Adventure Log

Miramar

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

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

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

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

Palenque

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

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

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

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

Campeche

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

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

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.

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.

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

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 3^rd gear, at others I was happy to cruise along in 2^nd. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 fucking 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.

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.

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.

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 antibiotics, 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.

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 1^st or 2^nd gear, the other 50 in 3^rd. 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 (ultimateride.ca). 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.

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! 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 finge

rs 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.   

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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 camaraderie with her and two other bikers that joined us, debilitating infections, idyllic virgin beaches, breathtaking landscapes and endless days of off-roading.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 (See the Poetry Tab). 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.

Temazcal

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.

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.