Adventure Log

What people think:

“This is so amazing, I wish I could drop everything and travel the world, you are so lucky, I am soo jealous. I wish I could be as free as you.”

“You are so brave to do this. You are doing what millions wish they could do.”

”You get to see incredible places, and meet all kinds of different people, and you don’t have to lead a mundane life and go to a stupid job you hate. “

“You are doing this on a motorcycle? That is so cool!…”

Though I am lucky and I do get to experience and see and eat what others never will, there is a whole other side to my reality which people do not realize, and which, I am guessing, would make them slightly less jealous of me…

 

What it actually is:

My face is burned from the sun and in constant pain from rocks and bugs of various sizes and densities hitting it at 70mph.

My hands vibrate for hours after dismounting from my single cylinder’s attempt to satiate my desire for ever greater velocity around mountain bends.

I am either hot and sweaty or freezing cold most of the time; rare is the day when I comfortably ride in the clothes I have on. And once wet and cold only a hot shower can restore my body – and that is not always so easy to find.

I am never relaxed as absolutely everything, from rocks, sand, weather, the road, cars and trucks to stray dogs, birds, and other wild animals… and even the very tires that are supposed to keep me upright, is constantly threatening my life.

Every border crossing or checkpoint leaves me a little breathless and wondering how much money it will take for me to continue (though thankfully so far I have only had to pay 2 bribes).

My lips are burned and chapped and I’m in a general state of dehydration because often there is just not a good place to pull over and drink.

My head hurts from the constant squeezing of a helmet.

My back, neck and shoulders are in constant pain from not being able to move to a comfortable sitting position, again, for hours on end.

My eyes are dry from the wind finding its way around glasses and goggles, no matter how tightly they are wrapped around my head.

I have hemorrhoids the size of fists from sitting for endless hours on a hard, viciously vibrating leather seat.

I go for days without showering or changing shirt and underwear – the resulting funk is enough to distract me from the keeping my bike on two wheels.

I sleep in questionable places, under questionable conditions – usually uncomfortably, which results in few hours of sleep per night and a perpetual state of exhaustion, magnified by the after-effects of a constant rush of adrenaline from being on a motorcycle.

There is rarely a ready reprieve from the dirt, wind, rain, mud, salt, loneliness, danger or discomfort. It comes and goes, but almost never when I need it most.

The water and food are always changing, never giving my stomach a rest or time to catch up and get used to the place’s particular family of bacteria and parasites. The effects need not be mentioned.

But lets mention them anyway: in three months (out of 2 years now) I took more antibiotics than in the last 16 years. I’ve had throat, lung and stomach infections, which have left me writhing in pain for days.

Best of all: I’ve had dengue. Though I am alive today, there were a few days where I was not so sure…

I got tendinitis in my hand which forced me to get an injection of anti-inflammatory meds. The pain is not something I can accurately describe – but I did consider chopping off my hand just to stop it.

As a writer I am beset by the constant flux of incredible events from which I must separate myself in order to write about them – hence the paradox.

The bike is such an incredible drain on my resources I may as well have stayed in New York with a girlfriend.

There is a loneliness which is omnipresent – no matter with how many people I find myself, nor how wonderful they may be, all relationships on the road are ephemeral, and hence are dissatisfying to some degree from beginning to end.

 

Then again…

These are just a few of the difficulties I face, almost on a daily basis. After 10 years and 100,000 miles you get used to a lot of it; the hard part is not having a break from it. But in the end it is this shared struggle with other bikers from around the world which brings so much meaning, and so much joy, to every wave we share as we pass each other on the long road. It is this struggle which binds us as an international, inclusive community of incredibly diverse people. And of course what I see in months, 99% of people won’t see in 9 lifetimes. And the people I meet are so wonderful that my faith in humanity is renewed on a daily basis. So I say it’s worth it, but then again I’m a little insane.

 

Mexico City is everything one would expect from one of the biggest and most populated cities in the world. No matter how much I love and long for nature, there

 is an undeniable pulse, which only a big city has, toward which I am drawn – like a drug addict seeking his next high. The saturation of culture, the abundance and excess, the variety, the opportunity, the food, the women… a big city seems to have everything, and when you are deep within its cage it is easy to forget, for long periods of time, that you have not taken a deep breath in months. This is particularly true in this sprawling bowl of exhaust which we call Mexico City, where carpets of gray crawl ever higher upon the surrounding hills. Greens and Golds and Browns, all turn to gray with the continuous onslaught of a population which refuses to curb its reproduction for outdated Catholic bans on birth control. Every now and then a bright spot of pink, orange or red, but they are mere blips in the countless miles of gray concrete buildings.

Jorge, a brother of a friend from Ensenada, welcomed me into the frenzy on the very first night, and there we stayed until I left 3 weeks later. Most nights someone was over at his apartment, or we at one of his friends’, and with every gathering came drinking, smoking, singing, dancing and guitar playing. For countless nights we stayed up until the sun came up singing and laughing our hearts out. I have never been so reminded of Russians!

I have noticed this parallel between Russians and Mexicans before, but in Mexico City it was truly solidified. The large presence of communists, past and present, serves to further accentuate the parallel. During the height of Mexican art, in the 20’s, two of its foremost artists – Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo – were staunch supporters of communism (and even sheltered Trotsky in his exile). This means that so much of Mexico’s public art works, particularly murals, are of the Socialist Realism kind. Frida even decorated her corsets with hammers and sickles.

No matter the style, art in general stands at a very high level in Mexico – less for its collection of world masterpieces, and more for what it produces. Few Mexican artists have made it to worldwide fame, even of the 4 great muralists only one is truly known outside his country. But that says nothing of the quality of art found here. From little Ensenada, all the way to Oaxaca, I was constantly impressed by what I saw. Even modern artists in Mexico produce phenomenal work. There was, however, a strange dichotomy: as excellent as the art was, the curation and organization of the museums was generally quite poor. The organization of the pieces often made little sense; the lighting, with few exceptions, was horrible; and the amount of mislabeled and un-labeled pieces, or mistranslated labels, was astounding. This, however, did not stop me going to dozens of museums – all of which were treasure-troves of expression, color, evidence and history.

Some excellent examples of museums which are an absolute must, and not to be missed: Museum of Anthropology,Museum of Modern Art, Frida Kahlo House, Dolores Olmedo Museum, Templo Major, and Teotihuacan.

The enormous pyramids of Teotihuacan are an incredible sight. To walk down the ancient streets is to experience, in part, the grandeur of a society which flourished even before the Mexica (Aztecs). The site museum has excellent artifacts, and they are constantly revealing new buildings. Plaza Major, to the side of the cathedral, is the original center of the Mexica empire, from which pyramids the stones were taken to build the cathedral and plaza. You can literally look through layers of pyramids and see how the culture slowly grew and expanded in magnificence. The museum of Anthropology contains artifacts from the earliest settlers of the country all the way to the conquista. It’s breadth is overwhelming, as it covers every native group to have occupied the territory over the last 10,000 years, and therefore requires at least 2 days. The Dolores Olmedo museum is a treasure of Rivera’s and Kahlo’s smaller works, as well as a plethora of ancient artifacts. The grounds alone are worth a visit as they are beautifully groomed, and teeming with peacocks, geese, ducks, birds, hairless Mexican dogs… and other free roaming animals. The Frida Kahlo museum speaks for itself, and sometimes has special exhibitions of the family’s personal effects which give some insight into this spirited and revolutionary woman.

There was little else I could do besides go to museums as the city is quite expensive (for me).  The wide range of fine food was as out of my range as it is for the average Mexican family. Luckily the markets serve delicious meals, and fresh squeezed juices, for around a dollar. The one thing I did splurge on – I could not help myself – was a concert at Bellas Artes – a theater worthy of its position in the capital of New Spain. I knew that it would be a very long time before I heard classical music again, so I had to go – another excellent decision!

For a person so rooted in European culture, big cities are a very real need. Most smaller towns in Central America do not have ballet or opera or art exhibitions or jazz. No matter how much I rather stay in the mountains, I’m inevitably drawn back to cities.  I was also curious about one of the biggest Jewish communities in Latin America and decided to make my annual, random, trip to a synagogue. In a rare moment, I was unwelcome somewhere, and of all places it was a synagogue. You can find the detail here.

I normally do not stay anywhere for too long, but in this case it was fate that I should. Jorge’s aunt was fighting breast cancer, and because I have experience with my mother’s two year battle, I readily offered to help. We spent most of a few days running from store to store looking for all the things she would need to follow the diet that in part cured my mother, and in part allowed her to withstand 2 years of chemo! I translated the diet into English, set her up with the food, and brought her a great book on how to help the fight with your mind (as most cancer is stress related). The whole family got together in the valiant effort to save her. This was all around Christmas – a perfect time to have everyone together, to feel the positive energy from those who care most about you. (For more information on how my mother beat her stage 4, spread throughout her breast, lungs, bones and lungs, cancer, please email me directly)

Christmas in Mexico City was a beautiful, if a little strange, time.  The family kept most of the traditions, like the procession, call and response prayer of Mary asking to come into the home, the piñata, the traditional dishes like Bacalao, and of course singing and dancing. What gave it a kick was Jorge’s uncle, a chef who likes to make an occasional foray into producing gay porn films, who decided to stuff the piñata with little penis straws, condoms, lube, a ball-gag… you know, the traditional Christmas piñata stuffing. But the whole family had a blast – surely it was not his first time doing that. His greatest contribution was his artisanal Mezcal.  Made from agave that can only grow wild on mountain slopes (all efforts to cultivate it have failed), it was the earthiest, most delicious Mezcal I have ever tasted – and I spent 3 weeks in Oaxaca (where Mezcal comes from) proving it.  It was another night which lasted well into the morning, and was full of deliciousness of many kinds. I was truly beginning to feel that I had found another brother in Jorge.

But, inevitably, I was torn away with my need to continue. It is always hard to leave good people, but every once in a while it feels like a tearing apart. I’ve been fortunate enough to have made friends for life on my journey, and unfortunate enough to have had to leave every single one. I only pray the road, or the world, will bring us together again.

 

Rejected at God’s Door in Mexico City

In the last 20 months of travel I have found myself without a place to go many times: sometimes in a city, sometimes in the country, sometimes in the rain, and usually at night. But every time I found myself in need, someone stepped up and opened their home to me. I have felt welcome and warm so many times, but I am sad to say that on one chilly Shabbat in Mexico City was not one them.

It had been a while since I had gone to a synagogue, but that need to reconnect or rediscover the Jewish community was upon me – which is a natural impulse for a Jew, regardless of religiosity or spirituality. In 3 months I haven’t even seen a Jew, let alone a synagogue. Mexico is a Catholic country through and through, and only makes the occasional foray into Evangelism, so synagogues are not part of the normal religious fare. But I knew that Mexico City had a Jewish community, and small as it may be, it is the biggest in Central America, and I was very curious to see what it was all about.

I arrived, a good hour before the start of Shabbat, at a building which had no outward sign of being a synagogue. The only reason I stopped was because Google maps indicated that that is where it should be. I was doubtful as Google is often wrong south of the border, so I approached one of the two security-looking gentlemen to ask if this was the synagogue. I couldn’t remember the name at first, so I stumbled a bit, trying to get him to help me out, but he just kept asking for what I was looking, and what I was looking to do. I eventually remembered the name, Ramat Shalom, but they still refused to confirm that that is where I was.

Eventually I dismounted my bike, gave the man my ID, and waited for him to write down my information and call someone from the “organization”. I sat on the curb waiting as people slowly began to arrive – the kippah’s gave away where I was.

About 15 minutes later a young man showed up, greeted me in a friendly way but didn’t say Shabbat Shalom. He started asking me about what I was doing, where I was from, where I was going, why I wanted to come to shul… we talked like this for a while and then he asked me to fill out a form, an application or questionnaire of sorts. It looked like a job application which also asked about my synagogue and Rabbi. I stood, leaning against the wall of the building, filling out this form. The young man then took the form and told me he is going to check with the leaders, or board, and will return momentarily.

Is anyone appalled yet that I had not been invited inside to do this? Is anyone shocked yet that, upon seeing that I am pretty obviously Jewish, have a Magen David on my neck, an Israeli flag sticker on my bike, AND want to come inside on Shabbat, I am still standing outside waiting for permission? If you are not that’s fine, because when he came back 15 minutes later, I was informed that I was not allowed to enter.

How about now?

I’ve been to mosques and churches with my Star of David dangling around my neck. I was welcomed to Hamas and Fattah homes in the West Bank, complete strangers have given me food and places to stay, even the Zapatistas allowed me to spend a night in one of their villages (which is unheard of without permission from the Central Committee). I have been on the road now for 35,000km and 20 months, and the only rejection I have known came from a synagogue, on Shabbat.

The young man apologized, said that if it were up to him he would let me in, and that he would give me a call the following week, after they had more time to “check my references”. That call never came.

Mexico City is not the safest place in the world but it is not Iran or Syria. It’s true that there has been violence and racism of one kind or another against Jews in the past, but nothing so serious or recent, nothing, in my opinion, that should prevent a Jew, clearly a Jew, from coming inside, especially on Shabbat. I felt more welcome in a Palestinian home than I did at Ramat Shalom.

Part II: The Climb

 

5pm:

Climbing Pico de Orizaba (Citlaltepetl) began at the workers hut at 3900m, from which it took me 6 hours to reach the Albergue hut (my high camp) at 4633. I can’t count the amount of times I stopped, removed my overweight pack and just sat there starring off into the misty valleys below. At around 3000m breathing becomes a chore. This effect grows exponentially with every passing 100m. Sometimes I would even stop after taking only 3 steps. By the time I reached the hut I had only the strength to collapse and stare up at the 45 degree slopes of Citlaltepetl.

The path, hut and surrounding area were littered with people’s trash. Like so many other parts of Mexico, the mountain suffers from Mexican’s disregard for nature. People don’t think twice about tossing their soda cans and chip bags out of car windows, or on what could be a pristine path in the mountains – the concept of “leave no trace” has yet to make it south of the border.

 

11:30pm:

The wind, which brought a deadly chill to the evening had vanished, leaving a starry sky and a rare calm. For a mountain it didn’t even feel particularly cold.

After lying in the sleeping bag for hours I managed a mere 20 minutes of sleep. Add to that the broken hours of the previous night, and I could count on one hand the amount I have slept going on 3 days. At least the headache, which kept me from sleeping, had gone. Even my breathing felt a little less difficult. But still, I couldn’t sleep.

A group of 5 Mexican climbers came up around midnight. Within minutes they built a fire, and threw some tortillas and potatoes thrown on the first embers. We chatted for a while, talked about the mountain, climbing, Mexico, the filth of the hut… they offered me food and to summit with them later that night. This is just what I wanted – to not climb alone! But they needed to rest first and I couldn’t sleep. I figured I was a slower climber anyway, so I would depart at 1:30am with the hopes they would soon catch up.

 

1:30am:

It was just light enough that I opted against using my headlamp, and set off to an occasional gentle breeze and the helpful spotlight of the almost full moon which lit up the mountain.

Pale silvery glow of the rocks; hard shadows thrown from every minuscule pebble; shadows from larger boulders leaving in obscurity great swaths of path.

 

3:00am:

Based on my observations from 4600m, I determined what looked like to be the right path: a quick north-westerly traverse of a small boulder field to a rocky ridge leading up to the summit pyramid. The south side was nothing but a giant sand/dust and scree field – impossible to climb. The only options were the ridges and their relatively more stable ground, so I chose the one to the west – the closest to camp. The final approach on the south is entirely a scree field, but I would deal with that later. There was no snow or ice anywhere to help me. Whatever accumulation from a 3 day dump the previous week, was all gone.

As usual my going was slow, but it was not only the lack of oxygen which made me stop often to look around.

 

Directly south of Pico de Orizaba is another volcano, with an observatory at the top. To each side the valley is revealed and framed by two southern ridges of Pico. The stars in a cloudless sky, and the lights of the tiny pueblos, sparkled above and below. Hills to the far side of the valley retreated gradually into the ever-present mist. At that moment the whole world felt tranquil. I wanted less to go to the peak, than to remain in that contemplative calm.

Every step higher, as I rose above the ridge lines, revealed more and more of the valley. With every new twinkling pueblo I felt the warmth of a hearth and the comfort of a home. That it was 3a.m and I was alone on a vast and cold mountain, made no difference. Lights were on in the tiny clusters of civilization, which, by some miracle, remained in the fertile valley of Mexico’s section of the Pacific Ring of Fire. Conquest and disease, corruption and drug wars, French and American invaders, a dozen active volcanoes… all failed in displacing and snuffing out the lights below.

Sadly, what mountains are best for – contemplation, is not something they allow. No matter how fine the weather, more than 5 minutes of inactivity is the catalyst for a state of cold which is hard to get rid of.

I remember the views from every peak on which I have stood in the last 16 years. I also remember that every time I wanted to remain, to contemplate the great vastness, the insignificance of our hubris, the glorious testament to time and patience before me, I was always run off by the setting sun, 80mph winds, impeding frost bite, threatening cold or rain. As a matter of fact, in the last 16 years I have never spent more than 20 minutes at the summit of a mountain.

But only today did I realize that no matter the splendor of that view from the roof of the world – above clouds and pettiness – it is the presence in the mountains, whether in a valley or on a ridge, which is most gratifying. It is there, around, as opposed to on top the mountain, which lends one more time to observe and contemplate and listen to the great secrets which long ago every person knew.

And though I realized this, and with ever growing weakness from hunger, sleep deprivation, lack of oxygen and thirst, I still kept moving forward and higher.

But with every step my head grew more faint, my stomach more uneasy. As the water in my camel pack froze and wind began to pick up, every step became harder, and every time I would stop I nearly fell asleep on my feet. With the dehydration and increased altitude the headache returned to add to my joy. I began to feel dizzy and to stumble on the uneven and constantly changing path. What I thought would be a steadier climb turned out to be an alternating field of sand, scree and boulder. But in the moonlight I could not have known that traversing along the east side of the ridge would have allowed for a more constant, and therefore easier, assent.

Why, oh why did I not go to the north side where there is snow and ice and climbing makes more sense? The problem with sand and scree is that so often you need to take 2-3 steps in order to move forward 1. The constant sliding back and near rock slides which are avoided by draining spurts of energy, are the inglorious end to many a summit bid. For every 10 second burst of energy I needed a 4 minute rest. My fingers and toes grew more numb, and because I was not moving fast or continually enough, my body temperature kept falling.

 

5:30a.m:

I have now stopped and urged myself to turn around a hundred times. But after shacking myself from sleep and looking up to see how close the summit seemed to be, I would again venture a few steps. A few steps closer, a few steps higher, and the cycle repeats. I wished the sun would rise already and chase away the ominous shadows, but it remained bleak and dark and cold.

An agonizing hour later the grayness of the east began to take on a reddish hue. Finally the light is come! I stood gazing at the peak above and at the valley below. What splendor am I about to witness with the rising sun! I turned again toward the peak, took two steps, and in a moment realized I am still alone – the other climbers had not even started yet. My vision blurry, my head swimming, my water inaccessible; if I collapse and hit my head on a rock… I am alone. Even if the sun lights for me a golden path, that path would still take me through unstable ground at 30-45 degree angles. And if now I barely take 3 steps before almost falling from weakness…

With the summit so close I could taste it, I took out my GPS, marked my elevation at 5200m (my personal record), turned around and headed back to the hut.

Either as a consolation, or mocking, the sun rise was resplendent. I did not waste the opportunity to stop and gaze for as long as the wind would allow me.

As I approached the hut at 7:30a.m, the 5 Mexican climbers met me on the trail a few hundred paces from the hut. I told them about the trail, wished them luck, stumbled into the hut, made a cup of instant soup and passed out.

Part I: Getting There

The climb to the 3rd highest peak in North America, began in Orizaba, Veracruz (1200m).

The morning I was set to leave I went to rent an ice-axe to the only place for such equipment. It turns out they only rent at 2 day intervals, at 150 pesos per rental, and I needed 4 days. I have never heard of such a thing – a 2 day rental for climbing equipment! Even when I’ve taken a 3 day rental, and brought it back on the 4^th , I was never charged over. It is just not how the community works. I lost 2 hours finding this out and decided not to rent. The southern slope has no snow anyway.

After buying food for the mountain I went to Miguel’s (my host) house where his mother fed us an enormous and delicious breakfast of Eggs, beans, chilaquiles and coffee. Then, as I was packing Georgia a neighbor came up and asked where I was traveling. He had a pretty heavy gringo accent, so I switched to English. It turns out Dave came here 14 years ago, found a girl, married her, and has been here ever since. He is now the father of 2 beautiful daughters. The ice-axe incident at the store came up and he offered me his! The playa provides – even when far from it. He then invited me for a beer upon my return.

All of this delayed my departure more than it should have so I decided to see if Google had a more direct route than the one normally taken – which it found. However, what looked like a large road turned out to be a farmer’s road – made for horses, trucks and tractors – full of sand, rocks, ruts and holes. I ended up off-roading for almost 3 hours! I can’t believe this road was even on Google.

After a few hours, and yet another dump of poor Georgia, I arrived at the park. The first thing I did upon arrival was go the wrong way – I took a horrific road which lead nowhere.  I spent an hour navigating the most off-road and difficult riding in my life. It alternated sand, deep sand, boulders, rocks, mud, ruts and gravel. At one point I had to stop and clear boulders from 200ft. of road – which in itself is not the most difficult thing to do, except at 3900m, where it is hard to breathe for lack of oxygen, the activity takes on a whole other light. I can’t count how many times I almost dumped the bike as the wheels slipped on stones, stuck between boulders or in the sand, or simply due to my in-experience with off-roading. But miraculously I didn’t drop Georgia once. I eventually came to an impassible part and heard a whistle from behind. I stopped and saw some people on the slope to my left. I wasn’t sure if they were hikers and I had found the path, or if they were workers. It turned out to be the latter and they proceeded to inform me that I had made the wrong turn at Albuquerque. All I just went through I had to do again, and I had to do it without thinking or groaning because the sun was setting.  So I rode back, almost crashing the bike and smashing my head against boulders yet again. By the time I made it to the workers hut at the actual start of the trail, the sun was below the mountains, and Georgia had officially reached 3905m!

As I was unpacking I realized the ice-axe had fallen out! I quickly dumped my gear and started to ride back again! It was not my ice axe to lose. About a quarter mile down the road, before the tough parts began, I saw the workers walking toward me. One of them had my ice-axe in hand!

I rode back to the workers hut where I had left my gear. I asked the two older guys if they would not be bothered by me pitching my tent next to their hut. Instead of consenting, they invited me to sleep inside the hut. I hesitated at first, not wishing to cramp anyone’s sleep, but it turned out that there was room for at least two more. The night was getting bitter cold, and only promised to turn to freezing, so I gladly agreed. Shortly, the workers I had met on the trail arrived, and we all crowded around the fire. They put on a couple of kettles to make a punch from dried fruit and we talked and joked – huddling very close to the dancing flames. They offered me some punch and bread, and later when they heated a pot of meat and potatoes with some hand-made tortillas, they offered that to me as. It never fails that those with the least are always willing to share what they have. We then had a smoke and played cards. They taught me Hispaniola (a game similar to hearts or spades), to which I caught on, but still lost. By 8:30, as it was pitch dark and freezing, we retired to the hut where a fire was desperately trying to heat up the unsealed and un-insulated hut.

As usual I had a hard time sleeping and only managed a few uninterrupted hours. The rest of the time I spent going from sweat to cold, tossing and turning and going out to take a piss at midnight – always an adventure in the mountains. Never the less we all got up at sunrise – they went to work, I heated a cup of tea on the remnants of the fire, and wrote, before packing up and heading for the Albergue hut (my high camp before the summit bid the following day).

 

Upon first glance, Guanajuato (the state) is not very impressive. The rolling hills are pleasant, but are not as breathtaking as other parts of Mexico. The food is good, but not exceptional and does not rank among the best in the country (though I had the best steak quesadilla ever in a no-name shack along the highway). The towns are pretty, in a typical colonial way, but at first glance do not stand out. The people are calm which helps Guanajuato have the least amount of violence of any place in Mexico. The weather does not swing wildly, and mostly stays around a comfortable medium in the 70’s and 80’s. It sounds like the perfect place for retired expats to come – and they do! San Miguel de Allende, a town in Guanajuato, is more than 30% expat, and is accordingly 30% more expensive than the rest of the country.

Upon closer inspection Guanajuato (the city), is quite a feat of engineering, with lovely, bright colored buildings, a good University, café’s, bars, clubs, theaters and museums. It seems unprepossessing, but in the end it is a beautiful town build on, in and around mountains.  It was also the place of one of my warmest memories from Mexico:

I was walking by one of the churches when an old woman called to me from the front seat of a pickup. She asked me whether I could help her out of the truck. There was a man in the driver’s seat, but for some reason he did not want to get out. After I helped her down to the curb I proceeded to walk down the street, but as I turned to look at the church I saw the woman was still standing where I left her. I came back to her and asked whether she wanted to go to the church (which meant some steep steps, crossing the street in traffic, then more steps). She said yes, and so we slowly made our way down, across, down, and into the church. She kept thanking me profusely, but I kept saying that it was nothing. But that was a lie. The little time and trouble to help her was nothing indeed, but the effect it had on me was priceless. There are few things I enjoy more, or which make me feel as good, as helping an elderly woman. Every time I feel like it is my grandmother (long since passed) – that by helping the stranger I am somehow helping her, spending a few more moments with her. And inevitably I am drawn to tears (though I shed none).I wrote a poem the other day called “Abuelas”. It is about almost every old woman I know – particularly Russians, and what I have seen so far of those from non first-world countries. It is about my grandmother, and the woman I saw in the street selling nuts, about the woman in the market who clutched at her cane with a gnarled hand, the one less gnarled than the other, but walked on, and worked her day somehow. It is about the women I see with bent back carrying loads that few men would undertake to carry, with baskets as big as themselves resting atop their heads. Women who do not give up, survive the impossible, who work until their dying day – not only because they have to, but also because they would never allow themselves to earn money by beginning. They inspired me to write, and I hope for many more opportunities to do what I can to them.

 

Before heading for Mexico City I decided to stop by San Miguel de Allende. I normally avoid tourist towns like the plague, particularly the thought of being in a place with so many ex-pats where prices are significantly higher, usually makes me go the other way. But I heard so many great things about the place I could not just skip over it – excellent decision! The town was incredibly beautiful – a perfect picture of colonialism. Though typical in many way, it was excellent in each of those ways: the streets were clean; trees, flowers and bougainvillea everywhere; the houses freshly painted; stone fountains and sculptures everywhere; the churches small but surprisingly beautiful. The town just did everything right – it got better around every corner I turned. A magical place indeed.

My host welcomed me into her beautiful home overlooking the whole town, and to the most comfortable bed and hottest shower I’ve had since leaving California. It was Thanksgiving, and instead of tortillas, tacos, quesadillas and the like, I had a traditional Thanksgiving meal – replete with turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberries, and pie! The 7 bottles of wine helped bring that old, familiar feeling of coziness and satisfaction.

The seven bottles were an avenue to yet another situation in which I found myself at the threshold of an encounter with an older woman.  Had I pursued it I would have found myself knee deep in a Daniele Steele novel: the exotic, Mediterranean looking, setting; a young lover come to quell the passions of a woman who never stopped being consumed by the fire of carnal passion; fine foods and excellent wines to lure him in, dancing provocatively to Latin rhythms…  The presence of her young nephews helped me make the right decision though.

It was a place I where I could have easily stayed to write for a while. But the more perfect it was, the more I felt the itch to keep moving. I was slowly starting to see the fallacy of my decision to travel in order to have the time to write.

Every once in a while a person gets a bad feeling about a place, and is unable to explain why. Sometimes this turns out to be intuition, at others it remains a mystery as the feeling gets proven wrong over time. I felt this way about Michoacan (the state) and Morelia (its capital) at first, but at the same time I could not bring myself to leave. It was like two opposing internal, subconscious, forces vying for the ultimate impression of the place. I ended up staying for 3 weeks, and could not be happier that I did – Michoacan turned out to be a wonderful place, full of art, music and the best food I will have had in Mexico.

A random entrance into a room in a museum brought me in contact with some local, country wide, and international artists. They invited me to the opening of the exhibition which I accepted. Something about one of them struck me and I followed her downstairs and began a conversation. I did not invite her to join me that day, which I should have done, but instead planned to meet her at the opening. The next day though, in the hopes of seeing her there I came back to the not yet ready exposition, and was invited out for a drink with one of the artists. That night, at the bar, not only did I meet her, I met a girl from couch surfing who had gone salsa dancing with us a couple of weeks ago, as well as 3 friends of Lupita and Christof (my hosts near Patzcuaro)whom I had met the week before in Patzcuaro. Then Ray (my host in Morelia) came by with some friends in the hopes of catching the game. I was at once surrounded by a dozen people I knew. What is even more fascinating is that most of them new each other as well. We sat and talked and laughed, it felt like we had been friends forever. The soul of the artist truly knows no borders: Mexican, Argentinian, my own fucked up combination of identity, we all vibed and understood each other immediately.

Earlier that day I met a girl in a café, who, after a couple of hours of excellent conversation, invited me to a party that night. We arrived at a beautiful house, and the first thing we noticed was the incredible abundance of art on the walls. It turned out every person there was either a painter, sculptor, photographer, musician or actor. I felt like I was back in New York. It was yet another party where no more than 5 minutes into it we broke out in song… and did not stop till four in the morning.

What began as a wonderful party, turned, on a dime, into a domestic dispute for the ages. Neither I nor Cass knew how or why it started, but singing turned to silence as the last guests left, and silence turned to violent screaming and pleas to be allowed to leave from the wife of the host. She did not look drunk, yet he locked the gates so she could not leave. He did not seem like a violent person (and he is not), yet he did not want her to leave. Fierce screaming and wailing for hours on end did not bring forth complaints from neighbors or cops. She was literally screaming bloody murder at some point, and yet no one came. Perhaps they knew, perhaps it was not new to them, and they were aware that he would not hurt her. But such screaming! And then the breaking of a glass. And then another. Then more screaming, and his calm pleas for her to calm down. And then things began to shake and shatter as she broke more and more things of greater size and mass. My friend and I hid away in the spare bedroom upstairs and could only imagine what was being destroyed – it sounded like the entire house, including windows.

The whole day, from the café, to the bar, to the party, and it’s horrific end, all felt like we were in a Woody Allen film about artists.

 

The next day I went to the opening of the exhibition. The theme was “art inspired by music”, and every one had headphones with the musical pieces that inspired each work of art. What made it all the more interesting were 2 painters and a ballerina between whom I was rather desperately trying not to choose. To top it off I met again a rather famous artist who had invited me to stay in her studio, but whose phone number I lost. This fateful meeting brought me to her studio and to a lovely conclusion of my stay in Morelia.

She is a nice person, but, what is more important is that I really enjoy her art. She is self-obsessed, as most artists are, but if you overlook that, you will see the skill and beautiful vision of her work. In her breaks from self, she asked to see my photography and poetry, which, if she is to be believed, is very good. She stopped every few lines to express her love of a line, an image, or an idea. She was very moved and excited and said she would like to do something with me – for me to write a poem for a painting she made for a show in Paris. I know better than to believe anything is a surety until after it occurs, but what do I have to lose by writing a poem for a piece of work I like anyway.

Staying in her studio was like a dream. When you walk in through the massive gates, to the left is a long building with virtually no internal walls – her studio. Filled with works, old, new, and incomplete – each better than the previous. Just beyond the studio is an abandoned Studebaker – to give it that antique charm that only old cars can. At the far end of the cobbled path between the studio and the tree-filled green space, is a tiny house with giant windows for walls. A beautiful little bedroom, with an exquisite bed, to the left; a sitting/dining room to the right; and a small kitchen in the back. It was too perfect. I forced myself to leave after a few days, fearing if I did not I would stay forever.

To end my stay I went to see a display of flower art. Carpets of petals, flowers, twigs, cones, and other parts of trees and flowers, flowed for 3 blocks under a canopy of elms. Such beautiful work, it was almost unreal at times – that such things, from various patterns to three dimensional pieces, could be made from just petals. And just like the incredible works of art at Burning Man, all of this would be destroyed after only a few days on display. So much time, energy and creativity put forth only to be enjoyed for a brief moment.

 

Perhaps that final display was what helped me leave. No matter how wonderful Michoacan turned out to be, I still had the whole world ahead, and it was time to move on.

Sinaloa to Michoacan

Colonial towns dotted the serpentine road around a luscious landscape: hills, mountains and volcanoes covered thickly with trees and bushes. Fields of sugarcane and blue agave; palms and cacti… everything grows and in abundance. The air is thick with moisture and billions of insects and butterflies.
Every village with its own specialty: Noni juice, honey, dried shrimp, a style of bead art or ceramics… no village the same, no product repeated even if the places were but 50 miles apart.

Every town now looks like it was built from one 450 year old colonial blueprint: main plaza; church on one side, a park with a pavilion in the center; arched single or double story buildings, one of which is the municipality, on the other three sides of the plaza.

The verisimilitude is great because I need not bother to stop. Mexican states vary greatly from each other, but internally one or two towns are generally representative of the rest of the state. And so Sinaloa, Nayarit and Jalisco flew by. I gave Tequila its due by sampling some fine, aged tequila – which duly blew my mind – I never knew tequila could be so delicious: it had all the silkiness and complexity of a fine cognac. As I was in a hurry to make it to Patzcuaro in Michoacan for Dia de los Muertos, I stayed in Guadalajara (the capital of Jalisco) for only a few days. I regret that decision to this day.

In three days Guadalajara managed to entice and excite me to the point that I would think of it every week for the rest of my 6 months in Mexico. Every day there was live music; on the street, in bars and on the October Festival stage. The streets were filled with delicious food and beautiful women. The festival provided a great variety of music, from traditional Mexican music like Mariachis, to pre-colonial, to a modern folksy pop. People dancing and singing along – a great joy was spread throughout this international hub. It was hard to leave, but I could not miss the Day of the Dead in the place where Mexicans form every corner of the country come.

 

Dia de los Muertos

I got to Morelia just in time to drop my things off and rest for the night. The very next day, about 30 couchsurfers and hosts from around the world and Mexico boarded a van and a bus to go to Lake Patzcuaro and the surrounding villages for Dia de los Muertos.

The party started right away and we drank and sang and laughed. I met a Russian with whom I could talk – it felt so wonderful to speak Russian again. I always feel so comfortable with people who speak Russian, and so quickly.  Kostya’s grandparents were forced from a border area in Korea into Russia at the start of the Second World War, and have lived there ever since. It was a buffer zone created by the Russians for the war with Japan. Yet another example of how horrible Russia is, and yet we feel so good when we find each other abroad – no matter our background.

I got drunk. It has been a while since I have been so – it was great fun, but thankfully I had the sense to stop in time so as to observe the holiday and what was going on.

The day of the dead is not a sad time, or so I‘m told. There are many tourists who flock to see the graveyards decorated with marigolds and deep red flowers, fruit, bread, candy and candles. People sit vigil all night at the graves of their loved ones. They answer questions and tolerate the tourists, but I did not see joy in their faces, I did not feel festivity in their souls – only in the drunk tourists who abounded. I’m told one thing, but I see another. I’m told it’s festive, and yet the people there did not seem so. I felt intrusive, and sickened by the presence of drunk tourists taking pictures. I did not see any disrespect for the grave sites or towards the locals, yet I could not help but feel that we did not belong, that we should not be there. Though most of the tourists were Mexican, I still feel as though this is no way to intrude upon others. If you do not want to go to the graves of your family, then stay in the city – party, get dressed up, paint your face, have a good time. Why bring the hoopla to a sacred place? You want to see the beautiful decorations, come the next day, or the next night when the families of those past are not there. I know that we have a different tradition in Russia (and in the U.S and as Jews), and that I should understand and accept others – and I do, but I cannot reconcile what I am told and what I saw. We did not belong. Mexican or otherwise, we should have been somewhere else.

I did my best to stay out of the way, I did not laugh or sing or take pictures or disturb the people there, and perhaps that is a happy medium, but I still felt like we should have just stayed on the bus and gone to the city for a good time in the streets and bars.

 

A Magic Moment

A few days later I again found myself in the magical city of Patzcuaro, sitting in a hotel lobby, full from soup, simmered pork, rice, pasta and tortillas (all for $2). The rain was coming down yet again. I don’t remember a day without rain since I have gotten to Michoacan.

I wrote to some couchsurfers in and near Patzcuaro – to no avail. A friend from Morelia tried to contact his friend in the village – nothing. It got dark, the rain was still coming, and I had nowhere to go. I decided to walk around the market again because sitting in the open hotel lobby was too cold and waiting for nothing makes no sense. I picked a lane in the market and started walking, looking at all the beautiful crafts brought from many parts of Mexico for the holiday. As I looked up from yet another table of brightly colored skulls and skeletons, I saw a familiar face. Not familiar in that we have met, but in that I have seen it somewhere before. Right away the name Lupita came to my mind and I came up to her. “Lupita?”, “Sii…” she responded with a bit of shock since she has never seen me before. She was the person to whom I wrote on couchsurfing weeks ago asking if I could stay with her for the holiday. She had to decline because she had too many requests as it was. I explained who I was, which put a beautiful smile on her face, and she offered for me to stay with her! I went from wet, cold, nowhere to go in the dark, to a clean bed in a rustic adobe house near a tiny village on Lake Patzcuaro!
Another magical moment in Mexico!

 

I ‘m staying with Hiram, whom I met in Jerusalem, in a hostel, earlier this year. His invitation to stay with him in La Paz was not an empty one. Not only have I been sleeping in a bed and eating delicious food, my days have been filled with great conversation and learning about much of Mexican culture, politics and history. To cap it off he set me up with a snorkeling tour to Isla Espiritu Santo! 

In the morning we set off in a skiff over water so clear that the bottom could be seen at a depth of over a hundred feet! Yannick, a fellow couch surfer I met on my first night in La Paz, was there. Yannick is a Frenchman who married a Mexican girl, lives in Monterrey and teaches French half of the year in Martinique – a long lost brother! We spent yesterday at the beach, swimming in warm clear water and drinking beer – we were basically a Corona commercial (a couple of French girls helped).

Whether on a motorcycle or boat, all I need is some wind in my face to be happy. Snorkeling, swimming with sea lions and eating fresh ceviche, help too.
Our first stop was snorkeling around some corral near Isla Espiritu Santo – a volcanic, UNESCO protected island off the coast of La Paz. Perfect, calm water; schools of fish and solitary crustaceans; a living reef; birds diving for their lunch; the water a wide palate of greens and blues. Afterwards we went to the sea lion colony on the island. Hundreds and hundreds of sea lions, swimming, sunning, playing, fighting, singing, grunting and roaring (perhaps even belching). Seeing the 600lbs bulls is a little off-putting, but they never came over to interrupt our fun. The babies, teenagers and even older males and females swam with and around us. Some played with each other, others played with us. There is an indescribable magic about a wild animal acknowledging your presence and taking a part in your life, if only for a short time.
After hours of snorkeling, swimming and discovering tunnels and caves, we went to another island for fresh ceviche and some relaxation. The ride back to mainland was tinted with the warm glow of the setting sun, over a now denim blue sea.

It’s getting hard to keep up with so many excellent days. Other than a couple of days of tough weather in the desert, so far, Mexico has been one endless smile.

There is, however, a new development which is disturbing to say the least: my left hand feels like it is tingling, vibrating, or slightly numb. This sensation is normal after many hours of riding, but usually passes within a couple of hours. It has now been a few days during which I have not ridden for more than an hour, and the sensation has not gone away. I’m not really sure what I can do. I don’t want to spend money on a doctor who will tell me that he doesn’t know why this is happening and just tell me what I already know: lay off the bike for some time. Nor am I willing to do that.

I ended Baja by crossing on the ferry with a number of other riders, one of whom I met in a café and with whom I rode for a few days hence. We managed to get a cabin on the ferry which made the 16 hour crossing of the Sea of Cortez and the Tropic of Cancer so much easier. We talked, drank beer, and watched the sun set over the mountainous horizon of the Baja. Some people sat inside, others spread out blankets on deck and sipped on what seemed to be an endless amount of beer until the sea lulled them to a starry sleep. It was like a mini cruise: with provided meals, a movie in the main salon, a crossing of a sea, and entertainment provided by the tambourine man.

Mechanical Difficulties – Natures Rewards

The day I decided to set out after 2 wonderful weeks in Ensenada, I discovered my bike was leaking gas. As horrible as it was to find out yet another thing had gone wrong, at least I was in good company. A little research revealed that there was something stuck in the carb – probably a grain of sand from one of the times I had dropped Georgia in the mountains. With no other choice Fabricio and I got to work taking the bike apart. As usual nothing went smoothly: from not having the right size tools, to parts not fitting correctly. Eventually we prevailed in removing the carb, taking it apart, cleaning it, putting it back together and putting Georgia back into one piece. It took only a few hours all together, but it was already too late for me to leave that day. Delayed again.

It seems from the very start of this journey there has been something keeping me from leaving when I wanted to, and always something going on with the bike. For a machine that is so highly reviewed as the standard for long distance adventure travel, it has surely behaved like a finicky little bitch from day one. To say nothing of the fact that she is too tall for me – a confidence shattering reminder every time I drop her (7 times now). The weight is not helping, and yet I am not sure what I could possibly remove from my luggage. I need the mechanical extras and tools. I have few clothes. The camping and hiking gear does way a ton, but I cannot be sure to always have a place to stay, nor can I afford to rent things every time I want to go up a mountain. At the same time the weight is killing me. To top it all off, this thumper (my first) vibrates so much that my hands feel as though I am still riding hours after I have dismounted.

But that was all during the day. That night, however, I was rewarded with a beautiful spot along the coast on which to set up my tent. I was riding by as the sun was starting to set and noticed a truck with a camper top parked far down by the shore. There was something “Rocinante-esque” about the way it looked, so I turned around and headed into a development site (with a few model houses and a sales office). There was a sign which read “Beach Access, which I followed away from the homes and towards the truck. The guy standing in the sales office booth came out hopefully, but we just exchanged waves and I drove on.  I spent the night in the pleasant company of a guy from Alaska, who comes down to the Baja every year to surf and escape the perpetual dark of the northern winter. He offered to share his food, and I my tea, and we passed a pleasant evening chatting, eating, listening to the waves and watching a billion stars slowly emerge around the grand arch of the Milky Way.

I stayed up for a few hours after dark and received the gift of shooting star. The weather was perfect, the ocean was calm and steady, the stars bright and cheerful. And I was lulled to sleep by the sound of lapping waves. The good omen of the shooting star, however, was only good for the night…

In the Middle of Nowhere

I woke up to the sound of the ocean; herons migrating south, pelicans surfing the waves. It was an easy morning of waiting for the dew to dry off the tent.  I set off on Highway 1 by 10:30am to a bright day, with a thick marine layer to the west and a wispy fog to the east. Exactly 15 minutes later the day turned gray when I ran out of gas in the middle of the desert. My so called 10 gallon expedition tank with internal pump which is supposed to bring up all the gas from the nether reaches of its hold, decided it would not bring up said gas and I puttered to a stop in the middle of nowhere. I could see gas in the tank! It was far from empty, but the pump was not bringing the gas up. I pulled onto a flat, sandy patch on the side of the road. The GPS, in a rare moment of accuracy, said there was a gas station just 18 kilometers to the south.

The first 10 cars did not stop for me. Considering there is not much traffic, this was very disheartening, and the clock on daylight was ticking. Finally a nice man pulled over and took me down through the military checkpoint and onto the gas station. There, they wanted 100 pesos for a 1 gallon jerry can, but when I looked doubtful the attendant went over to the trash pile and found an old anti-freeze jug to use instead. Another reason to love Mexico!

Finding a ride back to my bike proved even more difficult. Miguel was trying to do the same, so we decided to combine our fortunes and share a ride – if anyone would ever stop. Dozens of trucks and cars drove past as my concern began to grow: not only was daylight slipping away, but Georgia was sitting on the side of the road with no one watching her or my stuff strapped to the back. It is not hard to get a motorcycle onto the back of a truck and make it disappear forever.

Miguel and I eventually found a ride, he to San Quintin, and I to KM 37 south of the town. By the time I gave Georgia a drink and crossed the military check point for the 3^rd time, it was past 1pm. That left me very little time to ride the 350 km I needed to get to the next big town.

The way to Guerrero Negro, along Highway 1, lies through a national park of surreal constitution. A dozen varieties of cactus grow here, in some places so many that it looks like a forest. One beautiful variety looks like a long wispy stalk, from which delicate, thyme looking, stems and petals grow. Another is the grand Cardon cactus which rises to over 60 ft. Add to that about 500 more varieties of bush, tree, shrub and weed, as well as a plethora of wild life. The surreal ride turned majestic as the western sky lit up, as if ignited, while the eastern took on a mellow pink hue with a complete double rainbow. The cacti became silhouettes as the sun broke through the clouds to cast its burning beam over the expanse of the desert. And so, captivated by the fierce glow of the west, the gentle pink fluffies of the east with the rainbow frame, and boulder strewn cactus forests, I ran out of light before making it to Guerrero Negro.

I made my way to the nearest pueblito and began looking for a place for my tent. I found a lot on which stood a tiny house, attached to what could have been a motel, with some trees and bushes closed in by a fence. It did not look like anyone was home, and I was too tired too look any further, so I pitched my tent there and then.

I laid in my tent for a long time, praying that the proprietor did not have vicious dogs and that no snake or scorpion would find its way into one of Georgia’s crevasses or a briefly unattended article of clothing.

Desert Storms

I awoke in the desert no worse for wear, but lacking of sleep. Butterflies and vultures; a lizard doing push-ups in the sun; rustling palms in the wind which was fiercely blowing away the night’s rain. And then a fluttering ball of bright orange singing in the baby blue of the morning. In the night it rained and my tent decided to longer be waterproof; the fear of the family dog and of being disturbed for camping on someone’s property did not let me rest either. I fell asleep only at day break, but within a couple of hours the rain had turned to high wind, and sand was whipping the tent and covering everything inside and out.

Packing in a sandstorm is not fun, neither is driving through one. By the time I got to Guerrero Negro it was clear that rain was coming again to replace the blowing sand. I was stuck with a choice of whether to stay in a town in which I have nothing to do and have no place to stay (since I cannot afford a hotel on my own), or to brave the tropical storm and ride east through the desert.
I decided on the latter.
Though I do not recommend anyone do this, and though I was in the middle of nowhere, mostly alone, so if anything went wrong I would be quite fucked, I was gifted vistas that come to the desert only once every few years:

Silhouetted monoliths floating through misty cactus forests. A green desert – almost lush, with endless bushes and cacti rising off beyond the horizon. At one point flat and dry and empty, then all at once, mountainous with an endless sea of cacti where a minute before there was nothing. The stitch of the road running to the end of the earth, at times flat, at others a wavy ribbon of black in a sea of brown and yellow.

Cacti posing as candelabras, or vases with full bouquets; giant single pricks and motherly stalks with tiny offspring clinging to their cores; gesticulating human-like figures – at times exclaiming or dancing, waving and trying desperately to be understood without words, at others bowed with shame or sinking to rest after a valiant battle against the unforgiving sun; young and vibrant green; grey and dying – limb or whole, dry like their home, waiting to become dust again.

From the dust and sand, to the whipping rain of the tropical storm, from the dry and mutinous desert to an endless oasis of green grasses and palms, to the calm lapping of the Sea of Cortez: A ride I will not soon forget.