I am sitting alone, back in Granada, thinking about the next step. I have gotten to the point of wondering, as I have before, why I have come. What was it that I expected to find in these travels? I have traveled 7000 miles to discover that all of the important things in my life are usually within the first five feet; something I always knew, but so often fail to recognize. Every journey, every adventure, has a destination, known or unknown. I have always known that the end of this journey was not a physical place on this earth; instead it would be a feeling or a hard learned lesson. I came here not to find the end of the earth, but to find the end of me. To crack open the internal safe to which I lost the key a long time ago.

My compass finally broke; little did I realize that it was broken all along. And now, lost in the midst of a strange land on a starry night, I have come to realize that I must learn the art of celestial navigation to find my way home. This trip is not about following a heading to an undiscovered place, it is about learning a new way to navigate, a new language to express the my inner workings, an ability to seek guidance from the shining stars all around me.

I raise my sextant to the night sky and I see in the distance a bright shining star, the end of this journey. She is that marker of my home, the brightest light in my life, a lighthouse that saves lost ships from the wrath of an inner sea.

This journey does not end in some distant lonely land. It will end, as it was always meant to, in the same place it began; looking into tearfilled eyes uttering the words "I love you". And instead of "good bye" I will hold your gaze and say "I'm sorry for being so lost for so long..."

I am home.

For me, there is awkwardness in writing. It is the stuff of soul exposure, such a delicately uncomfortable medium for self expression. In the moments that I write I find myself fully involved yet truly disliking the experience. It is as if I am fearful of what I may make real before my own eyes. Perhaps my mind is not ready for the truths of my soul or my mind fears what will happen if the thoughts, doubts, or dreams materialize in this physical reality on a piece of electronic papyrus. Even in moments of seemingly genuine self expression there is cautious editing in my words. There is fear of what I might later find myself reading. There is fear that my inner truths are not for the eyes and ears of others, that I will bring them pain, or heartache, or even feelings of disgust. My secret internal dialogue remains hidden among the codified paragraphs that I jot down in a lame attempt for others to share my experiences. Writing is a nightmarish battle of conflict, a balancing act of exposure and prudish concealment of the inner workings of the mind. I dream of my words as magic, but so often fear that they are fraught with half truths or at least half hearted meanings. Or worse yet, they are empty and devoid of life and meaning. But how does one fully engage in the conversation of the mind and soul without true expression of joy and pain, doubt and courage. I fear that I have not the strength to tear open my heart and write a manuscript in blood and tears. Is self expression selfish expression when it does not take into account the feelings of the audience? I wish my words could be a magical portal into a divine human experience, filled with deep levels of soulful understanding, and unmatched, never before experienced honesty. Instead I find myself struggling to create something that is written in a universally benign language, the Miller Light of writing. My voice is internal dialogue with the volume turned down low so even I need to strain an ear to hear the message. The struggle continues and all the while I hate to write.

The skin on my elbows is worn thin, raw and red, tender to the touch, from living a different pace, a life other than my own. A sure indicator that the time has come, and it has, to move in a different direction; to strike out, embrace the aloneness, and dive into that dark place of self reflection.

Andy will soon be a story, a little tale I tell about a small piece of my life; as it goes with most things. All but the vivid details will seep back into the collective knowledge of the earth and become tip of the tongue details that seem to escape you in the middle of a story. What was that place? What were their names? The defining moments in life become those that you remember. In the moment they are just a knee scrape, a heartbreak, a fleeting moment of exuberant expression, and it is with the passage of time that they become defined as something more, a permanent part of the colorful canvas we paint to understand ourselves. It’s a picture we look at to define our vision, a starving artist’s meager attempt to explain all of the ups and downs of the journey through life. A patchwork of loosely connected details smeared together to form a uniquely abstract self portrait.

As I sit and stare at the canvas I wonder what will be painted next. I look at all that has already been completed; all of the reds and blacks with long streaks of blue, and I feel that it could take a lifetime to study the previous work of my life. Staring blurry eyed at the great expanse of color It is difficult to believe that all of the brush strokes were by my hand. The sharp mad angles, the weird intersections of colors creating unnamable shades, the thin hidden lines delicately executed to be hidden details, beautiful sweeping arcs of wild vivid colors intermixed and alongside blacks and muddy earth tones. Thirty five years in the making and it seems that it could take that long again to reexamine and understand the details. All this while the brush keeps moving, held firmly by my invisible arm, recording the finest details of my existence, the moments I cherish and those I wish to forget. Many years of life pass before you look within and see the brush wielded by your own hand. When comes that realization that you are the artist even when you are not picking the colors?

By the time the canvas becomes visible to the naked eye it seems overwhelming to examine each meaning filled detail. Instead it must be viewed from afar, perhaps a distant mountaintop, with eyes made into keen thin slits distorting the image into blurred clarity. In that moment the dark ugly sharp zigzags soften to blend with sweeping arcs of light to form such an image of unique magnificence. In that moment the human portrait is realized, a dramatic image of individualized human existence is born.

Sometimes we believe that we are the only ones who can see that invisible hand and the papyrus upon which its life’s work is recorded. But works of such great intensity cannot be hidden away and locked in an attic with a key that is forever misplaced. Those intense reds, deep, dark as the darkest night blacks, and Caribbean blues, burn through the physical and mental canvas of the human condition. My skin is a sculptural representation of the thin black lines. My eyes, the lens through which the fluctuating brush strokes of joy and sadness can be viewed. The wrinkles in my face, a reflection of the yellow sunlit blotches dotting the image and the teeth gritting from intense moments of tortuous self doubt or disgust. Each inch of my physical body mirrors the opposite colors of emotion, simultaneously illuminating the dark and the light.

I'm back from Little Corn Island. It was beautiful but a lot more expensive and booked that Andy or I had expected, so we ended up spending a lot of dough to share a bed in a beautiful cabin overlooking the turquoise waters of the Caribbean.

Corn Islands

Andy and I are headed out to the Corn Islands in the Caribbean until the 25th. I don't think there will be any internet, so I'll be back in touch after I return.

Love

Jay

Running down Cerro Negro

Here are some pics running down the volcano before our scorching hike back to the bike. Tomorrow 2/16 I am headed for Granada for a couple days, then on to Isla de Ometepe, followed by a some possible surfing near San Juan del Sur.
Thanks for looking my friends.
Love Jay

Cerro Negro

Africa Hot

Andy, the Welsh guy I have been hangin’ with, and I rolled out of the hostel shortly after 8 this morning. Too cheap to pay the 28 bucks for a tour of a local volcano we set out on the motorcycle to see if we could find the base of Cerro Negro, the youngest volcano in Central America. After a dozen u turns and asking equally as many locals we finally found the dirt road that would lead us to our climb; supposedly only about an hour in duration from the parking area. The road became increasingly sandy and after about twenty minutes the driving conditions severely exceeded my off road prowess. When the front wheel finally dug in and the bike fell in super slow motion to the ground, it was pretty apparent that our strategy for approaching the volcano needed to be modified.

I parked the bike on the side of the road, stepped off, took the key, and started walking. Despite the fact that only a few minutes prior we passed a sign that read “Cerro Negro 13.3 km” neither of us even mentioned the second, less desirable option of turning back. After nearly an hour and a half of walking we finally scored a ride in a pickup. Unfortunately the guy happened to be turning at the next intersection and dropped us less than five minutes down the road. After another 1.5 miles we finally arrived at the entrance station equipped with a small fridge holding a couple of cold soft drinks and an extremely bored attendant who talked at us for 20 or more minutes even though, based on our lack of response, it had to be obvious that we didn’t have the slightest clue what he was blabbing about.

After dissipating some heat in the shade we stepped back out into the Africa hot landscape and headed for the black cinder cone of Cerro Negro. Although the place is a popular tour destination, we had the place to ourselves; thank God, because we needed some respite from our overly narrative ranger. Within the core hot steamy sulfur gases escaped from beneath their blanket of volcanic rocks. White, yellow, and orange deposits painted the black landscape otherwise devoid of color.

45 minutes later we were running down the hot (from the sun, not lava) cone. We briefly met a French couple on their way in, got verbally bombarded by our new friend, and set to walking back to the bike on a ridiculously hot road. After a couple hours of sweltering walking, one wrong turn, and car surfing the French couples’ SUV we were back at the bike.

All this for only five bucks at the entrance. Most people who take the tour only get an hour walk to the summit, not a 25 kilometer, routefinding adventure through hellishly hot black sand roads. As I sip from my fourth bottle of water I wonder what those folks are paying for J…

Avoiding the Lonlies in Leon

I have been trying to avoid talking about feeling lonely in this magnificent place. It seems selfish to be feeling sorry for yourself in the midst of such a gift. I'm not sure if selfish is the right word, but in some ways I really do begin to have feelings of guilt when I am not having as much fun as I believe I should be. Then again, as I reflect on it, I think I commonly experience a sense of guilt around my emotions.

Over the past week or so loneliness has crept into my heart like frigid mountain air penetrating the depths of a mountaineers body, slowly stealing his life. The pain of internal turmoil and suffering is one that I have always struggled to bear. Apparently, at least in my case, the ability to push through pain and suffering in the mountains is not directly transferable to th human psyche. So here I am, traveling day to day, emotions swaying like a ship without power in a tropical storm. But this, I think, is the true challenge of this adventure. Although I regularly have doubts, i know that I am equipped with the skills and abilities to ride a motorcycle around the Americas. There is a bigger question however; "Do I possess the skills to be alone with myself?" I'm not sure how long I will be on the road (I'll be back by the end of April, don't worry). I think I will know the answer when I can discern the difference between giving up and truly deciding that I have reached the end of my journey.

In the meantime I have found a new Welsh friend to help me avoid the lonlies. Andy and I originally met in Copan Honduras and spent all of our time together hanging out. Although we had different travel plans our routes came together again in Leon Nicaragua, my current location. We had a great day at the beach today. Tomorrow we're going to try to find a local volcano on the bike to avoid paying the exorbitant tour fees.

Gotta go to dinner.

I'm still excited for the new learnings ahead...

Thanks for listening,

Jay

Who need a truck when you've got a honda 200

Mi moto mi moto mi moto con mio

Mi moto mi moto mi moto con tigo

All you need is a little red Honda 200 with a kick start and a one cylinder heart

This little beast will transport one man at the very least

Sips the gas but doesn’t go very fast so stay in town where the wind won’t blow ya around

Now if you want to do it up right add some reflective stripes and some flashing lights and you’ll be cruising in style through the night.

Most people don’t have these… just a set of keys to ride on those old worn baldies

Just between you and me these folks drive just a little crazy unless baby Hank is straddling the tank

So let’s get into it shall we…just what can you fit on a sub 250?

One old man with a machete in hand

One kid, texting of course, to his buddy across town who is still riding his horse

Enough firewood for two weeks of tortillas or a 55 gallon drum strapped not so securely behind your bum

Your fine lady in a long dress riding sidesaddle while your honkin’ the horn so the dogs skidaddle

Not one, not two, but three 5 gallon water jugs or two amigos and one squished perro

A cooler that belongs on a sportfish boat or 6, no less, 18 gallon Rubbermaid totes

Need to go to church, maybe we’ll pile on the whole family, mom, dad, son, daughter, and don’t forget the newborn baby...

En route to Nicaragua

Tomorrow I depart Copan Ruinas headed for the Nicaraguan border at Los Manos.

Copan Ruinas- via. CA11 to Santa Barbara - CA 20 - Siguatepeque- CA5 - Tegucigalpa - CA6 - Danli - Los Manos

I'm going to try to get to Danli tomorrow and cross into Nico the next day.

Copan Honduras

This is me next to a giant Ceiba tree. this tree was very sacred to the Mayan culture. The roots of the tree stretched into the underworld while the canopr touched the realm of the gods thereby joining the two.

Copan Honduras

Today I visited another Mayan ruin site in Copan Honduras. Unlike the massive scale of Tikal this site is famous for its intricate relief carvings depicting various rulers and important dates.

The Secret Passage

After roaming around Tikal for a couple hours with another tourist, I decide that I really needed a guide if the experience was going to have any value. So when I came across a group of four people and their private guide I asked if I could join. I gave the guide about ten bucks (a much better deal then they got) and joined the group for the rest of the day. Near the end of the tour we ran across one of the other employees at the sight who was obviously looking to make some extra green. He asked our guide if we wanted to see a secret new excavation. Of course these things don't come without cost, ten bucks to be exact, to which I promptly said that I was not interested. The other two couples were intrigued, so we all decided to go for a walk on a skinny path to the supposed "secret spot" where a pristine mask could be seen. Upon arriving at the sight, which was in fact a newer archaeological dig, the guide told me that I could have a look at no charge as long as I kept my mouth shut. So when the cover came off and the older couples with me showed hesitation at climbing into the army ant infested hole I jumped right in. In the small passage was a magnificent mask with a great deal of red paint still on it.

Tikal

Here are som images of the magnificent temples of Tikal. Some of these temples soar 75 meters above the ground, penetrating the forest canopy into the world of the Gods. At one time these temples and structures were all covered in a stucco like material and painted. Imagine what some of these structures must have looked like with smooth vibrant red walls.

Tikal on a Foggy Morning