Mexico – First Days
I ‘m finally across the border! After endless delays due to mechanical issues and sponsors, I’m in the fabled land of Mexico.
The poverty is apparent the moment you cross the border. The people in the street, the men running back from a failed attempt to cross the border fence, the dilapidated houses, all came at the snap of a finger. Surely not everyone is poor, or at least not that poor, but the contrast came so quickly that it was hard to ignore.
The first thing I did when I got to Tijuana was drop Georgia, twice, both within 2 minutes. The second landed me in front of an oncoming car – which, thankfully decided not to prematurely terminate my journey, and life. Both times I was instantly surrounded by half a dozen men who helped me get my tires back on the pavement. though my leg was bleeding and Georgia’s engine flooded, I felt very welcomed in Mexico.
This latest drop further shook my confidence in being able to ride off-road,e specially when fully loaded. The bike is heavily laden, way too tall for me, with overly aggressive off-road tires – which make my ride unstable whenever there is a gust of wind or a change in pavement. I keep thinking of what I can get rid of, and still cannot bring myself to part with anything. It all seems vital, or at least tolerable. After all, my entire life is on the bike, there is a limit as to how little I can have. Right?
Within a couple of hours of arriving in Ensenada, Carmen, my host from couch surfing, and I, had dinner with her entire family. We then went dancing for 4 straight hours. The women were beautiful, the beer cheap and good, the music an excellent variety of cumbia, bachata, merengue, salsa, blues and punk. Carmen is a professional Arabic style dancer, so she knows how to move to say the least. It was the perfect way to start Mexico.
Wine Country
A few days later Carmen and I went to Mexican Wine country. The landscape reminded me a lot of northern Israel – boulder studded hills, dark green shrubs, and endless rows of olives and grapes.
Who would have thought that Mexico has delicious wines!? We began at the La Cetto winery, with the intention of visiting others…
The Tempranillo was not very good, the whites and rose’s were bland as well. However, the Petite Syrah was excellent – simple, dry, not a varied palate but very good in the flavors it had. The Bordeaux blend was off the charts! Cab, Merlot, Petite Verdot and Cab Franc. Dry and aromatic, juicy and fruity – but not jammy or sweet. It was a 2008 so still very young, but you could tell it will be an excellent wine in a few years. There was a little smoke, a little wood, some dried fruit – pronounced in a hearty palate and lots of cherry and plum at the top – extremely well balanced, nothing screamed over anything else. We then tried the straight cab, which was very good also – not on the same charts as my favorite Cali cabs, but very good indeed. The Nebiollo was also excellent – dark fruit, a little pepper, a little smoke, a rich, full mouth feel with a balanced dry finish.
We went on a small tour with two other visitors, cousins from far flung parts of Mexico. This turned into a multi-hour festival. After trying the first few wines, Carmen’s friend came with the special wines that are not normally available for tasting (the blend and Cab mentioned above), and we proceeded to talk and taste for a while. Then the two cousins invited us to drink a bottle of the Petite Sirah. A bottle turned into two, with bread, aged cheese, olive oil and olives. We sat for hours talking and laughing on the veranda outside the tasting room. A famous Mexican singer, Reyli, came by for a few toasts, photos and insults. Mexico just kept getting better and better!
Celebrating Life
We spent the following night at a ranch, about an hour outside of Ensenada. In the mountains there are no lights, the nearest Pueblito has not more than 100 residents, which brought a snugness to this gathering of strangers. Olive oil and olives, cheese, bread and wine – all made on the ranch – were served on tables normally used to feed the many ranch workers. There were a few bare bulbs giving us light, and we sat close to each other for warmth. In this tiny space there were two groups of musicians, neither professional, just people who knew how to sing and how to play. Something about the moment reminded me of Russia – the tiny table in the tiny apartment with 2 dozen people miraculously fitting in, singing, reading poetry, laughing. It is the best part of Russia, and it felt so good to experience it in Mexico. Upon request (which I receive every time people find out I am from Russia), I sang Katyusha (accompanied by a northern Mexican guitarist – the contrast was not lost on anyone) and gave a few steps from a Kozachok.
My birthday followed a few days later, with 3 nights of parties. Carmen threw a party for me at her mother’s house. We knew each other for not more than a week, and yet I found myself surrounded by family. They cooked and baked and decorated the yard. One of the brothers came with band mates to sing for us; the girls wore traditional outfits. We sang into the wee hours, full of delicious food, hibiscus water, cake and joy.
My streak of nights dancing for more than 3 hours began on my first night in Mexico, went right on through my birthday, and continues to this day. On the first night of my birthday Fabricio, my second host, and I went to hear a Cuban salsa group. I was lucky enough to be snatched up by a girl with whom I could dance as though we had been partners forever. Though I still make the occasional mis-steps and know only a few spins, we tore up the floor! What a difference it makes to dance with someone for whom dancing is as natural as breathing. When the band found out it was my birthday (and that I was a Ruskie), they got the whole place to sing me happy birthday, after which I had to return the favor by showing some Russian dance moves and teaching them a few words.
The very next day I went out with all of my hosts and we spent another night dancing until the sun came up. Salsa and Cumbia, Irish and Jewish and Russian, we threw it all down. I was plied with beer as though I were in Russia – in that Mexican’s understand the word “No” about as well as Russians. By the time we got to the next bar, I was more light footed than usual, but at last I was confronted with a dance I just could not pick up. I don’t remember the name, but it is typical of northern Mexico.
With a trip to a 4000 acre ranch which stretches from mountain to sea, I concluded my stay in Ensenada. It was a time of passion and learning, singing, dancing, eating and the setting up for an unforgettable trek through the incredibly varied places and peoples of Mexico.
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amazed by it. Though it is not what it once was, with traffic being a constant burden on what is otherwise an excellent driving road, it still threatens to send you flying over a cliff as your attention is constantly drawn from the road to the spectacular pacific coast. Though less rugged looking than the Oregon coast, in reality it is no less stark and awesome. Gnarled Cyprus line the way, shaped flat and forced to lean inland by the constant wind, their leaves spread in a wide brim to take advantage of brief moments of sun when the ever-present fog disperses. The cliffs are jagged, steep and high, yet the crash of the ocean is only a shutting off of the motor away. And though the hum of passing cars is always in your ears when you pull over to gaze over the distant horizon, there are a few (and hard to find) spots where you can pull over, walk down the hill a few seconds, and become completely engulfed in the wind and waves, sitting hundreds of feet above the ocean, completely unaware that there is any mechanical world at all. I know of such a spot, and it is the reason I never make it anywhere on time when traveling the PCH.
Monterrey, Big Sur and Santa Barbara flew by. Their seafood, museums, parks and mansions, blurred by the rain, obscured by the fog, and overshadowed by the road itself. I stopped in L.A to meet some other travelers, and continue looking for sponsors. With only a few days rest after traversing almost 2000 miles in a couple of weeks, two friends from Minnesota flew in, rented a couple of hogs, and took off with me up to Yosemite, via HWY 395, back into Monterey, and down the coast yet again. I road more in 3 weeks than most people do in a year, but I could not complain as every mile made me more comfortable on Georgia, and the rewards of Yosemite and the PCH are worth every sore I had on my ass.
Georgia was now fully equipped. She went from a skinny little dual-sport to a formidable beast. The small leather saddle bags where replaced by 9” panniers; the 6 gallon tank with a 10 gallon tank; shocks, chain, bolts… everything upgraded. And thanks to Happy-Trail.com and Burbank Kawasaki it only cost me an arm. All I had left to do was the doohickey and tires, and I was going to save that for my final stop in the U.S – San Diego. That was the plan. I was all ready to go. All bags packed, all bike work finished, I had just picked her up from the shop, was on my way to Olga’s for my last night, when I suddenly felt the full impact of 3 people’s procrastination.
I was furious! I had just left the mechanics, they seemed to give me a good deal on all the work they had done, and now it seems as though, through a mistake or maliciously, they have damaged my bike. But I was wrong. What happened was the doohickey snapped in half and sent the spring around the timing chain and into the cylinder shaft, damaging at least two valves.
By the time I arrived in Alberta I was feeling very alone, and shaken by a week of crosswinds while riding across the middle of Canada. The many riders I passed on the road were going east. We extended our arms in greeting, quickly taking in each other’s steeds, the mounds strapped on the sides and rear, the stories that our gear told of where we had been and where we might be headed. We did not need words in order to share each other’s journey, and I was not in need of long conversations, rather I wanted someone riding by my side, going to the same place as I, someone with whom I could sit after the ride and without saying a word relive the deer that got in the way, the shock waves from trucks that almost knocked us off, the tight curves around which we scraped our pegs, the incredible colors of the sky at dusk, the glory of peaks rising out of the horizon as we approach the Rockies.
Thankfully there was plenty more excellent riding to come. Once the Rockies start in western Alberta, the mountainscape doesn’t end until you hit water at the far end of British Columbia. The next day I went as far north as the town of Jasper before turning around and heading south on 93, and again west on the Trans Canada into British Columbia (BC). This is one of single best tracks of riding I’ve ever done. Between HWY 93 where it meets HWY 1 (TCH) and Kamloops, BC, you pass the heart of the Rockies, numerous national parks, and slowly descend into the foothills and valleys below. While in the Rockies the 4 lane tarmacs are of impeccable quality and the curves large enough where you can easily go 40-60mph on some, and an exhilarating 80mph on others. The road begs for you to scrape pegs, overloaded steed or not. The scenery is no less beautiful than on HWY 93, but after so much temptation I could not help but open the throttle up full…
With Vancouver came traffic and the general annoyances of riding through a city. However, as every person you will ever meet will attest, it is simply too wonderful a city to stay angry. The people are great, the food is excellent, and the nature is unparalled.