat before the great fire. It is hard to tell how long it has been since we commenced. For the entire 6 hour ceremony it is hard to tell at what point we find ourselves. But finally we remove everything but our underwear, or bathing suit. The shaman blows smoke over us as we enter the Temazcal. I enter first and circle all the way around until I reach the last spot to the left of the door. 9 more people follow. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...8-1024x683.jpg When we are all inside, the shaman calls for his assistant, the man of fire, to bring him the deer horns for lifting the stones and placing them into the center pit. Then he calls for the stones which are brought in one by one. We welcome each stone. Then water is brought in, as well as herbs and a tambourine. At first only the herbs are sprinkled and the cave is filled with their aroma. Then the first bowls of water hit the glowing rocks and aroma is magnified by the vapor that now carries it and fills the Temazcal. It is hard to recall everything the shaman said, particularly as it was said in Spanish, with some Nahuatl thrown in every now and then. Though I understood most of what he said, particularly the sentiment and the ideas, it is hard to translate. His stories and explanations were along the lines that I have heard from, and read of, the natives of North America. He describes the universe and he beckons us to identify with the warrior, the eagle, the jaguar, the earth… he explains the soul and heart and mind. The path of seeking of truth and the search for strength – all of which begin and end within ourselves. We sing more songs. We breathe deeply of the scented vapors now bringing forth more sweat. And thus we continue for an indeterminate amount of time. At some point the shaman calls to his man of fire and more rocks are brought in. The first round had only three, the second was closer to six rocks, on the third the pit was filled with about 8 more rocks, and on the final go another six – one of which the shaman tossed into the pit with his bare hands. With every bringing forth of rocks the Temazcal grows ever hotter. The only relief comes from bringing your face close to the earth where it is slightly cooler. Sometimes there is a splash of cold water that the shaman throws from his bucket, but these are rare and do little. Then, between rounds when the door flap is opened to bring in more rocks, there are moments when a cold mountain breeze fills the cave – but that ends all too quickly as well. Of the eleven of us sitting together we almost lost three, but the shaman managed to keep them inside. The heat becomes unbearable, the time in the heat becomes mind numbing. But we did not leave. One woman’s head and spine began to hurt to the point where she began to weep. Another could not stand the heat of the vapor and tried to leave, but the shamans command and my hand on her leg for reassurance kept her inside for the whole rest of the 3 or 4 hours of the ceremony. Another girl was having trouble breathing and so the shaman gave her a conch shell through which to breathe. More songs of call and response, more invocations of our inner spirits and warrior selves; more breathing with purpose, controlled intake, controlled release. But it is getting hard to sing, hard to call out, hard to breathe as the heat grows ever more fierce. I have been to many a banya (sauna), which is hotter than a Temazcal, but we never stay so long inside without the relief of the cold plunge pool, some water, some tea, a beer and salted fish. We were inside the Temazcal for 3-4 hours. 3-4 hours of the temperature slowly growing and the steam weighing heavy on our hearts. You feel as though you want to throw up, as though you will pass out or have a heart attack. It is unbearable – except that, as you later find out, it is bearable. Somehow your inner warrior is stronger than the heat and steam. So close to failing, so close to giving up, so close to deeming something unbearable, and then, as every human being is capable, you overcome your fear of a bursting heart, of vomit on the dirt floor, of the embarrassment, and you achieve what you thought was impossible. It is a moment when you truly become one with the warriors of the past. And I do not refer to a past that is so long forgotten. For western folk who have become accustomed to the safety and comfort of the west – something they take for granted – they need not look past their grand-parents. The heights to which a human being can fly, what he makes possible and attainable, what impossible hell he makes survivable, can only be seen when we are faced with what we thought was impossible. And by our will, and perhaps the hand of a friend, we find that we truly are incredible. By the third round of glowing volcanic stones, I find myself flat on the dirt floor trying to calm my heart. Breathing has never been my strong suit – particularly in severe heat or cold or during anaerobic activity. But I say nothing. I shift to here or there, I try to find what will calm my heart and cool my throat. There is nothing I want more than to escape the heat and dunk myself in a freezing pool of water or some snow. I cannot clear my mind for the heat is all I am able to think about. I stopped singing with the weakening voices of the others, I no longer respond to the proclamations. I cannot emit a sustained hum from a deep breath let slowly out. I can do nothing but lay and pray that I do not vomit, that I do not burst through that door before the end of the ceremony. And then, after I think I can take no more, the shaman starts another song and the end is no more near. As I imagine that death is forthcoming, that my heart will surely burst, he sprinkles some herbs on the stones, then some more water to raise the heat, and continues. The candles which were present for the first two rounds are gone and we are in complete darkness. As the glow from the stones disappears beneath the constant splashing of water, we are left with not even a point of dim light on which to focus. Our pain and agony is our own, as we see nothing, as nothing exists but ourselves in that moment. At some magic moment the door flaps are opened and the cold slowly begins to enter our little cave. Succor is found in what we usually try to avoid for fear of catching a cold. But that breeze is all we want to feel. And now we have had three rounds of stones and we sit and talk with the flap open and the wind rolling in. But three is not a Mexica number. Four is the number of directions, so four is the number of rounds of stones that we shall receive. And so the fire man brings in more stones. The shaman stacks them on top of the old and they are now sticking out beyond the top level of the pit. The door flap closes again and the relief which seemed so close – the end which I could taste, disappears and the Temazcal is again filled with the sweet smell of herbs and a burning vaporous heat. Again we sing. Again we chant. Again we proclaim. Again the throat seizes and the heart threatens to burst. Again and again the end does not come. Again and again we pray for him to splash some of the cold water from the bucket on our faces. But instead he douses and douses the stones, emptying two whole buckets on them. Though a candle is present in the Temazcal again, the steam covers the space completely and we see nothing but the sparks in our eyes when sweat breaks the barriers of our eyelids. And as we reach again the point where we think we can take no more, the shaman starts another chant. At some magical moment he called for the door flap to be lifted and invited us outside and to a pool of water at the foot of the cliff which backs his property (in the middle of which there is a string of caves in which he likes to spend some days and nights). The water is as freezing as it ought to be at an altitude of more than 6,000ft, in the winter. We enter the pool and dunk over and over again. Just as before there is no hurry, every moment has a purpose, as does every action and stage of the ceremony, and nothing can be rushed. The extreme heat is replaced by extreme cold, and as before the heart pounds from the shock. But we dunk and splash and breathe. Six hours after the lighting of the fire, we depart from the pool, dry ourselves off and bury our faces in cups of herbal tea, with a generous helping of honey. After we are dry and dressed we are called again the great fire pit. The shaman closes the ceremony by spreading the giant pile of ashes and embers, which makes the pit look like a constellation of sparkling stars. He mixes the ashes as he prays and chants. The piles take on different shapes, the heat glows fierce from the embers of giant logs. He walks around our circle shaking our hands and embracing us. I cannot believe it but we are all sitting around a table with steaming bowls of soup, hot hand-made tortillas, homemade cheese, avocadoes, more tea and honey… it is over. We sit in joyful conversations. A German couple to my left, a Colombian to my right, and Mexicans filling the rest of the table, with the Shaman at the head. We have been through something together. We were strangers before, and we remain strangers now. But we have become linked through the earth that encapsulated us, the fire that cleansed us, the fear and pain which we overcame together, and that brief glimpse of our inner selves which so few get to see. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...4-1024x577.jpg |
Poems from Malinalco
Though I rarely post poems on here, Malinalco, and the Temazcal ceremony, were so inspiring, I wrote 3 poems while there. I hope you will forgive my sharing them with you here...
Malinalco Where ancient warriors come to cleanse Beneath the stars and trees and sands. In burning caves to show the doors, With vapor’s keys to unlock souls. The songs are ever present here, Of all the lives who’ve come and went. To blow away the dirt and fear They came to mountains by nature’s scent. And then away by foolish roads – Of trust and dreams of great white hoards, They fluttered into shadows resting, And live there now, forever nesting. What light, of moon or sun does shine, Upon the soil where heads are lain, Is all the same as yours and mine, But we seek shadows all in vain. The truth of dust and ashes hidden, By fertile canopies it’s smitten. What justice let it disappear, Is now the same which will not let us near. In the shadow of the mountain I now seek that ancient howl, Of the warriors long forgotten, I’m here to ask, and be rid of my own foul. |
The Less Glorious Realities of Motorcycle Travel
The Less Glorious Realities of MCY Travel
So as I work on the Veracruz part of my journey, I thought I would take a moment to review some of the realities of living on a motorcycle which may deflate the image you may have that all is fun and games :) What people think: “This is so amazing, I wish I could drop everything and travel the world, you are so lucky, I am soo jealous. I wish I could be as free as you.” “You are so brave to do this. You are doing what millions wish they could do.” ”You get to see incredible places, and meet all kinds of different people, and you don’t have to lead a mundane life and go to a stupid job you hate. “ “You are doing this on a motorcycle? That is so cool!…” Though I am lucky and I do get to experience and see and eat what others never will, there is a whole other side to my reality which people do not realize, and which, I am guessing, would make them slightly less jealous of me… What it actually is: My face is burned from the sun and in constant pain from rocks and bugs of various sizes and densities hitting it at 70mph. My hands vibrate for hours after dismounting from my single cylinder’s attempt to satiate my desire for ever greater velocity around mountain bends. I am either hot and sweaty or freezing cold most of the time; rare is the day when I comfortably ride in the clothes I have on. And once wet and cold only a hot shower can restore my body – and that is not always so easy to find. I am never relaxed as absolutely everything, from rocks, sand, weather, the road, cars and trucks to stray dogs, birds, and other wild animals… and even the very tires that are supposed to keep me upright, is constantly threatening my life. Every border crossing or checkpoint leaves me a little breathless and wondering how much money it will take for me to continue (though thankfully so far I have only had to pay 2 bribes). My lips are burned and chapped and I’m in a general state of dehydration because often there is just not a good place to pull over and drink. My head hurts from the constant squeezing of a helmet. My back, neck and shoulders are in constant pain from not being able to move to a comfortable sitting position, again, for hours on end. My eyes are dry from the wind finding its way around glasses and goggles, no matter how tightly they are wrapped around my head. I have hemorrhoids the size of fists from sitting for endless hours on a hard, viciously vibrating leather seat. I go for days without showering or changing shirt and underwear – the resulting funk is enough to distract me from the keeping my bike on two wheels. I sleep in questionable places, under questionable conditions – usually uncomfortably, which results in few hours of sleep per night and a perpetual state of exhaustion, magnified by the after-effects of a constant rush of adrenaline from being on a motorcycle. There is rarely a ready reprieve from the dirt, wind, rain, mud, salt, loneliness, danger or discomfort. It comes and goes, but almost never when I need it most. The water and food are always changing, never giving my stomach a rest or time to catch up and get used to the place’s particular family of bacteria and parasites. The effects need not be mentioned. But lets mention them anyway: in three months (out of 2.5 years now) I took more antibiotics than in the last 16 years. I’ve had throat, lung and stomach infections, which have left me writhing in pain for days. Best of all: I’ve had dengue. Though I am alive today, there were a few days where I was not so sure… I got tendinitis in my hand which forced me to get an injection of anti-inflammatory meds. The pain is not something I can accurately describe – but I did consider chopping off my hand just to stop it. As a writer I am beset by the constant flux of incredible events from which I must separate myself in order to write about them – hence the paradox. The bike is such an incredible drain on my resources I may as well have stayed in New York with a girlfriend. There is a loneliness which is omnipresent – no matter with how many people I find myself, nor how wonderful they may be, all relationships on the road are ephemeral, and hence are dissatisfying to some degree from beginning to end. Then again… These are just a few of the difficulties I face, almost on a daily basis. After 10 years and 100,000 miles you get used to a lot of it; the hard part is not having a break from it. But in the end it is this shared struggle with other bikers from around the world which brings so much meaning, and so much joy, to every wave we share as we pass each other on the long road. It is this struggle which binds us as an international, inclusive community of incredibly diverse people. And of course what I see in months, 99% of people won’t see in 9 lifetimes. And the people I meet are so wonderful that my faith in humanity is renewed on a daily basis. So I say it’s worth it, but then again I’m a little insane. |
U must have crossed India too. Incase here be my guest. Am in Gujarat State nx to Mumbai. I shall be very happy to host you.
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Back to the Pen
Greetings fellow steppenwolves!
I apologize for the false start a few months ago, I guess I was not quite ready to face the world at that point. But now, 6 months after her passing, and with the house up for sale, I am left only with time to write as I await the sale and my return to the steed (waiting patiently in Venezuela). The last few months have seen much, but a highlight I will share is that two bikers, Jayne and Phil, whom I met while riding in Mexico, and who have become good friends, completed their own tour of the Americas, returned to Alberta, and then drove all the way to Minneapolis to help me with fixing up the house. What a community we have! They too are on Horizons and I hope you will check out their thread. I will begin posting again tomorrow, I hope you will rejoin me on my journey, and that you have had some of your own! Kindly, Alexander |
Up to my Eyeballs in Churches
Puebla, Mexico
Mexico City would not let me go without a fight: yesterday I was punished by the Mexican food gods. After joking that Mexicans put lime and chile on everything, I proceeded to squirt lime in my eye… later that night I blew up some powdered chile into the same eye. My eye became a Mexican dish – a burning, burning Mexican dish. On my way south toward Puebla the mighty Google Maps left me in the soup. All I wanted to do was see Popocatepetl, which I did, from gorgeous angles, but afterwards Google simply could not find its way towards any major road, let alone a highway. It skirted me along the mountain range, on horrible mountain roads, for hours! Every time it wanted me to take a turn, there was either no road, or a road which put me in the wrong direction and google told me to make a U-turn right away. Even when I got out of the mountains, as the sun was setting, and was in a fairly big pueblo, it still kept putting me on the wrong road to Puebla. In the end I ended up driving, again, for about 40 minutes this time, in the dark. I did not like it the first time in Michoacán, and I certainly did not like it now. The bad roads and speed bumps, the oncoming lights, the animals… just a horrible experience – every moment of it. Because the shop I went to in Mexico City, to install my new shocks and tires, left a number of small, but significant, details unattended, which put my riding in jeopardy, my first stop in Puebla was at another shop. I met a wonderful mechanic, Carlos, the recommendation of Alex Chacon. From the very first words out of his mouth I could tell he was a real mechanic and a decent human being (a sadly rare combination). Carlos fixed it all up quickly and we spent the rest of the day just talking. And then when it was time for me to go he did not charge me a peso. Yet another instance of kindness which takes me from the depths of doubt and into the strata of gratitude. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...9/DSC_0027.jpg I spent the next few days discovering Puebla and some surrounding villages with Ivan and Boris. No, they were not Russian, rather the sons of old time commies who longed for the days of Frida Kahlo and Trotsky hiding out in Mexico. We played chess, appropriately, ate fried grasshoppers, drank sour traditional libations, and walked for endless hours. Puebla, or at least the center, is very lovely – if you like colonial architecture. The fact that the native residents sided with Cortez against the Mexica, not only saved them from murder and destruction, it also put them in the good graces of the Catholics who built more than 70 churches here. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...9/DSC_0035.jpg] The iron work, the ceramic tiles of the building facades, the intricate plaster work… all very colonial and pretty, but all scream of the Catholic rape of the Americas. I really can’t stand it. They replaced ancient wisdom and a relationship with the earth which is the foundation of balance and harmony, with a dogma of fear, and a healthy dose of persecution, extortion and abuse. I see the people in the churches kneeling and crossing themselves – because it is ingrained in them, because they do not know another way, because the education is shit and will not release them from the bounds of the papacy. But how can they still be so blind, after all these years, how can they not see the egregious fallacies and abuses of the church? How can they give to a church which clothes its priests in silk and puts rich foods on their tables, while the people wear threads and eat the simplest foods? How can they, after the fear of death had been lifted, and knowing how the Catholics destroyed their culture and civilization, continue to “believe” and abide? A note on the churches themselves: I don’t care how catholic this country is, there is no comparing the cathedrals of Italy, France or Russia to these. Some here even have curlicues and rosettes painted on the ceiling for lack of actual stone or plaster work! It is despicable! Yet another way to rob the people of their donations. Though my hosts were further examples on how wonderful Mexicans are, Veracruz and the promise of Carnaval would not let me linger. I packed poor Georgia until the new shocks groaned under the weight of camping gear, enough spare parts (including tires) to build a new motorcycle, and my fat taco stuffed ass, and headed for the mountains of Veracruz. |
Heartbreak in Orizaba
Orizaba, Mexico
I know most of my stories are not about actual riding, but that is because I stay for so long in a given place, and therefore have a lot to tell you about the people, the culture, and the fascinating things I encounter while uncharacteristically stationary. But, after the Carnaval story there will be lots of riding again! Heartbreak in Orizaba The night I arrived in Orizaba, my host Miguel, his girlfriend’s family, and I, went out to eat. Afterwards the women went shopping and Miguel and I went for a walk. I saw a mass for the first time since arriving in Mexico 4 months ago. We observed the observant and spoke of architecture, the arts, and the beauty of the surrounding valley. As we were walking back to meet the ladies, we saw a girl on the street making toy grasshoppers and lizards from long green leaves. The little animals were very nicely and skillfully made. The girl, who looked to be about 10 years old, was sitting in a corner of a shuttered store front, cutting the leaves to make the next toy. I could not tear my eyes away. She worked with precision and confidence, and if someone from the gathering crowd asked a question she would answer with the surety of a proprietor of a handicraft store. I realized almost immediately that she was an exploited child. Most kids in the street work with their parents, she was alone. Whether sold into slavery by her parents, or kidnapped from them, or taken from a group home, or drugged on the street – I don’t know. But it was all I could do to hold back the tears. Unlike drugged children carried around by their “mothers” to solicit help as if they were sick, this girl was… like Oliver Twist, except creating as opposed to stealing. I wanted to grab her and run; ask one of my rich friends in Mexico City to take her in, give her a home, schooling, a future… happiness. I wanted to do it and be confronted by the man who was exploiting her so I could run my Gurkha across his throat. The sad reality, however, is that it is harder to help these children than to prosecute the exploiters. The mob pays off the police so they do not bother their “pimps”. And that’s it – that is where it ends. But if I wanted to help her, there is an almost impossible process of adoption. And if she is discovered in the care of a citizen trying to help, before the papers are done, she is taken away and placed into unknown circumstances, and the person trying to help is heavily fined and possibly arrested. I have never felt so impotent and angry. There was in fact nothing, especially because I don’t live here, that I could do. Damn it! Poverty is one thing. A person in poverty can still have friends and family – the most important things in life, but slavery is something else entirely. What were her days like? What kind of food could she eat? Did she have books, some sort of education, friends to play with, at least some knowledge of her parents…? Was she destined to become yet another child prostitute in Veracruz? Was the unthinkable already being done to her tiny, malnourished body? The image of her burned into my mind. The next day, though I was set to climb Pico de Orizaba, I walked around town looking for her. I didn’t know what I would do, but I desperately wanted to find her. Of course I could not, who knows where she was stashed during the daylight hours. I left to climb the peak overwhelmingly despondent for my inaction and impotence. And even the crisp and rejuvenating air of the mountains failed to rid me of thoughts of this girl - thoughts I still carry to this day. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...9341791511.jpg |
Veracruz - Endless Fiesta
Endless Fiesta
Veracruz – Tlacotalpan, Veracruz, Mexico What a first night! 6 hours of music, dancing, and falling in love. At first, my host Ezri, Manu and I walked around the center of Veracruz, then focused in on a courtyard with a stage in the middle. It felt like Cuba, or how I like to think Cuba will feel. The salsa was very Cuban inspired – high energy and very Caribbean. After wearing ourselves out dancing, we ended up at a rock bar. When we were passing by, at first, I thought it was a CD playing, but it turned out they were actually THAT good! Metallica, Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, Doors, System of a Down… some Mexican rock bands – it was all incredible. We stayed there for 4 hours easily. I haven’t head banged so hard in a very long time. I found 3 ballerinas at the bar. One of them reminded me a lot of a girl I knew 14 years ago, whose name I cannot remember - tiny, beautiful, delicious. All three were cute, very cool and very fun. There was none of that bullshit normally associated with good looking girls, particularly ballerinas. We laughed and talked, though it was hard considering how loud it was and how crappy my Spanish still was at that point. That smile, that tiny, perfectly shaped body, the hair, the eyes… I was smitten. I just need to be sure to keep myself calm. I don’t live here, I have a lot of traveling to do even around Veracruz, she is busy with dance and work... but how I want to see her again, to kiss her... Diana. Ezri and Manu (two incredibly cool people) finally dragged me home toward sunrise. We spent the rest of the night sharing stories. Manu, who is a musician and a clown who travels around Mexico when not in school and earns his keep by performing on the streets, had plenty to tell. Ezri, a chemical engineer, engulfed us in such a glow of warmth and acceptance, it felt like we had been friends for years. A few days later I went up to the northern part of Veracruz, around Xalapa, to discover the first of 3 major coffee growing regions of Mexico. In Coatepec I finally found a place in Mexico with some semblance of coffee culture, though still almost entirely lacking in taste. They grow fine beans, and even roast them well, but fail to make a decent cup. Like the incredible art I mentioned before, marred by a lack of curation (museology), the coffee here is only limited at the point of presentation. There is an exception, El Café de Avelino, in Coatepec; so far he is the only exception, but even he falls somewhat short of what I make at home. But it is undeniable that he loves coffee – he crushes the shells with his hands and smells deeply of the beans. He roasts in small batches to taste and examines the coffee to understand its flavor and character before he makes larger batches to sell. He is a true lover and poet of coffee. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...3-1024x683.jpg I’m sleeping in a bed, a real bed! Even though it is only for a couple of nights, I am relishing every moment! It has been a very long time since I have felt a mattress beneath my increasingly sore back. On my way to Tlacotalpan from Xalapa I was confronted with a scene I am still struggling to understand: paramedics collecting money, like beggars, from cars on the road because they lack the funding to fix ambulances and buy supplies. Oh Mexico! Is there no limit to your corruption? Tlacotalpan is the home of the Fiesta de la Virgen de la Candelaria in Mexico – one of many excuses for people to get together, drink prodigious amounts of alcohol, and play incredible music. . Because we are in Veracruz, the predominant form of music is Son Jarocho. With fandango dancing, and dozens of guitarists playing simultaneously in the street, in bars, and on stages around the little town, there is a constant rhythm permeating the air. The music has a very particular dance associated with it. It is not like a salsa or any other ballroom dance, rather it is folky, with hard shoes and a box to give the stomping sound greater volume and allow it to become a part of the music. In fact, there is no Son Jarocho without the dance. Ezri, along with Ida (yet another guest staying with her), met me at the festival. As per Ezri’s modus operandi, Ida turned out to be a wonderful person with whom we got along as if coming to this festival was a tradition of ours. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...1-1024x768.jpg After 2 days of endless music and dancing, a bonus of hearing Ricardo Delgadillo live, and having all of my things and person drenched by the unceasing rain, I decided to head back to Verazcruz in preparation for Carnaval. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...6-1024x768.jpg I have now been in Mexico for 4 months – more than half of those days involved music of one kind or another. I have been to more concerts in the last 4 months than in the 3 prior years. It feels so wonderful to have so much music in my life. Carnaval http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...2-1024x683.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...w-768x1024.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...4-1024x768.jpg In the days preceding Carnaval, instead of resting in preparation for the insanity, I spent the daylight hours wandering in markets and the nights dancing salsa. And then all of a sudden it was upon us. The streets instantly swelled with people, and the smell of beer and sweat permeated the air. What I thought was a lively and colorful city before, managed to become even more so. People from all over Mexico, and the world, began pouring in. Music blasted from every corner, costumes began appearing, and church bells rang ceremoniously all through the day and night. The very first paseo (procession) felt like it would suffice to celebrate the beginning of Lent, but it was only a taste of the wilds to come. The costumes! The pulsating rhythms of hundreds of drums, the brass crashing of horns… feathers and beads and paint and glittering sweat. Many of us could not be contained in the stands and we made our way down, over the railing and into the moving midst of frenzy. We played and danced and sang, we made love with our eyes, and demonstrated our prowess with our hips. I can’t count the amount of beautiful women with whom I danced, and with whom I could have easily continued the night – their hunger and lust unmasked in this masquerade. Their luscious, jet black hair, full, moist lips, curves that artists dream of painting, and shiny caramel skin… and then as suddenly as it began, I found myself with my two friends squeezed onto the back of my steed, riding home in the cool of the morning. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...2-1024x768.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...0-1024x768.jpg At the end it was the company of Ida and Ezri that I preferred. Though we had known each other for about a week, it felt as though we had long since been friends. We laughed, and cooked, and danced, and always had the most wonderful time together. So much so, that when I was getting ready to leave the heat of Veracruz for the cool of the mountains in Oaxaca, I surprised myself by asking Ida to join me. I had been alone for so long, and I was finally used to it – I finally understood myself and what it was like to be alone, but there was something that drew me to her Latin soul encapsulated in the antithesis of a Latina body – white skin like marble, hair the color of a sunflower, and the eyes of a Finnish, cloudless summer sky. I could not take her (yet) on Georgia as she was fully packed, but we agreed to meet in the first city in Oaxaca – her going by bus, and I on my trusty KLR. What followed was a month of pleasant comradery with her and two other bikers that joined us, debilitating infections, idyllic virgin beaches, breathtaking landscapes and endless days of off-roading. |
Sponsors
Greetings friends!
As I sit writing about the amazing riding of Oaxaca, Mexico, I want to take a moment to give a shoutout to some new sponsors who have seen it fit to help me along my crazy journey. For a complete list, please visit my sponsors page: http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/main/?page_id=136 The new members save my ass are: Heat Demon - who saw it fit that my hands don't freeze when I cross the Andes a few times in the coming months and gave me their adventure hand warmer kit http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m..._FINAL-med.jpg Trail Tech - who took pity on the fact that I have had 4 instrument panels now, all of which broke (I haven't known how fast I'm going, my revs, or the clicks now for a few countries!), and gave me a super electronic instrument panel. They also recognized that a KLR doesn't have a headlight that actually illuminates anything, so they also gave me a lighting kit!! Wow guys! http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...ltech-logo.png Reevu - A new, innovative helmet brand which has a unique mirror system which allows you to see what's behind you without having to turn your head. It takes time to get used to it, but wow! http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...reevu-logo.png I hope you guys take a moment to check out these wonderful companies! Between all the shops who have stood up to help me (unlisted, and there are many) and the all the companies I have listed on my sponsorship page, I have been able to save the little money I have to continue this journey of finding the common bonds we share between all cultures and people of our world. A special thank you to my first monetary sponsor whose generous contribution to the writing effort has given me almost enough to finish South America (still a few thousand short) - Ralph of Red Hook Lobster Pound Not only do they make the best lobster roll in New York and D.C, Ralph also builds custom choppers in his spare time, as well as (before the hurricane) gorgeous wood tables. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...nny-header.jpg |
I am Become Joy
http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...70-600x399.jpg
I am become Joy – at once alight in silver, emerald, and blue, on the gold and black artery through which I surf the evergreen swells. The hills, like giant waves that dip and rise, look ready to crash upon us, their cliff-like breaks forebode ominously with shadows of impending drowning in the vastness of green. |
Wow! Another Sponsor
Just wanted to take a moment and welcome the latest member to my sponsorship team - Yuasa Batteries!
http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...logo-small.jpg I told them about all the stuff I'm trying to add to the bike (electronic intrument panel, heated grips, 2 more lights, bike alarm - all sponsored!!) and they had a battery at my house 4 days later! For the complete list of my official sponsors please check out my sponsor page: [url=http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/main/?page_id=136]Sponsors |
Oaxaca - Contrasts
Oaxaca: Contrasts
This chapter of my journey involves Ida. It is incredible how, after knowing each other for only a week, we are very much like an old couple. We do everything together, we enjoy each other’s company and make each other laugh constantly, we ride through beautiful landscapes at sunset, swim in virgin rivers… but always as friends. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...7-1024x768.jpg Ida and I arrived in Tuxtepec, Oaxaca after months of anticipation. So far every Mexican I’ve met has proclaimed either Chiapas (my next state) or Oaxaca to be their favorite part of Mexico. Though we are still on the east side of the Sierra Norte which separates the steamy lowlands of Veracruz and Tobasco and the cooler elevations of the rest of Oaxaca, the people are already everything I heard they would be. The great divide between the rich and poor is more apparent here than any other state I have visited so far. Almost every single person I’ve met has either been, or has a family member who is, an illegal worker in the U.S. Oaxaca is a beautiful and diverse state, with good fertile soil and clean rivers. But it is mostly farm land of one type or another and therefore there are those who own the farms and factories, and those who work there – there is almost no middle class. There are many artisans but they generally subsist around the poverty line like most other Oaxaqueños. We are staying with Magdaleno and his family; but it feels like we are staying with the entire neighborhood. He introduces us to everyone, we have met almost 100 people in the last couple of days. From children to adults to family members… we have quickly become a part of their community. We spent hours playing with the kids last night – everything from futbol, basketball, tag, to general goofing around and roughhousing. I have spent every night playing with them so far. But the sweetest moments have been those lulls in craziness when we just sit and talk. Their laughter rings through the dense air and lifts me from my languor. Dripping with sweat and tired I still play and run around, I am filled with as much joy as they. It has been so long since I have been in a place where kids can run around freely without fear, where they can be kids as kids ought to be. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...8-1024x768.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...-1-708x800.jpg As is often the case with families from Oaxaca, Magdaleno’s father is in the U.S, as are a few cousins and uncles. Regardless of the money he sends home every month Magdaleno works and goes to school, his mother makes empanadas to sell on the side of the road, and Magda’s girlfriend comes during her lunch break at nursing school to help her future (hopefully) mother in law make and sell the empanadas. All of their hopes and dreams lie with the younger siblings for whom they are saving to build a future. For families who have not had generations cross the border in order to build some sort of financial base, the older siblings are generally left in a limbo between work and school. Most try as hard as they can to get as far as university, and hope that no disaster strikes forcing them to drop out and work full time. This constant state of the unknown allows them (if not forcibly) to live for today. This is reflected in everything they do and how they treat those around them. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...75-800x600.jpg As has been true from the very beginning, it is those with the least who are the most generous. Everyone we’ve met lives around the poverty line, and yet it takes a great effort for us to buy something. Basically we have to go out of our way, and sneak around, to buy anything. Otherwise the beer and food would flow unendingly for as long as we wanted. It matters not if it is all the money they have, they want us to feel welcome and to enjoy ourselves, and feel it is their responsibility to make sure that happens. On one of our day trips to the nearby river, we met a local who was driving along the shore in his buggy. Ida mentioned she was trying to find an old coconut (coconuts which have fallen to the ground and have not been touched for a few months –the meat mixes with the water to form a delicious cotton like substance). The friend ran off right away and came back in about 15 minutes with two old coconuts. Then we started talking about food, and they mentioned there is a cheese made in their village (Chiltepec), again the friend ran off and brought back a kilo of fresh cheese, a pack of handmade tortillas and a bottle of coke. Thankfully Ida managed to slip him some pesos before he left. Then the local drunk joined us for conversation and food. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...99-800x600.jpg The day before we had gone to the source of the river at Zuzul. The water was perfectly clear and clean, and of the perfect temperature and sweetness. We spent hours walking and swimming and breathing in the clean air which is such a rare find in Mexico. On the way back, near every single bridge, we saw women and daughters as young as 7 doing their laundry; and men, women and kids bathing. The river is everything, and sadly it is also a point of refuse. Fortunately, close to the source it is clean and pure, and a few thousand people cannot contaminate the flowing water very easily, but the further you go, and as the river bends around more and more farms and factories, it slowly becomes undrinkable, and even un-swimmable. Again and again I bear witness to a complete disregard for nature. This is the tropical, extremely hot and humid, part of Oaxaca. Sugar cane, bananas, pineapple, mango, and dozens of other tropical fruit grow here. The landscape is lush and diverse – with a mix of temperate and tropical trees, and everything in between. Tamarind and rubber trees, palms - what look like cherry blossoms, cloud forests, farms, grazing cows… metal and wooden shacks in danger of collapsing with every strong gust, hung with bright laundry flapping in the wind dot the rolling hills and climbing peaks. The contrast of gorgeous landscape and great poverty is very stark here. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...79-800x534.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...74-800x534.jpg With a burning desire to seek the cooler climes of Oaxaca’s elevated plateaus and valleys, Ida and I bid a sad farewell to the community which welcomed us so warmly. For her the next day would be a tranquil bus ride through twisty mountain roads which eventually end in the capital, for me those very roads would simultaneously spell awe, wonder and constant brushes with death. It seems Oaxaca is determined to embody and manifest the yin-yang everywhere and in everything. |
Oaxaca - Riding on the Edge
Part II of Oxaca, and the riding really starts!
Oaxaca: Riding on the Edge Finally in the great city at the foot of three valleys! This side of the Sierra Juarez is much cooler than the Veracruz side – thank god! We are surrounded by mountains and valleys. There has been a strong wind and a bit of rain, but the sky has made up for it with gorgeous sunsets and huge, beautiful clouds. The drive to Oaxaca, over the breathtaking Sierra Juarez, was long and very difficult. Of the 200 or so clicks from Tuxtepec to Oaxaca, almost 150 go through the mountains. Of those 150, 100 or so you ride in 1st or 2nd gear, the other 50 in 3rd. The east side of the mountains was covered in a heavy fog for a good portion of the ride. The hairpin switchbacks gave no quarter of shoulder, rail, speed indications, or reflective posts. A mind blowing mix of trees and vegetation of the cloud forest rose into the mist on the left, as the unprotected cliff dropped off on the right. I wish I could have stopped to gaze on what looked like to be a magic forest – something out of a fantasy book, but the turns were blind and any car, coming from either direction, would have run me over with no more than a second notice. This brings me to a continued observation from Veracruz, in which I noticed that cars in these two states pass in the oncoming lane with an air of propriety which forces those in their rightful lane to move over to the shoulder, if there is one. Basically, there is no right of way. With cars it’s one thing, but when semis do this, and they do this often, I fear the end of my days. When 2 walls of steel are coming at you, and the shoulder is but a dream, there is little you can do but pray. On relatively straight stretches of road, where there is warning, it’s one thing, when this happens in the mountains… At least 3 times I came around a corner to discover some 150,000 pound asshole trying to pass another semi - on curvy mountain roads!! I saw this in Baja as well, but it was never this close. In the last 4 months I have now had 15 close calls, in which a moment’s difference could have ended my life, or worse, put me in a wheel chair. New York was very dangerous, and I thought Mexico could never reach its heights, but it’s getting there. What’s worse is that I remember a great deal of the close calls I’ve had on my bikes over the last 10 years. It is scary how sometimes flashes from almost 100 instances of near death or possible paralysis come up from the subconscious. Every time I’ve had to stop and allow my heart to return to its rightful place in my chest is burned into my memory. For that matter, every freezing and/or soaked ride I can recall with incredible vividness as well. But, as is the case with most days on the road, the tribulations are often soon forgotten for the triumphs and joys which abound. After being introduced by a fellow Mexican biker a few months ago over Skype, I’ve finally met Jayne and Phil - a brother and sister making the trek from Alaska to Tierra del Fuego (Website: Ultimate Ride). We’ve been writing to each other and trying to cross paths for months now. Jayne and Phil are like friends of old. Our stories and conversations flow like the cascades of Angel Falls. It feels so good to have finally met up with them. I don’t know why there has been so much anticipation, but I think I see why now. They are wonderful, happy people, who share my passion for travel and the motorcycle. And burners to boot – an instant understanding of so many truths. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...27-800x600.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...29-800x600.jpg I’ve been alone for so long, but now, not only do I have Ida to share a little bit of my journey, but Phil and Jayne have also decided to throw in their lot for the next few weeks – we are a veritable caravan! We began at the world’s biggest tree, in Mitla. It is awesome to contemplate how a single tiny seed can produce a living organism which weighs over 400,000 tons and grows 31m tall and 14m wide! http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...86-534x800.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...4-1024x768.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...93-800x800.jpg Then to calm our awe we proceeded on a tour of the local Mezcal producers… with plenty of tasting. And just to be sure we are well rounded and not just Mezcal slugging philistines, we took a 2 hour scorching hike up Monte Alban in order to sneak into the UNESCO protected ruins found at the top. This center of the Zapotec empire is majestic and grand… and so very hot. As fascinating as it was to trace with our fingers the works of masters past, it was shade and ice cream which we truly sought, and got by way of hitchhiking back to the city. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...12-800x600.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...09-600x800.jpg There are many things for which I have my mother to thank, not the least of which is my gift of gab. So much of my journey, so much enjoyment and open doors, have all come as the result of my ability to talk to people and to get along with them. That I can approach complete strangers and start up conversations has put me in contact not only with interesting people, but also those who have helped me along the way. My ability to get along with almost anyone has ensured that my experience staying with other people has been fulfilling and informative, as people open up and I am able to learn from them about their lives, countries and cultures. It is a gift for which I shall be forever grateful. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...79-800x600.jpg After spending a few days on a dank mattress in a dirty house with a dirtier bathroom, Ida and I found our way (thanks to Jayne and Phil) to the immaculate home of a military helicopter pilot. He invited friends to meet the lunatic bikers, we made ceviche and passed the long night in song and laughter. The following day Jayne, Phil, Ida and I left for the mountains and the relaxation in hot springs, followed by the adventure of finding lodging and riding through random mountain dirt roads which brought us to places white people rarely get to see. |
Returning to the Road
Greetings Fellow Riders and Vagabonds!
For those in the U.S I hope you are voting! I just wanted to let you all know that I will be returning to the road on December 2nd. I finally finished working on my mom's old house, and somehow managed to sell it. All is left is to bring the books and pots to storage, pack my backpack and return to my sick Georgia in Venezuela. I hope you can understand the large lapses in time between posts as the last 9 months have been the most difficult of my life. It is no easier now, to be sure, but I pray the road will lend its healing powers forthwith. I've started posting weekly again, and am writing furiously so that I may continue to do so. Thank you all again for following my crazy adventure! I hope to meet more of you on the road soon! Alexander |
Oaxaca - Another World
Oaxaca: Another World
Jayne, Phil, Ida and I loaded up Cricket, Juggs and Georgia, and headed into the south-eastern mountains of Oaxaca. We sought to relax in the mineral springs of Hierve del Agua, but I secretly hoped for much more – and Mexico delivered as always. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...52-800x534.jpg About an hour on the highway brought us to a great gravel and sand twisty going into the mountains. We passed a small village with the requisite poverty and ramshackle housing which seems to be the signature of Oaxaca. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...16-800x534.jpg Hierve del Agua is not hugely impressive. Water bubbles up from the mountain and drains into a succession of pools, most tiny, but two large enough to swim in, one of the pools was not even particularly clean. However, the pools do overlook a valley, mountain ridges and a mineral cascade. It was relaxing and pleasant without needing to be stupendous or overwhelmingly impressive. After the excellent ride, we spent most of the day relaxing there. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...63-800x600.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...97-800x600.jpg While we lounged in the water I noticed a snaky path winding its way up the opposing ridge and into the beyond of the sierra. I was not sure to where it lead, but I was sure I wanted to ride it. It connected somewhere with the road that took us here, and then would bring us to the middle of nowhere in the mountains opposite of where we were taking in the waters. It screamed of adventure in the views it promised to provide and the unknown to which it promised to lead. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...34-800x600.jpg It was getting late and none of us had brought a tent or sleeping bags. For some reason we were not happy with the $8 per person rate of the cabins near springs, so we decided to head to the next village in the mountains to look for a place to stay. I knew there would be no motels at either of the villages, so we went with the hope of finding someone with a couple of extra beds. When we got to the outskirts of the little pueblo we began asking people, and everyone replied in the same way: go to the center and ask the authorities. Ask the authorities? All of a sudden we were in Europe during the dark ages. The authorities had to approve the wayward travelers before anyone could take them in, or be provided by the town with accommodations. It was odd, a bit inconvenient, but held promise of an interesting experience! We turned a lot of heads riding into that pueblo. It was not on any tourist map, and it was not really on the way to anything, unless you were a Mexican Maguey farmer. For those without TV it is possible we were the first white people they have seen. White people, and on huge motorcycles! I would give anything to know what they were thinking. When we got to the little town center, there was a gaggle of kids, as always. Their playfulness and shyness and curiosity raged a great battle as they ran off giggling, but inevitably returned time and time again. Ida and I chose to play with the kids while Phil and Jayne went to seek the great authority of the town. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...8-800x6001.jpg It was getting late - the sun was already scratching at the mountain peaks. The authorities were nowhere to be found and would not return for at least an hour and a half according to some helpful gentlemen we found around the town hall. Knowing Mexico, an hour and a half could easily mean sometime tomorrow. This is not a chance we could take. The guys did show us the likely room where we could be put up. It had nothing but a concrete floor, and possibly some light mattresses, but no blankets. We did not know how much, if anything would be charged, but we knew the night would be cold as we were in the mountains. It would be unlikely that the authorities would turn us down. But a night of bitter mountain cold was not something any of us were looking forward to. It was a nice idea for a little adventure, but when there was an affordable option which guaranteed warmth, we preferred to take that. At the end of the day we are not desperate. This is something I try to keep in mind: my homelessness and meagre living are a choice, as opposed to billions of people in poverty around the word. I am a relatively sane white man, and that means there is no way I could ever starve. There’s something so sad about the reality of that security. We bought some bread and headed back toward Hierve del Agua. Right before the entrance there was a small restaurant, so we decided to take the chance and ask whether they had any room for us. They said they did, and only wanted 150 pesos ($12) for the 4 of us and our steeds. I took one look at the place, which had room in the little courtyard for our bikes, and knew this is where we were meant to stay. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...15-800x600.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...44-800x600.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...48-800x600.jpg There was already a fire in the kitchen, and food in preparation. The land lady lent us some plates and knives to make our own guacamole, and put on a kettle of water to make tea from the yerba buena we brought from the market. We had not eaten in a long time so when the nopales and beans and tortillas started coming, we dug in ravenously. By then the guac was ready as well, and the lady brought out homemade mescal for us to try. All of a sudden, we went from not being sure where we would sleep and eat, to having comfortable, if small, beds and a feast worthy of the road. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...28-800x600.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...13-800x534.jpg The following day we made our breakfast and took leave of our hosts. The road I had spotted the day before was now our route. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...56-800x600.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...57-800x600.jpg We passed through the village of the night before and within minutes found ourselves in the middle of the mountains. Hierve del Agua is also in the mountains, but just on the other side of a ridge from the main road to Oaxaca. Now we were truly in the middle of nowhere. The road was pure gravel and sand; it wound up and down the mountain sides, into valleys and along ridges. 80km of pure mountain riding. The forest kept changing, almost as fast as one side of a mountain to the next. Sometimes we saw cacti and palms, at others we were in pure pine forest. Much more often though it was an impossible mix of trees which seemed to come from different parts of the world. There was not much cloud forest as on the east side going toward Tuxtepec and Veracruz, but still a sufficient amount to make us stop often and wander at how such a mix could be found in such a small area. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...18-600x800.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...25-800x534.jpg Maguey farms, or fields rather, dotted the mountain sides. For the most part the fields were tiny - either because each plants takes a lot of water from the surrounding ground, or to prevent infestation destroying large swaths. There were also maguey plants growing precariously on steep, rocky slopes, which made us wonder of the bravery or foolheartedness of the men who had to pick them. The only other people on the road came in small trucks to harvest the maguey, but for the most part were quite alone. In 80km we passed only a small handful of villages, and missed a few more which lay on tiny diversions from the main paths. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...05-800x600.jpg We were fortunate enough to meet a few residents of Santa Ana del Rio – a little village a world away from civilization. All of a sudden we were not listening to Spanish, we heard life in Zapoteco instead - A language that at one point dominated Oaxaca, along with Mixteca, but is now spoken by only a few thousand people. As Phil and I shared a hammock, and the ladies a bench, while we sipped our cokes to stave off the lethargy of the heat, it was Zapotec spoken around us as though it were normal. In fact not everyone spoke Spanish, my guess is that many there have never even left the mountains, or have seen white people (some probably have on TV, but for others we surely were the first – this is mostly true for the women and kids, not so much the men). We were in the middle of nowhere, and yet in another world. And here too, as other parts of Oaxaca, we found a missing contingency of men who have gone to the U.S to work and send money home. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...86-800x600.jpg We stopped by a small market and discovered something that would hold true for many markets in Oaxaca: they operate on a barter system. They will not accept the little money that others have, as they do not have much use for it, but they will trade tomatoes or avocados for a chicken or wood or clothes… something they can actually use. Some people are fortunate enough to have a small patch of land on which they can grow some fruit or vegetables to help feed the family. The riding was fantastic! Pure off-road for 80 clicks with nothing but the ever changing forest and beautiful vistas that opened to every side of us. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...23-800x600.jpg Jayne is significantly less experienced than Phil or me so she rode much slower, and even dropped her bike a couple of times. She was badly shaken up after almost dropping her bike off a cliff, so she rode even slower then. Considering the distance and the slow speeds it took us all of day light to make it back to the blacktop. Plus we stopped to help one of the villagers fix a flat tire. He was a few hours walk from his village, and as it was getting dark and there is practically no one there, we could not just let him go. Phil and I made a 30 minute job of it, give or take, and sent him with a questionable patch on his way. But all this meant that the last 2 hours of riding through the mountains, on paved road this time, would be in the dark. This is dangerous in Mexico, but in the mountains, especially in Oaxaca, it’s even more so. And of course the KLR headlamp did nothing to help us! http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...95-600x800.jpg http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...39-600x800.jpg But in spite of all the obstacles – huge stretches of unpainted road, often with no signs or too many of them, no barrier and no reflective arrows or posts, even on sharp curves above high cliffs – we made it back in one piece. With our horrible headlights we were often driving on a prayer that the blacktop would continue and that we would stay on it. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...74-800x600.jpg We collapsed, thrilled and exhausted, on the beds and couches of our hosts, wondering, till the dreams came, of what adventures were yet in store for us in this magical land. |
News!
Well, this is exciting: an online magazine picked up my story!
I will be posting to them once a week (starting from the beginning), and actually get paid for my efforts!! It's not much, but it will sure help to sustain the crazy journey and subsequent book. I hope you guys will check it out and share with others as well - as I get paid per reader. You can check it out here: In Search of Common Bonds - Clapway Don't worry, I will of course continue to post my pictures (which I promise will get better - at this point of the journey I only had a point and shoot, though a good one) and my stories on ADV. Thanks again for following my insanity! I hope you continue to enjoy it, and maybe even get inspired to make one of your own! Next post coming monday... -Alexander |
... sorry, I meant to say I will continue to post on ADV and HERE!!! I would not abandon my Horizons family!
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Oaxaca: Sickness and Paradise
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Part I: Mountain Our little caravan is in a tiny village in the middle of the southern mountain range near Oaxaca. There is no cell signal, running water or internet. Phil and Jayne ran into a guy they had met earlier on in their Mexican travels, who then invited us to spend some time in his grandparent’s home in the mountains. We had the famed beaches of Oaxaca in our sights, but could not pass up the opportunity to not only pass through, but stay in an old Zapotec village. Ricardo’s grandparents lived on one of the slopes of the surrounding mountains. Their property consisted of a few huts, surrounded by small patches of field where they grow a little coffee, corn, lemons and anything else they can manage in a given year. One of the huts is their home, so Ricardo and his 3 friends crowded inside another hut, while Jayne, Phil, Ida and I pitched our tents to the side. What a little piece of heaven! Surrounded by ridges of tropical forest covered mountains, a creek rushing off to a waterfall nearby, the fresh air, the unbearably starry nights which slowly get washed away by a gently rising moon, peace… But like so many other villages, Santa Maria stands in the depths of poverty, unemployment and is nearly empty of men. The women, children and older men stay to attempt to manage the villages. Kids as early as 5 learn how to help their mothers wash clothes, clean house, cook and look after younger siblings. It is our heaven only because we can leave it. Of course we are never made to feel as intruders, never out of place. We met many villagers, and spoke with them about local herbs and flowers, how the farms are faring, and their dreams of the mysterious world beyond their valley. We shared a simple but delicious dinner with Ricardo’s other grandmother, then spent the following day hiking through the valley and swimming in a perfectly temperate waterfall. The days could not have been more perfect… Then I started feeling oozy in the stomach, and the clouds quickly gathered around my head, trumpeted on by donkeys, turkeys, roosters and dogs, who had not been silent for more than 5 minutes going on 3 days. I drank a coke and a bit of Mezcal and felt better. But then at night it came back with a vengeance and I spent most of the evening in agony trying to take and drink anything I could get my hands on. I wanted to throw up but I couldn’t, and nothing was helping. Finally I smoked a joint, which made things worse at first, but after about half an hour it kicked in full gear and I passed out. The next day I was still a little sick and very weak from the night before. And as Phil and Jayne packed their steeds to move onto Mazunte on the coast, I was left unsure as to whether I would be able to ride. The following day though I was back in the saddle, and Ida began her multi bus trek to meet me at the famed Pacific beaches of the Mexican Coast. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...76-600x400.jpg Part II: Circus Mazunte welcomed us with idyllic, hammocked beaches with light sand, an endless horizon painted daily with the suns full palate, a luscious coastline with cliffs and rich jungle vegetation… and a circus performance festival! Acrobats, jugglers, fire spinners… each act more incredible than the last. The whole world made serene and vibrant with the help of local mushrooms. I was lost in a sea of sensation, and everything I saw brought me joy. Until of course I was in the actual sea and almost drowned, twice, after swimming too soon after a massage. All of a sudden the light of day became stark, and with every coughing release of the water trapped in my lungs, I felt my body shutting down. Finally I had made it to the beaches I’ve read about, seen in films, and dreamed for so long of visiting, and my paradise gets invaded with an infection which ran from my throat to the deepest reaches of my bowels. I was gripped by a constant, painful cough, a runny nose, nausea and it’s inevitable travelling companion, lack of appetite and such a weakness that I could barely make it from the hammock to the bathroom. There was no pharmacy in town, and I kept praying that all the natural remedies I was trying would eventually heal me, or at the very least give me the strength to ride to the next town. But all the ginger and citrus in the world can’t kill the bacteria that was ravaging me. It turned out that a few people had caught this as a result of the road work they were doing at the time (on the only road in the god damn village). I was stuck in the very environment that was making me sick. This gave me a few more days to observe the culture which has heretofore been quite foreign to me – the hostel. I rarely stay in a hostel (or hotel), I prefer, for many reasons, to stay with locals wherever I am. But now I was trapped and was able to observe what before was only piecemeal memories from hostels past. In almost any hostel, anywhere in the world, there are certain patterns which inevitably emerge. There is usually a representative or contingency of a few types of people, and their associated behaviors. There’s the overly sensitive about everything type – usually a white woman who will look for things that are offensive just to be offended. There are the leeches who always show up when you are cooking something, but rarely cook or buy food themselves; the hippies, the stoners, the musicians (my favorite), the yuppies “slumming” it; and the person who brings their ****ing child along – who inevitably cries and ruins everyone’s day. Conversations too generally revolve around the same topics: where you are from, how long have you been on the road, what you’ve seen, your future plans, Israel vs. Palestine, the role of the U.S in the world, what your views are of locals, arguments over views of locals, religion, and jam sessions – the only conversation I listen to if I can help it. Though the greater part of the hippies and circus folk had departed, leaving the beach town smelling a little better, sadly the hammock has not been washed in a while so every once in a while there is a waft of someone’s resistance to “The Man”. And after 5 days of things getting only worse I could no longer take the smell or the chance that time would heal me, and I decided to move on. I thought at first that I only needed to leave the environment for my body to recover, so I aimed for finding a virgin beach somewhere just up the coast. It took so much strength and energy just to pack Georgia that I was afraid I would not be able to ride for more than 10 minutes. But I bid Ida farewell, somehow mounted my steed, and somehow made it to that virgin beach without crashing. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...01-600x400.jpg Part III: Sea Turtles Playa Grande doesn’t exist on any map, in fact the only sign you will ever see of its existence stands by the side of the dirt road where it meets the coastal highway, and which reads Playa Grande, 7km è. 7 clicks down a sandy dirt road will bring you to a tiny village of 60 souls. There is no store, there is no anything, it is not a place for visitors, Mexican or otherwise. And because of this the fine sandy beaches stretch to the horizon in both directions, and are home to sea turtle egg deposits. In fact every man in town takes his turn guarding the eggs (from dogs and people who wish to sell them at market). I rode my bike right up to the sand line, where there was a convenient gazebo of sorts with a thatched palm roof. I acknowledged the gaggle of kids which instantly surrounded me, promised I would play later, hung up my hammock and passed out. That drive of just a couple of hours was more than I imagined my body was capable of. I had found that virgin beach I was looking for, but all I could do was lie in my hammock. 6 days so far of coughing and weakness and 3 days of diarrhea. Orcas, dolphins, sharks and sea turtles in the water, endless miles of virgin coast, and all I can do is lay there. I picked up a book for the first time in a week, before I had not the energy to concentrate on reading. 24 hours out of the poisonous air of Mazunte and I was no better. I needed to find a place in a town where I can have access to a bathroom , as well as food and water and a shower, and maybe even a doctor if this continues. The cough and weakness prevented me with playing with the kids who continue to gather around me every few hours. I promising them I would play later, or the next day, thinking I would start to feel even a little better, but I would disappoint them again and again. If it’s one thing you can do when so debilitated, it’s reflect, and the bi-polar extremes of Oaxaca is a perfect subject. The nicest people I have met in Mexico, who are also the poorest. Some of the best riding, but by far the worst roads and some of the worst drivers. Excellent coffee beans, but no decent cup of coffee. Every kind of landscape you can imagine: from cloud forest, to tropical coast and mountains, to pine forest and temperate mountain to rich valleys and arid plains… the beaches are gorgeous, the water intense and warm. I wanted to spend so much more time there, I wanted to learn to surf and enjoy endless days in a hammock, but being sick and with Phil and Jayne egging me on from Chiapas, I am forced to move on before I’m ready. The few days on the beach were not completely wasted however. As I lay awake in my hammock around 5am, I suddenly heard man doing something in a shed nearby. I couldn’t sleep anyways, so I got up to see what he was up to. And as I got around the little dune that separated us, I beheld a beach full of tiny sea turtles hatchlings crawling their way to the ocean. I was bearing witness to the birth of 55 creatures who would possibly live to be more than 150 years old. And then out of nowhere a dog ran onto the beach and snatched of little sea turtles. I can’t explain why that made me so upset, but it did, and I caught the dog and pried the baby turtle out of its mouth. As I held the turtle against the blooming morning sky, it began trying to swim through the air. No matter what it had survived, its goal was the big ole blue and it would stop trying to reach its home only with its last breath. It was such a beautiful moment – one of my favorites of the entire journey. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...-1-600x400.jpg It was the perfect end to my stay on the beach. I couldn’t stand being sick any longer, I needed a doctor, and I needed fresh water and a bathroom. So I wearily packed my bags, and with a prayer and cough mounted Georgia… who proceeded to sink into the sand. Already exhausted, I dismounted, unpacked her, dragged her out of the sand with the help of some kids, repacked her, and somehow did not pass out. Then made it to Huchitan, many hours later, somehow. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...12-600x400.jpg I went to the doctor right away, who, as everyone suspected, prescribed cipro (a broad spectrum antibiotic). It’s something I should have had for traveler’s diarrhea anyway. And though I hate anti-biotics, 8 days of sick is just a bit too much to keep hoping garlic and honey will work. My general feeling of weakness was also scary – I was actually sleeping during the day! I don’t remember the last time I took a napped. After a couple of days on the anti-biotic and I was feeling 80% better. My ass stopped leaking, and the prednisone suppressed cough was also started to calm. Being able to sit on a toiled, take a shower, and sleep in a bed helped as well. It also gave me a few days to check out yet another incredible market of Oaxaca. So many colors, so many kinds of food and art… I could try sea turtle egg, stewed iguana or grilled armadillo, then shop for a hand carved mask, or lovely stone and gem jewelry, or locally weaved clothes… A few days with a kind family and I was strong enough to ride again. I still had a few days to go, but mounting my steed did not make me want to pass out, and that was a start. I couldn’t wait to catch up with Phil and Jayne, and to see the other of everyone’s two favorite states: Chiapas. It took a long ride through mountains, and wind farms with gusts so strong I was thrown from one side of the road to the other, sometimes into trees and others into oncoming trucks, and I was dead when I arrived, but I finally made it to San Cristobal de las Casa, in the middle of Zapatista country and, for the first time, traditional Mayan land. |
chiapas - Zapatista Country
San Cristobal
The famed Chiapas! Land of the Maya, the Zapatista, and the jungle; and the other favorite state of most Mexicans. Still sick from throat to gut, but on the road to recovery and excited to reunite with Phil and Jayne. As a Russian, I was naturally drawn to learning about, and meeting, Zapatistas – a movement which seeks to return land to the natives, while building a community based government which is only loosely controlled by a centralized body. I bypassed the capital and came straight to the center of the Zapatista movement: San Cristobal de las Casas. Though not an official Caracol (Zapatista community/village), it is from where the ideas are brought to the rest of the world, and for those wishing to learn more about the movement the place to be. There are even some communities which are open to the public and to which a regular shuttle goes. Obviously I was not interested in anything like that, so I took it upon myself to ride deep into the jungle and meet the real Zapatistas. I took a few days to enjoy San Cristobal, and spend some time with Phil and Jayne (the last for a very long time). A bit of sickness on their end slowed them down for a few days and I was able to catch up. San Cristobal is a place I have often since dreamed of coming back to. It is a lovely colonial town in the jungle skirted mountains of central Chiapas. The temperature is always cool, which makes me very happy. And it was the first place in Mexico I had found to have any coffee culture whatsoever. I was actually able to go to a few coffee shops and have a choice of the kind of bean I wanted and the manner in which it would be prepared. Granted it's the high tourist contingency that provides this luxury, still, I’ve been in long need of a good cup so I cared little why or how I got it. But the best part was that San Cris is the kind of place a writer can get lost in – whether through wandering the cobbled streets, the colorful markets, or just sitting with a pen for countless months while gazing into the surrounding mountainous beauty from his window. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...68-800x534.jpg I took advantage of the few days rest I needed by camping at the gorgeous turquoise pools of, El Chiflon - one of the many waterfalls in Chiapas. Exotic butterflies of all shapes and colors circled around as though they were as common as flies, with the biggest butterfly I have ever seen outside a display case flying at incredible speed around me - it was the kind of radiant metallic blue that is so rare in nature you almost think it was painted that way. The ride to the waterfall gave me my first sense of Chiapas being another world altogether. Outside the two major cities of Tuxtla and San Cris, Chiapas reverts to the Mayan world. The faces are different than anywhere else in Mexico; the landscape is thick in jungle on one side, on the other the smell of pine perfumes the air; the languages and dialects are different from what I have heard before, as is the music and dress; and maybe it’s just my imagination, but there’s almost a smell of revolution in the air. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...15-800x534.jpg The next day I remounted my ailing Georgia, and ventured once again where white men don’t normally go, this time deep into the jungle in search of the elusive Zapatistas. Zapatistas http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...30-800x534.jpg From Comitan to Las Margueritas not much changes in the way of landscape or political affiliation, but beyond the Margueritas you are in Zapatista country. The land starts to get divided into family plots, as opposed to larger farms and the pueblos are small and simple, if a little poverty stricken. None have running water, some don’t have electricity – the ones that do, don't have it for every house or building. The people are poor, but they all have their land, and have each other to help work it. They all grow a little bit of everything needed to sustain life: corn, beans, coffee, some livestock… but few fruits or vegetables other than the ubiquitous banana. The further south and east you go, the wilder the landscape becomes, until you find yourself in the middle of the jungle. Most villages are situated in forest clearings - at first tropical and pine, then pure jungle. The road was twisty and slow – barely lit from the giant red ball of the sun peering over the upper reaches of the misty jungle peaks. I stopped to rest and talked to a tienda owner. He told me about San Jose del Rio – a Zapatista village down the road, . Though I was in a Zapatista village, it was clear that he did not want to deal with an outsider, so he sent me along. So I kept riding, stopping every now and again to just listen to the jungle. Sometimes there was pavement which brought me up to 3rd gear, at others I was happy to cruise along in 2nd. I generally don’t care about my speed, but the sun was quickly sinking behind the mountains, so when I reached San Jose del Rio, I pulled over to ask if there was a place I could stay, in my tent or otherwise. It is not normal practice to ask, let alone be allowed to stay in a Zapatista village. Normally a person would have to go through La Junta de Bien Govierno at La Realidad to gain permission to stay at one of the villages. But La Realidad was still far away, and this was not a road to ride at night. Usually when I pass by villages I get stares or waves, but when I stopped at San Jose I got a crowd – clearly it was not normal for someone from the outside world to stop there. I asked to stay and speak with the Authority of the village. At first I was interviewed by some guy and woman for about 30 minutes, and only afterwards introduced to the Authority, who turned out to be a nice, 25 year old chap, with a wife and kid. The Junta picked him, he accepted, and now he is the link between his village and the heart of the Zapatistas. At first he, and the people who interviewed me, were reluctant to let me stay, but they also did not want to send me out on a dark road which turned to dirt, and stayed that way for the next 120 kilometers. I was given a little spot behind the church where I was allowed to put up my tent (staying in a house was out of the question, in fact I wonder what would have happened if I did not have a tent). I was instructed to not go anywhere – no houses, no stores (of which there were 2), no walking around the village – if I wanted to go somewhere I would need an escort. I was told not to approach anyone to talk, but I was free to talk to people if they came up to me. It was also made pretty clear that I needed to leave first thing in the morning. People were really nice to me (as is the rule in Mexico), and many came up to my tent, or to the table in the Authority’s mother’s house where I took my dinner and breakfast. I bought a bag of rice and bread to share, and brought out my jars of honey from Oaxaca. But I mostly ate what the mother had already made: delicious tortillas with beans for dinner, and coffee, tortillas and honey the next morning. It was weird to not be able to speak (or ask) freely, so I ended up learning little more than what I observed just by being there and passing through the many other Zapatista villages. San Jose was situated in a small valley in the jungle of south-eastern Mexico. It was little more than some buildings and fences in a sea of lush green. At dusk the fireflies came out to add light to the music of the hundreds of bird and insect species surrounding the hills, which slowly died away with the last rays of the sun. It felt so peaceful. And then someone came by to tell me that the following day was the “village day” (dia de pueblo), so that night there would be a fiesta. So instead of falling asleep to the sounds of nature, I had to stuff earplugs in my ears to attempt to drown out the Banda music which played well into the night. Not at El Chiflon, not at San Jose, not even in the remoteness of Miramar was I been able to find solitude and silence. I wasn’t allowed to attend the party – for good reason I suppose, so instead I talked to the few people who came by my tent, put in the earplugs, took a Benadryl and prayed for sleep. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...66-800x534.jpg The following morning, after fresh picked, roasted, ground and prepared coffee, I took off for La Realidad in the hopes of actually speaking with someone in depth about the Zapatista movement and way of life. I was expecting something a little bigger, perhaps even a bit imposing, but La Realidad was little more than every other Zapatista village. After 2 hours of being questioned in depth about who I am, where I’m from, where I’m going, where I’ve been and what I want… and then waiting some more, I was told that no one would speak with me and I should carry on to Laguna Miramar (my next destination). I was very disappointed, but there was little I could do. http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/m...27-534x800.jpg Here I was in the deepest point of Chiapas, and I couldn’t even remember what pavement looked like. Instead, a twisty road of sand and gravel - the color of limestone, with the ever shifting consistency of any single-track worth its name, was how I made my way deeper still into the jungle, in search peace and untouched natural beauty. At any point on the ride through the undulating hills and valleys of the jungle I had but to shot off my engine to become immersed in the sounds of the jungle. I did not need to hike for hours to isolate myself, the road literally cut through the jungle, so I was always in the middle of it. I couldn’t hear the various reptiles, but the primates, bugs and birds sure did sing a pretty, if sometimes deafening, tune. I was not much more informed than before about the Zapatistas, but at least I was in the most beautiful part of an already beautiful country. |
Back on the road
It took 9 months to come back to this point - being back on the road.
To be sure I don't know if I am really, losing my mom has sucked most of the life from me... but there is nothing I can do for my book, or self, sitting in my own misery, so I return to the life I've known the two and a half years before. I just hope the road will more than reveal a place I want to live, and the common bonds which i seek for my book, but will too lend its healing hand to my shattered soul. I will resume posting next week, and will continue every week like I have been doing as of late. After each country I will also put up a photos post with all the photos from the country. See you out there... Alexander |
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