Lost Documents

Those of you who know me well know that I take great pride in my sense of organization. Shortly after arriving in Puerto Vallarta last night I realized that I had lost one complete set of my documents...the identity theft kit as I like to call it. Contained within was a copy of my passport, copy of my license, title and registration copies, International Driving Permit, Tourist Permit, and temporary vehicle import permit. Fortunately I have duplicates and originals for all documents except the ones that the Mexican Government issued me upon arrival.

So this morning I set out to replace the latter two documents. In beautiful buricratic style the Office of Migracion at the cruise ship dock informed me that in order to get a new tourist card I had to make copies of every page of my passport, write a letter in spanish indicating that I lost the card, get it notorized, go before some judicial clerk for approval, return to the office to submit all of my materials, pay somewhere between 800-1000 pesos, and then wait five days for a new one. I called the US consulate for help and they just said that I had to follow the Mexican procedure and they could help me no further. I walked out of the office into the oppressive heat, especially when your in jeans and a leather jacket, feeling defeated, ready to say f*&% it and head back to the US border.

Without even acknowledging my defeatist attitude (a good strategy because I probably would have thrown some kind of childish temper tantrum), Jamal calmly suggested that that we head to the Migracion office at the airport.

On my way across the parking lot, Jamal suggested I say a little prayer for some help, which I did prior to entering the airport terminal. I found the office, actually it was a window, and explained my situation. The man behind the glass asked for my passport, took a look, stuck out a new immigration form for me to complete, tore off the bottom and asked for 680 pesos. I handed him 700 pesos. He handed me the new card and said "sorry no change" as he slipped the money into his pocket!

So what did I learn? If your not getting what you want, just ask someone else and be willing to part with a few extra pesos. And, assistance or guidance from something higher always helps... And, I really need to reexamine my reaction to these types of situations. To look at how I approach challenges like the one today.

Now I questioned the validity of this whole transaction, but then I thought, if I had never gone to the other office this whole experience wouldn't seem abnormal. So I'll just need to maintain my faith and continue south. And since I now have a valid tourist permit I feel pretty good about it.

We arrived in Cihuatlan late in the afternoon after a short but beautiful twisty ride from Puerto Vallarta. Because of the fiasco this morning we did not get on the road until 12:30.

We had our usual dinner of tacos. Our diet has existed of primarily corn in the form of tortillas and some kind of meat. Once in a while we'll throw beans into the mix. We always buy our meals from street vendors or small cafes because most restaurants are too expensive, although we both know that payment will sometime be paid in minutes on the toilet. The taco only diet is starting to get a bit old. Perhaps if we had a better command of the language we could order something different, although I don't think so since most of these places have only one or two pots next to a pile of fresh corn tortillas. It seems that were there are few Americans there are few variations in the menu, and we are usually the only white guys around. It is wonderful interacting with folks who have not been jaded by tourism.

We stopped a small roadside fruit stand yesterday an bought 4 bananas and 10 oranges for the equivalent of 75 cents. Say no to scurvy! Our new diet strategy...meat and tortillas for breakfast, fruitas for lunch, and breakfast again for dinner...

Continuing south along the coast tomorrow.

thanks for reading my friends.
Love,
Jay

City Street Video

Here is a video I shot as we wandered through the cobble streets of an unknown town in search of gasolina.

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!

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.

Hotel Del Puerto - Guaymas

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

Four tanks and a Drunk German

Laughter roared through my helmet momentarily replacing the deafening wind noise that usually fills the space behind the visor. I laughed again as I replayed my encounter with the friendly gregarious KLR riding German/ Canadian earlier today...

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.