Trip Report: Stage 2 - Central Mexico

California to Patagonia: A Cycling Expedition
Trip Report
Stage 2 - Central Mexico
February 24, 2008

* Pictures from this part of the trip can be found here.

The Sea Songs of Sinaloa

It started out innocently enough. A warm sun and a soft ocean breeze ahead of me along the Malecón in the beautiful coastal town of La Paz; nine days of Spanish classes and the entire Baja Peninsula behind me; and inside me... well, visions of the road ahead.

Suddenly, I was woken up from my dreamy wanderings along the beach by a team of rowdy cyclists with all manner of instruments, smiles, and flowers in their hair. It turned out to be the Pleasant Revolution, a team of 10 or so cyclists and musicians led by one Kipchoge Spencer traveling from Northern California to Chiapas playing shows along the way. They had figured out a way to use their bikes to generate enough electricity to power a small sound system to play small shows anywhere and anytime, thus achieving a form of liberation previously unheard of on a musical tour. On their bikes, they carried a full drum set, a cello, guitars, mikes, a PA system, and all manner of hemp and organic food. A music tour on bicycles - what a concept! The band was spread an inspiring and revolutionary message wherever they landed. I had run into them several times in La Paz, and had even rocked out several times to their music in the most random locations, but this time it was completely different. During past conversations with Kipchoge, the idea of joining their music tour as a bassist became a serious consideration, and I had no idea this would be how they would invite me to join their entourage!

"Hey, we're performing aboard the ferry and have an extra ticket for passage through the Sea of Cortez - want to come?" Kipchoge yelled as the wind tossed his mohawk aside.

I had no intention of paying the $90 USD for the ferry crossing to Mazatlán, and was planning on hitchhiking across with some lonely trucker shipping loads to the mainland; so obviously, this offer came to me like a delicious serving of ice-cream on a hot hot day.

"How much?" I asked, trying to assess the situation with my usual pragmatism. "Free, of course!" Kipchoge answered, and I was set. I proceeded to stumble across town for a premature goodbye to all the people that had made my stay in La Paz so memorable and packed my bags quicker than I ever have.

As I arrived at the port with the entire Pleasant Revolution crew in tow, I went through the aduanas (customs) without a hitch. Singing improvised songs and chants, the whole trip so far with these free-spirited musicians was a blast - I was entirely moved by their spontaneity and exuberance for music. Unfortunately, Kipchoge soon came to me with a slightly different melody:

"Sorry bro, we don't have that ticket anymore. The dude who was supposed to use it showed up."

My heart melted! It was too late to turn back now, and I was in a tough situation, facing the draconian fare or going through the hassle of exiting the port back along the 18km of road to La Paz. It seemed apparent at this point that although as individuals, every one of the Pleasant Revolutionaries were, well... more than just pleasant - they were incredible! However, as a team, their ride was a logistical spider-web! No one seemed to have a grasp of what was going on and it was difficult coordinating their travels as a team. Negotiating this challenge, since entering Mexico, they had devised a system of hitchhiking and cycling to cover the vast distance. To give them credit still, they had ridden a great distance with a huge loads (for most, about 150 lbs!), and were spreading a positive and transformative message to the thousands of people they encountered.

After searching deep within myself, I decided to take the experience as an opportunity rather than as an obstacle and reached deep in my pockets to pay the fare. And an opportunity it was... playing music on deck watching the sunset over the watery distance, performing for a group of a hundred or so passengers, and getting to know each one of the musicians was an unforgettable experience. As the silvery moon shone high above the deck, I was sure the sea had conspired to bring the songs of these Sirens to alter the course of my already crooked path.

Now my original vision was to sail to Mazatlán, a roughly straight course across the Baja Peninsula to Mainland Mexico, but accepting the journey with the Pleasant Revolution steered my path a bit further north to Los Mochis, adding some 500 km of an extra distance to cycle. "Great! More fun to bike through!" I thought. Plus, my friend Oscar Canon, another fellow long-distance cyclist from Columbia would be riding that route in just a day or two, so this could be yet another opportunity to visit faraway places like Copper Canyon and Durango.

As I was pouring over my maps in preparation for the next section, Kipchoge approached me once again with an offer. He had struck a deal with some truckers to pack their bikes and hitch a ride to Mazatlán. "Want to come?" he echoed, and the words bounced through my head hauntingly. In my weakened moral state, I accepted, rationalizing that since I paid for the passage, I might as well land straight across the sea instead of way north.

So followed an all night, head-bumping ride in the back of a huge semi loaded with fresh tomatoes. I felt like an illegal immigrant being towed across the US border by a "coyote." Only this time, I was heading straight to the heart of the Mexico, a world that as I would soon find out, was grappling with issues of rising commercialization and corporate influence amidst its march towards globalization.

Sometime over the course of the hitch, I learned that the truck we were on was headed all the way to Tepic, way South of Mazatlán. At this point, my trusty steed calling to me, I decided to part ways peacefully with the Pleasant Revolution just outside of Mazatlán. It was still dark, and in the lonely hours before dawn, I smelled my way to a campsite, taking reason that it would be far safer to backtrack the short distance to Mazatlán in the morning.

In Mazatlán, I was adopted into a home by a brilliant and wide-eyed artist, Arody Garcia. I spent a few days exploring the beautiful colonial town, chatting revolutionary politics with Arody, and trying to get my bearings straight again. I also ran into Michael Truex, another fellow vagabond traveler making his way by sailboat and bike across Mexico. I got a chance to meet a few of Arody's friends and had a great time immersing myself in the ambience of the state of Sinaloa.

Riding out of the busy port and into the unknown again, I was struck at how the scenery had changed completely since Baja. Now officially across the Tropic of Cancer, there were lush palm orchards, mango groves, agave plantations, and extinct volcanoes dotting the landscape. In the evenings, I could hear the rattling of insects and in the mornings, the wake-up calls of migratory birds. Mosquitoes seemed to be ever present at camp, and I especially feared the jején (pronounced "heh-hen") "no-see-ums" in casual diction, who were, as the name implies, impossible to spot but terrifying in their bites. Whenever I struck up conversations with the locals about camping next to the beach or on the fields, they would warn me religiously of the jején.

The roads, on the other hand, were a luxury! After 1800 km of narrow Baja highways, I was momentarily blessed (until Tepic, at least) with autopistas - or toll highways - that had wide, smooth shoulders enough for me to stretch into and race down.

The first night out of Mazatlán, I ran into a group of three on their bikes in the zócalo (town square) of Escuinapa. These turned out to be more of the Pleasant Revolution motley crew - Bear, Somer, and David, respectively. We spent the evening together playing frisbee with the local kids and talking with the policemen. The next day I chanced upon a restaurant with live Mariachi music. As I was enjoying my food just enjoying the music, the band leader made an announcement as if to let the world know that I was riding my bike to Argentina. "Suerte, compadre!" he cheered after a poetic and touching tribute and the whole restaurant broke into an applause that moved me to the point of crying.

Thus it was, the sea-songs of Sinaloa... from the Pleasant Revolution to the whispering of the waves to the Mariachi banda - continued to spring my bones onwards to the South. Crossing the state of Nayarit, I rode through beautiful coastal towns and farming villages along rural roads. The autopista was long gone and much of the coastal highway along Western Mexico would be no different than the two-lane roads in Baja.

Entering Puerto Vallarta, I was disgusted at the amount of tourism and commercialization plaguing the city. With the McDonalds, Walmart, Starbucks, Costco, and Burger King, it felt more like San Diego (no offense to my friends from San Diego, by the way) than Mexico. After three days of resting, exploring local bars, and searching for elusive beaches with new friends Kirsten, Andy, and Marlene, I pedaled southwards to Colima.

The ever-present heat started becoming unbearable. I soon altered my strategy to get me through Costa Alegre, the famous Jalisco coastline: I would wake up early and break camp at first light to ride through the cool hours of the morning; at noon or so, I would take an extended break, either by the beach or by some tropical river or swimming hole for a few hours, and then continue along through sunset before finding a campsite.

In the small town of Aguas Calientes, I even got some hand-drawn napkin maps to some of the best offerings the Costa Alegre had to offer. I made quick friends with Rafael and Humberto, two construction workers in the area, and they led me to an amazing swimming hole along the Rio Purificacion to beat the heat of the mid-day sun. That evening, I ran into them again at Bahía Tenacatita (another hand-scribbled napkin map!) and we spent long hours talking about Jalisco and homelands.

Two days of spirited riding later, I would cross paths with Jeffrey Hayden and his wife Martina in Colima where I spent the better part of a week catching up with a lifetime rapidly missed. Curious about this story? Read on below, else skip to the next section to continue the journey.



Two Roads Diverged in a Wood

In 1965, an ambitious 22 year old from Phoenix, Arizona from a well-to-do family left the comforts of home to go to Bhadrapur, Nepal. Devoid of electricity, television, and warm showers, Bhadrapur was the stuff of National Geographic articles and anthropologist fantasies. A small rural farming village along the Southeastern border of Nepal and India, not too far from the famous tea district of Darjeeling further North, Bhadrapur was the site of one of several Peace Corps education sites, a program initiated by the US Government under the Kennedy administration to bring English language classes to the "developing world" by enrolling college graduates from the US as volunteers with "local" payment schedules.

Wide-eyed and beaming with anxiety, the young Jeff Hayden was not entirely prepared to be received with such caution and trepidation by the townsfolk of Bhadrapur. "They thought I had some strange illness," he explained. "The kids would follow me around and call me 'kuhiyeko aalu' (rotten potatoes) and couldn't understand how someone's skin could be so pale."

Soon, he befriended a few of the Dhungana brothers, among them a 16 year old Shambhu Dhungana - my father. Shambhu's only sister in a family of eight, Laxmi Rizal, then 22 and already married with two daughters eventually took Hayden into her new family's home while he taught at the local school. To my father and the rest of the Dhungana siblings, the "Jeff-sir" they knew at school soon became "Jeff-dai," an endearing term for "older brother."

After growing accustomed to the ups and downs of life in Bhadrapur and not wanting to return to the US in fear of being drafted for the Vietnam war, Jeff-dai decided to stay in Bhadrapur for a total of four years, growing ever closer to the Dhungana family, and eventually meeting his future wife, Martina Villanueva, another peace corps volunteer at the neighboring village of Dharan.

Early on, my father grew enamored of Jeff's stories from across the "kala pani," or "black water" which denoted the mythical boundary of the Indian subcontinent that according to folklore, one should never cross. The two men shared stories - about the United States, about Nepal, about their vastly different worlds, and somewhere in between those stories, none of them had quite enough time to ponder how each of their lives were rapidly being transformed by this crossing of paths.

During periodic vacation spells over the next few years, after saving up all of their money, Shambhu and Jeff traveled to India, Pakistan, and Afghanistan allowing their paths to run parallel for a while. Fueled by ambition and inspiration, these paths soon led deeper into their own divergent dreams: Shambhu moved to Kathmandu to continue his education as Jeff completed his tenure for further lengthy travels to Pakistan, Laos, Yugoslavia, and eventually, back to the US.

If there ever was a time when two roads diverged in a wood, the lives of these two men would never quite be the same after this departure. 36 years would pass before they reconnected again since their last departure in Pakistan, each having forged a bold life story, in the complete absence of the other.

With a desire to see the world, Shambhu was the first in the whole Dhungana lineage to send college applications anywhere. Besides Kathmandu, a set of applications were tossed with the wind to Australia, the United States, and Philippines. Rationalizing that he had heard absolutely *nothing* about the Philippines, even from his beloved friend Jeff, at the age of 22, Shambhu booked a flight to Manila and became the first in his ancestry to venture across the "Kala pani."

Studying economics and community development at the University of the Philippines in Los Banos, my father crossed paths with Josefina Abital Olarita, my mother. After many episodes of stealing away together on weekend trips, the two fell in love and got married, against the consent of their respective parents. Not being allowed to return home due to the unorthodox idea of marrying the person one loved, the two considered it a blessing to be able to travel everywhere else in the world, eventually settling in Sudan to pursue work with the United Nations. My brother, Rajan, was born, and when my mother delivered her second term of pregnancy, a discussion ensued about how to name the new set of twins - a boy and a girl. My mom named the twins "Carlo" and "Karla" and my dad bestowed an additional title to his second son "Jeff," after none other than the man who was such an influence early on in his life.

"I shall be telling this with a sigh, somewhere ages and ages hence" Robert Frost memorializes in his now-famous poem.

"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."

As I listened to my father tell me this story in the summer of 2007, I was moved to tears. He had just gotten in contact with Jeff Hayden after 36 long years of losing touch.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to my father, Jeff had lived a full and rewarding life along his own path. He christened his two children "Krishna" and "Maya" after his formative years in Nepal. Over the years, as Krishna and Maya were fully grown, the family decided to pursue a longtime passion and embark on a long-haul sailing trip down the Pacific. Along the journey, Jeff and Martina had fallen in love with Mexico and built a beautiful home by the beach in Playa Ahijadero, a sleepy little virgin beach surrounded by nothing for dozens of miles except coconut palms and the endless booming of the waves. In a quest for self-sufficiency and economic independence, they poured their love into a ranch, aptly titled "Rancho Ocaso del Imperio" ("Fall of the Empire").

I got in touch with Jeff and Martina via email before departing on my journey through Latin America and immediately adjusted my route through Central Mexico to pass via his home in Colima. At his beachside home, we explored the local estuaries spotting off the countless iguanas and gazed long at the livid nightly sunsets over the melodic surf. Through it all, Jeff and I spent a long time catching up on our lives. I learned a little more about myself, my father, and about Jeff. Tracing all the interconnections, we were able to sew up a fabric of experiences that I feel has grounded me further into realizing my own self-identity.

---

If you've spent any time with me at all, you have probably heard a version or two of this story. Depending on whether people call me "Carlo" or "Jeff" or "Japhy" or "Jofre," I can usually identify where along my path they’ve gotten to know me. “Carlo” is the name my entire family calls me, immediate and extended. Friends from college know me as “Jeff” and “Japhy,” the latter being synonymous with the climbing community in Yosemite and the High Sierra and from Jack Kerouac’s The Dharma Bums. “Jofre” is the butchering of the name from all my friends in Nepal. So… feel free to call me whatever you would like. I’d like to believe that people are complex beings with complex identities, so multiple names, concepts, and so forth just enrich our experiences of how we interact with the world out there and with our own selves.


Citlatépetl

From great distances across the highlands of Puebla and Veracruz, the volcano Citlatépetl towers ominously like an ever present mother keeping guard on her children. At 5636 meters (18,491 feet), it is the highest mountain in Mexico, and the third highest in North America after Denali in Alaska and Mount Logan in Canada. As the mythical homeland of the Azteca, Tolteca, Méxica, and countless other Pre-Hispanic cultures, the Central Highlands of Mexico is home to three giant volcanoes over 5,000 meters - a geographical anomaly, considering that no other mountain or range in Mexico comes anywhere close. These mountains - Citlatépetl, Popocatépetl, and Iztacihuatl - in indigenous lore were either mighty gods, vicious warriors, or quarrelsome lovers, based on which old lady you spoke to or which archaeological codex one trusted. Staring skywards towards the peaks, no doubt hundreds of generations of ancient inhabitants forged their own stories about these fire-belching, lava-spewing, and altogether moody mountains.

Staring skywards towards Citlatépetl, on the evening of February 6, I found myself designing stories to make sense of the massive jumble of snow, ice, and rock in front of me. When I arrived in the nearby town of Tlachichuca, I had nothing more than my sandals and my rucksack with all the clothes I started with in California (I would need it to beat the cold!), a cook set, my sleeping bag and some provisions that passed for food. I had left my bicycle in Colima and proceeded to hitchhike and bus my way to the interior. Facing the peak, I had no map, no boots, no ice-ax, no rope, and no crampons. In mountaineering know-how, snow and ice are negotiated with the aid of crampons, a set of twelve steel points braced against heavy boots for stability and warmth, and an ice-ax to aid in negotiating the steep and slippery terrain, especially in the likelihood of a slip or a fall.

I must have looked lost in the town square of Tlachichuca with my big pack and jaw dropped at the sight of the mountain. Just then, I was approached by two young local men who identified themselves as Paco and Lupe. Skeptical at first, a few jokes about climbing the mountain in sandals warmed me up to their personalities and they turned out to be two local guides who were heading up the mountain that very moment. They offered me a ride up to the Refugio (a mountain hut), the base camp at 4260 meters. The first obstacle thus solved, I immediately agreed. I figured since I was so lucky this whole time, why not ask them in one quick breath for a set of boots, an ice-ax, and crampons. Surprisingly enough, Paco said that he had an extra set for clients and wouldn't mind loaning it to me provided I brought them back! Size nine is apparently very common in Mexico! Except, Paco's boots were not the heavy leather or plastic boots I was accustomed to in cold high mountains. Barely passing for summer backpacking outings in the Sierra Nevada, I asked him whether his feet ever got cold when he climbed the peak in these boots. "Of course! But don't worry, I still have all my toes." Yikes!

Not ready for such an immediate venture into high altitude, when I arrived at the Refugio with Paco and Lupe, my head was pounding with a headache that threatened to pulse my ears apart from one another. I spent that night huddled in my sleeping bag, sleepless and doing my best to stay hydrated and fed. The next day, I did my best to acclimate by drinking lots of liquids and doing a light hike to get glimpses of the mountain above. That evening, amidst a routine snowstorm from the moisture gathered from the Atlantic Ocean, I got word from the Rodriguez family that a group of three young kids in their first trip to the mountain had gone for a casual hike and failed to return. The weather quickly deteriorating, Alejandra Rodriguez was getting very worried, and along with two other climbers in the hut, we decided to initiate a search and rescue foray to look for them before dark. Fortunately, the three kids returned just as we stepped out, cold and shaken up by the experience, but fine nonetheless.

In a series of calculated moves, I cooked pasta, sipped on my tea, put on all the clothes I brought, and crawled to sleep early. The plan was to start climbing at 4am, move light and fast enough to stay warm, get to the summit just after sunrise, and descend before the clouds built up in the morning.

Under a blanket of innumerable stars, I started out at 4am for the long push to the summit with just a 15 meter sphere of light from my headlamp. The unimaginative Spanish name for the mountain, "El Pico de Orizaba" has none of the beautiful images one conjures up with the volcano's native title, Citlatépetl, which means "Star Mountain." I could see why.

At 4800 meters, just below the Glacier de Jamapa, I somehow got disoriented in a section known as The Labyrinth, a jumble of ice gullies and exposed rock from the now receding glacier. Negotiating a steep section of alpine ice, I pulled through with just one or two periods of yikes-don't-fall-here-type moments to the base of the glacier. Not the easiest way, but I had no idea of knowing in the dark.

Above the Labyrinth, the Glacier de Jamapa forms a still cathedral of snow that gives the mountain its distinctive appearance from any distance. Rising a full 600 meters, it was a grueling challenge to maintain my breath and stay warm. Even a quick break in the dark turned my toes and fingers into stumpy icicles. The strategy was deceptively simple. Kick, kick, plant left boot in snow, five long breaths, right boot, plant ice ax in snow, kick, kick, and repeat process.

The sun broke through the purply mist of dawn just as I reached the crest of the crater. If ever in my life there are mystical experiences, this must count as one of them! The sun's bright rays brought whatever little warmth it had at that altitude to warm my fingers and gave me the energy I needed to walk around the rim of the crater to the summit proper by 8am.

The experience was magical. In the East, I caught my first glimpse of the Gulf of Mexico, and in the West, the town of Puebla lay far below the smoky summits of Popocatepetl and Iztacihuatl. Beneath my left boot was the scary and yawning no-(hu)man's land of the crater and beneath my right boot, the glacier seemed to drop of straight down to the pastoral valleys below. Incredible!

I snapped a few photos, grabbed a snack, and tossed a few seeds of maize and aba (a type of frijol, or bean) into the crater as homage to the Rodriguez family who had given them to me as a gift the night before for that purpose. For a moment - for that precious moment - the world seemed to make just a little more sense, and I closed my eyes for a few deep breaths before going back down.

The descent was well-needed. High altitude has a debilitating effect on the human body, especially over-ambitious and heedless ones like mine that spend very little time acclimating. Every step I took downwards made me feel much better and I was nigh content in realizing a long-time goal.

After returning to the Refugio, I hitchhiked down to the lowlands with the first truck that appeared, which turned out to be David Alvarado Sanchez, the Chief Officer of the Parque Nacional Pico de Orizaba. What luck! He warned me that it would be a circuitous path down because he was giving a guided tour to an architect and a photographer. I couldn't have been happier. As we bumped heads down the rough 4x4 road, I soaked up David's immense knowledge of the local flora, and the challenges the National Park faced in issues such as land management, grazing, poaching, etc. We compared notes from my experience in the Himalayas, and I learned that the Federal Government of Mexico was implementing some serious new laws the coming year. A word to all my friends who seek to visit Citlatépetl from next year: be prepared to face a caseta (toll booth - hence the architect and photographer who were in tow) to gain entrance, and be prepared to be fined for *any* debris you leave behind on the mountain. This last measure, I felt, was especially important since the upper mountain was strewn with all sorts of trash - from toilet paper to water bottles.

Back in the town of Tlachichuca, I returned the equipment to Paco and after a hearty farewell with someone I now considered a good friend, I caught the dusty bus to Cholula. The evening star Venus glowing warmly above Citlatépetl, I felt an infinite wave of gratitude for being able to find my way in my travels despite the vast uncertainty of the world ahead. Perhaps... just perhaps, Xolotl, the patron god of the Aztecas for twins and animals that undergo transformations such as butterflies and tadpoles, may have been smiling over me as I dozed off to sleep on the bus home.


Choluleando and the Distrito Federal

In the town of Cholula, I met up with Daniela and Emily, two students from the nearby UDLA (Universidad De Las Americas) living along a path of beautiful self-sufficiency. They were fellow couchsurfers, and as soon as I entered their wooden casita of a home, I felt the warm vibes and positive energy flowing through every crack in the aging furniture. By making home-made marmalade and yoghurt to pay for rent, orange peel for deodorant, a worm-bin and composting to keep the herb garden blossoming, and regular meditation and yoga sessions, these girls were living a life of mindfulness and intentionality that fondly brought me back to my days at the UCLA Co-op.

We spent long conversations soaking up the evening sun covering topics from activism to art, and prepared lots and lots of food to catch up on each other's lives. Feeling more like long lost friends rather than just hosts, Dan and Ems had an endless supply of buena onda (good vibes!) that I found absolutely inspiring. I spent nearly two weeks in Cholula, exploring the sleepy little town and its local ruins with them. I also grew to know their neighbors and felt blessed to be in the company of so many passionate, idealistic young people. Daniela shared her knowledge of Náhuatl folklore with me, enriching the shapes and contours of the landscape around me infinitely. I recall one blissful evening lying on my back in their garden staring at the stars and thinking that Xochipilli, the Méxica god of flowering must have blessed me with my own motions of personal blossoming.

On one occasion, the three of us hitchhiked our way to Cuernavaca to dance along to the sweet sweet reggae music of Yerba Buena, a local reggae band from Querétaro. The folks from Yerba Buena, good friends of Daniela's, were another wonderful group of musicians and change-agents! We danced until 5am, talked sustainability and swapped travel stories.

Emily and I also traveled together to Mexico Distrito Federal, the largest city in the world. There, we stayed with Surya, Rodrigo, and Samantha. The team of vagabonds slowly growing, we took to the streets following a series of adventures around the big city. First was Gregory Colbert's now-famous Ashes and Snow exhibit at the Nomadic Museum in the Centro Histórico. I was shocked to learn that the exhibit was free, considering that a year earlier, when in Santa Monica, it cost $20 USD! It was a beautiful feeling to be standing next to an aging indigenous woman with long braids as we enjoyed the gallery together - the sublime relationship between humans and animals, and perhaps more so - humans *as* animals. Somehow, this exhibit in the middle of the biggest city in the world felt like a complete departure from the outside world - where all manner of people, rich/poor, local/foreigner, men/women were taking in the rich images.

Our vagabond team of wanderers also made our way to a few of the many local pulquerías in the city. Pulque, or "Neutle" in Náhuatl is a traditional beverage with a strong odor and a high alcohol content. It is brewed from the broad leaves of the Maguey cactus, a sacred plant wherein lives a very particular type of worm. The honeydew at the center of the leaves, when softly scraped and fermented forms pulque, which has the consistency of a snotty and sticky liquid. The ancient Azteca patron god of this drink was Ome Tochtli, roughly translated as "Two Rabbits." In light of its inebriating effects, in the ancient days, adults were only allowed one drink, and it was administered only in religious ceremonies by high priests. Drunkenness was prohibited in society because an excess of pulque would make people fall under the influence of Cenzon Totochtin, or "400 rabbits," which meant losing control, and abandoning all mental and emotional restraint.

Judging from the scene of the pulquerías we visited, however, all of the bar's patrons were under the influence of the god of the "400 rabbits!" So much for restraint! Served in huge buckets, we dipped our glasses for full servings of the snotty beverage. The seedy, tattooed men whistled at the girls our party brought and hailed cheers over our way. Above the cantina was a somber image of Jesus Christ calling to his subjects to follow a path of goodness. What an irony! All in all, we had a great time with the local pulque masters, dancing yet again to a combination of reggae, banda (a uniquely Mexican genre), salsa, and merengue. Just like at the Ashes and Snow exhibit, the pulquerías were more than just the armpit of Mexican urban culture... they represented all ages, from 60 year old abuelos to 16 year old rancheros, from the awkward young gothic kid to the senora who just wanted to dance. The ambiance was impeccable!

A visit to this mythical land would not be complete without the spectacular archaeological ruins of the area. Samantha, Emily, and another new traveler-friend, Noha paid our respects to Teotihuacan. The most powerful of several ceremonial centers in the time of antiquity, the ancient city is organized around the Avenue of the Dead, a miles-long, north-south boulevard that cuts the city straight as an ax stroke across the landscape. From the northern end of the avenue, rises the Pyramids of the Sun and Moon, each as big as the biggest Egyptian pyramids (technically, the Pyramid of the Sun is the third largest in the world). To their south lay the Temple of the Feathered Serpent, where the empire's rulers, as ruthless and preoccupied with national glory as so many modern leaders today, waged their grand illusions for conquest and expansion.

Past civilizations across Mesoamerica are often misunderstood by many as existing in perfect harmony with their environment and at peace with one another. However, far from being an egalitarian utopia - these ruins, I learned, were home to several civilizations who settled in huge numbers (sometimes in millions!) and actively sculpted and influenced the land around them. To give you an idea of the scale of these societies, the Azteca capital in nearby Tenochtitlan, which is now part of the D.F. had running water and immaculately clean streets, and was larger than any contemporary European city in the 16th century! An equal mixture of beautiful folklore and macabre rituals such as human sacrifice (today, we have our own set of awkward practices too!), Azteca and Méxica life was governed by the same ambiguities and meaning-centered beliefs as ours is today.

Engaged in critical conversations such as these, the four of us wandered the ruins alternatively tossing in an offensive joke here and there to lighten up the mood. Pausing in the afternoon for another pulque-lunch, we continued taking in the sights and climbed both of the giant pyramids. Gazing across the vast landscape from the top of the Pyramid of the Sun, I could not help but consider the global impact of the European conquest of the New World in the 16th century.

"Cultures are like books," the anthropologist Claude Levi-Strauss once remarked, "each a volume in the great library of humankind." In the 16th century, more books were burned than ever before or ever since. In 1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus, a very accessible book I read as I explored the ruins in Central Mexico, the author Charles C. Mann enters a thoughtful line of questioning:

"How many Homers vanished? How many Hesiods? What great works of painting, sculpture, architecture, and music vanished or never were created? Languages, prayers, dreams, habits, and hopes - all gone. And not just once, but over and over again. In our antibiotic era, how can we imagine what it means to have entire ways of life hiss away like steam? How can one assay the total impact of the unprecedented calamity that gave rise to the world we live in?"

Still flooded by a wave of questions like these, I now continue my journey onwards and southwards. After Teotihuacan, I bid a bittersweet farewell to all of the new friends I had grown so close to: Samantha, Rodrigo, Surya, Daniela, Emily, Le, Eugenio, Luthien, Israel, Victor, Jesus, Hazel, Raul, Lupita, and Anna. Turning towards the Pacific Coast and with a burning desire to re-unite with Bucephalus, I spent two long days catching cheap busses and hitchhiking in the bed of pickup trucks and semis back to Colima.

Despite the anxiety still swirling through my thoughts, I feel a renewed sense of vigor for the journey ahead. I can sense an inward and outward growth within me each day - a mix of joy, frustration, fear, longing, desire, and ambition.

Let us see where the road leads to next.


Japhy
Playa Ahijadero, Colima
103.8° East longitude
19.1° North latitude


Expedition Statistics

Distance Cycled: 2937 km
Days on the Road: 85 days
Days riding: 36 days
Average daily riding distance: 107 km
Maximum Speed: 65 km/h (Santa Rosalia Pass, Baja CA Sur)
Maximum Altitude: 5,636 meters (Citlatepetl - El Pico de Orizaba)
Flat Tires: 11 (none since Baja!!!!)
Litres of sweat (and other bodily fluids) expelled from the tropical humidity and heat: 42 liters
Items lost/stolen so far: Chaco sandals (La Paz), my beloved spork (Colima), camera (Mexico D.F.)
Moments of sheer joy from the warmth of the people I've met: Infinite



Some updates:
- Please forgive me for the scarcity of photos in this last update. For reasons that are still a mystery, I lost my camera in Mexico D.F. and with it, all of my photos. I was only able to recover the few that I backed up, so lots of moments were lost there. Too broke to buy a new camera, I’ll be using a small disposable camera for the next leg of the journey.
- I have updated the website a little more to fix some of the wayward links. In particular, the “Route” page now has an interactive map that I can update as I ride along. The “Gallery” link finally works now.
- I have also signed up for Skype to make cheaper phone calls to friends and family. If you’re registered, please add me to your friends list - ¨japhy.dhungana¨!
- My friend Damian Lopez, a fellow long-haul cyclist I met in Baja has also posted up his set of chronicles and photos if you want the story from another perspective. The Spanish version is by far the most poetic and lucid.
- Among other good news, my twin sister Karla just booked her ticket to visit me in Costa Rica on April 25. That will probably be the next time I can receive any items from the US and abroad. Yay!!!


Acknowledgements:

Karla Dhungana: for immediately recognizing my trauma in La Paz, and shipping a pair of sandals with Sid to help me out. Love ya twin sista!

Davida and Sid: for all your love and support in La Paz, which played a tremendous role in helping me continue from La Paz with lots of emotional and mental strength.

Alejandra Clayton: for all the tacos consumed in La Paz and for all your good vibes!

Miguel, Antonio, and Juli: for the amazing two weeks I spent at Se Habla La Paz taking language classes.

Judith Santisteban: for the week of home-stay and all of the wonderful stories and culinary delights.

The Pleasant Revolution Crew (Kipchoge, Ecco, Dante, Joey, Arrielle, Jeff, Brock, Toby, Laura): for the wild ride across the Sea of Cortez, and all of your music-making cheerfulness! And thanks for living the revolution!

Arody Garcia: for hosting me in Mazatlan and sharing your art, your values, and your stories!

Michael Truex: for all those micheladas and fun "gringo/local" experiments in Mazatlan.

Bear, Somer, and David: for sharing lively conversations and frisbee with the local kids in Escuinapa.

Kirsten and Andy: for hosting me in Puerto Vallarta and bringing music into my life again!

Marlene, Ceci, and Eli: for opening up your home in Puerto Vallarta and for all the unexpected adventures searching for an elusive beach.

Rafael and Humberto: for your amazing friendship and for scribbling a note on a napkin to guide me to the best swimming holes, hot springs, and beaches!

Jeff and Martina Hayden: for helping me learn more about my father's life, for helping me ground myself in forging a self-identity, and for the wonderful refuge at Playa Ahijadero and Rancho Ocaso del Imperio.

Omar, Silvia, Omarcito, Jose, and Jesus: for sharing all those moments in Playa Ahijadero.

Brian Nelson: for your life-saving shipment of bike supplies to Colima.

Frank Pfisterer: for your lovely gift of the home-made hemp/green-tea/rice soap!

Daniela Voigt: a fellow change-agent and sister in arms for the paths ahead. Thanks for being a huge inspiration and for breathing into each day a manifesto of life that gives me much hope for the future.

Emily James: for the camaraderie and friendship we shared during my stay in Cholula.

Paco and Lupe: for rescuing me from sure death by helping me borrow a pair of boots, an ice-ax, and crampons to get to the top of Citlatépetl. See you in Nepal on a snowy Himalayan peak some day!

Familia Rodriguez: for all the exciting stories at 4200 meters on Citlatépetl and your hospitality.

David Alvarado Sanchez: for the guided tour of Parque Nacional Pico de Orizaba.

Yerba Buena: for the good vibes and the all night reggae music dancing reveries in Cuernavaca.

Eugenio, Luthien, Israel, Victor, Jesus, Hazel, Raul, Lupita, and Anna: for all those moments Choluleanding and all of your buena onda!

All the truckers I hitchhiked with: for not killing me, and for gifting me with the kind of conversations I would otherwise never have received.

Surya, Rodrigo, Mari, y la familia Lecona: for your warmth and hospitality during my stay in Mexico D.F! I left the big city with very fond thoughts that I will treasure as good moments in my travels.

Samantha Cooper: for your powerful and independent spirit, and for sharing all those amazing heart-stories!