In & Out of Belize...

Woke up to heavy purple skies.  Thought it might rain all day.  Sweating it, I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.  No chance.  Rolled up my damp sleeping bag and deflated the air mattress.  Got the most of my sleeping quarters squared away before I got out of the tent and started on some breakfast.  Ben came out of his tent and by the time we put down some eggs and chorizo, the clouds were breaking and the lake started looking pretty inviting.  The sun broke out of the clouds.  We went for a swim and tossed the Frisbee for a bit.  Dual purpose.  We had fun throwing it around and it was getting clean as we did so.  The frisbee doubles as my cutting board and it needed a clean from dinner and breakfast preparations.

So after the refreshing swim in beautiful Lago Bacalar, we packed up and headed to Chetumal.   We fueled up before we hit the centro, and peeled right back away heading for a supermarket to spend some pesos before we bounced to the border with Belize.  As I sat waiting for Ben to do his shopping, I chatted with the guy who takes care of everybody’s helmets.  He taught me some Mayan... not sure which language but “Que dices” is Bashka Wa’lik.  Probably not spelled like that.  Closer to Bax’ka Wa’liq.  Or something along those lines.  Fun nonetheless.  Passing time in the hot asphalt parking lot.  We could have just entrusted this guy with our stuff but we were already on safety high alert getting ready for our border crossing.  So I sat and smoked cigarettes while Ben shopped and then when he returned claiming to only have liberated himself from $250 Mexican, I took my turn.  I wandered around the air-conditioned market, picking and choosing all the non-perishables I felt would be good to have packed on the bike.  Namely a $184Mex bottle of Cazadores Reposado tequila, and ended up spending $650 MEX.  God knows how I managed that.  Thank god I spend very little time in grocery stores, supermarkets and WalMART.

We split for the border around 1pm.  The air was hot and humid.  Sweat poured from my pores as we first cancelled our tourist visas and then our motorcycle permits.  Shortly after we were batting the traffic coming in from the Belizean Free Trade Zone.  Minutes later we stopped right on the toll free bridge to photograph our passing under the “Welcome to Belize” sign.  Surprisingly the people in the cars behind us didn’t even honk at us as we propped the bikes up on the kickstands careful not to let them slip into the voids of the steel mesh bridge surface.

Next up was a quick stop to get the bikes fumigated.  Cracked me up that they only sprayed one side of the wheels.  I think that paying the money was really the only important part of this process.  If truly concerned about bug transfer, I’m sure they would have done a more thorough job with the spraying.

After that was the trip through the immigration process.  A quick stamp in the passport and then a visit to the customs officials for another stamp for the bike and finally off to the insurance office.  Of course the cost of two days insurance was more than a week, so since I couldn’t be positive that I’d get through the country in 24 hours, I needed to buy enough for a week.  $29 Belizean Dollars, or the equivalent of $15 US got me a weeks worth of enough insurance to appease the authorities should I get pulled over while in Belize.

We ripped away at 3:15 headed for the ruins of Altun-Ha.  We knew we could camp at a restaurant close to the ruins.  The drive was meant to take us around 2 hours via the Old Northern HIghway, which was a hodgepodge of potholed pavement and magchloride gravel.  We bombed along as fast as we could, taking in the sights of stilted homes sitting above the greeness of the jungle.  Palm trees, sugar cane and green grass.  We paid 25 cents a piece to cross a toll bridge and then we were turning off onto the Old Hodgepodge Highway.  We raced along through the swamps and jungle, until we popped out into the village of Maskall.  There was supposed to be a gas station here but there was nothing.  A small conglomeration of houses and broken down school busses.  Riding along people looked at us amazed.  Only local traffic comes down the northern part of the Old Northern Highway.  We ripped it to shreds, dodging giant potholes and chunks of old asphalt.  I was running about 45-50mph, Ben a little smarter, a tad slower.

After Maskall, we went through Lucky Strike, again just a few houses scattered about.  Mostly clapboard construction, some painted, some not.  The people waved, some were Caribbean black others Hispanic.  Finally we arrived at a sign that pointed right to Altun-Ha.  The sun was mostly down now.  It was definitely behind the jungle.  There was a little ramshackle store perched on the corner, so I stepped up inside to buy some eggs.  Four little black boys jumped up to help me.  Each of them greeting me in perfect English.  Not American English.  British English.  It sounded so foreign after seven weeks of speaking Spanish in Mexico.  I asked for eggs and they told me they had none.  They asked where it was that we were coming from.  When I told them we rode in from Mexico and had come down the northern stretch of road, the oldest boy said, “Well it would be my advice to take the road the other way from here.  It is in much better condition and should you be carrying on to Guatemala. ‘twill be much shorter for you then.”  When I bid them farewell he said, “You enjoy our country and come back some time!”  Big smile and very proud.  Poor as dirt, but proud of his country and a bright young diplomat.  To bad corruption, drugs and society stand in his way.  Hopefully he and his brothers have the ability to break through.

Minutes later we were pulling into the Mayan Wells backyard under a high-pressure sodium lamp filling the place with white-blue light.  Huge trees spread their branches in every direction.  I felt as though we were deep in the Louisiana swamps.  Insects chirped and buzzed.  The whole place was alight with an energy.  The proprietor, I think his name was Carl, hobbled over to greet us.  70 years old with a 30 year old attitude.  He greeted us with his southern drawl, making it even more surreal.  We were supposed to be in Belize, but it was feeling more and more like Mississippi or Alabama or Georgia or East Texas or Louisiana.

Carl set us up and showed us what we needed to know.  The location of the bathroom, the light switches, etc.  And retired for the night.  Ben and I whipped up some impromptu dinner and retired as well.  The border crossing and all the sweaty details had me spent.  The night was unseasonably cool and I slept like a baby.  I awoke around dawn to the morning cacophony as had become the norm, but today the bird sounds were different.  These were the jungle birds of Belize and they were different than the birdsongs of Mexico.  Some had a shrill and warble that was fascinating.  It sounded like an internet or fax connecting.  Totally bizarre.

During breakfast Carl came over and began a little preaching.  He carried on about guys in tight white shirts and tight little ties scheming to levy his money from him in any way that they could.  He talked about Gubberment and how they were schemers as well.  And these two were in unison riding on the backs of the working man.  Leeches of society, just living off another man’s honest work.  But God is going to straighten that out.  And hopefully soon.  He said with certainty that when the day comes those who have cheated people of their hard earned wages and those who have become corrupt in the Gubberment will receive their fair punishment.  He said he’s not sure why the good Lord is waiting so long but the day will come because it is written that way in the scripture.  To which, he rattled off some scripture.  Deep South, I’m telling ya.  Deep South right here in Political Central America.

I didn’t really disagree with him.  When I went to get $5 US Dollars from my tent to pay for my nights camping, I unzipped the tent and reached in for my wallet as usual and suddenly I was being bitten all over my legs.  I looked down and the line of marching army ants that had amazed us for hours as we ate dinner last night, were climbing up my legs and biting me all over.  I tried to shake them loose but they just kept coming.  Scenes from the latest Indiana Jones movie, where the guy gets devoured by flesh eating Peruvian Red Ants flashed through my mind.  I did everything I could to escape their relentless attack.  I shook my legs, swiped them with my hands, but then they just started crawling on my hands and biting me there as well.  I panicked for a quick moment continuing to get bit and stung constantly.  I finally snapped from my panic, ran to the concrete pad under the thatched roof we’d been eating under and stomped and shook and swiped as best I could to rid myself of these devilish beasts.

When I got them off my body it took another half hour for the stinging of the hundreds of bites to subside.  I looked at Ben who was still laughing at my dance.  They say you gotta shake out everything you put on in Belize.  I answered back, “Well you said our line of marching ants was gone.  We know where they are now.  Marching right past our tents.  This should make packing up interesting.”  And it did.

But we managed to get our tents disassembled and packed up on the bikes probably only transporting a dozen or so of the little bastard children of SATAN.  We rode down another km to the ruins of Altun-Ha.  They were a mish mash of reconstructed temples and some grass covered mounds that showed the scars of attempts with dynamite to gain access to the inner riches of the temples.  The site was pretty small, but the light was nice as long as the sun was behind you.  So we boogied through in a half hour and got back out just as hundreds of tourists from the docking cruise ships arrived in several tour bus loads.

I grabbed the remainder of my belongings and headed out of Mayan Wells.  I waved a farewell to Ben and blasted down the road alone again.  But rather than dread, I felt liberated.  Back on my journey again.  Ripping solo through the beautiful, flat, green countryside of Belize.  I took in the sights and marveled at how quickly the little towns on the map blurred by.  The houses were especially compelling.  I couldn’t get over the variety of different shacks.  The broken down ones alongside the fancy fenced in plantation style homes.  I finally stopped to photograph a few of them.  I thought that a good photo essay would be ”The houses of Belize“ with the abundance of color, character and the different styles, it could keep someone busy for a minute.

I couldn’t help my mind from wandering back to preaching Carl.  I was stressing over the terribly corrupt and messed up financial system in the U.S.A. at the moment.  My mind was filled with thoughts about the working man getting screwed over so devastatingly by sleazy bankers and then having our hard earned and spent tax dollars going to bail these crooks out.  I just don’t see the justice in it.  Everyone’s got their arms up about ”Socialism“ when we talk about some kind of centralized health care system, but I haven’t heard much about socialism when it came to spending upwards of $20 TRILLION dollars to bail out the economic crash masterminded by a very few fellers who only stood to gain from it all.  While the working man’s retirement plans crumbled these guys walked away with multi-million dollar bonuses.  I just don’t understand what keeps honest hard-working Americans from taking up arms.  Isn’t this why we have the right to bear arms.  To defend our Life, Liberty and Pursuit of Happiness from enemies that attempt to usurp those things from us.  Honestly now.  The heads of those banks that had the shortsight and poor planning to allow their banks to fail and then had the audacity to take giant bonuses on top of their already giant salaries should be hanging, and I mean literally hanging, swinging from their fat white necks, on Main Street all across America.  But why should I care I thought to myself...  I didn’t really lose anything.  I don’t have anything to lose.  But when I think about the people whose retirement hinged upon the success of Wall Street, who are now forced to keep working until they die.  Or the people who lost their jobs, whose homes are now in foreclosure that cannot afford to even put food in their mouths...  the rage just built up inside of me.  I let bits of it out by imagining fictional plots where people who had ended up on the wrong end of these scams, drew up arms and with a snipers skill set out to rid the earth of scumbags who can’t ever even spend the billions of dollars they’ve robbed from the little man.

Just as my tension nearly squeezed every bit of life from the handlebars of my rumbling motorcycle, a black as night teenager rode by me on a rusty old BMX bike and shot me a smile as big and bright as the fullest moon glowing over ebony waters.  It shattered my temper sent me giggling on my way across the rest of Belize.  I’d been sucked clean out of the present.  In those moments of disgust and distemper, I’d might as well have been riding in New York snow down Wall Street itself.  When here I am...  Snapped back to reality and the present moment by a teenager that poor as he is riding down the road on a beat down BMX’er gave me the best gift in the world.  A big genuine smile.  I’m sure he thought that I had everything in the world.  Little did he know that what I needed at that moment more than anything was that precious gift that didn’t cost him a cent to give.  I switched gears revved up the bike and let my mind revel in that gift, in that lesson.  Smile man.  It’s all you really gotta do.

When I pulled into San Ignacio town, I crossed a rickety old wooden bridge that tried to pull me down.  I pushed on.  The vibe here in the town was so different than in the green rolling countryside.  The dusty streets were crowded with cars and people.  Smells of barbeque and diesel fuel mingled in my nostrils like strangers passing in a dark alley.  Present there together but not wanting to share space too close with each other.  Each of a different walk and place and wanting to keep it that way.

A Rasta on a huge horse rode right up to me.  The horse’s head right above mine.  I felt like it was towering over me.  His nostrils poised to drip horse snot all over my helmet.  The Rasta greeted me and spoke to me in Spanish.  This caught me off guard.  He asked me if I wanted to buy some Mota.  ”Naw man, I’m about to cross the border.“  I answered in English.  He continued in Spanish, telling me that his horse was hungry.  I just shook my head.  Another shakedown.  I looked across the road behind the Rasta with greying dreads, bare-chested and strong.  There was a motorcycle cop watching us.  I looked up at the rasta again.  This time he yelled, ”C’mon man give us a dollar!“    I looked up again.  His horse rearing up over me as I revved the bike a bit.  I yelled to him ”Listen man.  I’m on a big journey.  I need my money too.“  Besides, I didn’t have a dollar to give him.  All I had was a five.  I had a funny feeling about this guy.  And pulling out my wallet on the street in a dirty border town with a cop watching from the other side.  It just didn’t feel right.  ”HAVE-A-GOOD-DAY, MON!“  He yelled sarcastically, pulling back on the reins of his horse riding off down the hill.

I rode away a bit jaded.  It is growing wearysome being looked at like a giant Dollar sign everywhere I go.  People don’t know that I have pretty much my life’s savings invested in this journey.  That I’m not wealthy.  That if I gave every person a dollar that asked me for one, I might as well pack up and head home now.  But the whole situation sat funny with me.  Should I have helped a brother out?  Would it have mattered?  Would he have thought highly of me when I was gone?  Or would I just have been another sucker tourist that he managed to levy a dollar from.  I resigned to the fact that I’d never know.  I’d made my decision based on instinct, and so far my instincts have guided me well.  I thought back to that big passing smile.  I thought about how I would have given him a dollar.  I wanted to ride the twenty miles back and give that kid a dollar to make things right in the world.

I revved on knowing that there would be many more challenges in the next hour.  Borders are full of good and bad people.  Unfortunately they don’t all have nametags declaring which they are.  I put my guard up and rode on.  Minutes later I was watching my bike through the window of the departure hall.  Paying my $30 Belize Dollar fee for leaving their country.  I had been there for 22 hours, didn’t eat a single Belizean meal or even drink a Belizean beer.  What a shame, I thought.  To have blown through such a wonderful country and not really experienced much of the culture, after spending seven weeks exploring Mexico.  This thought was fleeting as I sweat my way through the deliberations of canceling my motorcycle permit crossing from Belize into no man’s land and starting the whole process over while trying to keep an eye on my bike and another eye on my paperwork.  Getting my visa was easy.  Hand over the passport and $20 Quetzals. (That I’d fortunately exchanged for Mexican Pesos back outside the departure hall in Belize.)  Getting the permit for my bike required that I walk 100 yards across a bridge into Guatemala to get photocopies of my passport stamp, my license, my registration and my passport photo page.  I was sweating bullets.  Figuratively, as my moto sat by its lonesome unprotected waiting anxiously for my return, and literally as I was walking in the hottest of hot time of the day in this humid jungle environment in full motorcycle jacket, pants and boots.  Sweating bullets.  I got my 40¢ copies and made the trek back to the customs desk, where again, I kept one eye on the bike and one guy on the customs agent filling out my forms.  He handed me the paperwork, told me to walk across the room and pay at the bank and bring everything back to him one more time.  I did this dance with a sweaty smile and remembered all of the advice about keeping your cool during the crossing process.  Sure enough all was well.  I paid my $40 Quetzals to the bank, got my sticker and necessary paperwork.  Got my bike fumigated with some cancer-causing, birth defect sauce for another $12.50 Quetzals and was off riding across the bridge I’d just walked.

BIENVENIDOS A GUATEMALA!

I pulled up to a gas station that looked like it was straight out of my childhood memories from the early ‘70’s.  I quickly did some math in my head and bought 2 gallons of fuel (enough to keep me from running out between here and Tikal) for $60 Quetzals from a 15 year old named Estefan Vargas, who guessed I was 25.  Love this kid.  He was enamored with my bike and couldn’t stop checking it out as we chatted in Spanish.  I asked for directions to Tikal.  He pointed me up the rocky gravel hill, the opposite way I’d have gone if I hadn’t asked.  He smiled and waved as I rumbled out of the station.

Phew and that was it.  I was suddenly back in the green countryside waving to smiling people and jamming out to Burning Spear in my helmet.  Gigante was loving ripping the hills, enjoying the cooler weather and we pushed further into Guatemala shooting for the unknown in El Remate.  Seeing as it was the 23rd of December, I was unsure if I’d find accomodations.  As luck would have it, I scoped out two places and on the third found my happy little oasis.  A rustic cabin with mosquito netting over the windows, thatched roof, a hammock and chair on the front stoop set in a wildly landscaped garden, feet from a restaurant that Lonely Planet calls the best food for miles.  Oh yeah and yesterday until 9pm had blasting full strength wireless.  Oh and I nearly forgot...  Is on Lake Petén Itzá, which is incredibly beautiful.  There is a long dock extending out into the lake and ends with a thatch roof palapa to dive from.  I watched an incredible sunset after video chatting with my mom thousands of miles away.  Took a quick dip in the lake, a quick shower and cooked up the last chorizo from Mexico, while sipping Cazadores tequila from a Gatorade bottle.  Looks like I’m set up for a great Christmas.  Hope the internet comes back on to chat with the Family at the annual Semlak Christmas Eve party at Mike and Essie’s.

Merry Christmas everyone, from Lago Petén Itzá, Guatemala, where it is about 65ª at 9:30 am.  Santa’s gonna be sweating here.

Reflections on Mexico...

So I got the wind sucked from my blogging sails a few days ago when I discovered a bunch of negative comments on my Mexican Economics post.  It seems some of the riding community at ADVrider.com found my post and have been thrashing on me since.  I agree that it is easy to misread my post and to think that I'm bashing Mexico and Mexican Police.  I thought that it was pretty clear by the end of the post that I'd come around to admitting my guilt and acknowledging that I'd made several mistakes that lead to my unfortunate opportunity to hand over $150 US to ride away from those mistakes.  But it seems that many have interpreted my post differently.  I have been labeled a lawless rebel, who is galavanting around Mexico creating an unsavory reputation for Americans and motorcyclists in general.

Nothing could be further from the truth.  I might like to think I'm a rebel, but I certainly am not.  Mexico, far from being a lawless wild west, was very orderly and well maintained.  The roads were incredible and the sights were outstanding.  I set out thinking that I could blast through Mexico in a month.  I was wrong.  It took me seven weeks in all and I felt like I could have easily spent 6 months there digging deeper.  The people of Mexico were friendly and helpful to say the very least.

I was fortunate to only have one run-in with the law.  And that one incident was brought on entirely by my ignorance.  But other than that one bad day, every other aspect of Mexico was positive.  The Federal Police paid me no mind, except to drool over my bike on a couple of occasions.  The military checkpoints were always a breeze.  Sure sometimes they wanted to look through my stuff.  That is their job.  I did have to keep my eye on a couple of soldiers that were interested in trading me for all of my cool camping toys, but they were polite and friendly.  Of the thirty or so checkpoints that I passed through, I was never hassled and always on my way in an expedient manner.  I always felt safe and never felt as if I needed to worry about my safety or the safety of my belongings.

Mexico was so great that I found it really hard to move on.  Gas was cheap.  (About the same price as in the U.S. whereas I paid about $4.50/gallon in Belize and close to that at my first station in Guatemala.)  The food was super tasty and varied.  And there were so many cool places to see, it was hard to choose which to pass by.

The people in every little town that I went through were happy to wave back at me, were usually smiling and always checking out my big black motorcycle.  I would love to travel through Mexico again.  So should I decide to turn around in Panama and head back north, I look forward to crossing into Mexico and picking a new journey for my return.

So with that said, I'd like to pick up where I left off...

Palenque...

Sam, Ben and I rallied out of Aqua Azul in the morning and were thinking we'd make Palenque town for breakfast.  But after about 30 minutes into our awesome twisty ride, Sam's bike started wobbling a bit and he looked down questioningly and then over at me.  I nodded.  He had a flat rear tire.  So I shot ahead and found a good spot for us to pull over and make the repair.  Turns out he picked up a wire nail.  It looked like a 15 guage finish nail.  We had a good time sweating out the repair.  Sam doesn't have a center stand, so he ran over to where a house was midway through the construction process and grabbed a couple of concrete blocks.  We propped up the bike and managed to get the tube patched and back in moments before the final block crumbled under the weight.  We joked about how they just don't make bricks the way they used to.

 About an hour and a half later we'd finished the job and made our way to Palenque.  We found a torta shop, ate tasty tortas and drank fresh juice before hitting up the supermarket, where Sam and I proceded to only buy beer and tequila, and then rode out to the Mayabell campground just a few km's from the Palenque ruins.

Much to Ben's amusement, Sam and I had a tent setting up competition after we'd tied on a nice buzz.  This turned into a full-contact muddy affair.  Somehow both of our tents got up and we continued to pound beers after the sun set.  I had received a great surprise when my friend Sarah, that I'd met back in Oaxaca City, showed up at the campground later that night.  Unfortunately the rest of the evening lays in a Tequila induced fog.  In the morning we all got up and headed for the ruins.  They were really impressive and expansive.

 But the light was really tough for photography and the place was packed with tourists giving it a very different feel than Toniná.  We explored around the ruins and museum, mostly talked about food all day since Sam, Ben and I have had insatiable appetites since traveling together.  We all went into Palenque town and ate at a family style restaurant filled with locals.  The portions were large and we stuffed ourselves content.

The next morning Ben and Sam rode off.  I felt a bit sad to see them go.  It was so much fun rallying around with them.

Sarah and I decided that it would be fun to try traveling together on 'Gigante', so we arranged all the stuff and managed to fit her between me and my spare tire.  We saddled up late in the afternoon and pointed for Escarcega.  It was a dirty little highway intersection town halfway to the Calakmul ruins.  Fortunately we found a sweet little hotel with a couple of nice pools.  It wasn't cheap by  backpacker standards but at the equivalent of $30 US far from unreasonable.

The riding had become quite a bit duller as we passed into Campeche state.  The landscape got flat and filled with dairy cows.  It reminded me of Minnesota and Wisconsin.  The kilometers peeled by and soon we were paying to drive down the road to Calakmul.  This winding narrow road through the steamy jungle mesmerized me into a deep meditation that could have resulted in disaster.  Fortunately we skimmed past the downed tree and I snapped back to reality.  Sarah had caught the brunt of the collision but escaped unharmed as well.  Lucky.  I was sleepy, the air was humid and the 60 kilometers to the ruins seemed unending.

But we got there.  It was already 4 pm when we pulled up.  I was crabby when we had to pay.  They guys that charged us to drive down the road had told us the ruins were free on Sunday.  Which they were, but only for Mexican Nationals.  I should have known this from my previous Sunday experiences at ruin sites and not let it bum me out.  For some reason, things just weren't clicking for me and I found myself in a deep funk.  Poor Sarah had to deal with this, but she did it well by telling me she'd just meet up with me later.  Once I got into the main plaza, surrounded by stone temples looking wild and overgrown giving a total lost world effect, my shitty mood evaporated.  I tried my best to photograph the site in the waning light.  Luck was on my side and I got a brief moment of sublime light on the ruins.

A light rain commenced as we wandered out of the ruins.  We snacked on tortillas with cheese and avocado in the dark contemplating riding the winding road back to a campground we'd heard about at kilometer 7.  The dark drive turned out uneventful.  The cooler temperature kept me alert and the kilometers zipped by.  It was a little spooky riding through the jungle into the campground but we were greeted by a friendly host and an even friendlier Golden Retriever named 'OSO'.

We slept great there in the jungle far from any noise other than the jungle birds and some distant howler monkeys.  Sarah cooked us up some eggs and beans while I packed away the gear.  I'd done the math several times and was pretty sure we weren't going to make the next gas station.  But not wanting to backtrack and poke around in a little village seeking gas, we pushed on anyway.

Sure enough about 16 kilometers short of the next station, 'Gigante' sputtered and popped and died.  He had drank the last droplets of gas and could go no further.  We had just passed a construction crew building a new bridge, so I turned the heavy bike around and we rolled down the hill.  I left Sarah with the bike and walked the 100 yards over and started up a chat with the bridge builders.  They were quite helpful and quickly gathered a two-liter bottle, a section of hose and proceded to siphon a couple liters of gas from their concrete mixer.  I tossed them way more money than the gas cost with a smile.  I carefully walked back to the bike trying not to spill any of the precious liquid.  Sarah was chatting to a local lady.  Mostly they were giggling at each other but they were having a great time.  They laughed at me with my silly smile as I walked proudly back to the bike and poured in the golden juice.

We bid farewell to the lady as 'Gigante' fired to life and zipped down the rest of the flat, straight road on to Xpujil and the awaiting gas station.  A quick fill up and we zoomed our way past the turnoff for Belize and found ourselves relaxing at a beautiful little campground at Lago Bacalar.  We got a nice swim in and hung out next to the beautiful clear lake.  The limestone bottom gave the water a stunning turquoise sheen that was mesmerizing.

The next day we zoomed north seeking my long lost contact lenses.  We ate lunch at a sweet little restaurant called Teetotum.  Beaming fast wireless helped me communicate with Carlos, my contact lens keeper, and we decided we'd head for Cancun.  When we rolled down the hotel strip, I confessed to Sarah that there was no way I wanted to spend my birthday there amongst the throngs of American tourists, so we instead opted for the ferry out to Isla Mujeres and enjoyed a couple of days at Hostal Poc-na.  A hip little college student hangout with a beach bar and lots of sand and bikinis.  Happy Birthday to me.

After a few days though, it grew a bit tiresome and we jumped back on the ferry.  I was sad to see Sarah off at the Cancun bus station.  It had been tough riding two-up and though I'd be lying if I said that things had gone smoothly traveling together, I was really sad to see her go.  She popped back out saying her bus was late and the tables turned.  She got to watch me pull off again, just like the day back in Oaxaca.  I wonder if we'll cross paths again further down the road...

I rode along in the dark on a well lit highway.  The ride to Playa del Carmen passed by uneventfully and I found my way to a campground right in town.  I walked around the clean touristy streets and found a little sushi joint called Sushi Itto.  I splurged a bit and chomped down on some super tasty fish and rice.

I was trying to get on a move now, so I pushed out first thing in the morning.  I made the short trip to Tulum under overcast skies.  I met another motorcyclist in Tulum and he told me Ben was in town.  So after I set up my tent in the rain, I went back to the awesome little hotel and restaurant I'd visited with Sarah, Teetotum.  I ordered up a 1/2lb Bacon Cheeseburger that was every bit as good as home.  I chatted away on the net and located Ben.  We made plans to meet up at Bacalar the next day and head into Belize together the following day.

I went to the Tulum ruins early in the morning drizzle.  They were pretty cool and beating the hordes of tourists was clutch.  I walked around listening to my iPod snapping pictures and reveling in my headspace.

After getting my fill of the ruins, I made my way off to Teetotum once again.  This time for some incredible french toast stuffed with carmelized bananas and sweet farmers cheese drenched in maple syrup.  So Tasty.  The hotel there looked really nice as well.  A little boutique hotel run by a guy from Philadelphia.  I definitely recommend the restaurant if you find yourself in Tulum.

I posted another blog post while downing several cups of coffee hoping the rain would subside before I rode on to meet Ben in Bacalar.  I got a little late in leaving and rolled into Bacalar right after sunset.  But Ben was chilling there at the camp.  It was super nice to roll in and see a familiar face.  He told me his riding partner was still trailing due to some mechanical issues and that he'd love to ride into Belize together.  So we had a couple beers and ate some food and crashed out hoping for good weather in the morning.

Belize here we come.

Toniná Ruins with Dr. Benny and Sam...

So I met Ben in Puerto Econdido, you can read more about our meeting in my Mexican Economic post.  And Sam you can read about in my last post...  The three of us tore off into the Chiapas backcountry jungles for some ruin raiding and tope blasting.  The air got hot, sticky and thick as we wound down the curvy road from San Cristobal de Las Casas.

When we got to Ocosingo, we popped into a chicken restaurant that lacked any interior decor.  We joked about how quickly these places could come and go, as the restauranteur cut apart our chicken with a giant scissors.  We munched away making tacos out of our broasted chicken, black beans, pickled jalepeños and salsa on fresh corn tortillas.

Instead of getting a room, we decided to rip out to the ruins first just in case there was camping available.  We lucked out.  There was a sweet little campground right outside the gate to the ruins.  When we found that we were too late to explore the ruins that day, our campground guy told us about a back road that we could rip our bikes up and find a nice overlook of the ruins.  We promptly set up camp and blasted up to check it out for sunset.

The light wasn't epic for photography but it was really a sweet perch above the countryside.  When we returned to our bikes a local guy was trying to haggle us out of some money for watching our stuff for us.  Seeing as he was the only person for miles it kind of equated to paying him for not stealing our shit.  We politely declined pretending not to understand and romped up the dirt hillside in the darkness.

In the middle of the night clouds enshrouded our camp in dampness and poor Ben had a terrible misfortune that you can read about on his blog...  www.afewmoremiles.com

We got up early and headed into the ruins.  When we got there we took a quick spin through the museum and then got out to the ruins as the fog was clearing up.  The sun came out and gave us some great light to photograph.  Turns out they are still excavating and rebuilding much of the ruins.

I'm a little torn on these aspects.  Seems a little bit like academic grave robbery and construction for tourism sake.  I mean at least the people rebuilding them are of mayan descent right?

But nonetheless it was a great display of Mayan architecture and since it is so newly discovered we only saw a couple other tourists out there.   I tried photographing the archeologists unearthing a new find and was scolded by an onlooking policeman.

I ran into another motorcyclist here in Tulum yesterday, that was in Tonina just a few days after us and he said they had found a new coffin and the press was there to photograph the findings.  Tomb raiders.  Glorified tomb raiders, I tell ya!

So since we felt so honored to be there so early on, sans hundreds of other tourists we made a little photo pact.

The three monkeys... See no Evil, Hear no Evil and Speak no Evil...

On our way out of camp as we were passing the military garrison we ran into another ADVrider, we've been crossing paths with.  Vince, aka "Crashmaster".  I've been following his ride report since September and been hot on his tail most of my trip.  Leeching information from his report and visiting some of the same places.  It was great to finally meet him on the road.  As we were standing there shooting the shit, a military officer came up to us.  We thought for sure he was coming to shoo us away from the entrance of the military outpost, but turns out he is a Honda Goldwing owner and was happy to join us for a group photo.

 A good day had by all and we peeled on down the road for Agua Azul waterfalls where we would camp for a night before pushing on to Palenque.

Stay tuned, next post gets us into Palenque, Calakmul, Bacalar, Cancun and Isla Mujeres and Playa Carmen and back to Tulum and back to Bacalar and hopefully Tuesday brings me into Belize.  Wait tomorrow is Tuesday.  Damn, I'm still in Tulum. Better get out of this restaurant and down the road.  I got 3 hours to Bacalar.

Hasta Luego y Feliz Navidad.

A side trip into the Chiapas backcountry...

So Sam rolls into San Cristobal on a KLR the day after I got there.  We start chatting it up with Ben and Torben and soon enough we're all on our way out to dinner with a couple of Dutch gals from the hostel.  They are joking about how they won't have much to contribute to the conversation, since all of us moto-heads have been talking non-stop about our bikes, our various trips and experiences on the road.  For fun we try to get them to tell us how fun the bus rides are.  We quickly figure out that when they talk about the terrible winding road to Palenque, that it is bound to be heavenly for us.

Sam and I, while whittling away the evening on Facebook, decide to take a day trip the next day into the backcountry to explore around looking for some dirt to ride.  We know we are in Zapatista country but after reading about the Zapatista's cause... Essentially trying to protect indigenous land rights from Mexican and American corporate interests... we're pretty sure we won't have much trouble with them even if we do have a chance encounter.

We meant to go to Chamula to see some old church and local Mayan people but the riding together was so fun we ended up accidentally blowing by the turn-off for the town and just kept eating up the twisties.

The landscape was incredible.  We took the first turnoff that we saw and rode down the gravel road past colorfully dressed little ladies with herds of goats.  When we tried to photograph them, they hissed shaking their walking sticks at us.  What a bummer.  The photos would have been so stellar.  I'm not really sure why they don't want to be photographed but I'm sure the number of tourists coming through or some deep cultural reason must be the answer.  But when I pressed to see if anyone knew why, no one could give me a good answer, other than they probably don't want to be treated as rare specimens of antiquity.

After sitting at the end of this dead-end gravel road a guy on a little moped ripped up honking his horn.  People emerged from the hills from every direction to buy his tamales.  When the locals dispersed, I asked if I could buy some as well.  Half expecting to be shunned, he actually agreed, gave me a good price of two pesos per tamale and shyly rode off after selling us his goods.

Sam and I stood stunned by the scenery and gobbled up the tasty tamales that had one little nugget of chicken in each tamale.

We decided to ride on following the little hand-drawn map he'd made in the hostal before we left.  We wound round and round until we found a little village with a church perched high on the hillside.

When we pulled up to the plaza, we found a festival going on but were immediately plagued by a local drunkard with a green card.  He wanted to speak to us in English but he was too wasted. So we worked with our broken Spanish but pretended not to understand what he wanted.  He wanted more to drink.  And us wealthy foreigners to be the purchasers of such drink.  I just kept explaining that I can't drink because I have to drive my moto.  Sam just smiled at him and shrugged his shoulders saying that he didn't understand.  We wanted to stick around and watch the festivities but this guy wouldn't leave us alone, so we donned the helmets and fired up the big bikes and rode on.

On the way in I'd stopped to photograph a little shrine on the hillside...

While doing so I noticed this epic road winding across the a deep valley.  Sam saw it when I did, nodded and we were off looking for the turnoff for this route.

After picking around we found a super steep gravel road dropping down into the valley below.  There were no other vehicles moving around down there so we figured thumbs up.  I launched 'Gigante' out of a water ditch and caught some nice air.  It was really fun to be riding unloaded and able to ride like I was on a dirtbike again.

The smile on Sam's face as he rode by me indicated he was having a blast as well.  As we rode through, we passed more goat herders as well as little ladies weaving on looms tied to trees in their yards.  We were really gunshy to take any photos because of the reprimanding we'd gotten earlier in the day.  So we just took photos of each other ripping.

When we got to the bottom of the valley and crossed to make the climb on the other side, we were surprised to find a concrete roadway climbing incredibly steep inclines.  This concrete was perfectly smooth with consistent expansion joints cut into it.  It was super grippy and super smooth.  So...  We rallied up it at full speed filling the peaceful valley with the sound of two high-performance machines gasping for air and firing all cylinders in check.  Amazingly huge drop-offs were constant on our right as we blasted upward toward the sky at the pass.

Not surprisingly we were only at the pass for about five minutes before a guy dressed nicely albeit conservatively, holding a two-way radio approached us.  He explained that this is the land of a traditional Mayan community and that typically outsiders were not allowed to pass through.  He indicated that we would be allowed to continue on however the speed limit in the whole valley was 20 km/hour.  I laughed to myself when he said this thinking that 'Gigante' doesn't even idle that slow in first gear.  He also mentioned that we'd far exceeded the speed limit since we'd entered the valley.  He wriggled the two-way radio, indicating that unseen eyes had been observing our antics since we'd turned off the pavement and entered their territory.

I asked him if we were going to be fined or if we were in any kind of trouble.  He smiled a sly smile, took his time answering and said that, no we weren't in trouble but we would need to proceed at 20 km/h to the nearest exit onto the paved highway.  He said he hoped we enjoyed our little journey and that they were happy to have us.  I'm pretty sure, even though my Spanish comprehension isn't perfect, that he was speaking with heavy sarcasm.

We followed his orders and made for the road.  But we didn't get out before encountering more radio wielding henchmen.  The next guy wasn't so professional and tried to give us the shake down.  He just wanted enough money to buy himself a soda.  I looked around and slyly said that I'd love to have a drink with him but as there were many people observing us and I clearly didn't have enough money to buy everyone a drink, it wouldn't really be fair to just buy him one.  As a community that believes deeply in collectivism, he nodded in agreement and let us pass.  When we got out on the pavement we stopped and had a beer and chatted excitedly about the little adventure we just had.

I was close to ready to ride back to San Cris but Sam was hell bent on finding a loop he'd seen in the guidebook.  It took us several hours into the afternoon to realize that the road shown on the guide book either didn't exist, or it was behind the fences of one of the many autonomous Zapatista communities that we passed.

The landscape and the riding were absolutely incredible.  We came across a really cool statue in the middle of nowhere and pulled into the rain ditch to pop some photos of it.

It was creepy yet fascinating at the same time.  We got passed by a crazy fast hiking traditional Mayan dude in a white tunic with a belt.  (If you look closely in the first picture with the statue you can see him.) Hoofing it along in his sandals.  He waved a quick "Buen Dia" and continued on his way.  We ripped on deeper into the jungle until we got into a town that was building themselves a new church.  We found out that we were at the end of the road.  It was time to turn around and race back the way we'd came.  No loop today.  We hammered non-stop back to San Cris and made it in just as the sun was setting behind the mountains.

We got to the hostal, parked the bikes, walked straight to the Taco stand and cleaned up ten tacos apiece talking excitedly of our day.  We started drinking beer and the chatter of the ride carried on until midnight or so.  The day had convinced Sam that he should join Ben and I the next few days into the jungle to check out some ruins deeper in Chiapas before he peeled off for Guatemala.

Burning through the Funk...

I've been a bit out of sorts trying to logisticate my move from Mexico.  I've ended up on Isla Mujeres a bit longer than anticipated and still have so much more in Mexico that I'd like to see.  Sounds like my brother Ben and his girlfriend Kaitlin will be in Costa Rica in the beginning of January and I'd really like to see them.  So I'm trying to work out the schedule through Central America.  I have a couple of difficulties in front of me.  Foremost, my clutch has been signaling signs of failure.  It has been starting to slip some when I give it any healthy dose of throttle.  There is a KTM dealer in Guatemala City, but with the holiday season upon us, I'm afraid a repair there will force me to miss Ben and Kait.  My other option is to push through and bring it in for repair in San Jose, Costa Rica after seeing them.  Unfortunately this is a "roll of the dice" as it could fail at any point leaving me stranded somewhere along the way.  So time will tell.  I will make an attempt to clean the clutch oil jet in an effort to eek out a bit more time.  But with my bike's mileage reaching 30,000 miles, it is most likely the friction plates need replacing.

Every day I chill here on Isla Mujeres is another day off of my time budget.  The weather has been questionable since my birthday on Wednesday which is throwing another hitch in my gitalong.  Whah, Whah, Whah.  Life is so tough for me, right?  So in hopes of brightening things up a bit, I've decided to get some photos up and delve a bit into how awesome things have been the last couple of weeks.

Leaving Oaxaca City, I headed into a desert canyon country full of Cactus and Agave.  Surrounded by mountains in the distance the roads curved and twisted delightfully.  I was headed for a little town called Tehuatecan.  Not much there in the way of tourism, a city the busses pass right by.  I delighted in being the only "gringo" around.  Causing much interest with my giant motorcycle.  On my way out in the morning, I took a minute to do some diplomatic work, hoping to keep these guys on my side.  This guy, Alfredo, was a real motorcycle enthusiast and loved chatting with me about 'Gigante'.

I rolled through the local market to pick up some fresh fruit for breakfast.

Following the local Trike, Tuk-Tuk taxis through the market caused a stir amongst the locals.  Here is a sample of the local trikes.  I've only seen them in this town, so some local entrepreneur must be responsible for these curious moto-taxis.  The have funny motorcycle fairings and truck mud flaps.

I was adjusting to feeling like I was on a mission again.  After the visit to the farm and being off the tourist track for a while, it was fun to end up in Oaxaca City and make great friends with other travelers at the hostal there.   I spent a wonderful day at the Monte Alban ruins with a great woman from Australia named Sarah.  She was on a trip that had quickly changed on her when her bike was 'lost' from the underside of a Greyhound bus in Texas.  I really admire Sarah's lust for adventure.  I told her that I wouldn't really consider traveling through the US on a Greyhound unless it was absolutely my last option.  She had traveled all the way from California to the border of Mexico on Greyhounds with her bicycle, with high hopes of riding through Mexico.  Unfortunately her trip took a sudden change when the bike didn't show up at the border with her.  Rather than stick around in the US waiting for a futile lost luggage claim to be processed, she pushed on into Mexico via bus and ended up at the hostal in Oaxaca City well after midnight.  Since I was the only one up,  putting together a blog post, we ended up chatting for a while.  Since she had a helmet that would suffice for legal purposes, I invited her to join me up to the Monte Alban ruins the next day.  I gave her a quick lesson in photography for my own selfish purposes.  Here is a sample of her work.

So as I pushed on deeper towards Chiapas, my mind was chalk full of great experiences from Oaxaca.  I smiled as the miles piled up and the scenery maintained its steady flow in front of my windscreen.  After leaving the funny little town of Tehuatican, I quickly found myself racing along a straight nicely paved highway along the thin isthmus of land between the Pacific and the Gulf of Mexico.  This drive into the Chiapan highlands would prove to challenge my strength, courage, skill and sanity.  Starting out laughing at the absurdity of passing roadside nuances like a giant bull that was munching away on the grasses alongside the highway.  This in and of itself not atypical of Mexico, but the fact that it was tied off with a thick rope to the opposite side of the highway made me laugh uncontrollably.  Only because I was moments from death if the damn bull decided it wanted some grass just a little further away.  Of course had he moved, the rope would have been pulled taut rising from the pavement to catapult me headlong into the abyss.  After I'd ripped over the rope full throttle, I looked in the mirror at the line of semi trucks behind me thinking about hamburgers.

I ripped on along the highway fighting the winds that got worse with every mile.  I could see the mountains ahead and I knew from my map that it was the Mexican Continental Divide.  The clouds perched heavily upon the peaks gave me a solid indication that this wind would increase in intensity as I rode further.  Without another option, I pushed on.  The gusts became violent as I passed oncoming semis.  This was by far the strongest wind I've ever ridden in.  And with plenty of days of riding in the Great Plains of the United States, I'm no stranger to strong gusty winds.  I looked at the rocks and debris in the ditches, gripped the handlebars tighter and twisted the throttle, keeping the rpm's high and leaning at times beyond 45 degrees to keep the bike on course.  I wondered when this madness would come to an end.  But as the landscape filled with hundreds, maybe thousands of high-tech windmills, I knew the answer all too well.  At one point I stopped in the lee of a hillside to catch my breath and take a few pictures.  A huge gust blew through and tipped me and 'Gigante' right over.  All I could do was laugh.

Knowing full well that the later in the day that it got, the worse the winds would get, so I just pushed on for the mountains hoping for the best but expecting the worst.  The clouds were reaching for the heavens.  I knew from all my time in the Colorado Rockies that those were mountain thunderstorms building on the horizon.  At this point I'd been on the road for 35 days and hadn't seen one drop of rain.  I knew instinctively that was about to come to an end.  But knowing that a fellow rider was posted up in San Cristobal awaiting my arrival, I picked up my bloated moto and raced on for Chiapas.

Soon after crossing under the sign to Chiapas, which was proceeded by a military checkpoint with some smiling soldiers that tried to barter all of my camping posessions from me, including my flashlight, that Dru Chlebeck had given me last winter, my headlamp and then they tried to tell me that my Gerber hunting knife, that was a grooms gift from Ryan Johnson's wedding with my moniker laser etched on the  blade, was a dangerous weapon that couldn't be allowed into their state...  I worked deep into my Spanish lexicon and managed to keep my knife, turn down their trade deals politely and get into Chiapas with all of my belongings.  The wind died down and the landscape became incredible.  Winding roads lead me up into the fertile hills.  Ranches replaced windmills and the no littering signs carried a threat of a 90 days wage fine.  Surprising the litter actually disappeared from the roadside and I wondered why Chiapas was the first state to announce a penalty on the signs as it appeared to actually work.

Not long after this idyllic image was made I found myself ripping corner after corner of banked flawless asphalt down into the valley where the capital of Tuxtla-Gutierrez would be found.  I could see the clouds now.  They were big and purple and pregnant with the rains I'd yet to encounter in this journey.  I pushed further concentrating on the horizon when a horse leaped out onto the highway, his rider waving a red bandana frantically.  I immediately let off the throttle and started braking wondering what the hell was going on.  Was this my first run-in with Zapatista banditos?  I wondered when as I was about to gun it past him a herd of a hundred head of cattle charged across the highway without hesitation followed by another horseman wielding a lasso high overhead.  The boy waving the bandana smiled at me and waved me past.  I let out the clutch shaking my head in utter astonishment and awe.  My steed accelerated with calculated performance and we were off.  Another crisis narrowly averted.  Cows, bulls, storms on the horizon, and would you believe it if I told you "Riders on the Storm" came on in my iPod. Coincidence?  or Divine Revelation?  Are they any different really anyway?

Jamming to Jim I pushed on through the countryside wondering when I should pull over to put my Gore-Tex layers on...  I hopped onto the toll highway figuring with the waning day and the waxing storm, I'd better crush some mileage at the expense of some pesos.  Not long after getting up to 70 mph in the hills, the raindrops started one by one.  I pushed on.  When I came to the toll booth I pulled under an awning, took advantage of the lull in the storm and quickly undressed and zipped in my inner Gore-Tex preparing for the onslaught.

Sure enough.  My good dry luck had run out.  The rain wasn't too bad through to Tuxtla.  And in Tuxtla not really any.  But when I climbed up towards San Cristobal de Las Casas, things changed for the worse.  I didn't ride into the rain, I rode into the clouds.  The effect was similar to riding in a cup of milk. It got quite cold and very wet.  The roads were slick under my wearing rear tire.  I kept steady on the throttle not wanting to accelerate or decelerate too quickly afraid of the repercussions of an errant twitch.

Semis would emerge from the white soup so quickly that I'd have to swerve and pass them to avoid certain impact.  Oncoming cars raced down highway passing in my lane with no headlights on.  Why wouldn't you have your headlights on in foggy clouds of blindness?  Maybe to save gas?  I wrote this off as local ingenuity and held on to my last threads of sanity.  Don't forget only hours before I'd been blown clear off my bike by wind that threatened a trip to the hospital for a steady two hours straight.  Now with hardly a shard of persistence left but no option to stop or pull over because in Mexico a shoulder on the road would just be a waste of pavement.  A rendition of 1952 Vincent Black Lighting came on the pod.  I listened intently to the tragic story of two lovers and a motorcycle and decided at that point that I was going to write a living will and send it to Ryan for safekeeping.  I wanted that song to be played at my memorial service and for some strange reason, planning my memorial occupied my mind and provided me the calm to push through the storm.  Suddenly things became much brighter.  The clouds broke for thirty seconds.  Just long enough for me to look at the bright green wet countryside.  There tucked in the hills was a little yellow church.  A single ray of sunshine shot directly down upon its cupola.  O.k. God's here.  I might make it to San Cristobal alive after all.  Instantly I was back in the thick wetness praying for salvation from the semis and race car drivers.  But when I pulled into San Cristobal the fog evaporated and pockets of sunshine spilled onto the bright colonial architecture.

I hesitated to ask for directions to the hostal because winding through the streets in search of it was so fun.  The tile and cobblestone streets were wet and slippery as ice.  I kept 'Gigante' down to a slow rumble and we picked our way through the crowded narrow streets.

In total awe of the pretty colors and old architecture, I eased my way along taking it all in and silently giving thanks from inside my helmet.  What strength and determination it took to get here was by far superceded by the protection of the saints and guardian angels of two-wheeled transportation that conspired to land me safely here in this mountain oasis of pastel plaster and inspiring hillside temples of worship.

When I finally found the hostal, my heart sunk when they told me that it was full for the night.  But as I was slinking back into the wet streets to further my search, this tall white european guy came out and asked if I was Justin...  Well as a matter of fact, I am.  I came to learn this was Torbin, a fellow rider and adventurer with a story that compares to none.  Torbin opened the heavy wooden door and motioned for me to ride in.

Turns out my boy Benny Slavin had gotten my email after all and had take the liberty of booking me a room just in case I actually made it.  Torbin was waiting for me since Ben was out in a Zapatista village becoming a supporter and confidant of 'La Otra Compaña'.  Torben proceded to retell his story of riding his KLR deep into the Copper Canyon only to end up at the wrong end of an automatic rifle in the middle of some heavy marijuana fields.  He and his riding companions managed to be let go, but his bike later that night suffered sabotage by a brass fitting that was dropped in his oil tank.  He gathers that the drug bandits found his bike and hoping for a breakdown and subsequent abandonment might yield them a new moto without having to forcibly obtain it.  Torbin's story eased my nerves from my death march to town and made me realize that tough tests come in varied lessons.  His resulted in his bike sitting in the dealership in Tuxtla.  Instead of teardrops, this guy smiles, stands tall in his stature and digs in deep in San Cristobal enrolling in a several week Spanish school and personally seeking to find the best food for the best prices in town.  He immediately exhibited this knowledge and dragged me to a corner taco stand where we proceeded to gorge ourselves on 3.5 peso tacos.  I've been craving those damn tacos since I left that town.  And I have a sneaking suspicion that if Torbin is still in San Cris waiting on his bike, he's munching on those tacos right now.

What's wrong with this picture? (I promise you this didn't make Torbin's cut!)

(nor did this, but I couldn't help myself, the gummy raspberries and blackberries were the best.)

Of course I had to snap a shot of the plastic peddler in the waning evening light.  Who doesn't need some useless plastic crap to put a smile on their face?

This Zapatista mural was in another one of Torbin's restaurants of choice.  This place made bread, pastries and breakfasts of the finest locally sourced organic grains and produce.

Full of killer bright colonial architecture and great light, San Cristobal is a photographers dream.

Dr. Benny caught me in the act of pondering the maps.  He saw this great photo from his bunk in our dorm room and asked me to throw him a camera.  This shot turned out pretty sweet.  Thanks Ben.

We spent a couple days kicking around San Cris taking in the sights.  Another KLR rider pulled in the next night and little did we know what a fun turn of events would come.  I'll keep that for my next post.  But for now, I need to get out in the fleeting sunshine here on Isla and get me some tasty tacos.  Not quite the bargain that the tacos in San Cristobal were, but I've managed to find a favorite little shop here too.  Last night they were just closing and the old man that runs the restaurant was so bummed that I came too late he tried to give me the last taco he was eating as his own dinner.  I declined telling him there was no way I was going to steal his dinner.  I promised him I'd be back today, so I gotta bust a move and keep good on my promise!

Monte Albán Ruins, Oaxaca, Mexico...

Monte Alban




Words by Sarah Vee

Photos by Justin Kleiter




Friday, December 4, 2009




I will always remember the trees but not for the hue of the leaves or the delicate white flowers that flutter like silk in the strange tangible breeze. Instead I will remember them for the centuries I felt but never lived. For the company of strangers that I seem to know so well. I see myself still. Sitting upon a majestic staircase of stone. I wondered why I deserved to traverse this Holy Mountain. I wondered as my friend and I pondered the potential journey and destination of life- of being human. I and him sit together and in solitude. Wandering the ruins and picking up wisdom from the ancient steam. Watching the light as it changes through the passing clouds. Hours pass like seconds. Time is burnt into my skin. I live for these moments. My heart is always racing. For a moment I felt lost, but I have no destination.

A week in the Oaxacan Highlands...

It was with a heavy heart and teary eyes that I pulled away from the Hernandez farm headed for Oaxaca City today.  In six short days I’d grown quite an attachment to the whole family in Santa Cruz Nexila again.  I’m sure that I could have spent my whole winter there living that rural subsistence lifestyle.  Homemade food made fresh daily over open fire.  A slow constant buzz of activity with always a task waiting to be finished.  But my journey must continue...

After my run-in with the Gestapo in Acapulco, I was really looking forward to getting to my cousin-in-laws farm.  I bid a quick ‘see you later’ to my new moto friend Ben in Puerto Escondido. (He was nice enough to follow me to the ATM to make sure I could withdraw some more money to make it up into the mountains.)  He told me to take it easy riding into the hills.  He warned that the roads quickly deteriorate and that the potholes could catch a guy off-guard.  He also clued me in that within 50 miles I’d be close to 6000 feet above sea-level.  This was welcome news as I knew that with the elevation gain would come a temperature drop.  I was growing weary in the sweaty humid heat of the coast, so some cooler weather riding was comforting news.

It was Thanksgiving Day after all, and with much to be thankful for I gassed it into the hills.  The constant curves and astonishing scenery pushed the thoughts of the Policia far from my mind.  I took in the everchanging beauty with every turn, loving the coolness that came on the higher I rode.  The trees became taller.  The vegetation more varied.  At one point corn grew alongside banana trees and jungle like vines draped down to the meadow grasses as I passed from the coastal ecology to the mountain zone.  The road did in fact get worse.  Dodging potholes added a whole new effect to the constant switchbacking up the mountainside.  My very own video game.  A KTM version of Frogger.  ‘Gigante’ was loving it as much as I was and we rallied on up into the mountains.  Our sybiotic relationship growing stronger with every mile.

I passed local machete toting farmers hoofing it along the roadside and played leapfrog with the other automobiles on the same trek.  At the pass, I stopped to take in the vista and breathe the fresh air for a moment while munching on freshly roasted peanuts I’d picked up from a roadside stand.  And along came Bob.  I saw him before he saw me.  He’d come thumping around the corner on a totally customized Buell 1200, black with bright yellow boxes mounted up.  He pulled to a stop about a hundred yards uphill from me to take a picture of the awesome valley below us.  I waved him down when he finally saw me on the next switchback.

Bob is on his way home north to Washington on a great journey from South America, where he’d shipped his bike months ago.  Funny thing was... he was heading south.  Even funnier, I was heading north.  Each of us heading in the wrong direction from our destinations, we were equally thrilled with this road.  We shared some enthusiasm, he shared some information from Central America and then in an act of great generousity, he gave me his maps for Belize, Guatemala, Panama and Colombia along with a couple of hostels to look for along the way.  We chatted for a half hour or so, took a couple of pictures of each other for memory sake and each peeled off getting further from our destinations yet somehow closer to the goal.

I was really stoked to be out riding.  The weather was great.  The conditions were great and the scenery unbelievable.  When I peaked over the pass, I came to a military checkpoint.  The typical verbal exchange was had and I was waved off on my way.  It wasn’t until I’d ridden away that I realized that I’d misunderstood the soldiers question and had told him I was from Argentina.  I guess those details didn’t matter, or he understood what I was trying to say anyway.  He warned me of the hundreds of cyclists and walkers who were on an annual pilgrimage to the shrine of the Virgin of Juquila.

A few short hours later and I was pulling up to the homestead in Santa Cruz Nexila.  I had butterflies in my belly as I made the final turns into the valley I recognized from my visit last December.  When I pulled up to the gate, I was surprised to see a new house in the process of being built behind the bamboo and tin-roofed structures I was expecting.  Maria was up on the rooftop spreading out pumpkin seeds to dry and Carlos and the two youngest girls were there too.  They opened the corrugated tin gate and waved me excitedly into the yard.  I revved ‘Gigante’ up the rocky slope and pulled to a stop in the middle of all the barking dogs.

I wasn’t even off the bike yet and I was getting hugs from Maria and the girls.  Carlos came up and was studying ‘Gigante’ thoroughly.  We exchanged greetings and they told me that Justino was out in the fields with the animals.  Carlos helped me unload my bike before taking a walk through town with me.  We caught up as best we could, he talking slowly and me doing my best to understand and communicate in return.  We managed quite well really.

Justino was stoked when he walked through the gate and saw me there hanging out with the kids.  He looked the part with his straw hat and deeply browned skin, machete in hand.  We talked for awhile and then called home to my mom’s place where we knew everyone would be together for Thanksgiving Dinner.  We chatted with them and then retired to the cookhouse for some dinner of our own.  Tasty fresh corn tortillas with a black bean stew unique to this region, lightly flavored with local Oaxacan chocolate used to make mole.  I instantly remembered how much I love Maria’s cooking.

A couple of days here and I’d forgotten my woes of tourist town struggle and the race down the coast to get here.  Everything slowed way down.  I was fortunate to get to spend a lot of time with all the family members.  The town of San Andreas Zabache was having their annual Fiesta, so several nights we taxied down the 5 kilometers to drink beer in the streets, dance and watch traditional Mexican Rodeo bull riding.

When I found myself extremely hung over wishing that I could just die until the devils went away, Cayetano showed up outside my tent with a special tea.  His wise old eyes, weathered hands outstretched grasping the steaming cup, seemed to tell all.  It was our first individual encounter in both of my visits here.  A shy old man in his early sixties, we’d finally found common ground in a hangover.  Cayetano, Justino’s father, is no stranger to the Mezcal, which when consumed pure as they do in the fields must create a crushing hangover.  I could see in his eyes that he understood my pain.  He handed me the tea and told me it was called “Te de Borrachos” or “Tea of the Drunks” made of a herb of the same name.  It was bitter and astringent and sure as shit, my headache and stomach ache were gone in a half hour.  I was out of the tent and in the afternoon sunshine.  He walked around the corner and gave me a knowing smile with his hand tipped to his hat in a half wave half salute that is his customary salutation.

I bet in the 10 or so days that I’ve been around him we’ve exchanged less than 50 words.  I realized this day, that it is just his shy quiet nature, and not a dislike for me the foreigner visiting his humble home.  There was a deep comforting glow to his eyes that until that morning I’d never seen from under his straw sombrero.  Maria his second wife shared that same comforting warmth along with a lack of much conversation.  Mostly I’m sure this is due to my crappy spanish but also since spanish is a second language for them as well.  They speak in a heavy slang dialect of their area.  With each other they use their mother tongue of Zapoteco, a ancient indigenous language descended from pre-conquistador times.  Much of their lifestyle aside from the electricity, water spigot in the yard and other various modernities is the same as the old days.

I spent several hours with Maria, mostly in silence husking corn and removing the dried kernels from the cobs to be ground down into masa for tortillas and tamales.  Watching her make mole from scratch on a stone grinding table with a stone grinding pin, I realized that times have changed but very slowly here in the hills tucked away south of Oaxaca City.  It is a true treat to witness this lifestyle and to have this connection to this wonderful family.  It is one thing to do a traditional homestay on a farm in a foreign country.  Another thing entirely to do a homestay with a family that is connected to mine through marriage.  It is this connection, and their unending hospitality that makes it so hard to leave them.  And so it truly was with heavy heart and teary eyes that I rode away from the farm this morning.  A truer connection to real rural Mexico isn’t to be found anywhere for me.