so sorry to hear that. My thoughts are with you and family at this sad time.

Im sorry about your loss!Is very sad!

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3mountainsadventure

Greetings Friends and Riders!

The world is slowly returning to order after my mom's passing, and I am ready to post again, if not get back on the road. It will be a few months yet before i feel the leather of Georgia vibrating beneath me, but I will continue my ride report from the great state of Minnesota in the great north of the USA.

... and now that the snow has melted here I am so badly itching to ride - but Georgia is in Venezuela

Maybe I will even get to meet some of you scalawags while i'm here!

Stay tuned...

Condolences for you, glad you are back! If your flight back to Venezuela takes a stop at Tulsa International, let me know ahead of time, I'll treat you to a nice meal for the appropriate time of day and a coffee or if I am in town!

__________________
Submariner
Life Member DAV
BMW MOA member
BMW Riders of Oklahoma

Malinalco, Mexico: A Homecoming for the Soul

Malinalco is a magical place tucked in a small valley just south of Mexico City. Back when Mexico was the land of the Mexica (Aztecs), warriors came to this place to cleanse and prepare for battle. The ruins of their council chambers still stand, and fortunately it is still possible to find an authentic Temazcal here.

I’m fortunate enough to know a shaman here. This man has spent his life in the study of his ancestors and the pursuit of life as seen honorable and worthy by native custom. His home, the cabins surrounding it, the caves running along the middle of a side of the mountain (which he owns) at the back of his property, were all build and made livable by his own hands. He is full of the kind of wisdom only people who have lived close to, and alongside, the earth possess. His authenticity did not have to be sold, he is a shaman not because he calls himself one, rather because others grant him the title.

I came here for some release from the tumultuousness which is Mexico City, and in the hopes of participating in a real Temazcal ceremony. A Temazcal is a native sauna of sorts: it should be cave like, with a carved out floor, so that you walk down slightly from ground level, and a clay roof; in the middle there should be a deep pit for the stones; the door should be made of hide. The ceiling should have flours and herbs appropriate to the ceremony. Like a sauna, a Temazcal is used for purification, and stones heated by wood are the source of heat, however, this is where the similarities end. The Temazcal last around Six hours, with no food or drink or rest; there is no relief from the heat; songs, chants and stories are used to drive the mind, the heat to test the body and will. The purpose is not to clean oneself, relax and open pores, the purpose is to cleanse and purify, to struggle and become stronger for it – to confirm your worth as a warrior. But I’m not a warrior, you might say, and I would disagree. Every one of us is a warrior, though our battles may not always be physical, nor may they always be external, but we must fight for what we hold sacred and true and real, and to succeed we must be the best we can possibly be. A Temazcal is therefore as relevant today as it was 600 years ago.



I was Malinalco for a few days when I realized that I may not get to experience this – I caould not afford to do it alone, and there was no one else showing up. I was about to pack it in and head dejectedly to Puebla, when the shaman invited me to the market for some food. I hesitated knowing how long it would take, but agreed to go. Our food was barely in front of us when he received a phone call from a group of 9 people wanting to do the ceremony. Fate, it seems, stepped in to make sure I left a little wiser for my time in Malinalco.

My time in waiting had not been for naught. While waiting for the people to show up that weekend, I put in a few hours work as a stonemason of sorts. A worker of his and I were chipping away the floor of a cave that the shaman was expanding in order to possibly have people stay there. I duly earned a blister, and it in turn duly popped. This does not look well for working the next day, but I will give it a go. This adds a whole other level of shit I have done for food and roof. Then I swept the ceremonial area, and carried buckets of stones away from the work site, just to make sure I have done a little of everything. All the while the shaman was training his eagle. It looked very much like training a dog, except it was a freaking eagle. The danger here was not her pooping on the floor, rather the possibility that she would not return, or, you know, mistake your eye for a tasty snack.


Waiting for the day of the ceremony afforded me more time with the shaman, and more opportunities to listen to him. I’m not sure how to share what he said contextually, so I will instead share two things he said which can be applied to anyone:

“Whatever life you lead, as a Christian, a Jew, a Mexican, a Philosopher, and Idiot… whatever it is, live it intensely”.

“You can go around the world, but when you are done take a look at your feet. The feet will be the same, you will be the same – the ground may change but your feet do not”

“Those who leave, eventually return, though it may not be to the place they are from in this lifetime”



By the time the day of the Temazcal I was a bit worse for wear from the manual labor – but no less happy, or excited. I still cannot put into words what is it that’s magical about Malinalco, but I have written more poems in the last few days than I have in the last year. So much had awakened inside of me, so much has come into doubt… I was no more sure of where I was going, or why, but I was somehow more content in the unknowing.

The Temazcal and poems coming next...

Temazcal Ceremony

The ceremony of warrior purification before battle – to withstand the heat one must first become stronger than himself, his force of will must become stronger if he hopes to conquer his foe.

An herbal soup is prepared for splashing the rocks. Flowers are stuck into the roof of the Temazcal. Large logs are stacked in the giant fire pit outside. Each log is placed with purpose – the fore-knowledge that it will serve to heat the rocks which will cleanse us. Then the volcanic rocks are placed in a giant pile on top of the timber. Again, each stone is placed purposefully. Then logs are placed vertically on the outside of the rock pile, and finally small, fragrant, pieces of wood are used to light it all. Herbs are sprinkled atop of the flames. The shaman begins to explain the importance of the ceremony, how we seek to be connected with the four directions: earth, wind, fire and water, and their meeting in the center. He leads us in song and breathing and dance. We sing of the Mexica gods, of our warrior selves, of the eagles, and earth of which we ask to be a part. We offer cacao to the fire as we present our names and our purpose. Then we sing again – sometimes in Spanish, and at times in Nahuatl. We stretch and flex. The shaman brings us in contact with the warriors and Mexica beliefs of a time long past, but which are still alive in the blood of many Mexicans. He tells us of the Mexica alignment of the universe – their belief of the structure of nature and our part in it. As all natives he is in touch with the earth – he gathers his strength and sense of being from it, and shows us how we can possibly do the same. His eagle sits perched on his shoulder and flaps wildly at the crescendo of the songs.

We are now dripping in sweat before the great fire. It is hard to tell how long it has been since we commenced. For the entire 6 hour ceremony it is hard to tell at what point we find ourselves. But finally we remove everything but our underwear, or bathing suit. The shaman blows smoke over us as we enter the Temazcal. I enter first and circle all the way around until I reach the last spot to the left of the door. 9 more people follow.



When we are all inside, the shaman calls for his assistant, the man of fire, to bring him the deer horns for lifting the stones and placing them into the center pit. Then he calls for the stones which are brought in one by one. We welcome each stone. Then water is brought in, as well as herbs and a tambourine. At first only the herbs are sprinkled and the cave is filled with their aroma. Then the first bowls of water hit the glowing rocks and aroma is magnified by the vapor that now carries it and fills the Temazcal. It is hard to recall everything the shaman said, particularly as it was said in Spanish, with some Nahuatl thrown in every now and then. Though I understood most of what he said, particularly the sentiment and the ideas, it is hard to translate. His stories and explanations were along the lines that I have heard from, and read of, the natives of North America. He describes the universe and he beckons us to identify with the warrior, the eagle, the jaguar, the earth… he explains the soul and heart and mind. The path of seeking of truth and the search for strength – all of which begin and end within ourselves. We sing more songs. We breathe deeply of the scented vapors now bringing forth more sweat. And thus we continue for an indeterminate amount of time.

At some point the shaman calls to his man of fire and more rocks are brought in. The first round had only three, the second was closer to six rocks, on the third the pit was filled with about 8 more rocks, and on the final go another six – one of which the shaman tossed into the pit with his bare hands.

With every bringing forth of rocks the Temazcal grows ever hotter. The only relief comes from bringing your face close to the earth where it is slightly cooler. Sometimes there is a splash of cold water that the shaman throws from his bucket, but these are rare and do little. Then, between rounds when the door flap is opened to bring in more rocks, there are moments when a cold mountain breeze fills the cave – but that ends all too quickly as well.

Of the eleven of us sitting together we almost lost three, but the shaman managed to keep them inside. The heat becomes unbearable, the time in the heat becomes mind numbing. But we did not leave. One woman’s head and spine began to hurt to the point where she began to weep. Another could not stand the heat of the vapor and tried to leave, but the shamans command and my hand on her leg for reassurance kept her inside for the whole rest of the 3 or 4 hours of the ceremony. Another girl was having trouble breathing and so the shaman gave her a conch shell through which to breathe.

More songs of call and response, more invocations of our inner spirits and warrior selves; more breathing with purpose, controlled intake, controlled release. But it is getting hard to sing, hard to call out, hard to breathe as the heat grows ever more fierce. I have been to many a banya (sauna), which is hotter than a Temazcal, but we never stay so long inside without the relief of the cold plunge pool, some water, some tea, a and salted fish. We were inside the Temazcal for 3-4 hours. 3-4 hours of the temperature slowly growing and the steam weighing heavy on our hearts. You feel as though you want to throw up, as though you will pass out or have a heart attack. It is unbearable – except that, as you later find out, it is bearable. Somehow your inner warrior is stronger than the heat and steam. So close to failing, so close to giving up, so close to deeming something unbearable, and then, as every human being is capable, you overcome your fear of a bursting heart, of vomit on the dirt floor, of the embarrassment, and you achieve what you thought was impossible. It is a moment when you truly become one with the warriors of the past. And I do not refer to a past that is so long forgotten. For western folk who have become accustomed to the safety and comfort of the west – something they take for granted – they need not look past their grand-parents. The heights to which a human being can fly, what he makes possible and attainable, what impossible hell he makes survivable, can only be seen when we are faced with what we thought was impossible. And by our will, and perhaps the hand of a friend, we find that we truly are incredible.

By the third round of glowing volcanic stones, I find myself flat on the dirt floor trying to calm my heart. Breathing has never been my strong suit – particularly in severe heat or cold or during anaerobic activity. But I say nothing. I shift to here or there, I try to find what will calm my heart and cool my throat. There is nothing I want more than to escape the heat and dunk myself in a freezing pool of water or some snow. I cannot clear my mind for the heat is all I am able to think about. I stopped singing with the weakening voices of the others, I no longer respond to the proclamations. I cannot emit a sustained hum from a deep breath let slowly out. I can do nothing but lay and pray that I do not vomit, that I do not burst through that door before the end of the ceremony. And then, after I think I can take no more, the shaman starts another song and the end is no more near. As I imagine that death is forthcoming, that my heart will surely burst, he sprinkles some herbs on the stones, then some more water to raise the heat, and continues. The candles which were present for the first two rounds are gone and we are in complete darkness. As the glow from the stones disappears beneath the constant splashing of water, we are left with not even a point of dim light on which to focus. Our pain and agony is our own, as we see nothing, as nothing exists but ourselves in that moment.

At some magic moment the door flaps are opened and the cold slowly begins to enter our little cave. Succor is found in what we usually try to avoid for fear of catching a cold. But that breeze is all we want to feel. And now we have had three rounds of stones and we sit and talk with the flap open and the wind rolling in. But three is not a Mexica number. Four is the number of directions, so four is the number of rounds of stones that we shall receive. And so the fire man brings in more stones. The shaman stacks them on top of the old and they are now sticking out beyond the top level of the pit. The door flap closes again and the relief which seemed so close – the end which I could taste, disappears and the Temazcal is again filled with the sweet smell of herbs and a burning vaporous heat.

Again we sing. Again we chant. Again we proclaim. Again the throat seizes and the heart threatens to burst. Again and again the end does not come. Again and again we pray for him to splash some of the cold water from the bucket on our faces. But instead he douses and douses the stones, emptying two whole buckets on them. Though a candle is present in the Temazcal again, the steam covers the space completely and we see nothing but the sparks in our eyes when sweat breaks the barriers of our eyelids. And as we reach again the point where we think we can take no more, the shaman starts another chant.

At some magical moment he called for the door flap to be lifted and invited us outside and to a pool of water at the foot of the cliff which backs his property (in the middle of which there is a string of caves in which he likes to spend some days and nights). The water is as freezing as it ought to be at an altitude of more than 6,000ft, in the winter. We enter the pool and dunk over and over again. Just as before there is no hurry, every moment has a purpose, as does every action and stage of the ceremony, and nothing can be rushed. The extreme heat is replaced by extreme cold, and as before the heart pounds from the shock. But we dunk and splash and breathe.

Six hours after the lighting of the fire, we depart from the pool, dry ourselves off and bury our faces in cups of herbal tea, with a generous helping of honey. After we are dry and dressed we are called again the great fire pit. The shaman closes the ceremony by spreading the giant pile of ashes and embers, which makes the pit look like a constellation of sparkling stars. He mixes the ashes as he prays and chants. The piles take on different shapes, the heat glows fierce from the embers of giant logs. He walks around our circle shaking our hands and embracing us.

I cannot believe it but we are all sitting around a table with steaming bowls of soup, hot hand-made tortillas, homemade cheese, avocadoes, more tea and honey… it is over. We sit in joyful conversations. A German couple to my left, a Colombian to my right, and Mexicans filling the rest of the table, with the Shaman at the head. We have been through something together. We were strangers before, and we remain strangers now. But we have become linked through the earth that encapsulated us, the fire that cleansed us, the fear and pain which we overcame together, and that brief glimpse of our inner selves which so few get to see.

Though I rarely post poems on here, Malinalco, and the Temazcal ceremony, were so inspiring, I wrote 3 poems while there. I hope you will forgive my sharing them with you here...

Malinalco

Where ancient warriors come to cleanse
Beneath the stars and trees and sands.
In burning caves to show the doors,
With vapor’s keys to unlock souls.

The songs are ever present here,
Of all the lives who’ve come and went.
To blow away the dirt and fear
They came to mountains by nature’s scent.

And then away by foolish roads –
Of trust and dreams of great white hoards,
They fluttered into shadows resting,
And live there now, forever nesting.

What light, of moon or sun does shine,
Upon the soil where heads are lain,
Is all the same as yours and mine,
But we seek shadows all in vain.

The truth of dust and ashes hidden,
By fertile canopies it’s smitten.
What justice let it disappear,
Is now the same which will not let us near.

In the shadow of the mountain
I now seek that ancient howl,
Of the warriors long forgotten,
I’m here to ask, and be rid of my own foul.

The Less Glorious Realities of MCY Travel
So as I work on the Veracruz part of my journey, I thought I would take a moment to review some of the realities of living on a motorcycle which may deflate the image you may have that all is fun and games


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 2.5 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.

U must have crossed India too. Incase here be my guest. Am in Gujarat State nx to Mumbai. I shall be very happy to host you.

Greetings fellow steppenwolves!

I apologize for the false start a few months ago, I guess I was not quite ready to face the world at that point. But now, 6 months after her passing, and with the house up for sale, I am left only with time to write as I await the sale and my return to the steed (waiting patiently in Venezuela).

The last few months have seen much, but a highlight I will share is that two bikers, Jayne and Phil, whom I met while riding in Mexico, and who have become good friends, completed their own tour of the Americas, returned to Alberta, and then drove all the way to Minneapolis to help me with fixing up the house. What a community we have!
They too are on Horizons and I hope you will check out their thread.

I will begin posting again tomorrow, I hope you will rejoin me on my journey, and that you have had some of your own!

Kindly,

Alexander

Puebla, Mexico

Mexico City would not let me go without a fight: yesterday I was punished by the Mexican food gods. After joking that Mexicans put lime and chile on everything, I proceeded to squirt lime in my eye… later that night I blew up some powdered chile into the same eye. My eye became a Mexican dish – a burning, burning Mexican dish.

On my way south toward Puebla the mighty Google Maps left me in the soup. All I wanted to do was see Popocatepetl, which I did, from gorgeous angles, but afterwards Google simply could not find its way towards any major road, let alone a highway. It skirted me along the mountain range, on horrible mountain roads, for hours! Every time it wanted me to take a turn, there was either no road, or a road which put me in the wrong direction and google told me to make a U-turn right away. Even when I got out of the mountains, as the sun was setting, and was in a fairly big pueblo, it still kept putting me on the wrong road to Puebla. In the end I ended up driving, again, for about 40 minutes this time, in the dark. I did not like it the first time in Michoacán, and I certainly did not like it now. The bad roads and speed bumps, the oncoming lights, the animals… just a horrible experience – every moment of it.

Because the shop I went to in Mexico City, to install my new shocks and tires, left a number of small, but significant, details unattended, which put my riding in jeopardy, my first stop in Puebla was at another shop. I met a wonderful mechanic, Carlos, the recommendation of Alex Chacon. From the very first words out of his mouth I could tell he was a real mechanic and a decent human being (a sadly rare combination). Carlos fixed it all up quickly and we spent the rest of the day just talking. And then when it was time for me to go he did not charge me a peso. Yet another instance of kindness which takes me from the depths of doubt and into the strata of gratitude.



I spent the next few days discovering Puebla and some surrounding villages with Ivan and Boris. No, they were not Russian, rather the sons of old time commies who longed for the days of Frida Kahlo and Trotsky hiding out in Mexico. We played chess, appropriately, ate fried grasshoppers, drank sour traditional libations, and walked for endless hours. Puebla, or at least the center, is very lovely – if you like colonial architecture. The fact that the native residents sided with Cortez against the Mexica, not only saved them from murder and destruction, it also put them in the good graces of the Catholics who built more than 70 churches here.

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The iron work, the ceramic tiles of the building facades, the intricate plaster work… all very colonial and pretty, but all scream of the Catholic rape of the Americas. I really can’t stand it. They replaced ancient wisdom and a relationship with the earth which is the foundation of balance and harmony, with a dogma of fear, and a healthy dose of persecution, extortion and abuse. I see the people in the churches kneeling and crossing themselves – because it is ingrained in them, because they do not know another way, because the education is shit and will not release them from the bounds of the papacy. But how can they still be so blind, after all these years, how can they not see the egregious fallacies and abuses of the church? How can they give to a church which clothes its priests in silk and puts rich foods on their tables, while the people wear threads and eat the simplest foods? How can they, after the fear of death had been lifted, and knowing how the Catholics destroyed their culture and civilization, continue to “believe” and abide?
A note on the churches themselves: I don’t care how catholic this country is, there is no comparing the cathedrals of Italy, France or Russia to these. Some here even have curlicues and rosettes painted on the ceiling for lack of actual stone or plaster work! It is despicable! Yet another way to rob the people of their donations.

Though my hosts were further examples on how wonderful Mexicans are, Veracruz and the promise of Carnaval would not let me linger. I packed poor Georgia until the new shocks groaned under the weight of camping gear, enough spare parts (including tires) to build a new motorcycle, and my fat taco stuffed ass, and headed for the mountains of Veracruz.

Orizaba, Mexico

I know most of my stories are not about actual riding, but that is because I stay for so long in a given place, and therefore have a lot to tell you about the people, the culture, and the fascinating things I encounter while uncharacteristically stationary. But, after the Carnaval story there will be lots of riding again!

Heartbreak in Orizaba

The night I arrived in Orizaba, my host Miguel, his girlfriend’s family, and I, went out to eat. Afterwards the women went shopping and Miguel and I went for a walk. I saw a mass for the first time since arriving in Mexico 4 months ago. We observed the observant and spoke of architecture, the arts, and the beauty of the surrounding valley.
As we were walking back to meet the ladies, we saw a girl on the street making toy grasshoppers and lizards from long green leaves. The little animals were very nicely and skillfully made. The girl, who looked to be about 10 years old, was sitting in a corner of a shuttered store front, cutting the leaves to make the next toy. I could not tear my eyes away.
She worked with precision and confidence, and if someone from the gathering crowd asked a question she would answer with the surety of a proprietor of a handicraft store. I realized almost immediately that she was an exploited child. Most kids in the street work with their parents, she was alone. Whether sold into slavery by her parents, or kidnapped from them, or taken from a group home, or drugged on the street – I don’t know. But it was all I could do to hold back the tears. Unlike drugged children carried around by their “mothers” to solicit help as if they were sick, this girl was… like Oliver Twist, except creating as opposed to stealing. I wanted to grab her and run; ask one of my rich friends in Mexico City to take her in, give her a home, schooling, a future… happiness. I wanted to do it and be confronted by the man who was exploiting her so I could run my Gurkha across his throat.
The sad reality, however, is that it is harder to help these children than to prosecute the exploiters. The mob pays off the police so they do not bother their “pimps”. And that’s it – that is where it ends. But if I wanted to help her, there is an almost impossible process of adoption. And if she is discovered in the care of a citizen trying to help, before the papers are done, she is taken away and placed into unknown circumstances, and the person trying to help is heavily fined and possibly arrested.
I have never felt so impotent and angry. There was in fact nothing, especially because I don’t live here, that I could do. Damn it! Poverty is one thing. A person in poverty can still have friends and family – the most important things in life, but slavery is something else entirely. What were her days like? What kind of food could she eat? Did she have books, some sort of education, friends to play with, at least some knowledge of her parents…? Was she destined to become yet another child prostitute in Veracruz? Was the unthinkable already being done to her tiny, malnourished body?
The image of her burned into my mind. The next day, though I was set to climb Pico de Orizaba, I walked around town looking for her. I didn’t know what I would do, but I desperately wanted to find her. Of course I could not, who knows where she was stashed during the daylight hours. I left to climb the peak overwhelmingly despondent for my inaction and impotence. And even the crisp and rejuvenating air of the mountains failed to rid me of thoughts of this girl - thoughts I still carry to this day.

Endless Fiesta
Veracruz – Tlacotalpan, Veracruz, Mexico

What a first night! 6 hours of music, dancing, and falling in love.
At first, my host Ezri, Manu and I walked around the center of Veracruz, then focused in on a courtyard with a stage in the middle. It felt like Cuba, or how I like to think Cuba will feel. The salsa was very Cuban inspired – high energy and very Caribbean. After wearing ourselves out dancing, we ended up at a rock bar. When we were passing by, at first, I thought it was a CD playing, but it turned out they were actually THAT good! Metallica, Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, Doors, System of a Down… some Mexican rock bands – it was all incredible. We stayed there for 4 hours easily. I haven’t head banged so hard in a very long time.
I found 3 ballerinas at the bar. One of them reminded me a lot of a girl I knew 14 years ago, whose name I cannot remember - tiny, beautiful, delicious. All three were cute, very cool and very fun. There was none of that bullshit normally associated with good looking girls, particularly ballerinas. We laughed and talked, though it was hard considering how loud it was and how crappy my Spanish still was at that point. That smile, that tiny, perfectly shaped body, the hair, the eyes… I was smitten. I just need to be sure to keep myself calm. I don’t live here, I have a lot of traveling to do even around Veracruz, she is busy with dance and work... but how I want to see her again, to kiss her... Diana.

Ezri and Manu (two incredibly cool people) finally dragged me home toward sunrise. We spent the rest of the night sharing stories. Manu, who is a musician and a clown who travels around Mexico when not in school and earns his keep by performing on the streets, had plenty to tell. Ezri, a chemical engineer, engulfed us in such a glow of warmth and acceptance, it felt like we had been friends for years.

A few days later I went up to the northern part of Veracruz, around Xalapa, to discover the first of 3 major coffee growing regions of Mexico. In Coatepec I finally found a place in Mexico with some semblance of coffee culture, though still almost entirely lacking in taste. They grow fine beans, and even roast them well, but fail to make a decent cup. Like the incredible art I mentioned before, marred by a lack of curation (museology), the coffee here is only limited at the point of presentation. There is an exception, El Café de Avelino, in Coatepec; so far he is the only exception, but even he falls somewhat short of what I make at home. But it is undeniable that he loves coffee – he crushes the shells with his hands and smells deeply of the beans. He roasts in small batches to taste and examines the coffee to understand its flavor and character before he makes larger batches to sell. He is a true lover and poet of coffee.



I’m sleeping in a bed, a real bed! Even though it is only for a couple of nights, I am relishing every moment! It has been a very long time since I have felt a mattress beneath my increasingly sore back.

On my way to Tlacotalpan from Xalapa I was confronted with a scene I am still struggling to understand: paramedics collecting money, like beggars, from cars on the road because they lack the funding to fix ambulances and buy supplies. Oh Mexico! Is there no limit to your corruption?

Tlacotalpan is the home of the Fiesta de la Virgen de la Candelaria in Mexico – one of many excuses for people to get together, drink prodigious amounts of alcohol, and play incredible music. . Because we are in Veracruz, the predominant form of music is Son Jarocho. With fandango dancing, and dozens of guitarists playing simultaneously in the street, in bars, and on stages around the little town, there is a constant rhythm permeating the air. The music has a very particular dance associated with it. It is not like a salsa or any other ballroom dance, rather it is folky, with hard shoes and a box to give the stomping sound greater volume and allow it to become a part of the music. In fact, there is no Son Jarocho without the dance.

Ezri, along with Ida (yet another guest staying with her), met me at the festival. As per Ezri’s modus operandi, Ida turned out to be a wonderful person with whom we got along as if coming to this festival was a tradition of ours.



After 2 days of endless music and dancing, a bonus of hearing Ricardo Delgadillo live, and having all of my things and person drenched by the unceasing rain, I decided to head back to Verazcruz in preparation for Carnaval.


I have now been in Mexico for 4 months – more than half of those days involved music of one kind or another. I have been to more concerts in the last 4 months than in the 3 prior years. It feels so wonderful to have so much music in my life.

Carnaval









In the days preceding Carnaval, instead of resting in preparation for the insanity, I spent the daylight hours wandering in markets and the nights dancing salsa. And then all of a sudden it was upon us. The streets instantly swelled with people, and the smell of and sweat permeated the air. What I thought was a lively and colorful city before, managed to become even more so. People from all over Mexico, and the world, began pouring in. Music blasted from every corner, costumes began appearing, and church bells rang ceremoniously all through the day and night. The very first paseo (procession) felt like it would suffice to celebrate the beginning of Lent, but it was only a taste of the wilds to come. The costumes! The pulsating rhythms of hundreds of drums, the brass crashing of horns… feathers and beads and paint and glittering sweat. Many of us could not be contained in the stands and we made our way down, over the railing and into the moving midst of frenzy. We played and danced and sang, we made love with our eyes, and demonstrated our prowess with our hips. I can’t count the amount of beautiful women with whom I danced, and with whom I could have easily continued the night – their hunger and lust unmasked in this masquerade. Their luscious, jet black hair, full, moist lips, curves that artists dream of painting, and shiny caramel skin… and then as suddenly as it began, I found myself with my two friends squeezed onto the back of my steed, riding home in the cool of the morning.





At the end it was the company of Ida and Ezri that I preferred. Though we had known each other for about a week, it felt as though we had long since been friends. We laughed, and cooked, and danced, and always had the most wonderful time together. So much so, that when I was getting ready to leave the heat of Veracruz for the cool of the mountains in Oaxaca, I surprised myself by asking Ida to join me. I had been alone for so long, and I was finally used to it – I finally understood myself and what it was like to be alone, but there was something that drew me to her Latin soul encapsulated in the antithesis of a Latina body – white skin like marble, hair the color of a sunflower, and the eyes of a Finnish, cloudless summer sky. I could not take her (yet) on Georgia as she was fully packed, but we agreed to meet in the first city in Oaxaca – her going by bus, and I on my trusty KLR.

What followed was a month of pleasant comradery with her and two other bikers that joined us, debilitating infections, idyllic virgin beaches, breathtaking landscapes and endless days of off-roading.

Greetings friends!
As I sit writing about the amazing riding of Oaxaca, Mexico, I want to take a moment to give a shoutout to some new sponsors who have seen it fit to help me along my crazy journey.
For a complete list, please visit my sponsors page: http://www.alexandertolchinsky.com/main/?page_id=136

The new members save my ass are:
Heat Demon - who saw it fit that my hands don't freeze when I cross the Andes a few times in the coming months and gave me their adventure hand warmer kit



Trail Tech - who took pity on the fact that I have had 4 instrument panels now, all of which broke (I haven't known how fast I'm going, my revs, or the clicks now for a few countries!), and gave me a super electronic instrument panel. They also recognized that a KLR doesn't have a headlight that actually illuminates anything, so they also gave me a lighting kit!! Wow guys!



Reevu - A new, innovative helmet brand which has a unique mirror system which allows you to see what's behind you without having to turn your head. It takes time to get used to it, but wow!




I hope you guys take a moment to check out these wonderful companies! Between all the shops who have stood up to help me (unlisted, and there are many) and the all the companies I have listed on my sponsorship page, I have been able to save the little money I have to continue this journey of finding the common bonds we share between all cultures and people of our world.

A special thank you to my first monetary sponsor whose generous contribution to the writing effort has given me almost enough to finish South America (still a few thousand short) - Ralph of Red Hook Lobster Pound
Not only do they make the best lobster roll in New York and D.C, Ralph also builds custom choppers in his spare time, as well as (before the hurricane) gorgeous wood tables.

I am become Joy – at once alight in silver, emerald, and blue,
on the gold and black artery through which I surf the evergreen swells.
The hills, like giant waves that dip and rise,
look ready to crash upon us,
their cliff-like breaks forebode ominously with shadows of impending drowning in the vastness of green.