Monday, January 11, 2010
Hotel Guerro Video
Here is another fun little video of Jamal exiting the courtyard at Hotel Guerro in El Fuerte. I could not figure out how to rotate it with the software that I have I guess you'll have to lay on your desk while you watch...
The Road to Batopilas Video
Here is a little video that Jamal took on our adventure trying to find Copper Canyon via Batopilas. Don't worry, the end is just him dropping the camera around his wrist!
Sunday, January 10, 2010
From flush to lush
Our lunch stop
We left our gross hotel as soon as humanly possible this morning and plotted a route for the coast. Initially we followed the Carterra International which transitioned from large commercial farms to small farms and orange groves surrounded by beautiful lush mountainsides and valleys. A shiver worked its way through my spine with each dip into the pooled crisp air in the valleys, soon to be replaced by a blast of warm humid air over each small pass.
The need for gasoline forced us to take an unlikely exit into a beautiful town were turistas were definitely not common. Although there were many automobiles it seemed impossible to find a gas station. We began a wild goose chase through narrow streets paved with small rounded stones that must have taken kneeling workers thousands of hours to place. While Jamal was asking yet another person for directions The quintessential big moustache having, sombrero wearing, Mexican cowboy trotted past trailing a mule behind. He startled me when he slowed and yelled in near perfect English “where are you going?”. I shouted back in my lousy Spanish “donde es gasolina” still not registering that he spoke to me in English. “Three blocks up, two over” and he turned and rode off. Is in these moments that I realize the it is in the culture of these beautiful people to go out of there way to help someone else. Something about their simple non-commercialized world creates a sense of community unusual in the US. Cars and trucks (sometimes semis) pull over, random dudes on horses slow their pace, motorcycles pull alongside, everywhere there is someone who is interested in going out of their way to help a stranger. We found the gas. Apparently gas is of high value in this town since it was guarded by a man in uniform carrying a shotgun. I can see why since it took us so long to find the only gas station that seemed to be in existence for miles.
After stopping for lunch at a roadside café we pointed our wheels for puerto Vallarta. The orange groves gave way to twisty roads through a lush tropical landscape. White egrets dotted the marshes along the side of the road while vultures still circled in the thermals rising high above the land. The typical roadside markets selling carne asada and pollo slowly transformed into venders selling 4 bags of shrimp for 100 pesos and coconuts from the abundant trees rising from the hillsides. A few hours later we arrived in Puerto Vallarta searching for the cheaper local hotels less frequented by tourists. My level of comfort and confidence along with the temperature rises with each mile registered on the odometer.
Iowa?
I no longer have a desire to ride through America’s Midwest, if I ever had one. The Carterra International from near El Fuerte to Las Cruz just north on Matazlan is a spitting image of commercial farming Iowa style except for the occasional donkey or palm tree. Corn as far as the eye can see. Our hotel, the only one in town, has reached a new low. I’m not sure AAA has a little icon in their books to indicate whether or not your room has a toilet seat, shower head, hot water, or a key with which you can lock the door. Apparently AAA has not spent much time rating Mexican Hotels in farming cuidads. We do have the ability to lock ourselves in, and consequently out however. This pillow sucks too…hello Binky!
The Mysterious Camino a Batopilas
The Hotel Guerro in El Fuerte was uplifting to my spirits, although the pillow still sucked. A steal at 10us dollars a night including breakfast.
We awoke early on the morning of Jan. 9 with the intent of riding to Barranco de Cobre (Copper Canyon), a canyon that is larger in every dimension than our own precious grand canyon. The plan was to ride to the small village of Batopilas and then follow the ridiculously steep road to Creel climbing so 6000 feet. We would then stay at Creel and return to El Fuerte the following day. Our map didn’t quite show the road connecting all the way to Batopilas so we set about town to find a map with more detail. Nada. So we asked so locals how to get there and it seemed pretty straightforward so we headed on our way. 12 hours later we were back at the Hotel Guerro, utterly filthy, wasted tired, thirsty and hungry. As it turned out the road to Batopilas is fairly simple if you know where it is, which it seem after asking dozens of people along the way very few people do. Some of this epic day could easily be attributed to the fact that we never clearly understood that when folks kept repeating “la mina” (mine) that there was actually a mine in that gap on our map.
Our initial directions had us heading to the end of the pavement about 45 minutes from El Fuerte where there would be an obvious fork and a sign. We found a fork and a rusty old flattened sign but the direction was definitely not obvious. We asked some folks that were hanging around and then a car that we had flagged down. Despite there finger pointing we took the other fork. 10 minutes later a Kawasaki ninja 500 with treacherously bald tires comes speeding after us. In the true Mexican spirit the guy we had talked to in the car ran home and grabbed his bike to catch us and show us the way. He took us back to the fork and then proceeded to ride his bald tired street bike about an hour up the sandy dirt road that supposedly led to Batopilas. He waved us off as we continued on our journey on the steep and dusty road that wandered into small villages, vast hilltops, and deep canyons. Cattle and donkeys wandered along the sides of the road. The ruins of a few beautiful churches served as a reminders of long ago successful efforts to change the ideologies of the indigenous peoples of this area. The small villages were an indication that strong hearted people are still able to eek out a subsistence lifestyle off the land.
We asked almost every other car we saw and seemed to get conflicting opinions on which way to go. The all seemed to agree on one thing though…la mina. After stopping for a snack I forgot to lock my rear case and as a result lost my locks somewhere along the dirt track…sign #1. An hour later Jamal was staring oddly at my front fork. I asked what was wrong and he said “I think one of your fork seals is leaking”…sign #2. A few hours later we arrived at the end of the road, or at leas the end of our trip to Batopilas. Two locked gates and a really nice guy with a really big gun blocked our passage forward…grande numero tres! The guy carrying the Ak-47 was a guard for the mine and headed back to his post to make a few calls. He returned and said that we could pass and be escorted through the mine where the road continued in some fashion to Batopilas. I have been told by a mentor of mine that when things occur in threes its time to start paying attention, so while I believed the passage would be safe, it was time to turn back. Dust clouds filled the air and rocks shot off our knobbies into the sunset as we sped our way back to Hotel Guerro for a second night.
My Binky
Hotel Guerro - El Fuerte - 10 bucks!
The pillow on my bed at the El Hotel Puerto in Guaymas was flat and unwelcoming to the sleep which I desperately felt I needed. I pulled out my sleeping bag and piled it on the pillow to form a gigantic fluffy mass upon which I could lay mi cabeza. Sleep was difficult to find. My mind was still racing with the thousands of possibilities to come. I found comfort in the familiar smells and texture of my sleeping bag or should I call it my security blanket…my “Binky” as Jamal said.
On the ride from Guaymas to El Fuerte I had many hours of white noise silence to delve into the source of this anxiety. We rode into the countryside where vast commercial farms gave way to small family plots with livestock and pickup trucks filled with hay. As we traveled deeper and deeper into third world the pickup trucks gave way to men and boys riding on horse drawn wooden carts filled with hay for livestock and collected firewood for cooking. Hombres stooped in the median hand cutting hay to fill their carts. We were beginning to enter a world unlike our own, a place where the modern meets the ancient.
Somewhere in the middle of watching the world change my anxiety began to recede a little and my world behind the visor started to become a little more clear. I thought for a long while about what it is that scares me the most. What it could be that brought me so much sleeplessness the night before. I rode by a vulture perched upon a tall pole spreading its wings wide, staring down at me, it’s gaze fixed on mine until I rounded the next bend. Vultures feed upon the dead and the decaying parts of the earth, leaving space for new life…for new beginnings. Part of me, part of my way of being was not serving me well on this trip. I began to realize how much I was fearing that I might appear as a fool. I realize how difficult it is for me to be so obviously deficient as I am when I try to communicate. I realized that in order to feel comfortable in this place I need to let go of my addiction of the need to know. I need to allow myself to be immersed, to stumble through language, to get lost and ask for directions, to get overcharged, to eat whatever they give me, to not get hung up in the little mishaps and hiccups. I need to reawaken and trust that in the end the learning will be worth it and I will always be safe. Metaphors for the rest of my life? Perhaps!
So when we arrived in El Fuerte Jamal sat with the bikes while I headed down the street to find us a hotel and a new way of being.
The pillow on my bed at the El Hotel Puerto in Guaymas was flat and unwelcoming to the sleep which I desperately felt I needed. I pulled out my sleeping bag and piled it on the pillow to form a gigantic fluffy mass upon which I could lay mi cabeza. Sleep was difficult to find. My mind was still racing with the thousands of possibilities to come. I found comfort in the familiar smells and texture of my sleeping bag or should I call it my security blanket…my “Binky” as Jamal said.
On the ride from Guaymas to El Fuerte I had many hours of white noise silence to delve into the source of this anxiety. We rode into the countryside where vast commercial farms gave way to small family plots with livestock and pickup trucks filled with hay. As we traveled deeper and deeper into third world the pickup trucks gave way to men and boys riding on horse drawn wooden carts filled with hay for livestock and collected firewood for cooking. Hombres stooped in the median hand cutting hay to fill their carts. We were beginning to enter a world unlike our own, a place where the modern meets the ancient.
Somewhere in the middle of watching the world change my anxiety began to recede a little and my world behind the visor started to become a little more clear. I thought for a long while about what it is that scares me the most. What it could be that brought me so much sleeplessness the night before. I rode by a vulture perched upon a tall pole spreading its wings wide, staring down at me, it’s gaze fixed on mine until I rounded the next bend. Vultures feed upon the dead and the decaying parts of the earth, leaving space for new life…for new beginnings. Part of me, part of my way of being was not serving me well on this trip. I began to realize how much I was fearing that I might appear as a fool. I realize how difficult it is for me to be so obviously deficient as I am when I try to communicate. I realized that in order to feel comfortable in this place I need to let go of my addiction of the need to know. I need to allow myself to be immersed, to stumble through language, to get lost and ask for directions, to get overcharged, to eat whatever they give me, to not get hung up in the little mishaps and hiccups. I need to reawaken and trust that in the end the learning will be worth it and I will always be safe. Metaphors for the rest of my life? Perhaps!
So when we arrived in El Fuerte Jamal sat with the bikes while I headed down the street to find us a hotel and a new way of being.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Cactus Fingers
On the road in Mexico
Jamal doing a quick field repair
There is a deep silence amidst the roar within my helmet created by the wind scratching its fingernails against each protrusion and edge. The air rushing by creates a white noise that erases the presence of any other sound that would wish to enter my ears. In this deafening silence I am left alone to hear only the voice of my mind, heart, and soul competing for my attention. I ride past forests of saguaros casting long deformed finger-like shadows across the cool early morning desert landscape. The giant fingers beckon me to a place unknown.
I follow Jamal as he accelerates away from our home into foreign territory. The speedometer transforms into a measurement of fear and anxiety. Each shift in gears brings advances us toward the mystery ahead. The rising needle on the tachometer registers the revving of my mind as it imagines the infinite possibilities before us. Another sound is barely audible beneath the roar of the wind, a soft whimpering like that of a child who seeks comfort from his mother after waking from a bad dream. My vision is slightly obscured as that child’s tears land upon my eyelids and form tiny tributaries on my cheeks.
We arrived unscathed in Guaymas Mexico about ½ hour before sunset. Yesterday was a whirlwind tour of Tucson Arizona that left both of us worn thin on the night before our departure. Jamal arrived the day before with a malfunctioning carburetor and that night my computer hard drive broke. We made a list and began to check it off…remove and re-jet Jamal’s carburetor, change the oil on my bike, adjust the brakes on my bike, change a bulb on my bike, go to best buy to see if I could convince them to give me a new computer (which they did), buy a guidebook for Mexico, get some pesos, get some sneakers for Jamal, go to the post office and ship unnecessary items home, find a more detailed map of Mexico, eat some real food before I freak out, make those precious last cell phone calls, and figure out where the heck we are going to go our first day in Mexico.
We crossed the border into Mexican Chaos… Uh…I mean Nogales shortly after 9 a.m. We rode right through the border without being stamped, frisked, searched, or even stopped. Focus replaced fear in order to successfully navigate the streets filled with people and cars emitting choking toxic plumes of blue/black smoke directly into my lungs. Confusion replaced focus…aren’t they supposed to check us in or something?
We slipped into the only open parking space amongst the mass of pedestrians and motor vehicles and managed to understand at least three words from a woman on the sidewalk. “Media hora mas y menos”, one half our more or less down the freeway we were going to hit the tourist checkpoint. We cracked open the throttles to get out of the s%^&hole border town as fast as possible hoping with our fingers crossed that everything we needed to do was ahead somewhere on Mex ruta 15. Two hour and about 500 pesos lighter we were legally sent on our journey.
With each passing hour on the open road through the Sonoran desert my fears and anxieties faded. I find myself believing that all I need is a little time to feel more comfortable. As I sit here writing this after a great taco dinner my confidence on this journey cautiously grows. The optimism of my soul is beginning to take root in my mind.
Thank you for reading
Love Jay
Monday, January 4, 2010
Four tanks and a Drunk German
I started the day in Hayward, CA just outside San Francisco. I spent the day yesterday visiting with my friend Sara while recuperating from a long ride through that headache inducing fog bank they call northern California. I had called her on the 1st from a coffee shop in Ft Bragg, about 200 miles north of San Fran. She was in the middle of traveling back from the east cast and would not be home until 10:30 or so. So I decided it would be a great opportunity to sit around, drink some coffee, write in my blog, drink a little more coffee...maybe I'll have just one more cup, you get the picture...I wasn't in any kind of hurry. I figured why rush down there and get kicked out of the coffee shop near her place at the 9 o'clock closing time when I have a perfectly good place right here. I thought if I procrastinated just the right amount of time I could ride slow down the coastal route and arrive at her place just about when she was getting home from the airport. Mind you the weather was perfect at this very moment. But not really in the next moment...
After fueling up with enough caffeine to power LA for about 30 seconds I straddled my trusty steed and headed off into the sunset...Oh wait thats right... I couldn't see the sunset through the cloud that must have been overcome by the excessive force of gravity of the full moon...which I also could not see. While I was whiling away my time in Ft Bragg, the clouds had united and planned a full on assault of the coast. And they brought along their most powerful weapon...the wet stuff they secrete that relentlessly coats your helmet visor or windshield in an attempt to disorient their prey.
It wasn't until I became frustrated with riding in only second or third gear for about 2 hours that I pulled out a map and realized the song Hotel California may have been written by someone in a very similar situation. Once committed to the coastal route, you can never leave, the road goes on forever with zillions of turns but no escape to highway 101 further inland. My only hope was a road some 40 or so miles ahead (translated into 2.5 hours). So I took it easy, went super slow, and told myself that next time I would get there 3 hours early and twiddle my thumbs on the doorstep instead of subjecting myself to this sort of ridiculous misery.
As it turns out, I arrived within 2 minutes of Sara; a true testament to my keen route planning and exceptional time management skills...(much, much, much sarcasm)
What about the German? Well I spent the next day with Sara, eating real food (not that weird block of lowfat swiss and cheddar mixed that I bought for 99 cents), washing the clothes that I had not removed since I left , and driving to Vacaville to pick up her dog and have lunch with her Dad and Stepmom. I rolled out from her place on the morning of the 3rd. thankful for her kindness and generosity.
I have been trying to realize that minor frustrations are merely signposts and signals rather then some form of roadblock to the journey. They are in fact the stoplights and directional signals that are indicating the correct path or choice ahead. On this day the signs led to an unlikely encounter. About 75 miles south of the bay area my outer jacket became unzipped all the way and began flapping annoyingly in the 70 mph wind, something that had never happened before. I stopped on the hwy, fixed the problem, started off and immediately noticed that plastic body piece that covers the radiator was about to fall off. This time I was forced to exit the freeway to repair bike. I figured these were sure signs of something so I spent a little extra time adjusting the tire pressure (which was also low) and giving the machine a good looking over.
Satisfied, I zipped up my jacket and got ready to head off when a newer, but heavily ridden version of my bike rolled in and pulled up next to me. The helmet came off and speaking in a thick German accent the man indicated he was on his way home to Canada from Nicaragua. His intent was also to ride to Argentina, but the pangs of missing his family were too much and he decided to turn around in Nicaragua. A great reason I thought. I asked if he had felt safe in every country. "Every country I feel very safe" he replied.
His only problem...having his camera stolen in Nicaragua. I imagine it must have been about the time he decided to turn back. He said that he was out for dinner and drank way too much wine. Laughing at himself and turning red in the face, the 55 year old businessman, said "I was drunk, I couldn't remember my hotel, so I slept in the street." And someone stole his camera from his pocket. All I could picture on my long 4 tanks of gas ride to the Arizona border was this big, gregarious German dude stumbling out of the local taco shop and passing out in the next available alley. Don't worry I'll avoid the wine. Thank you all.
Friday, January 1, 2010
The Ancients
Sometime around 9a.m. this morning Father Sky relented his tireless testing of the structural integrity of my tent. I arose from my twelve hours of fitful sleep and emerged to see clearing skies over the ocean. I dressed quickly to avoid getting my precious insulation wet should another deluge begin. Then it was back to the lost road for another 25 miles of steep switchbacks through beautiful rolling cattle country. The bike is beginning to feel like an extension of my sensory self, the thump-thump-thump of its little single cylinder engine mimicking my own heart rate. It pounds hard when we climb steep switchbacks just as my heart would when ascending a steep alpine snow slope. It relaxes to a slow putter-putter when rolling across hilltops with unlimited horizons, as if it too recognizes the breathtaking beauty in this place. I feel the wrinkles of the earth through its round rough hands. We are becoming used to one another, aware of each other comfort zones, a silent understanding of what's too fast, what's too slow, and when our rhythms are in sync.
The road to the Lost Coast was indeed a portal... It delivered me into a simple time, a place in time when people lived an uncomplicated life in harmony with the earth. The animals who enjoy this majestic beauty beg me to not tell about the doorway to this enchanted place. As I ride further I drop from the Scottish Highland like pastures into the quiet solitude of the redwood forest. Its inhabitants rise as much as 350 feet from the forest floor extending their arms toward the heavens as if to stand a thousand years in silent prayer and meditation. They reach towards the heavens giving gratitude for there time on earth. The speak of stillness, courage, integrity, and peace in a way that no other creature could. They gently remind me of my insignificance in the universe and yet fill me with a renewed sense of the importance of each living person, each living creature. They ask us to honor the old ways of stillness, courage, integrity, and peace that has allowed them to survive for centuries...
The Lost Coast
I left Brookings Oregon shortly after 8 in the morning with the intent of stopping at the nearest café for breakfast. Dinner the night before was dismal since I did not stop at a store before making camp and removing my many layers of riding gear. A chocolate mint brownie clif bar would have to suffice.
I was cold in the morning after having so few calories to burn during the night. But as soon as my tires hit the road and the cool morning air rushed past my hunger faded and the thought of California ahead caused me to drive right by all the little roadside cafes.
I was warned that the coast would be grey and dismal and WET this time of year, but when I compared 45 degrees and raining to the 30 degrees and snowing that I might experience east of the mountains there seemed to only be an illusion of choice. Despite the weather I am so happy to have chosen this route along the coast. I am always in awe at the beauty that exists in America’s backyard. I arrived in Eureka with thoughts of finding a place to stay to escape the impending storm. The place seemed grim and sort of uninviting so I decided to take my chances at finding a hidden campsite a park ranger had told me of earlier in the day. The directions seemed easy enough- turn right at Fernbridge, follow the road to Ferndale, and then continue on for 30-40 miles to the Lost Coast. Were these driving directions or the beginning of some sort of quest in the next Harry Potter book? The latter probably describes the trip more adequately. I wound my way through the streets of Ferndale and then happened across the portal to the Lost Coast. The road came to an unlikely fork, right headed to the harbor, left headed abruptly up a steep hill on a narrow ill-traveled road that was little more than a modern version of a carriage path. The left fork was adorned by a rusty overhead arching sign reminiscent of an entrance to an amusement park that had long ago disappeared. The oxidized slightly misaligned letters read “Petrolia”. After entering this seemingly secret portal the landscape abruptly changed. The road climbed steeply for many miles and suddenly emerged into Scotland, or at least a Hollywood set that was made to represent Scotland. Huge rolling pastures covered the hillsides and met there terminus at the ocean’s edge dipping their green toes directly into the pacific. Massive sea stacks and islands could be seen beyond the green pastures. Cattle grazed lazily along the hillsides and gave me sideways glances as I motored by that seemed to say…you wish you lived here... The road twisted and turned rising over high pastoral landscapes and then descended sharp switchbacks into green valleys that emptied there rivers directly into the sea. After many miles the road dropped down to the beaches edge. The road was within 200 yards of the crashing waves, but even within that space horses and cattle grazed together forming beautiful peaceful silhouettes against turbulent ocean.
I found the campsite. Just over a small dune from the beach. As I attempted to set up my tent the winds were feeling a bit mischievous. Ten or so minutes later I was stuffing my tent back into the panniers feeling a bit defeated. I thought about having to pay for a place to stay and my investment in making this area work was renewed. A lull in the wind. I rushed to get the tent setup and guyed out like I was preparing for another windstorm on Rainier. I was in the tent by 5:00 ready to wait out the foul weather. Two hours later a knock came during a lull in the wind and rain. Another fellow had arrived in his truck and asked me if I wanted to hang out and have a beer. Steve and I hung out for a couple hours in the front of his truck to escape the torrential rains and talked family, friends, and the need for every individual to follow their unique path. At around 8 p.m. I bid him goodnight and headed for my tent to try to sleep through the howling winds and pounding downpour.
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