Home is Home

Yikes!  I'm home, and it's been about three weeks. This blog isn't going to finish itself, so here's the epilogue to more than two years of bike trips.

I last wrote in this blog from Los Angeles. I left LA with the wind at my back. I stopped for lunch on the beach in Santa Monica, then pointed it right up Highway 1.  The One. My first campsite out of LA was in Point Mugu State Park, which apparently is pronounced, "Ma-GOO". Southern Californians love to correct a Spanish pronunciation and assimilate you to their butchered airhead dialects:

-So where, like, do you like, sleep? Like, hotels and stuff?

-No usually I camp. A couple nights ago I was in Point Mugu...

-Like, where? Oooh! Point MaGoo!

Canyoneering in Pt Mugu

That's not fair of me. I had a great time in Southern California, especially north of Orange County. Camping in Point Mugu was really cool, as were all of my campsites on my trudge north. In Point Mugu I camped at an intriguing spot that was advertised as being only two miles off the road. This turned out to be two miles straight up the canyon carrying my loaded bike on my shoulder. After an hour and a half of these portages, I finally got to the site at sunset, built a fire, and sang songs and finished off the last bit of Tequila I had imported from Mexico.

Quite pleasant.

For this last stretch of my trip, which in conversations with myself I would call "my victory lap", I tried to keep it as comfortable and pleasant as possible. I wanted to do it all. I wanted to sleep by the ocean and tell people stories. I wanted to meet locals in bars and talk about basketball. I wanted to camp in parks and listen to coyotes and look at owls as I cooked. I wanted to milk these final moments, and spare no expense to do so.

The reality of Highway One between LA and San Francisco is that compared to riding from Portugal to Hong Kong, it's very short. With each day that passed I had a greater and greater sense of my impending return. At the time this was exciting and terrifying. First I was out of LA. Then I was past Santa Barbara. Then I was in San Luis Obispo. The place names were becoming more and more familiar, and the landscape more and more spectacular. In San Luis Obispo I took a great rest day at the home of Richard and David. Richard took me mountain biking in the oak-shaded hills of SLO, while providing constant intrigue and inspiration from their stories of lives well-led climbing High Sierra peaks, riding frigid Canadian roads, and hosting bike tourers for over a decade. Thanks David and Richard!

Shredding with Richard in San Luis Obispo

After San Luis Obispo I would plunge into the primordial forests of Big Sur. Having never before been to Big Sur, my cup was filled with anticipation.

Big Sur is a famous stretch of California coast between San Simeon and Carmel. It's famous for redwood forests that plunge straight into the frigidly roiling waters of the world's greatest ocean: The "Mighty" Pacific. I had heard of hot springs in the forest, and planned on hiking to the springs.  I left SLO riding north. I passed the world's largest elephant seal motel, and shortly after entered Big Sur. I whooped and sang at the majestic cliffs and the soaring sequoias. I passed a waterfall and decided to camp early in order to hang out with myself and the redwoods. I scouted a good spot, above the road in the trees by an abandoned ranger station. It was a classic spot, registering high on the "is it a good wild campsite?" meter, with high marks in accessibility, seclusion, and beauty. It was no surprise when another bike tourer showed up.

Elephant Sea Dogs

Great redwood campsites are meant to be shared, and up rolled Dr. Steven Fabes. Clothes ripped to shreds and eyes wide in pursuit of a campsite, he asked me if I worked at the abandoned ranger station. I replied that I did not and was just camping there for the night. I saw his bike and welcomed him into the beautiful site. Steve told me had been riding around the world for 3.5 years from England to Portland, OR where he is now, via Cairo, Cape Town, then up from Argentina. It's not often that I meet a cyclist who has ridden further and longer than me, but Steve was one of those cyclists. Check out his blog at www.cyclingthe6.blogspot.com as it will follow him on his journey back to England. The company was welcome, as it was a great distraction to my own ridiculous thoughts and concerns about my impending return to this more settled lifestyle. Steve and I ended up riding together for three days. We hiked up to Sikes hot springs in Big Sur, thanks to the generosity and ability of a State Park employee to hold onto our bikes while we did the hike.

Big Sur

We parted ways in Monterey when I wanted to go to Salinas to see the National John Steinbeck Center, which was totally crap and cost $16.

Steve and me in Big Sur

I left Salinas riding into the dastardly wind heading back to the coast. Heading into this wind, my thoughts swarmed again towards my impending return to my parents' house. I was ending a period of my life, such a period, and I didn't know how to approach it. As luck would have it, I ran into another touring cyclist, young Peter Salazar, who was riding from Tucson to Stanford. We camped at a State Park south of Aptos, and again the company and distraction and strawberries were welcome.

We split in Santa Cruz after taking advantage of a free bike to work day breakfast, and I headed straight into one of the nastiest winds I've encountered all the way to Half Moon Bay, which was to be my last campsite before heading to San Francisco.

The day dawned grey and bleak, the sun's light dulled by fog. This was familiar: this is May in Northern California. I packed up, tied up my rack, and headed north. I soared through the famous Devil's Slide, a notoriously dangerous stretch of Highway One south of San Francisco. It wasn't that bad. At all. I soared north. I passed Pacifica and had coffee. I passed Daly City, where BART stops. I had been there before. I soared north energized by my homecoming. I entered San Francisco. I was in San Francisco. All over the world when people ask me where I'm from, I say San Francisco (except for a brief period at the beginning of this trip in Spring 2011 when I said I was from Portland because that's what felt right. Go to hell Jaco). San Francisco is quite a city, but alas, I'm from Berkeley. I was not home yet, and I will digress:

Cycling into Istanbul from Tekirdag is one of the scariest things a person can do. The highway, which for days had been great, turned into an eight-lane freeway. Cars and trucks scream by from all sides as you have merges, on-ramps, exits, and generally insane drivers. It is terrifying, but there is no alternate as far as I know. You have to do this for a few miles, then finally you can get off it. Once you get off it though you follow the Sea of Marmara around and around until finally, famously, you round the point and you can see the Golden Horn with its hills, minarets, and landmarks of civilization. This is the city that was the capital of the Byzantine and Ottoman empires, and is one of the most beautiful and inspiring cities in the world.

With this in mind, I wanted to make a similar entry into San Francisco. I rode up Ocean Beach, up through the heights, and rounded that point among the cypress and the redwoods until finally it was staring me down: The Golden Gate Bridge. For many this bridge is a symbol of humanity dominating nature: two towers supporting an international orange span hundreds of feet above the Pacific Ocean. For me, it was an indication of homecoming, as foggy as my illusions of what homecoming would be. 

Looking East towards Home

I took the ferry across the bay for the first time and I got off at the wrong stop. I was lost in Alameda. Closer to home than I'd been on a bike in two years, and I was lost. As you may have guessed I found my way. But I didn't go straight to my parents' house. I stopped at my friends Gabe and Haley's house, where I stayed the night, electing to do the final seven miles the next day.

I woke up on Saturday, May 11 and packed up my bike. I tied on my rack, and walked out the door. I rode down the hill to Telegraph Ave, and headed north. I crossed into Berkeley and checked the prices at Smokehouse, a greasy grill I went to at 2am in High School. The prices hadn't changed since then. A victory. I continued north. This part of Telegraph at 10am on a Saturday is not the most inspiring place in the world, especially with the closure of certain book stores and the burning down of certain restaurants. The empty lots and massive homeless youth camps are signs of the times on Telegraph. After getting yelled at by a recently awakened youth, I made the left turn onto Bancroft and was soon on Milvia. I used to take Milvia home from high school.

All of these turns were surreal. I had done them so many times. I was in auto-pilot. I had envisioned this homestretch so many times while riding through the tens of thousands of unknown miles that I had been through. I turned left on Berryman. Then I was on Hopkins. And off Hopkins. I turned right onto Carlotta, went half way up the block and opened the front door of 1236 with my own key. And with that I was home.

I now type from my parents' computer. Uploading photos is so easy! I'm listening to the A's play the Brewers on the radio. There's probably a way I can watch online, but I don't know these things. I am also uploading music onto my computer from CDs I checked out from the Berkeley Public Library. There are probably ways to download these CDs, but I don't know these things. It is a changing world, and I have effectively been gone for two years. Being back is a joy. All of my hesitations and worries are things of the brain. There is no substitute for the warmth of the home I grew up in. There is nothing like familiarity. This adjustment so far has been fine. I'm writing a lot, working on talks I can give to youth groups or outdoor clubs and the like during the day. I go for bike rides in the afternoon once the fog clears. I eat my mother's cooking in the evening. Things are good.

March 1, 2011-May 11, 2013

If you liked this blog, please check out my others on www.supercontinental.blogspot.com and www.minicontinental.blogspot.com.

I'll upload stats shortly.

Thanks for reading!

Rambling around in the Golden State

Fog feeling like lifting

Last campsite in Mexico outside of Tecate

Breaking the law

Moon waiting to shine, last camp in Mexico

The $4,100,000,000 border wall in Tecate, taken from Tecate on the Mexico side

Road signs of a post-car military state future, Camp Pendleton

I was observed in this pleasant Orange County neighborhood

I was not observed sleeping on this Orange County beach at moonset/sunrise

The first question they asked was, "are you lost?" I guess two years of wandering around with limited aims gives me a dimness of appearance and the moment that I finally set foot in my own country, I must appear perpetually "lost". But aren't we all? Does anyone really know what they want or where they are for that matter? Yes, I am in a border station at a little used border with nothing on the other side in San Diego County. Yes, actually, I am very lost. Anyway, here's my passport, don't even look at the passport cover that says "Uzbekistan: Citizen's Passport" and let me right in. That's what happened in Tecate as I crossed the border through the oh so intimidating border fence. Seeing the fence was sad. It's a pathetic flimsy thing, with holes in it and horizontal ridges for hand and foot holds. Easily climbed, it seems like more of a symbolic divide than any practical border security device. On the Mexican side are lots of ads for car dealerships or supermarkets. On the US side there's nothing.

Then I was in San Diego County. There was the border security building with a Payless Shoe Source and a Payless Kids along with some loans offices and credit card offers all in Spanish. After descending through beautiful mountains east of San Diego I rode clean through the city and north along the coast to Encinitas, where I stayed with the friendly Art Minas. I spent two nights in Encinitas, and spent lots of money on IPA and cheeseburgers with bacon. There I rested, and watched surfers ripping it up, and if anyone can tell me why the board doesn't sink when they stand on the nose, that would be great. Then I left for a big traverse of the Camp Pendleton Marine Base and Orange County.

Camp Pendleton was a dream. There's a long section of highway (101) that they closed to cars after a new, bigger highway (5) was built. So now it's a four-lane bike highway with signs everywhere saying "tank crossing" and cool stuff like that. The whole ride is through beautiful hills and coast. It pops you out right in San Clemente, Orange County.

In Orange County I got my first "FUCKING IDIOT!!!" yelled at me from a Ford F-150 as I was riding in the bike lane through downtown Laguna Beach. I laughed and signalled a thumbs up. Finding camping in Orange County was a lesson in people not being reasonable. At first I tried to camp at Crystal Cove State Park. I pulled up to the kiosk and mentioned I'd like to camp:

-Did you want a walk-in site or a beachfront site?

-Umm, are the prices the same?

-The walk-in sites are $25 and the beach sites have full hook-ups and are $50.

I mentioned I was on a bike and didn't have anything to hook up, was it still $25 for the cheapest site?

-Oh. Yeah.

I kept riding. I can't remember the last time I paid $25 for accommodation, and to pitch a tent? Where are we, Laguna Beach or something? There were two more campsites within riding distance for the day, at Huntington Beach then a little further at Bolsa Chica State Park. At Huntington Beach I went to the kiosk and mentioned I'd like to camp:

-Sorry, you can only camp here if you're camping in an RV.

So I kept riding, continuing to Bolsa Chica State Park, and pulled up the kiosk and mentioned I'd like to camp:

-Sorry, you can only camp here if you're camping in an RV.

-But, it says here on the state park guide that there are campsites here!

-Nope, only for RVs, there's bike-in camping in Malibu...

-But that's a 7 hour ride from here! Can't I just put up my tent somewhere? All I need is a small space for it. I'm leaving at dawn, I'm just passing through and won't come here again unless I've got an RV.

-Sorry, you can't camp here unless you're in an RV.

This continued for a while, the sun was getting lower and lower and I was at the end of my energy. I asked if I could just pitch my tent in the park headquarters, or on the beach. They hid behind the steel curtain of liability, and said there was a big beach a few minutes' ride north in Sunset Beach which they didn't usually patrol. I could probably get away with illegally camping there for the night if I got out early enough. I said that sounded fine, but instead of sneaking around I'd much prefer to camp with their permission at their beach, but they were having none of this. They said if something happened to me while camped on State Park property they'd be liable. I didn't bring up the fact the this state employee had counseled me to illegally camp somewhere else, so what if something happened to me there? Wouldn't she still be liable? I'll let the law buffs sort that one out, but this is what I did in the end. Actually, I turned to the strategy of first going to a cafe and hoping to meet locals who could provide a space for a tent, but the people at Woody's Diner in Sunset Beach were engrossed in one of the stupidest conversations I've ever heard: The waitress was complaining about how she had worked at this crappy diner for 4.5 years and she still didn't get seniority over less-tenured employees because her junior coworkers had children and got flexible hours which allowed them to raise their children. Well, she protested, I have the same problem! I have two dogs that are really expensive and take a lot of time and attention! They're the same as children, so I shouldn't have to take the shitty hours that these girls don't want just because they have kids! I pointed my wheels west, and rode to the beach, where I had a restless illegal sleep under the bright full moon. Every time I woke up with the strong moon in my eyes I thought it was a searchlight waiting to throw me in the Orange County vagrancy ward. Luckily and perhaps due to my incredible skill at sneaky sleeping, this didn't happen and I woke up and ate my cereal and rode off to Los Angeles.

This is where I am now. I am staying with family friends in a house I have stayed in plenty of times before, having come down here every summer in my childhood. The familiarity is warm and refreshing. Los Angeles is a much more pleasant city than I had remembered. Riding through it from Long Beach to the middle was a breeze. I followed the LA River/shopping cart cemetery until it ended, then wide, bike-friendly streets the rest of the way. The city is full of palm, lemon, and fig trees and the air is clean. I even took the metro, which was incredibly convenient and cost $1.50!

So there you go. America! What a place. Paranoia (see photos of neighborhood watch, see border wall), diversity, and the NFL draft (see 49ers defense). Cheeseburgers with bacon! From here I'll cruise up through Malibu and Zuma Beach, and other legendary Southern California places that have had TV shows based on their lifestyles. Then I'll be home, I'll find a job, get married, have kids and live a happy life with a mortgage, guns, and health insurance. Back in the USA!

Sentenced to Headwinds and Nostalgia in Baja California

I made it through Baja California. I took these pictures all from campsites, except the one of me riding. That was taken from the road. The stretch from Mulegé to Ensenada was mostly desert, with a small oasis town in the middle. That's the one with the palm tree and the river.

From Mulegé I spent ten days straight riding through the deserts and salt flats here. Every day I had a nasty headwind that started usually around 8:00am and finished around midnight. It seemed like no matter which direction I turned, the wind was blowing in my face. Even during a climb where the road snaked around and I was actually heading southeast, the wind somehow managed to eddy and cyclone around in the mountain's elbow and slam me in the face. I woke up before dawn every day, just so I could get the two hours' riding before 8 when things were calm, and I would think, "maybe they won't blow today," but everyd day I was slammed.

So I am happy to be here in Ensenada, a day's ride from the border. I am a wreck. I nearly cried yesterday on my way in (maybe I did) thinking that once I cross the border, I'm really on my way home. No more tortas, no more elotes, no more licuados, no more pesos, no more Spanish. At some moments I'm excited to be seeing familiar faces and people that I love, and the next moments I have an empty stomach, feel weak, and am terrified of returning to the United States. It's hard thinking that my Spanish is as good as it will ever be, and I hope this is not the case. I guess that's up to me.

In Ensenada I have tried to do for the last times the things I have really enjoyed in Mexico. I got a haircut and a shave this afternoon. I've now had five haircuts in the past two years at real barbershops, and every time I get a cut I get a shave. It all started in Azerbaijan, and it has become somewhat of a thing to do in a foreign city with not much else to do. Generally they've been the same. In Azerbaijan the guy refused payment until I insisted. In China I was offered hooch and cigarettes to share with the barber after he had finished. The haircut I got today lasted about an hour and a half and included two sessions of about five minutes each where the barber put a hot towel to my face, covering my entire face up to the tip of my nose. She also put two treatments of shaving cream on, after having washed off the first with the hot towel. I bought a wallet, a tire, and gas for my stove, these all being cheaper here than in the US. I've had four orders of tacos and two tortas in the last 12 hours, which is about twice as I normally eat. I just can't bare to pass a fine looking taco stand and leave it untouched. I might be back, but then I might not. Mexico seems so close, but then again everything seems close when you're there. I remember Jaco and I discussing whether or not we should hurry into China because they were closing the border. This meant that we would miss out on the three weeks in Kyrgyzstan we had planned. We ultimately did go straight to China, and in the end we decided that Kyrgyzstan wasn't that difficult to get to. This was around the same time that we would look at globes and remark that we were exactly 180° around the world from Berkeley, or basically as far away as we could possibly be.

I haven't read this over, and I'm not going to. As I said, I'm a wreck, sorry for the lack of photos, my camera ran out of batteries about three days from Ensenada. This is a shame, because for the first time this trip someone actually asked me to take a picture of him. His name was Roberto Alvarez, and he writes songs and sells mole oaxaqueña and carnitas about 30km south of Ensenada on the side of the road. He used to live in the US, in California, going to high-end seafood restaurants and teaching their staff how to cook seafood. That is until he got sick of being treated like a second class citizen (actually, his word was slave) and came back to Mexico. We played music together for an hour. This is Mexico on a bicycle, and I highly recommend it.

Knife Find and the Dangers of Cortez

There is a town in Western China that is famous for its knives. It's on the legendary Southern Tier of the Silk Road, which sounds 1000 times more glamorous than it is. Passing through Yengisar on a bicycle it is impossible not to stop at a knifery, and in a stroke of uncharacteristic souvenir accumulation I bought a knife in Yengisar. It was one of two souvenirs that I bought on the whole trip, the other being a Tibetan wall hanging of a legendary warrior driving his horse hard across the plain. This hangs in my parents' house awaiting reclamation. Of the knife's whereabouts, I know not.

It was a small knife, used mainly for paring, though I like to think it was made for taking negotiations up a notch in Chinese deal rooms lit by naked light bulbs. It had Chinese lettering on one side, and Uighur on the other, which my friend was able to read. It said, "Yengisar". Its handle was brass with small red green and yellow circular inlays. It was heavier than it looked. That's why I bought it. It felt solid.

There is a town in Western Australia that is famous for its thieves. It's called Margaret River. I left my knife on a picnic table there and left briefly to wash vegetables. When I came back my Yengisar knife was gone. Things come and go, this is a reality, and it's best not to get too attached to anything. I really liked the knife.

Thus began my year in the knife wilderness. I wandered from a crappy Australian knife from "Kathmandu", which is synonymous with horrible Australian outdoor store, to knives I found in dumpsters. I just needed something that looked cool and could slice a tomato and fit in my handlebar bag. If I could dangle it from my belt, huge bonus. The best I got was a hand-me-down Leatherman which was great.

When I arrived in Mexico, what with all the great leather and general cowboy apparel there, I thought finding a solid replacement knife would be easy. I went to market after market in town after town foolishly looking for a decent blade. All I could find though were loose switchblades, really expensive hunting knives, or cheap folding knives with plastic handles. I stuck with my Leatherman and generally forgot the whole ordeal. Sometimes, it's better to forget.

Then I came upon the hamlet of San Agustin.

Calling San Agustin a hamlet is overstating things. It's a taqueria connected to a ranch, which makes it an oasis in the desert that is Mexico Ruta 1 between La Paz and Ciudad Insurgentes. This is in Baja California Sur, where things get real. This is the first time in Mexico I've had to pack several days' worth of water and food. This is the first time I've really had to wild camp. So when a taqueria popped up after days of not seeing anything, like any reasonable person I stopped.

It was early, so I had coffee and chilaquiles. This made me hyperalert, and I started wandering around until I came across a display case that was taller than me. It was full of knives and saddles. They were beautiful. They had metal handles with bone inlays. They all had leather sheathes. Some even had ornamentation on the blades! By God what an oasis! After a year in the wilderness here I am delivered! Using the technique of taking deep breaths I calmed myself and bought a knife. It has some floral ornamentation on the blade which is curved and a metal handle with a bone or antler inlay. When I picked it up the man said, "ranchero". If he didn't have me at that he then told me that a guy makes these knives in the mountains yonder. I pulled out a wad of cash I don't even know how much and gave it to him and tried to regain my senses. Next thing I knew I was paring tomatoes at sundown on a ridge overlooking a great valley of cactus, holding a beautiful knife in my hand trying not to fall asleep before I cooked dinner.

I wish I had had the knife when I encountered my newest archenemy: the stingray.

Yesterday I was heading in on day six of my six day haul through Southern Baja California's Sierre la Gigante, driving hard against the wind as the road clung to the Sea of Cortez. I came across an hamubrgueseria and stopped in for a hamburguesa that I had been told were the best hamburgers in Baja. So I stopped and ate then went for a swim, a snorkel even, to see what I could see in the sea. I saw what I saw, which were a few tropical fish and lots of seaweed, and got out of the water. Not so fast! On my last step I was shot in the right Achilles by the venomous and dangerous barb of none other than Sting Ray. I threw a few punches then plunged my foot into really really really hot water. I did this for about an hour, and set off to ride to Mulege, the town where I am now and where I had planned a rest day. I made about 15km to the next village, and collapsed in a heap of pain under a palapa at Playa El Coyote, which is insanely beautiful and anyone driving down the Cortez Coast should camp there. I unfortunately lay there moaning until the pain subsided enough for me to hobble to the taqueria and ask for more hot water. They did not oblige. They did way better. They instead got on marine radio and radioed an ambulance, which happened to be across the street. I hobbled across the street and collapsed in a heap of pain. I got treatment there, which consisted of drawing out the remaining venom and some blood with a cool vacuum thing, and waiting around. The ambulance was free of charge, and is run by Patsi and Les who are volunteers who go around Baja California helping locals and foreigners with whatever ails them. After about an hour there, I felt a million times better, and set off into the now raging headwind for Mulege. Despite the odds, I made it and now I'm fine.

I'm only a couple weeks now from crossing the border into the US, which is crazy. I'm taking my time but I'm moving right along. I had two nights in a row camping on the Sea of Cortez, a few meters from the beach. Some of these photos here are taken from my tent, one's where I had lunch and they're all typical Baja California.

Living it up at the Hotel California

These photos belonged to the last post. When I was in an internet cafe writing that post, the strangest thing happened. I was slowly uploading the photos, and there was a progress bar indicating how much of the photo had uploaded. I was uploading one at a time because the computer was really slow. The progress bar would fill below the photo icon, starting at zero and inching up 10%, 20%, all the way to about 85%. Then the progress actually started going backwards. Down down down. I couldn't believe it. What cheaters have raged and bulled into this internet cafe? The progress hovered around 70% then made the final push to the end and indicated that the upload was complete. When I tried to publish them however there were no photos there. Half an hour and five pesos later, I gave up and went for some tacos. I am able to upload them now faster than a diving sea eagle. So enjoy this unprecedented spurt of photography. Jaco said once that a photo is worth hundreds of thousands of words.

Here I am in Todos Santos. Todos Santos is on the Pacific Ocean in Baja California Sur. When I told people I was going to Todos Santos, the normal reaction was this: Hey, whoa! That's where the Hotel California is, like the real one from the song! Indeed, I knew that already, and this is the reason I'm here. It was only a two day ride away from La Paz in the opposite direction, but I could I leave such a monument unseen? The REAL Hotel California, where "some dance to remember, some dance to forget". I HAD to see this "such a lovely place"!



Above is a picture I took yesterday at sunset of the Hotel.



And this picture is my antihotel. Here it is in absolutely all its glory in Guanajuato State in Central Mexico. Surrounded by nopales and under the yucca tree, this was a fine site. I had about a week of riding from Querétaro through the states of Guanajuato, Jalisco and Aguascalientes to Zacatecas. Vast open plains flanked by toothy mountains. That is, mountains that are sharp like teeth with the plains driving up like tongues in between. This the whale's mouth and me Jonah driving hard against the wind breathing in until finally I breach the mouth and am spit out in Zacatecas.



If you look closely into the foreground here you will see my victory celebration. A torta milanesa and Victoria with Negro Modelo for dessert.

And Zacatecas was good. Zacatecas was, in fact, my favorite place in Mexico. It's built on a pass in the mountains. All the streets on either side of the main one are steep and windy. The main street is straight and graded. The people who built Zacatecas were silver barons who cut overhead costs by employing slaves to dig for silver and gold and other necessary goods from their mine which they called "Eden". They turned this wealth into fancy details on their cathedrals and houses. Then Pancho Villa came and conquered and the city built a gondola spanning the two hills. It's a beautiful city. More importantly, there are amazing tacos and hardly any tourists. The one tourist who was in my room at the hostel was a man named Robert, from Sioux City, Iowa. Robert and I had a great night out at a cantina. There was the mariachi band and its shouting and sobbing and dancing fans; the old guys at the bar; the trucker who just stopped in; the couple in tears who sat in silence for most of the night then got up only to fall down onto the table and knock it over before being escorted out. The best part of the bar though was the 5 inch channel that ran all around the bar, which according to legend was so that people (men) could pee from their barstools without having to get up to interrupt the conversation. According to the bartender, this ended 20 years ago when by law they had to install a urinal.

How times do change.



I spent my first night at sea and here is the full moon taken from port astern to prove it. This was on the ferry from Mazatlán to La Paz, across the Sea of Cortez. Sleeping was the only hurdle. Many had warned me that the bedding situation on the ferry was a predicament. You have the option of getting a cabin or a seat, or of getting general admission. The nautical term for general admission is steerage, for all you naut vocab buffs. Jaco. Anyway, not being a chump, I bought the cheapest ticket in steerage. Then, being a chump, I left my sleeping bag and camping pad in my bike which was locked up and battened down in the hold. So all I had was my thin little shirt and my Shaquille O'Neal jersey under that. I was slightly worried about getting cold. Luckily, ships in the 21st century are powered by combustion engines, which produce a lot of heat. By the time the full moon had reached its apex, I was tired and ready to get a good night's sleep asea. I made my way to the engines abaft. To my delight, it was full of people (men) sleeping like emperors on the deck. Being humans, everyone had found a special and unique place to sleep. There were men sleeping on the bed-sized boxes that contained the life vests. There were men sleeping under the life boats where two beams came together in A-frames and were about a bed length apart. There was no one, however, sleeping completely exposed on the deck. I guess we like to feel as if our backs are protected when we sleep. Seeing this I decided everyone had their backs sufficiently protected to not try to rob them, and I found a place between an electrical box and a life vest box to sleep. I used my bag of dates and peanuts as a pillow. I woke up one sleep cycle later with a dry and acrid throat from my proximity to the engines, source of warmth, power, and mercy. I moved further aft to the bed-sized A-frame base under the life boat. One sleep cycle later, I awoke, cold and exposed. I moved afore and made my den simply aside a wall sure and solid. I awoke at dawn surrounded by cabin dwellers adeck to see the sunrise. I turned over onto my back, bent my knees to my chest, grabbed my date and peanut pillow and wrapped my arms around my knees, rolled backward along my curved spine then rolled forward and sprang up onto my feet. I was awake, and had spent the night at sea. I felt great. I sighted land before the watchman yelled out ¡Land Ho! and climbed to the second deck. I looked down and saw none other than a giant tortoise cruising south in the Sea of Cortez.

A day's ride from La Paz later, I am in Todos Santos. I couldn't afford a room at the Hotel California, so I called up my cousin and got his girlfriend's mother's email address. I emailed her and here I am, staying with the magnanimous Petra Hauptmann and her family in a beautiful house where I can see the Pacific stretching towards Hong Kong.

¡Hasta la Rica Torta Siempre!

Santa Rosa Jáuregui should be the town on every visitor to everyone who has ever even considered Mexico's mind. For some reason, there are only 14,400 inhabitants, it is not the seat of any sort of organization or office, nor is it represented by any professional sports team. Of all the housing booms in the world, it is shocking to me that there has not been one here.

I have started riding again! From Puerto Escondido, Alex and I took a 220km night bus over the twisty roads through the mountains to Oaxaca City. In Oaxaca City I ate as much as I could, and got on a plane at 6am after 24 hours in the city. I got on a plane because my mom broke her foot. Like any self-conscious only child, I went back to help her. I spoke to my parents before I left Oaxaca and they said they were going to get a home aid. I said, "don't do that, you have a son." She's fine now. I hope she doesn't resent that assessment. At the time of her casting she needed someone to drive her to and from work and to run errands. So this is what I did. Between the hours of 9 and 5, I had lots of catching up to do.

It had been two years exactly (crazy!) since I had left Berkeley, CA to roll around the world. With no prior intention of returning until this spring, no one was expecting me. I got to surprise a lot of people. The first was Haley sitting in a cafe. She had unknowingly notified me of her location, thanks to some sort of online communication technology. I cruised into the cafe where she was doing something important, and walked by her three times before I ordered coffee. I took my coffee and sat outside at a seat in plain view from her seat. She was so consumed in her important work that she didn't see me. So I walked in again - she was sitting right next to the door - and closed the door loudly or something to get her attention. Finally she looked up and found it weird that someone had just walked in and was staring at her. She stared back, then I winked one of my worst winks. She yelped softly and I was back. I explained everything and she put off her important stuff for later. Then we called a dear friend Gabe who happened to be sleeping in Haley's and his bed, and I crawled into bed with him. Gabe urged me closer. I explained everything and we resolved to play basketball the next day. During the basketball match, which had been organized with dear friend Tim, I was able give Tim a whale of a surprise, then proceeded to lose again and again at basketball. I had never surprised anyone, and it was fun. I'll be able to do it again when I get back for real.

I was in Berkeley for a month. I never struggled to occupy myself. I saw family, phoned people I hadn't spoken to for two years, ate pizza and chicken cheddar sandwiches. I changed my underwear daily! I hiked and hiked in Tilden and Redwood Park, and even discovered Rodeo Gulch with AC Delmer. The last time I saw AC was in Leon, Spain, which is where I did the first blog post for this trip. It was a vacation within a vacation. I was unemployed and not looking for work. It was a strange feeling, a sort of time outside of itself. All abstract aside, it was pure joy. I hope it was a sneak preview of what's to come when I eventually do return. That said, there's still a long way to go.

Which is why I found myself yesterday in Santa Rosa Jáuregui, which is famous for its carnitas. Holé Molé what fine carnitas. I had asked people in Querétaro (which is where I started this trip yesterday) what regional foods they´d recommend. Carnitas they said. I struggled mightily to contain my emotions and asked wherefore art ye best carnitas. Santa Rosa they said. I looked at my map and in a world lit by lightning Santa Rosa was about a lunchtime's ride from Querétaro. In a daze I set forth after a breakfast of chilaquiles and somehow I made it despite my emotional blackout to Santa Rosa. I gathered myself and looked for the first place to eat. I saw the first place and it was called Taquería Poo and looked for the second place to eat. It was called Ricas Tortas de Carnitas and managed to order a torta. My God! What joyous carnitas! Big hunks of pork! There were chicharrones on the side! What a place! I ate my chicharrones and they gave me more for free with fresh salsa that they had just taken out of the blender! If there is a world peace treaty to be signed, it will be done in Santa Rosa Jáuregui, 20km north of Santiago de Querétaro, Querétaro State, Mexico.

Emotions and the Events that Cause Them

When I arrived in San Cristobal de las Casas, I was sick from bad border hot dogs. Alex had taken the bus in because he had rent asunder his rear hub axle a few days earlier leaving Guatemala.

"Mistakes were made."

-Alex

San Cristobal de las Casas is a small town in the mountains of Chiapas. If you buy coffee from Chiapas, it's probably coming from within a day's mule from San Cristobal. There are colonial churches and nearby waterfalls. It's the capital of the Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional (EZLN), aka los Zapatistas which to summarize is an agrarian revolutionary movement in Chiapas. Our grand plan in San Cristobal was for Alex to buy a new bike and leave within a few days. For these few days we would drink coffee, play chess and eat chocolate. It sounded like as good a plan as was ever made.

After a few explorations into buying a new bike in San Cristobal, Alex decided it wasn't really worth it to buy a bike there. They were all overpriced and there was nothing really in his size. So he decided to order a nice touring bike (Surly Long Haul Trucker) from a shop in the US, and get it shipped down to San Cristobal. This sounded like a fine plan to me, because I have a Surly and rode it a long way and think they're great machines. I was happy to stay in San Cristobal another week. So we set about ordering the bike, and descended into the Purgatory that is ordering a Surly and getting it shipped internationally.

There was delay after delay. Either it was an unacceptable form of payment or a statement from UPS saying we didn't have the customs form that we had. Or maybe it was that our box was 1 inch too big and we'd have to pay an extra $1,000. So we waited and waited and did all we could think of to get this bike, and quickly ran out of things to do in San Cristobal.

While this was all happening, my own bike was stolen, along with all my stuff that was on it.

Well, not all my stuff. Most of it. It was stolen from inside the hostel where we were. In hindsight I should have locked it up. It's just that after hundreds of times leaving it unlocked, I felt that inside a locked hostel was a safe place to leave it unlocked. I left the bags on it because for some strange reason I thought that the bags would be a deterrent of sorts to thieves, that the bags would make it too complicated to steal or something. The result being that the thieves got my bags and everything in them. They got my bike shoes that I had had since I was 17, the finest Italian leather that endured two rigorous seasons of mountain bike racing, a tour across America, four more years of hard mountain biking, and a tour across Eurasia as well as bits of Australia (I recommend these as well, Sidi Dominator II is the model). They got my camera, which is why there are no photos for this post and why there will probably be no more photos on this blog. Purists rejoice. They got my waterproof binoculars and my camping pots that have been on every trip I have. They got all the clothes I had save the ones I was wearing. They got foreign currency from Georgia to Hong Kong. I can only hope they try to spend my Uzbek Som in a little tienda for some cheetos or something. What they missed were my passport and bank card, as well as my water filter which I had inexplicably removed. I also held on to my coffee maker, but they got my coffee. They didn't get my baseball cards that I like to hand to people who are nice to me. They didn't get my journal. The list goes on and on, but the most important, treasured object they got was my bike. They got my bike.

Devastation.

And there we were in San Cristobal.

The standard hostel conversations were pathetic:

Where are you heading next?

Well, we're traveling on bikes but-

You're traveling on bikes? Wow! How many miles do you go a day?

Well, actually, we don't have any bikes right now: His broke to smithereens in Guatemala and mine was stolen.

Oh wow that sucks, good luck with all that.

Despair, and the wait continued for Alex's bike to arrive. I resolved to stay with Alex until his bike arrived, then take a bus to Mexico City where I would buy a new bike and ride back to my parents' house from there. I was close to buying a plane ticket from Mexico City, but after a few hours and much tactful encouragement from Alex's part, I decided that the worst I could do was let these thieves rob me of the triumph that returning on a bicycle would give me. I can't say how many times I've pictured myself riding those last familiar turns into the house I grew up in after so many unfamiliar turns. This is something I'm glad I can still look forward to.

During this wait, we realized that we didn't have to get the bike shipped to San Cristobal. We could get it shipped to Queretaro, where Alex lived for some months and which is much closer to our destination. Like a Colin Kaepernick read, we changed the shipping address, and were liberated from the prison of waiting for UPS. Now, the bike would be waiting for us! This was three days before the Super Bowl, so we decided to make post-Super Bowl Monday our date of departure. I've never wasted more time nor money reading about the Super Bowl in the two bikeless weeks leading up to it. Finally when it came I had my bets made, and I sat down amongst chicharrones and caguamas to enjoy. And enjoy it I did until the final San Francisco drive. But it was a great game, and the fact that we were leaving the next day filled me with joy, and I set out with Alex to buy him some mezcal to commemorate our time in San Cristobal. We went to one bar, then decided to go to La Revolucion, because apparently there's dancing there. On Sunday night there was no dancing, but I was in a great mood anyway, so when Alex announced he was hungry and was going to eat a torta on his way back, I said, "cool, I'm gonna stay another half hour or so". That I did, and when I paid and walked out I decided to take the longer road around to the hostel, the one which follows a pedestrian street.

Strolling. Full of anticipation for the next day, when we would arrive in Puerto Escondido and would swim in the mighty Pacific Ocean. A few steps later my churning mind was full of despair at my lost bike and gear, and at the San Francisco loss. It was mired in these ruts of lament and woe when I saw to my left a man standing next to no bike other than my own!

I rushed the middle-aged, well-dressed mountebank and pushed him aside, demanding where he had gotten this bike and where my things were. He said he didn't know where my things were, but that he could show me the person who had sold the bike to him. I agreed and we walked down the pedestrian street, my bike in MY hand. We passed by the tortaria where Alex should have been, so I popped in to look for him but he wasn't there. I was on my own. We approached another well-dressed, middle-aged man who was sitting on a bench in San Cristobal's gorgeous Parque Central. I asked him the same questions, and he responded by saying I could have the bike for 1,000 pesos ($78.5). I told the cabron to go fuck himself, at which point a policeman showed up and the two scattered off. After some bizarre, irrelevant questions from the policeman I left, and rode my bike home.

I have never felt such joy for a material object.

The next day we loaded our things on the bus for Puerto Escondido. Alex's bike is on the way to Queretaro, it's almost sunset and it's time to go bodysurfing.

3 Armpits and 2 Bad Hotdogs

Alex and I split from Amaury as he continues south to Tierra del Fuego or something crazy.

A few days later, I regretfully ate two hotdogs at the border trying to get rid of my Guatemalan money. Obviously, I got sick, but the worst part was that I supported the economy of one of the three true armpits of the world. There aren't many towns that come to mind that are this bad, but here are a few:

1. Shkodra, or Shkodër, or whatever you want. It's so bad they name it multiple things so you think you're going somewhere else. Actually I think it has to do with whether the town is a direct object or not. This is the first town in Albania if you're crossing the border from Montenegro. Albania is otherwise fantastic, and a great place to travel (check out what Jaco has to say about it), but this point of entry is really a dump. Literally, there's garbage smoking from every angle. Shkodra is the land of the cabbie scam, the only bad börek in the Balkans, giant holes in the sidewalks and dogs making love all over the place. The first time I went there I was intercepted by some Catholic missionaries at the border who were terrified for my safety and demanded that I slept at their compound. The place is known for blood feuds. The second time I went some kids tried to take my bike helmet while laughing but gave it back after I panicked and yelled 'microbi!!' at them and pointed at the helmet and my hair. Why did I go back? Because Albania is full of incredible hospitality, interesting folks with interesting stories, great food, cranking landscapes and limitless eagles and aeries. It's also got the best coffee in Europe, no joke.

2. Sanche. Sanche is an agricutural town in the desert in Xinjiang, China, on the outskirts of which Jaco and I spent one night. First we were denied a place to put our tent several times, so we went to a teahouse to ask if we could sleep there. This is a normal thing to do in Central Asia. They have these massive platforms covered in pillows on which people commonly dine and then sleep. We were granted permission, and ordered some shashlik, which is fairly tasty Uighur grilled meat. People stared at us the whole time. When we would greet people in their native tongue (it's not that hard: asalaam alaykum) they would 90% of the time keep staring at us or just laugh. But we were used to this. What we were not used to was the sight upon our waking. When I woke up, at around 6am to Chinese school sirens and announcements blaring their daily cockadoodledoo of propaganda, there were three or four schoolchildren staring at me. I got up and walked around for a bit looking for bread (there was none in this town) and returned maybe a half hour later to find sleeping Jaco surrounded by a large conference of Uighurs young and old. There were 63 of them to be exact, half being adults, staring at Jaco while he slept. When he awoke, he naturally greeted them and said good morning, and they naturally didn't return his greeting. He dressed to much spectacle and we got out of Sanche, and Xinjiang, as quickly as we could.

3. This goddam towm in Guatemala on the border of Mexico which I couldn't find a name for. It's the last place where the Pan-American highway crosses the Seleguá river. Coming in from the East, you pass by a bunch of guys selling hotdogs. I asked how far the border was and they told me 4km. So I decided this was the place to get rid of my quetzales. I bought a couple hotdogs and ate them while people stared at me and didn't return my greetings. This generally makes me feel uneasy and unwelcome. People laughed and whispered when I asked a terrified storekeeper if he had beans in a can. He didn't. Then I left, and saw some tacos for sale, and decided to spend the absolute last of my quetzales on tacos. I was hungry. Some cabbie asks me if I needed a ride. No thanks. He insists that it'll be cheap. No thanks, I like my bike. He leaves me for a bit, then returns. He's screaming at me with a big, childish frown on his face. It looks like he's acting. He tells me to look at his van. It appears my guitar has smudged it a bit as it wiped against it as I passed. He acts really upset and instantly a massive crowd forms, maybe 50 people. Where did they all come from? And with all these people aren't there some beans in a can? Well, the driver keeps yelling that I've destroyed his car and I keep asking him what I can do. He spits on his hand and wipes at the smudge. It starts coming off and I urge him to continue but he doesn't. He looks to the sky and makes groanings of lament. The crowd loves this. I offer him my three remaining quetzales ($0.35), he declines. I offer him a taco, he declines. I ask him again what I can do and he mimes towards the car. I offer him everything I have of possible value again, and he declines. I'm sick of this game, so I leave as he's shouting, 'Dios!' and the crowd is laughing. I eat my tacos in a corner of the taqueria and go. Turns out there's another 35km or so to the border. Lying hotdogmen. This is how towns suck in my book.

From this godforsaken pit I descended and descended and descended to the border with Mexico then even more into Mexico. I spent the night warm in a cornfield. Then I hit another death climb. This one was crazy. Lumps forming on lumps rising rising rising out of the valley. It looked like a pile of little hills, except it continued for 40km or so and gained enough elevation for it to be really cold again. Every turn looked like a pass, but there never really was a pass. I rode until after Comitan, heading for San Cristóbal de las Casas, but unfortunately didn't make. The damn hotdogs caused some seriously curious bowel movements. I took the bus the remaining 73km of death climb into San Cristóbal, which is where I am now.

It's a fine town, and here we will wait for Alex has ordered a new bike after his rear hub axle snapped in two (whoa!). I ordered a new front rack as well after mine snapped in two (whoa!). Mine got welded back together though and it looks pretty cool.

And we'll wait until Sunday when a certain Conference Football Championship game will be played by a certain SF 49ers team. Like eagles with jetpacks, soar on!

Muscles and Churrascos

We did make it to Quetzaltenango, to which from this point on I'll refer to as Xela, because it's the same place and Xela is about 75% easier to write. Xela is the Mayan name.

Broken, we made it. After Cobán, we climbed and climbed some more to a town called San Cristóbal, whence our map indicated that the road turned to dirt. With this knowledge, seared by anxiety into our brains for days, we took our time in San Cristóbal. Lucky we did, because we ate the best churrascos to date in San Cristóbal Verpaz. Churrascos, for those who do not know, are a Guatemalan street food sensation. They are some of the best street food on offer worldwide. Yes, worldwide. Better than tacos. Even Amaury, my Mexican comrade, agrees. So, you may be wondering, what is this sensation? Well, to begin with, you don't find churrascos, they find you. They're mobile, fast and usually pedal-powered. Finding and eating churrascos is a convergence of the right place and the right time. Say it's 11am in San Cristóbal Verapaz and you're hungry. You go to the main square, and lo and behold, a churrasco has appeared before your eyes. You approach and ask the churrasco man, "Whatcha got?" and he replies, "churrascos". You tell yourself, "fantastic" as you try and collect your emotions and you ask the price. This is the greatest variation in churrascos, and in San Cristóbal at the right place at the right time, the answer is 10 quetzales, which is about $1.25. So you order one for yourself and one for your friend as you sip your included coffee and sit in the shade and wait for the thin strips of marinated beef to grill. The churrasco lady who is accompanying the churrasco man refills your coffee and confirms your worst fears about the dirt road. Then the churrasco arrives on its styrofoam throne. Surrounding it are its princes guacamole and sour cream, with lady rice and squire beans not far away. Waiting not far away are the peasants, the humble and numerous tortillas, which are grilled after the meat over the same coals to lend a smoky meaty character. Then you mix it all up and cram it all into tortilla after tortilla and drink cup after cup of coffee and imagine it all turning into muscle as you destroy yourself gaining the limitless altitude that is the experience of riding a bicycle through Guatemala.

After lying around a bit after our churrascos in San Cristóbal we left in pursuit of eagles on the dirt road. Indeed, right in the middle of town, our road turned into nasty, dusty dirt with rocks the size of grapefruits sprinkled liberally all over the surface. Luckily, there was hardly any traffic and the road wasn't so dusty. I didn't have to put on my surgical mask which I bought in China as part of Jaco's and my disguises to pass as Chinese bike tourers into Tibetan roads, which were off limits to foreigners. Check it out at www.supercontinental.blogspot.com. We climbed and climbed, until suddenly, gloriously, we came to a pass. Imagine, a pass! We could look out over the valley and see the roads we would descend into the abyss, from which we would undoubtedly spend the next week climbing. But for the moment, we were at the top of a pass, all potential energy and churrasco ready to explode in a feast of downhill we had been waiting days to enjoy. To our left was a pile of trash with vultures circling and eating, despite the fact that it was either on fire or smoldering. Below us was the valley, green and lush. Above us was of course, nothing but blue sky. To our right was the most gigantic landslide I've ever seen, complete with a sign posted by the government explaining that they didn't work on the road because every rainy season there's a landslide and it's a bit futile. Enter on your own account and risk, it said. It seemed like the landslide lasted for about a kilometer, and after that turned back into the already nasty dirt road. We checked our brakes and our wheels, and forged ahead into the disaster.

To be honest, on a bicycle it wasn't much worse than the dirt road. In a car however, the road narrowed and there were bigger boulders that posed a great risk to wider vehicles than ours. Once we cleared the landslide there was a slight incline again, then we descended for another couple hours. At one point, Amaury's tire blew because his rims got so hot from braking that they melted the rubber on the tube. While fixing the flat we met another tourer, Flavian, who was riding a foldable bike with really small wheels. He was going up the other side, and was a cheerful lad. It was a massive surprise to see another person, not to mention cyclist on this road. He told us that indeed, once we hit the valley, there would be a lot more climbing.

To no one's surprise, there was. After hitting the valley in a town called Chixoy, we climbed on good roads for another two days before finally descending again into Sacapulas. When we awoke in Sacapulas, Amaury's knees were showing obvious symptoms of climbing fully loaded for two days, and we elected to take a bus the rest of the way to Xela. I'm not sure which is crazier, traveling by bike or by bus in Guatemala, but I think it's by bus. Willingly putting yourself in a Guatemalan bus on Guatemalan roads is really insane. The drivers seem like they've taken some sort of stimulant cocktail, then get into the driver's seat of old American schoolbuses, turn on weird dance music, accelerate and smash everyone inside into the walls on every turn. They spout black CO smoke and honk compulsively. When we disembarked in Xela, the bus was still moving as they threw us our bags and bikes from the roof of the bus. Amid honks and smoke the bus turned the corner at the terminal, and the co-pilot screamed the name of the next town they were heading to at people on the sides of the road, hoping to gain new customers for the return journey.

In Xela, we've been staying with the gracious Ana, whom we met on warmshowers.com (which I think is a hilarious name for a website). Funny mental images aside, warmshowers is a great website that connects people traveling by bike with people who are willing to host them. Ana hosted us for just under a week. She took us to her cabin at Atítlan (another outrageously beautiful volcanic lake), to hot springs, and even found a doctor to see me on Christmas day to look at my throat (I had laryngitis, but I'm all better now). It was boundless hospitality, inspiring in every way.

We're still here in Xela pleasantly waiting for Alex. I buy the newspaper in the morning and read it with cafe con leche and breakfast at a churrasco place near the police station. We're the only non-cops in the place, which has no name and no advertizing. It was pointed out to us by a policeman, who, it turns out, know where to get good cheap churrascos no matter where they are.

Trying to Make Sense of these Mountains

We're in Cobán after a great battle with the mountains of Guatemala.
Titans have raged at lesser monsters.

We left Mexico in high spirits after renting a car and driving inland to see distant Calakmul, a ruin as epic as its name. It's now completely junglefied, and the central plaza is full of massive trees and the monkeys who swing and jump from tree to tree. There is at first one massive temple you can see, but when you climb it you see from the top that there are two more temples, each one more of a mammoth than the one that came before. And from the top of these three behemoths giants play a game of catch with lightning bolts, but they're shy so once you get past the tree line they scamper away into the sea of forest that is the border of Mexico and Guatemala.

Then we crossed into Belize, where they speak English and we camped in fields of sugar cane. Belize was a total dump except for great tamales and beer that was fantastic both in quality and selection. I recommend Belikin Stout for anyone who is unfortunate enough to be in a place where you can buy the stuff. You'll probably get 15 mosquito bites just trying to open it. Also, the bars are called "cool spots", which I thought was cool.

So after getting ripped off some more we loaded our bikes onto the roof of a van and got in that van and rode it into Guatemala to a town called Flores. Flores is actually an island in a volcanic lake in the jungle, and was pretty cool. Everywhere you looked, there was water, and islands on volcanic lakes are generally cool. The point of going to Flores was to go to Tikal.

Tikal is another Mayan city, capital in fact, that was constantly at war with the friendly citizens of Calakmul. According to an information sign at Tikal, the Tikalites were more successful in combat because they had a superior military tactic where they would surround enemy villages and attack with spears from all sides. Sounds pretty scary to me. We tried to get there at sunrise because there are around seven temples that are all lined up and when the sun rises - especially near the solstices - it rises directly over all the temples. This sounded like a good reason to get there for sunrise, but the bus didn't leave early enough, so we woke up painfully early and got there an hour or so after sunrise. Classic for this group. It was a fine sight regardless, and we were fortunate enough to see Tikal without a crowd. We saw monkeys and these weird animals that walk around sniffing the ground the whole time with their tails pointing straight in the air.

Then we split. Since Tulum, I've been riding with my good friend Alex Boon and his friend Amaury, who is from Querétaro, north of Mexico City. Amaury is riding from Los Angeles to Argentina and beyond, with no end date or end place in sight. Alex left us in Flores to get back to Cancún where he has a flight to catch back to Florida. So since Flores it has been Amaury and me on our way to Quetzaltenango, Guatemala's second largest city which is on the other side of the country. Guatemala is small, so we gave ourselves five days to get there. It looks like it'll be closer to ten.

Guatemala's hills are like no others I have seen. To live in them is one thing, to build roads in them another, but to ride a bicycle through them is really dumb. Generally, in the mountainous regions I have ridden through such as the Rocky Mountains, the Alps, or the Himalayas, a road leading up and over a mountain will follow a valley, then a river, then leave the river for the pass, getting steeper with each step. In Guatemala, there are no valleys, no ridges, not even passes. There are only roads that go up. Everytime you're sure you hit a pass, you keep climbing. Nothing seems logical. My arms are more tired and sore than my legs. Not even the switchbacks make sense. The whole point of switchbacks is to make the grade less steep, and there will be a spurt of absolute Steepness in the apex of the turn, then the road eases up to the next. Here though, you hit a switchback and then the road gets even steeper! It's madness! This is why we're here in Cobán after two days like this. We don't want to blow out my knees or get tendinitis. When we leave Cobán the road will turn to dirt and we will gain another 1000m (3300 feet).

All I can say is that once we do arrive in Quetzaltengango, we will feast like emperors, and toast the Mayan pantheon to a good effort at mountains.

From the New World

In a few months Chinese builders will have erected the tallest building in the world, and they haven't even started yet. They're planning a pace of five floors a day for three months.

There I was in Shanghai. I unloaded after a relatively easy couple flights where my bags got lost but no worries, mate, China Eastern air and the liars at the Singapore airport found them. I met my cousin Max for the first batch of countless dumplings, and the city swallowed me. Shanghai is huge, gray, cold, and damp. I´m not sure what I was expecting, but I think something more like bright and cheery Hong Kong with its hills and its bay and its free campsites. Shanghai has a river, but the only way to cross it outside of the ultra-crowded Shanghai metro is on a fairy ride tunnel like a Chinese It's a Small World that costs more than I wanted to inquire. After a few days with Max and my friend the audacious and well-mannered Kathryn Grant at whose house I was so generously welcomed (big thanks Kathryn!), I adjusted and went straight to the top of the former tallest building in the world, which was really goddam big. Its elevators hit something like 60kph, and within a few nervous ear blasting seconds you're at the top, looking DOWN at skyscrapers. It was surreal, certainly called for more dumplings. It was a joy to return to China, which remains one of if not my favorite countries to visit; and it was a strange, fully globalized interlude between Melbourne and Mexico.

Then I got on the airplane and days later landed in Mexico. I got to work unpacking my bike in Cancún's straitjacket humidity. My friend Alex materialized. He has been working in Mexico for six months, and riding his bike around the country.

Mezcal and tacos.

I put my bike back together and off we were, riding away from the airport, tropics pouring buckets of rain. There were vague echoes of arriving in Perth about a year ago, unpacking my bike after arriving from Hong Kong and riding to the house I would eventually call mine in Fremantle. This time was much better though. For starters, my plan is much more exciting. Arriving in Fremantle carried uncertainty. The only truth was that I needed a job fast. I wasn´t sure what I was going to do in Australia, but I knew I had to work if I wanted to do anything at all. Makes sense, right? This time though, I don't need to work at all! I did that, and I'm going home. So far the route home has been slow going, mainly due to Mayan ruins and other distractions.

The highlight of these so far has been climbing to the top of the Gran Pirámide at Cobá. Cobá is located what I would consider deep in the junble, and it's a fairly huge site. It's most impressive item(other than this really cool blue and yellow bird I saw) is this Gran Pirámide, or, Really Big Pyramid of Glory and Magic. You can climb the hell out of this one, step by step until you get above the tree line and are on a level only eagles could dream to achieve. Then you are on the top.

Part of the spectacle of these ultra-touristed pyramids are the other tourists there. When I got to the top there were wheezing Russians, Hungarians with binoculars looking at telephone poles, Americans lying prostrate in the sun clutching at their chests hoping they can rip their lungs out and throw them in ritual sacrifice down the stairs, and there was a dude doing yoga handstands off the top steps that made me really nervous. Everyone thought was this was the most entertaining man in Mexico. Lots of people asked to take pictures with him, which disturbed his routine. He obliged, and continued though not so good naturedly. He got really mad when he was in the middle of taking a self portrait of himself clutching his one ankle while he extended his other as high as he could behind him while staring at the massive drop in front of him, and a tourist sat down on the ledge he was on between him and his camera, interrupting his portrait. He got down, scoffed loudly, and explained he was taking a picture. The guilty party laughed and moved to a much better place, in the shade.

So here we are. It's Alexander J Boon and me, a little late for discovery but with aspirations of enchiladas and avocados. We've got time and language skills, and we're heading to Belize tomorrow. I thought Albania had eagles, but Mexico is the undisputed capital of eagles. And with their grace, we will soar on their wings. And maybe catch a blue whale or two in Baja.