Here it is not just animals on the road. Had some drunks jump out in front of me in an attempt to stop me. People here have no idea what it is like to drive. They think "he has a light, he can see me." Then you have bright lights in your eyes and they are wearing all black!
When you get here look me up. Enjoy the ride and keep your head on a swivel.

Mac

__________________
Every day with the Lord is an ADVENTURE

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. For more pics from Nat. Geo Click Here
Wikipedia info Here

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



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!

Hello Friends!
I know that I am way ahead of my Ride Report... so I want to make an effort and post things which I do more in the now, until I catch up with the ride report... to that end I started a Tumblr blog some time ago, and starting now am going to try to post something that is going on RIGHT NOW, a couple of times a week.
Here is the link: http://motorcyclejourneys.tumblr.com/

Thanks again for following me on this crazy ride!

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



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

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

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

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


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


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

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





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.

Hello You Adventure seeking Scallywags!!
Happy New Year, and may you find the road - open, clean of debris, and free of idiot drivers!
I'm off to Venezuela - Country #12, in my 29th month, and 45,000th kilometer!

So I know it's not part of a normal ride report, but since I do dabble in poetry, being a writer and all, I thought I might share this with you manly men out there - just some things that the road, the steed, and the mountains inspire...
I will start with one, and if you guys don't want to see more, let me know, and I will stick to the roads, grub and women.

Our Road

The road forgives
Our use and wear,
She grips us tight
When death we dare.

She listens closely
To our wail,
She bears with patience
Our angry stare.

When we are lost
She helps us find the way,
She may be tough
But with her we will stay.

Though sometimes barely there,
And often filled with ruts,
We seek her still,
And take the wisdom of her bumps.

When on her,
The going may be slow,
But when she’s gone,
There’s no where left for us to go.

And if we sit
Too long in place,
We lose our selves
And are like holes in time and space

So always forward we will ride,
And throw the throttle back a nigh.
And let the wind make clear our head,
And let the road our suff’ring mend.



Dedicated to J.L and D.H of Seattle

Country #12: Venezuela!

2 years, 5 months and 45,000km on the road!!

hiya, really enjoyed reading your ride tales,the up's and downs, lots of rain it seems. You seem to be getting alot of surfing done on your trip, ( couch ). My trip is not far away now, but it has been nearly 5 years in the planning not like your 3 weeks. I start in Halifax on the 29th April, and heading for Ushuaia with a friend on two teneres one newish and the other 20 years oldish. So should be interesting which gets on better. 2 years 5 months, well done keep going, look forward in reading updates. We won't be down your way till August time. Never know, might see you on our travels.

Hey there BigPete!

Welcome to the road brother!
Considering how slow I go, it is more likely than not that we will indeed meet


I do indeed do a lot of couch surfing - I have to say it is the best part of my trip - the people have really made it (considering I'm writing a book about common bonds between cultures, that's quite important and useful, no?). I hope you are on ADVRider as well, as there are lots of guys from there along the way who will invite you to stay - great folks!!

Good luck! I hope you go through all of Canada - what a country!!

Cheers!

Couch surfing will be a great way of learning all about different cultures. I find the unplanned things that happen in life turn out to be the best experiences you'll ever have and those memories are one's that are so vivid. Great that you will be sharing this in a book.

I'm not on ADVrider, you say its worth joining as well?

Yes, going through all of Canada, well thats the plan. Staying in Canada till we get to Vancouver, then we will have 90 days to get to the other side of Mexico. Thought it would take about 2 weeks to get from San Diego to out of Mexico. What do you think? is that reasonable? And could you tell me where you crossed?

Safe riding.

ADV is def worht joining as there are more ADVRiders in the US and Canada - and will often offer their couch, or yard to pitch your tent.

I crossed into Mexico at Tijuana, and rode all of the Baja until the ferry crossing at La Paz into Mazatlan. I got the standard 6 month visa, and left on the day it expired. Mexico is one of the most amazing countries I have ever been to - the food, music, people, architecture, art... everything is incredible, and it all changes every 100km or so. I went to 22 states (out of 31) and still feel like I am missing something. It is the country I think about most.

Canada was incredible too though. Everything west of the Rockies is breathtaking! No straight roads, only curves, good ice cream and the best peaches in the world.

Thanks for all the info, much appricated.

Just had e-mail from our old neighbours and they live in Halifax now so have offered us to stop there for first few days.

Have just joined ADV, another site to have a look at.

That is what i'm looking forward the most in Canada, no straight roads.

Safe riding.

Merida, Venezuela!

It has been a month of the Andes, and now I am at their end... only to return to them and ride to their beginning in a few weeks

Calm in Gunanajuato

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



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.


Abuelas
The column slowly returns to the earth from which it came.
Curves and plump lips, a deep copper hue,
Stand in relief of the life and roads traveled.
Strength of one side supporting the weakened other.
Well-worn and oiled wood helps keep the column from
Sinking to its eternal rest.

Lenses of knowledge, only shimmer, only reflect,
And yet spark to glow every so often.
What will! What undying flame!
Try the winds as they may to extinguish,
Try the rains to drown and the dust to bury,
But the column only grows stronger as it curves –
Like an arch to support the greatness and vastness of creation.
The fire only burns more fierce in its little flame.

They came and went, and will come and go,
But she sings with the time, and only sighs
At the hubris of the burning needle without an ember
To give it substance and perseverance.
There comes no heat from the quick brightness of the needle,
It catches fire easily and burns bright for it is hollow -
It took no time to grow and see and become,
And so every spark sets it ablaze.

But that column of the ages stands, though catch fire it might,
Though it may burn from the inside and be left hollow and charred,
It still stands and sees and will not fall.
Only with time will it return to feed again the countless who will come after,
Just as she did those who came from her.

She has earned her name and her place –
Abuela.
And though we may pass her by with barely a glance,
she remains.
But when we do pause and heat ourselves for a moment
On her ember, we do not forget,
And are forever transformed -
Forever loved if we receive her gift of
Deepened valleys around burning lenses,
And a gust from her oracle’s chamber.

Climbing Pico de Orizaba

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 4th , I was never charged over. It is just not how the community works. I lost 2 hours finding this out and decided not to rent. The southern slope has no snow anyway.

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





To be continued…