California to Patagonia: A Cycling Expedition

Tierra del Fuego - the Final Chapter

2009-06-02T15:45:00.006-06:00

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When the Portugese explorer Fernando de Magallanes and his crew cut across the end of the American mainland after 14 months on the high seas in October 1520, they had already suffered from low morale, mutiny, murder, intense cold, and wild storms. Although Colombus had already discovered that the American continents were not the Spice Islands (or the "Indies") of the Asian kingdoms, there was stiff competition in Europe to chart a trade route westwards to the Indies. The Panama Canal was non-existent, and the Strait of Magellan - as it is now known - that cut through the Southern tip of South America, was the most accessible.

The Strait separates South America from Tierra del Fuego (literally, "Land of Fire"), the island-archipelago that forms the bottom tip of South America. When Magallanes arrived, he saw dozens of bonfires burning along the coast of the island. These fires were lit by the Yaghan and Ona tribes who lived on the islands to ward off the intense cold of the region since they wore little to no clothing. He feared that they were trying to lure him into the forests to ambush his armada, so deftly avoided contact and was largely uninterested in these groups.

As I arrived with my bicycle in Punta Arenas, Chile, the southernmost city on the American mainland, Tierra del Fuego loomed in the distance. Far from seeing any bonfires, it was a freezing -3 degrees Celcius. Instead of crossing the Straits on an ancient wooden-hulled ship, I was granted access on super-modern cargo liner that made the crossing daily for passengers, vehicles, and cargo.

"These Southern waters are some of the harshest conditions in the world," explained the eccentrically moustached captain. "See those things sticking out of the water?" he asked, pointing to what seemed like an abandoned dock with roughly strewn planks of wood. "Thats what happens to unlucky ships."

I lucked out on the Straits, and made the crossing in a rare day of light winds. While negotiating the two and a half hour passage on the ship, I wandered around the deck and made friends with the crew, and a strange conglomeration of tourists, sheepherders, and fishermen. As I protectively peeked below deck to make sure my bicycle hadn't been tossed out into the sea, the captain chuckled, "but don't worry - we're not quite as primitive as Magallanes today. This ship is almost indestructible."

I touched ground on Tierra del Fuego around mid-day, and the wind now howled in its full fury. Even standing up proved to be difficult. However, the Patagonian wind in Tierra del Fuego was finally in my favor, and I was excited to ride at warp-speeds towards the culmination of a long journey. Needless to say, although I harbored hopes of conversing with native Fuegians, the only people I encountered were descendants and immigrants of European ancestry.

During the time of Magallanes, it is estimated that the Yaghan numbered at around 3,000 individuals. Since he had little interest in them, they were largely ignored for three hundred years until Robert FitzRoy sailed to Tierra del Fuego on the maiden voyage of the HMS Beagle in 1830. He captured four native Fuegians and decided to "civilize" the "savages," teaching them "English... the plainer truths of Christianity... and the use of common tools" and intended to return them as missionaries. They were presented to the King and Queen in London and became instant celebrities.

A year later, the HMS Beagle returned on its famous second journey to Tierra del Fuego with Charles Darwin. One of the Fuegians had died in the interim, and the remaining three were brought back to their native land, fluent in English and "civilized." Darwin was fascinated with them, especially one Jemmy Button (his native name was "Orindellico"), and remarked that the Fuegians were "without exception the most curious and interesting spectacle I ever beheld. I could not have believed how wide was the difference between savage and civilised man: it is greater than between a wild and domesticated animal, in as much as in man there is a greater power of improvement."

Darwin's curiosity and remarks, which would now be considered largely racist and Euro-centric, engendered the view that after these people came to learn about the European lifestyle, they would naturally progress to more "civilized" forms. After setting up a mission for the returning Fuegians, the HMS Beagle returned a year later and was surprised to find that Jemmy Betton had returned to his tribal ways, left the mission, and commented in clear English that he "had not the least wish to return to England," and was "happy and contented" to live in what they thought a shockingly primitive manner with his wife.

Unfortunately, since the HMS Beagle's voyages, the indigenous groups of Tierra del Fuego have dwindled to near-extinction. The second-to-last full-blooded Yaghan, Emelinda Acuna died in 2005, and the language and traditions of the Yaghan are kept alive today only by Cristina Calderon, an elderly lady who lives across the Beagle Channel in Isla Navarino, and makes a living charging foreigners, government officials, and anthropologists who stop by for a visit.

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Much of the the Northern half of Tierra del Fuego is Patagonian steppe; in common language, windswept, shrublands where a rough dirt road cut across into the horizon. The winds fully in my favor blasted me across Tierra del Fuego all the way to the Atlantic Coast. The last time I gazed on Atlantic waters were up in Colombia, by the caribbean fortress of Cartegena de Indias, nearly a year ago.

The road turned due South, and the wind then bothered me immensely from the side. As the short austral day came to a close prematurely, I set about searching for an estancia, or sheep farm.

"He who rushes in Patagonia, loses time," Don Jose casually replied after he heard the rapid-fire, well-honed plea for a space to camp from an overly excited cyclist.

"Thanks for the advice," I spelled these words in a much calmer manner, and he invited me in. We settled into a conversation over warm brews of mate. Inside, it was a humble home with a wood-fed stove and that distinct scent of smoke. Outside, the wind whipped the plains to a fury and my host had just returned from the afternoon hours corralling his animals into the farm. Don Jose was a short and stocky man. The lines on his face were largely invisible, but the few times he smiled or settled into a deeply thoughtful visage, they told spoke lucidly. He wasn't one to speak much and when he did, it was short, aphorisms, like "don't listen to the wind, listen to the sheep," or "walk slowly."

Men like Don Jose are gauchos - the "cowboys" of Patagonia who are the descendants of the European settlers since the nineteenth century. Their hospitality is limitless; living in such seclusion and extremes, they know the value of trust and favors. That evening, along with a few other ranch hands, we swapped tall tales and dined on freshly stewed lamb. It was surreal to think that a traveler arriving in these lands just two centuries ago instead would be chatting with native Fuegians next to their monster bonfires by the coast.

I settled into my space in the garage, where I was to spend the night. The final 200 kilometers of the journey brought me to the southern portion of Tierra del Fuego, where the humid subpolar climate formed gloomy forests, silent lakes, and the snowy reaches of glacially carved mountains. The temperatures hovered around freezing, and even though it had been a week since the last heavy snow-fall, the roads were constantly glazed with a thin layer of black-ice.

Even though I slipped and fell a million times on my bicycle, crashing hard and sufficiently bruising my knees, elbows, and arse, I was fortunate to ride windless days and the cold wasn't as extreme as I had imagined, nor as fierce as it was back along the Ruta 40. I crested a final icy pass, descended down a beautiful valley, and across the crest of small hill, glimpsed my first view of the Beagle Channel and the bustling town of Ushuaia along the harbor.

This was it. Sold to tourists as "the end of the world," Ushuaia - meaning "bay (waia)" in the "upper back (ushsha)," in the Yamana language, is set in a spectacular bay, with snowcapped peaks all around. I rested in town that evening and the next day before tackling the final 26 kms to the *real* end of the road, along a dirt path into the nearby Tierra del Fuego National Park.

After more than 22,236 kms of cycling over 548 days, I had arrived in Bahia Lapataia, where the road abruptly came to an end. I was now at the southernmost point accessible by road in the world.

I arrived alone, in tears, and after spending a few moments in silent contemplation over the Antarctic waters... turned my bicycle around and slowly continued.

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Since embarking on this voyage in November of 2007, those of you who have joined me along for this ride have journeyed with me through the United States, Baja California, Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama, Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, Chile, and Argentina together.

We learned Spanish together and became experts at fixing flat tires. We have crossed featureless deserts and lush tropical forests together. We learned to salsa together and danced around countless bonfires together. We were robbed by knife wielding thieves. We survived Peruvian pub brawls and escaped Colombian guerrillas together. We climbed some of the highest mountains in the Andes together, and battled with thirst in the Atacama desert. We snorkeled warm Caribbean coral waters and kayaked down freezing Andean rivers together. We were adopted by indigenous families and millionaires alike, and know very well the heartbreaking sentiment that is departure. Together, we have hugged and shared intimate spaces with people we would otherwise never have come to know. We nursed countless stomach parasites together, coughed up numerous colds, and strange tonsil infections together. We smiled widely on the pages of national newspapers and magazines, and volunteered talks at schools. We explored ancient ruins, wandered along Inca trails, and camped atop Aztec ruins together.

We also learned that it is not a person's material wealth or social status that amounts to a rich and fulfilling life, but that our only true universal sources of wealth are intangible, like friendships, love, family, and time - and how we choose to spend this time. We learned that if one is following her or his dream, there is nothing wrong in making mistakes and getting lost every so often. Through this journey, we learned that there is something noble in sleeping in ditches, camping in the wilderness, and having only one change of clothes. After all, when stripped of all our material possessions, we learned that the world is filled with rewarding and enriching experiences.

We learned that cycling half-way across the world is not about "proving" oneself or a show of machismo, but about learning to be self-sufficient. To live and care for our planet in a sustainable way. To take a risk, push a little, follow our dreams, and make ourselves available for this beautiful world and its amazing habitants to surprise us and fill us with an insatiable sense of curiosity. To face the world head-on, and encounter it the way it is, not the way we imagine it.... and to be transformed.

You laughed with me. You cried with me. You encouraged and supported me when I needed it the most. Above all, you believed in me. You improvised with me, and helped me get through the toughest moments on the trip. I am endlessly grateful to each one of you who shared these experiences with me.

The people and places I have encountered along this journey have forever transformed my perspectives of this world. By choosing to embark on this journey, most of all, I am grateful of having had the opportunity to explore the invisible paths into that trackless wilderness that is our selves, and to learn a little more about how I fit into this infinitely beautiful world of ours.

Thanks for joining me!

Japhy Dhungana
Ushuaia, Tierra del Fuego, Argentina.

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"The world is as it is...
and this is where we start."

- Saul Alinsky

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* The full photo gallery from this stage can be found here.
* Route maps of the journey can be found here.

Stage 13 - Southern Patagonia and the Deep South

2009-05-23T15:46:00.008-06:00

California to Patagonia: A Cycling Expedition
Stage 13 – Southern Patagonia and the Deep South
13 April - 21 May, 2009

* Photographs from this stage of the journey can be found here.
* Route maps of the journey can be found here.

Total distance cycled: 21,722 kms
Total distance in this stage: 1,853 km
Days on the road: 537
Maximum speed: 81 km/h!!! (storm-fed tailwinds on butter-smooth pavement to Junin de los Andes)
Maximum altitude: 6,310 mtrs (20,561 ft) - Mt. Chimborazo, Ecuador
Highest altitude cycled to date: 5,021 mtrs (Abra Huayrajasa, Peru)
Flat tires to date: 42 (1 in this stage!!!!)

Total money spent in this stage: $181
Average daily expenses: $8.25 (total average for the whole trip: $12.24/day)

Nights spent...
... invited to a home – 11
... camping outdoors – 14
... in cheap hostels - 6
... firemen stations - 5

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The morning light comes in. It slips through the two-inch opening between the edge of the curtains and the wooden panels of a lovely cabin in the woods. Lifting my head just slightly, I make out the azure silhouette of Lago Nahuel Huapi. The bed is so comfortable that even as I begin the process of burrowing my face into the pillow, I've already fallen asleep again. When I wake up again, its almost noon, but considering that last night was gifted by an extended dinner party with a tasty Argentinian asado and many bottles of wine, this timely awakening is more celebratory than accusing.

The week and a half I spent in Bariloche thus passed with late mornings and even later nights. Silvina and Juampa, old friends of Damian, my cycling partner through Mexico and Central America (remember?), invited me to their home in this bustling mountain town to recuperate and it came at the perfect time, as I had just spent long days cycling through a monster 8-day storm and was exhausted.

And as an unintended bonus to the already Eden-like setting and company, my friend Melisa (from Mendoza, remember?) came to visit for a few days, complementing the serenity.

The only thing that troubled me each morning was the ever-reaching grasp of the Antarctic winter, now setting in fast. My hesitant departure from Bariloche was followed by a high-velocity charge southwards. Day after day, my primary concerns were staying fed, cranking pedals, and ignoring the beautiful and numerous distractions all along the road. I'm not very proud to say it, but the winter scared me into speeding. My journey had suddenly become an athletic endeavor, a race southwards, unlike never before in this journey. I now followed the light intently each day from dawn to its arc across dusk.

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The morning light comes in, but this time, instead of shining right into my eyes, it politely changes the color of my tent's rain-fly from darkness into a light blue. I know its already 8 am and the day needs to get started, but its so cold outside that I continue breathing through the small slit in my sleeping bag instead of birthing out of my cocoon.

Today I enter Coyhaique, the only major city along the length of Chile's famous Carretera Austral - a 1000 km stretch of mostly dirt road built by Pinochet in an effort to connect the vast wilderness of Southern Chile to the rest of the country. The road is still a patchwork of sorts; road conditions vary wildly from pavement to horse-rutted dirt. In many ways, Pinochet failed to realize his vision: the Carretera Austral remains an unconnected stretch of highway in Chile - giant Patagonian ice-fields stopped progress in the South, and in its northern end, a crucial piece of Chilean territory which could have made the whole area accessible was bought up by Doug Tompkins, an eccentric American millionaire who has been protecting the land as a wilderness sanctuary, unyielding to any sort of development.

As the only major city along the spine of the Patagonian Andes, Coyhaique is also an important staging ground; at the local post office, I pick up two precious packages. Cradled in my arms, I make my way back to my bicycle with the warm knowledge that the precious survival kit I´ve just received will be put to good use.

The ammunition received amounted to gear for the winter (socks, gloves, boots, and a hat), letters from friends (always the best part of the goodies, meant to be savored over and over again!), and a collection of thick, heavy paperbacks to keep me company throughout the long nights. Thanks to all my familia and friends - you´ve helped me out in so many more ways than you can imagine!

I thus followed the Carretera Austral due South, crossing over Lago General Carrera. Blocked by massive Patagonian ice-fields and glaciers, the road ends abruptly at Villa O´Higgins, so instead of following it to the end, I crossed the border into Argentina to negotiate the most trecherous yawning horizons of the mythical Ruta 40.

"Hacete hombre," Damian wrote to me just a few days ago when I nervously inquired about the route. He rode this entire distance over 10 years ago, and I vividly recall his stories from when we were together back in Guatemala. Damian´s not the only one who believes that crossing the Patagonian steppe is worthy enough to enter manhood, but bravado and machisimo aside, cyclists talk about this portion of Patagonia as a "horror," "extremely difficult," etc. etc. etc. Extremely long distances without services, winds gusting up to 120 kph, and terrible dirt roads - these are the challenges, explained in human terms.

Instead of rushing through the pampa, I survived, but only because I took my time, and deftly kept my guard not to let my mind fall into the abysmal trap of infinity, the contemplation of existentialism, and the tenacity of horizons. More on this experience can be found in this post.

After nearly a week on the pampa, I caught a cold and rolled into El Chalten just as a storm was brewing up. I recuperated with the usual regimen of sleep, alcohol, friends, and it seemed to do the trick. Four snowy days later, the storm cleared, revealing the Patagonian spires of El Chalten and Cerro Torre. These are the mountains that inspired Yvon Chouinard to found the clothing company, and to forever immortalize it in its namesake and logo.

Southern Patagonia has been called the windiest place on the planet by National Geographic. Its not uncommon for the wind to carry off roofs, buses, and animals. After nearly 17 months on the road, I knew that when the wind was blowing at full fury, life is best experienced indoors. Still, cycling had to be done, and this was the challenge.

The winds regularly sweep from the cordillera towards the Atlantic. Fed by rancid Antarctic currents, imagine a giant fan placed somewhere along the ragged Pacific Coast blowing to the Atlantic at full speed. Therefore, on the bike, this means that whenever you had the wind at your back (rare moments!), winds carry you up to speeds of 35 km/h from a full stop without any effort. Riding against the wind or with the wind at your side (nearly always!) was a different story altogether. An average speed of 8 km/h could be considered good progress!

Just two days out of El Chalten, after exhausting myself with the intense winds, I rode into El Calafate to be greeted by Analia and her daughter Valentina. Seasoned couchsurfers, the two were housing 6 other travelers, and over the span of a week, I forgot about the wind and the bicycle and we all spent hours exchanging stories, preparing hearty meals, and visiting the local glaciers and forests.

The weather having turned sour again, I cycled out of El Calafate with a monster tailwind that lasted all of an hour before I had to turn and fight it again. Southward progress be damned, if it weren´t for the blessed scenery ahead of me, I would have given up much sooner.

Then the snows came. Thousands of crystal bullets whipped into my eyes and stung my digits as I was cast into the ditch countless times. Entering Chile against the fury of the storm, I continually pushed my bike for more than three hours - never before had I encountered such extreme conditions. Each time, after exhausting all the curse words in my lexicon, I got back on the bike and continued pushing. Although this all sounds miserable, in retrospect it really wasn´t that bad and I was enjoying myself through a good deal of it cracking jokes and trying to stay in the present moment.

The skies cleared, and I saw a clear blue sky after a long hiatus, and I made a break for Punta Arenas. With calm winds and a clear, snow-shoveled highway, I racked big miles and reached the Southernmost city in the South American mainland, where I´m writing from.

Whats left of my adventure?

Tomorrow I cross the Stretches of Magellan into Tierra del Fuego, the dramatically curved island near the extreme tip of South America. Before the Panama Canal was constructed, this was the treacherous passage sailors had to negotiate at the bottom of South America to gain access across the Pacific and the Atlantic. Fighting subzero temperatures, black ice, and fading daylight hours, this marks the end of the completion of this stage, and only a few hundred kilometers separate me from road's end in South America. For the first time in my life, I can almost feel the "End of the World" dropping off into the not-so-far-horizon.

Will you come seek it out with me?

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Acknowledgments:

Chris and Elissa: for the pleasant encounter en route to El Bolson.
Leandro Eguiazu: thanks for the great conversation in Esquel and keep those tires rolling!
Diego: thanks for helping me fix my thermos to be bike-proof in Cholila.
Bomberos Esquel: for the last-minute accommodations in Esquel.
Don Marcos: for the memorable Nandu hunt in the steppe!
Ignacio Garcia y Gustavo Tome: thanks a million for your amazing company, the good food, and all the stories shared in Rio Mayo.
Juancho Mansilla: for the accommodations in Coyhaique.
Roberto Fillipponi: for the grand company in Coyhaique.
Don Manuel, Dona Audolia, y Jorge: thanks for all the stories and mate shared in Puerto Ibanez.
Gil Alejo: for the amazing warmth and camaraderie of the entire bombero station in Perito Moreno.
Gabriela Horta: thanks for making Chile Chico forever memorable with your good vibes!
Sarah: haha - thanks for making me laugh a bunch of times and perhaps we'll see each other in Ushuaia.
Marcos Mendoza: for the anthro discussions and for helping me clarify my path further.
Nadia, Valeria, Julian, Maxi: for the good times waiting out the bad weather in El Chalten.
Analia y Valentina: a heartfelt thanks indeed for all your positive vibes and family-warmth in El Calafate.
Nico, Lucile, Gaelle, Lucia, Irena, y Pablo: the few days we spent together in El Calafate were truly something magical, and I have all of you to thank for this!
Sofia and the whole Mardones family: for your kindness and hospitality in Punta Arenas.

Ruta Cuarenta

2009-05-15T08:27:00.003-06:00

In the realm of emptiness, individuality is a debilitating weakness. When faced with the totality of existence in the vast Patagonian steppe, shreds of personal identity, emotions, and ambitions either battle it out with the imposing horizons, or eventually give in; what remains is a humbling sense of the infinity of things, and of the absurdity of our pretentious struggles.

The Patagonian steppe - or the pampa - is an ocean of sand and shrub. Short, thick grasses disperse themselves such that each breathes freely without encroaching on one another's territory. Every so often, the desolation skips a heartbeat and the landscape is interrupted by long, sailing canyons and mesas. Much like long sighs or Pacific waves, beginnings and endings in the steppe do not exist; rather they flow freely from one into the other.

"There is a certain time in the evening," Borges once wrote, "when the pampa is about to say something: it never says it or maybe it says it endlessly and we don't understand, or maybe we do understand, but it is something untranslatable, just like a melody."

Men and women who dare converse this timeless place are also drawn into its confounding puzzles. Whereas in everyday life, things make sense because they are grounded in human terms, the pampa dissolves all sense of self, allowing one to become part of this infinite totality (if he/she hasn't yet gone mad in the process). And after submission to nothing, everything becomes freedom.

The denizens of this wild place know how to harness this freedom. Guanacos roam across the vastness in tight social herds. Much like humans, they laugh with one another, hop, skip, and sing, despite the seemingly measureless pampa. Nandus, an endemic flightless bird and distant relative of the ostrich, gaze out at sunsets and in the right moments, open up their curiosity to bewildered cyclists. Zorros, the elusive andean fox, is also unperturbed by two-wheeled adventurers when returning from its evening hunt. And finally, liberty herself - the Andean condor sweeps across the landscape like a wailing legato.

Thus, in the company of condors, guanacos, sand, and shrub, the only ray of hope connecting me to the human world was the ribbon of road that is known the world over as the Ruta 40 (read: "Ruta Cuarenta"). Its mythology is rooted in the tall tales of gauchos who've labored through the great distances and return to their local drinking holes to cast larger-than-life stories of the Patagonia that is time-less, and in many ways, space-less (although like me, the gauchos surely shed existential tears and hallucinogenic self-doubt and confirmation through the process).

These wilderness-honed gauchos knew one thing for certain: mythology is best experienced in person, not through the cold pages of books nor the virtual cyberlandia of blogs. Much like drinking with Dionysus himself, or sharing glances with Venus, I'd like to think that the Ruta 40 will forever be a myth that many dream of, but few experience.

Stage 12 - Wine Country to Patagonia

2009-04-14T20:16:00.011-06:00

California to Patagonia: A Cycling Expedition
Stage 12 – Wine Country to Patagonia
5 March - 13 April, 2009

* Photographs from this stage of the journey can be found here.
* Route maps of the journey can be found here.

Total distance cycled: 19,869 kms (yes... a big celebration is coming up!)
Total distance in this stage: 1,665 km
Days on the road: 505
Maximum speed: 81 km/h!!! (storm-fed tailwinds on butter-smooth pavement to Junin de los Andes)
Maximum altitude: 6,310 mtrs (20,561 ft) - Mt. Chimborazo, Ecuador
Highest altitude cycled to date: 5,021 mtrs (Abra Huayrajasa, Peru)
Flat tires to date: 41 (4 in this stage)

Total money spent in this stage: $437 (critical rain-gear replacement and expensive food in Chile!)
Average daily expenses: $11.52 (total average for the whole trip: $11.49/day)

Nights spent...
... invited to a home – 26
... camping outdoors – 12
... in cheap hostels - 0
... firemen stations - 0

Best Day: Peaceful country road into Pucon with berry season in full swing and Volcan Villarica nodding in approval
Worst Day: uff... non-stop rain, mud, cold, and bad dirt roads across the pass to Argentina.

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The road out of Mendoza climbed up ancient glaciated valleys like a student's pen drawing theorems to the mathematical mystery of the mountains, looking for a high pass to lead to the solution on the other side. Despite the the mild hangover from the final night's reveries in Mendoza, I felt good. In the town of Uspallata, the sun's long rays traced the tips of cottonwood trees, hinting at an autumn that had not quite yet arrived.

The magic of blind navigation soon led me to the excellently maintained municipal campsite (which cost all of $3!), and after setting up my home for the evening, I acquainted myself with the parilla and one last Argentinian asado before crossing over to Chile. A few friendly hellos and exchanges soon turned into a bustling social scene as the neighboring campers invited me over to a mate, then a few gulps of vino, and then as a magical enchantment made the atmosphere light, conversation took over reason, uncontrollable smiles over sleep, and soon it was too late to even consider riding the next day towards a high Andean pass.

Before my eyelids finally took over, I responsibly bid good night to all the new friends of the evening. One held on a little longer than the rest before letting go, and her's was the one that carried my smiles into sleep.

The following day, an impolite sun greeted me earlier than I was ready, and I decided to romp around the surroundings to see what it had to offer. After all, this is where Brad Pitt's Seven Years in Tibet was filmed, and even if the Himalayas were far away, the draw of the mountains was strong.

Much to my delight, the hug-giver from the night before asked if she could join me, and I did my best not to sound as excited as I actually was. Melisa, a soft-spoken psychology graduate from Buenos Aires on vacation quickly proved that she was an excellent conversationalist and the hours passed by pleasantly. We roamed on and on, and eventually followed a windy trail by a nearby creek to the mountains.

Below the majestic Cerro Aconcagua (6,987 mtrs), the highest peak outside the Himalayas, something must have blossomed, because after our farewells a few days later, I felt a certain afterglow that I'm still trying to shake off as I write this. Blaming the high-altitude for the light-headedness, I pretended to know exactly where the road ahead was leading, but could neither hide the fact that my mind was not focused on the winding road, nor that I had any idea where it was leading.

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On the other side of the Andes, after clearing the fuss that is always Chilean customs, the road descended into a wild series of switchbacks known as "Caracoles" - or "shells," for its impressive pattern. Chilean engineers truly do a good job maintaining a steady grade throughout the length of long climbs, quite unlike their Guatemalan brethren, whose major highways in comparison would be steep horse trails.

In the town of Los Andes, after making quick work of some monster empanadas and enjoying the free wireless internet in the local plaza, I sought out a local cyclist who maintained a "Casa de Ciclistas." Unfortunately, however, he had sold the house, but being a veterinarian, owned a parcel of land a good distance out of town that served as a pet cemetary. Since I didn't have many other options (wild-camping is just about impossible in the heavily populated Central regions), I took my chances and set up camp next to some old headstones devoted to once-beloved canines.

Thankfully, it turned out to be one of the most pleasant evenings and none of the preternatural barking that I imagined took place. The next day was a mad dash into the big city, dodging heavy traffic, and navigating the confusing highway system of the Santiago metropolis. Seth and Kirsten, fellow cyclists and old compañeros from the Peruvian highlands, had now settled in the big city and treated me to a wonderful week of rest and recuperation.

It was clear after a while that neither wine nor good food nor good friends nor access to a full kitchen could shake off the impending winter. I made a side trip to visit a few friends in Limache. One introduction led to another, and soon I was in the company of a National Geographic photographer and his family who inspired me to no end (and helped me set aside that lingering feeling from Uspallata). After conversations about Pinochet, photography, and philosophy had grown to a fertile pond of ideas, I bid a hesitant farewell and then allowed myself a few days in Valparaiso and Vina del Mar. Before I could get too home-sick due to its extreme likeness to California, Bucephalus and I were making southward progress once again.

The highway system of Chile reflects the country's prosperity. Autopistas make up a mycologically precise network that boosts productivity, connectivity, and modernity; however, it makes for absolutely boring cycling. Riding the autopista, the road never actually enters any towns, and social contact is limited to the lavishly stocked gas stations (showers, wifi, beer, etc.). These don't come cheap either, as toll booths litter each exit, the government making sure motorists pay up. The cyclist, however, fed by beer-cold gasoline and human-power, passes for free!!!!

After a short break in Temuco resting with a wonderful family, I was glad to leave the autopista for some peaceful rural roads into the Lakes District and Patagonia. The berry bushes were now ripe with bountiful harvests, and the cottonwoods celebrated Autumn with golden shades of light.

Winter is just around the corner.

Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief.
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

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PATAGONIA. Pa-ta-go-ni-uh.

A name that immediately stirs my childish imagination to a distant place and an even more distant time.

Picture vast horizons dominated by mountains spearing high above a blanket of bone-white glaciers; picture sapphire lakes and virgin forests breathing a chorus of elven fantasy; picture a wind so fierce that knees buckle and teeth chatter when one dares to make peace with it.

Patagonia. That distant place is here. That distant time is now.

And the pictures I feebly paint with my words and my camera lens are like a young lover, who... lavish in his caresses, can only say so many inadequate flowery words before realizing that in the end, there is only the surrender to the vast unknown mystery of intimacy.

The moment I was waiting for so long did not come with a defining road-sign. And there were no candles and bright lights celebrating my arrival. A rain storm hit, winds kicked up, and my sandaled-toes were going numb as I pedaled furiously up the slopes of Volcan Lanin towards Argentina. On the other side of the pass, I was a bit disappointed that the only things that said "Patagonia" were high-priced boutique outdoor shops and tour agencies. I reflected critically for a moment on my own fascination with Patagonia clothing... selling unreasonably priced fleece jackets insulated in a sheen of fashion.

American company. Andean images...

It might as well be called "Pata-gucci."

Just like others elsewhere in the western world had capitalized on words like "Sherpa," "Himalaya," and "Quechua," Yvon Chouinard, the brainchild behind Patagonia had successfully immortalized the name as a place that is forever a faraway concept, one to marvel at and dream for.

Places become mythical or magical or exotic only in our minds. Beyond that, they simply exist, just like every other place in the world, whether its the Himalaya or an ignored barrio in East LA.

I had bit the bait and came looking for the Patagonia I dreamed of as a child through the glossy pages of National Geographic. Fueling my way ever southwards since leaving California over a year and a half ago, now - more than ever - is the time for me to question this whole journey.

What brought me here? I am a bit embarrassed to reveal that a small part of Patagonia was "sold" to me by the brilliant marketing of the western world.

The desire to reach the imaginary end of the world. The world of fantasy.

The world where human suffering, injustice, and poverty are masked by the sheer enormity of natural beauty.

However, much like the young shepherd Santiago in The Alchemist, although these dreams filled my spirit with an insatiable fire to move, it is the process rather than the destination that has been more valuable. While I am glad to be here, I am also thankful that as a once-distant goal, Patagonia also brought me closer to hundreds of new friends along the road; to confronting biting poverty and extreme injustice that exists in the world today; to the shameful history of conquest and war; to the haunting folklore that tries to make sense of all this; and to everything that my University education could never reveal.

For me, this process... this conscious search, this critical questioning, has been Patagonia.

---

Acknowledgments:

Seth and Kirsten Gates: thanks for the wonderful accommodations in Santiago de Chile and for all the rica comida shared!
Angelina Upshaw: thanks for the engaging conversations and for a lovely crossing of paths in Santiago. Best on your own journeys, and hope to see you again soon!
Soren: Amazing asados in the big city... ride safe and see you further South!
Lina y Jan Puerta: thanks for your limitless hospitality, and for making Limache officially my favorite town in all of Chile!
Ariana Mansour: thanks for the magazine interview, and especially for your warm vibes and spirited conversations.
Hernan Blanco: thanks for helping me out while I was rushed getting to Limache, and for the short, but memorable time we shared on Cuesta La Dormida.
Manuel Vargas: in my greatest time of need, past darkness, thanks for helping me out with a safe place to camp, a warm shower, and for your welcoming spirit!
Omar: thanks for the loads of free fruits and for the continued energy along the road.
Hogar de Cristo Curico: thanks for accepting me into this special community and for giving me the opportunity to get in touch with people I would otherwise never meet.
Tamara Gutierrez: Tami, thanks for your positive vibes and for sharing so much about Chilean life with me. I'll carry your gift to the end of the world, and perhaps not too long after that we'll see each other again... maybe in Nepal?
Harold, Marta, Esteban Gutierrez: your hospitality in Temuco will fondly be missed. Thanks for the wonderful family-atmosphere, the soft bed and warm showers!
Eric Blair and Claudio: for all the drinks and laughs shared waiting out rainy days in Temuco.
Dona Marta: thanks for your amazing food, and for helping a foreigner learn a bit about Mapuche life!
Joel and Karen: for the route info along the 7 lakes!
Adrian Zumsteg: great company from Villa La Angostura to Bariloche... keep that smile alive, and bike forever!
Juanpa and Silvina: thanks for your unforgettable hospitality in Bariloche, and most of all, for all the mates and lively conversations shared! Best of luck on your upcoming journey.
Melisa Soles: vocé e uma maluquinha! thanks for reminding this solitary voyager how beautiful it is to share and for helping me open up to the magic that is friendship!

Stage 11 - Atacama Desert and Northern Argentina

2009-03-16T09:16:00.008-07:00

California to Patagonia: A Cycling Expedition
Stage 11 – Atacama Desert and Northern Argentina
5 January – 4 March, 2009

* Photographs from this stage of the journey can be found here.
* Route maps of the journey can be found here.

Total distance cycled: 18,204 kms
Total distance in this stage: 2,712 km
Longest distance covered in one day: 181 km (San Juan to Mendoza!)
Days on the road: 465
Days total in the Atacama and N. Argentina: 60
Maximum speed: 79 km/h (downhill out of Loja to Catamayo, Ecuador)
Maximum altitude: 6,310 mtrs (20,561 ft) - Mt. Chimborazo, Ecuador
Highest altitude cycled to date: 5,021 mtrs (Abra Huayrajasa, Peru)
Flat tires to date: 37

Total money spent in this stage: $429
Average daily expenses: $7.15 (total average for the whole trip: $11.34/day)

Nights spent...
... invited to a home – 29
... camping outdoors – 28
... in cheap hostels - 2
... firemen stations - 1

Best Day: Cycling down pleasant rural roads into Salta and a warm meeting with Pichi and his wonderful family, who immediately served up tons of mate and asados!!!
Worst Day: Hard to think of one!!!!

---

Let us begin with a place. The Atacama Desert.

Imagine a hundred shades of sand. Imagine these colors as properties that exist not only within each grain, but also in terms of the relationship each grain has to the world it inhabits. Mornings paint the sand a deep, metallic blue – cold to the touch. The sun striking it at midday gives birth to a juvenile whiteness that forms a stage for hallucinatory waves of heat that move like belly-dancers across the horizon.

The same sun then breathes a fiery red to the earth as it feels its way below the waistline of the shapely horizon.

Intensity heightened.
Glowing, glowing. Burning.

A symphony of sensual contortions. And then the magic. Climax is a magic minute – never more, often less.

Then the land sinks into its bed and after cuddly sighs, stretches her body to prepare for a night of long breaths and moonlit dreams.

Until we repeat the performance again tomorrow.

---

Let us add now, some characters. The dramatis personae – a voyager who has now proudly developed multiple holes in the only set of pants he owns, his faithful two wheeled companion – Bucephalus, whose diseased bottom bracket clicks metronomically when climbing hills – and a world full of kind people that aid the two in their quest.

The first task presents itself as a monster Andean pass – Paso de Sico. This is not to be underestimated. Frequent and unpredictable snow storms scour the length of these highlands, which are also known as 'the Puno.' Over 210 km of terrain over 4,000 meters. High winds, and erratic dust storms. Intense heat, and then intense cold. No villages. One mining camp and one remote border post to measure progress and refill agua. Seductive horizons that only hide more horizons behind them.

And all of it is dirt. The shade and color of this dirt doesn't matter so much anymore; rather, the shape and the form of the dirt dramatically affect important tactile sensations, such as those of the wrists, shoulders, neck, and most notoriously, the rear-end.

There are, however, gifts along the way. Perhaps these are better thought of as treasures. Like accidentally running into a pool of thermal springs at the far end of a forgotten meadow, or a starlit jam session with the ghosts of Jimi Hendrix and Bob Marley.

And the few critters that decided to keep me company at camp while it snowed outside.

---

If the solitude in Paso de Sico introduced itself as part of a balancing act, then the community awaiting me on the other side in Argentina was the equalizing weight. These are the people that make such a journey worthwhile.

Like “El Pichi” and his family in Salta. Better known as Pablo, his burly physique from years of mountaineering and rugby just adds to the spunk of his big hugs and warm vibes. I was immediately shown to my room, warm showers awaiting, a yerba mate served up, and loads of delicious vinos and asados to follow. In comparison, however, these were all just condiments to the spirited conversations and stories shared during the week or so I spent recuperating. It is easy to fall love with Argentina.

Hospitality in Argentina is not an isolated experience. Just about every place I went, I was invited to meals, greeted with warm smiles and hugs, and fine vinos!

---

The Deserts of Northern Argentina are a different cousin of the Atacama. Lying on the other side of the Andes, they receive more rainfall, so the scenery is dominated by brush, and pockets of spectacular red-rock canyons. At times, the riding felt a lot like being in Utah and the Desert Southwest.

The magical route through the entire length of the country is the Ruta 40. It follows the foothills of the Andes winding through deserts, lush vineyards, tranquil rural roads, and mountain passes. Thousands of miles of wonderful camping possibilities and very little traffic.

I won't go into every detail of the long stretches in the North, and hope the photographs tell their own story. In due time, the Ruta 40 delivered me into Mendoza, the lush flatlands with a perfect climate below the Andes created a space that radiated so much wonderful energy. My arrival was marked by the annual Vendimia festival -- a celebration of the late-summer harvests.

Dionysus himself must have extended a hand to me because Mendoza was filled with so much celebration, that I had the distinct feeling it wasn't just grapes that were coming to fruition. I got together with over 20 friends from more than 12 countries - locals and travelers alike, brought together by the Couchsurfing community. In an inspiration of ritual madness, the thousands of bodies in the local stadium thrived to the music of Manu Chao. As Manu grooved from song to song, the camaraderie shared with my new friends was an unforgettable experience. The following days continued with more merrymaking - asados, vinos, fiestas, and in the end, the promise of cycling into mountains once again was the only thing that made me mount my bicycle once again.

And as Manu sings, "el viento viene, el viento se va..." the wind did its best as well, to keep me in Argentina. Battling headwinds along the whole climb, a few days later, I crested the Andes again just below the majestic Cerro Aconcagua - and prepared for the next chapter in Chile.

---

Acknowledgments:

- Juan Enrique: Thanks for welcoming me into Chile and for the much-needed legal stamp of entry!
- Maria Teresa, Victoria, Juan, y Liliana: My Quechua family... thanks for making me feel so much a part of the family ('Tio Japhy!') during my stay in Calama!
- David Harden: Thanks for your support, for the unique opportunity to climb Tupungato and for the wonderful moments we shared in Santiago.
- Sharkey Cornell: for your excellent company on Tupungato!
- Don Hertil: thanks for getting us across the river that was 'supposedly' uncrossable.
- Alegria and Miguel: for your cheerful company at 16,000!
- Thomas Pflug: great dinner and conversations in S. Pedro de Atacama!
- Lorenzo Parera: thanks for the crucial data on crossing Paso de Sico on bike!
- Marcelo Gonzalez: thanks for accompanying me a few kms out of town in the Atacama.
- Juan and the whole team at Mina El Laco: the water you provided, very literally, saved my life in the Atacama!
- Nahuel and Sebastian: for your indomitable spirit and for the quest you've put out for yourselves!
- Jean-Noel, Stephanie, and the whole Ayabombe family: thanks for the surprise crossing in S Antonio de los Cobres!
- Pichi, Mercedes, Vicky, and Pablito: thanks for your warm hospitality in Salta and the best welcome to Argentinian culture.
- Ramiro Ragno: for all those asaditos, vinos, and fond stories shared in Salta.
- Tom, Clemente, Josie, y Marcela: for the jam session in Cabra Corral, the spirited conversations, the asaditos, and the sangria, and so much more!!!
- Alex, Lauren, Ash and Poppy: for your amazing company in Cafayate and for being such an inspiration.
- Carlos Isas Guillou and family: for taking care of this weary traveler in Tafi del Valle.
- Dinora: for your warm smiles and your wonderful friendship!
- Silvana, Maria Eugenia, Marcos, Alvaro, Ana, y Paulina: for your enthusiasm, curiousity, and that wonderful game of ping-pong!
- Jose Agustin Iramain: for surprising me in the middle of the night and for your company in Tafi.
- Marcos Villa Kenning: for helping get Bucephalus' bottom bracket running smoothly!!!! I couldn't have done it myself.
- Debora: for your big hugs and unforgettable stories in Amaiche del Valle!
- Alfredo: for the gift of grapes – in the mid-day desert heat, this was paradise!!
- Celine and Thomas Reynaud: for the chance encounter in the middle of the desert and for making those long kilometers go by fast!
- Jules and Jess: great camp in Andolucas!
- Raul Diaz: for inviting me to the most delicious asado in Andolucas.
- El Negro: for the memorable campsite in Sanogasta.
- Rafael: thanks for driving your tractor at the right time, right place (I drafted behind his slow tractor for over 30 km to cut intense headwinds out of Chilecito).
- Stella and Joris: for helping me celebrate 17,000 km out of Villa Union!
- Rolando Coria: for taking such good care of me in Rodeo, for introducing me to Martin Fierro, and for sharing your bottomless knowledge of Argentinian folklore.
- Cristina Guerri: for your motherly love and all those unforgettable moments in San Juan.
- Ivana Coria: you and Harry are truly an inspiration for me, and I am eternally grateful for helping me feel at home in Argentina.
- Tagua, Mara, y Marita: for the jam session and buena onda in San Juan.
- Carina, German, and Ignacio: thanks for hosting me in Mendoza, and for Manu Chao, the asaditos, dance parties, ahh, the list is endless!
- Natalia Lazaro: for getting me excited about big mountains again, and for inspiring me to find my true voice: you are amazing!
- Yasmin Irani: for the pleasant encounter under a shady tree in Mendoza.
- Luis Jait: for your priceless gift... your book reminded me that the world is always more magical than it seems.
- Melisa Soles: for your love, your friendship, and your unforgettable companionship in Mendoza.
- Paula, Diego, and Lucas: for taking great care of me in Puente del Inca!
- Eric Savard: for the “terreno de ciclistas” and the dog-cemetary campsite!
- Jan Puerta: thanks for the random encounter near Los Libertadores and the excellent photographs.
- Damian Lopez: and the most important thanks to my old friend and brother of the roads – for embodying all that is BEST about Argentinian culture, for making me fall in love with Argentina, and for sharing your insatiable fire to move the world!

Two different perspectives...

2009-02-27T07:40:00.004-07:00

Photo: Passage. Canyon del Pato, Peru

Two friends of mine - one from Nepal, and the other from Argentina - have written some wonderful words I'd like to share. I hope this post also offers a perspective from the two languages that are not represented in this blog, but occupy a strong space in my thinking and view of the world.

First, a poem from Sol, an Argentinian girl I met for just a brief moment near the Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia. The short time we spent talking transformed my experience in the Altiplano, and days and days after in the solitude of the high desert, my thoughts drifted to our spirited conversation that day.

---

En un pueblito de América
y en esas noches de verano boliviano
fue que un ser atravesó con su existencia
y demostró tanta humildad inmensa
que dejó reflexionando a mi más oculto pensamiento.

Desde el Himalaya que viene aventurando
entre culturas, lenguajes e increíbles paisajes,
adaptándose a la hermosura
de pedalear en el camino para avanzar encontrando recónditos sentidos,
recogiendo energía de cada sitio en su vida
adhiriendo los mejores momentos
que vivirán por siempre en su corazón…
anécdotas maravillosas de la vida.

Nadie apura su tranco
y despacito investiga para conocer al hombre
alimentando la esperanza de que juntos transformemos
al mundo que hemos creado algún día.

En soledad, pero con exactas compañías
medita para convivir en su perfecta armonía
guardando los secretos que la naturaleza le brinda…
pero luego, una vez que los procesa en su costado izquierdo
logra desprenderlos,
y en el aire se puede rozar el aura de sus intentos…
sólo el bien a lo largo del actual trayecto.

---

Second, for those who've been waiting for a post in Devanagari script, some words from my friend Archana, who writes in Nepali:

साइकलमा नेपालको झन्डा फरर

---

Stage 10 - Bolivia

2009-02-14T17:05:00.000-07:00

California to Patagonia: A Cycling Expedition
Trip Report

Stage 10 -Bolivia

17 December, 2008 to 4 January, 2009.

* Photographs from this stage of the journey can be found here.

* Route maps of the journey can be found here.

Total distance cycled: 16,456 km
Total distance in Bolivia: 968 km
Total distance on DIRT ROADS: 505 km
Days on the road: 436
Days total in Bolivia: 17
Average distance per day in Bolivia: 71.2 km
Maximum speed: 79 km/h (downhill out of Loja to Catamayo, Ecuador)
Maximum altitude: 6,310 mtrs (20,561 ft) - Mt. Chimborazo, Ecuador
Highest altitude cycled to date: 5,021 mtrs
Flat tires to date: 34

Total money spent in Bolivia: $105.40
Average daily expenses: $6.20 in Bolivia (a trip record so far!)
Savings from an illegal entry: $135!

Nights spent...
... invited to a home – 6
... camping outdoors – 8
... cheap hotels - 4

Best Day: Riding along the shores of the glassy waters of Lake Titicaca with a perfect tailwind.
Worst Day: Intense rain, mud, and headwinds (and 505 km of continuous dirt roads!) in the Sur Lipez Desert, especially that last day to the Chilean border.

----

After successfully negotiating my illegal entry into Bolivian territory, Natalie and I promptly commenced on making good friends with the local street food vendors of Copacabana, a tranquil village along the shores of the magnificent Lake Titicaca – whose name, in the childhood wonder of my mind, will forever rank in that list of special places such as Timbuktu and Teotihuacan. The delicious empanadas ($0.25 each!!!) sold by the kind man at the corner of the central plaza, however, definitely ranks as the highlight of Bolivian gastronomy in my humble opinion.

Leaving tierra firma for a while, we hopped a boat across the glassy waters of the Lake to Isla del Sol, the mythical birthplace of the Inca civilization. Overhearing the tour guide spew entirely fictitious dates of settlement on the island and that the Inca capital was Macchu Pichu (haha!), we decided to part ways and ruminate on ancient origins ourselves.

The irony about places such as Macchu Pichu and Isla del Sol is that the stark beauty and mystery of the run-down ruins leaves much to the imagination; a partially constructed set of walls conjures up in our minds questions of how the people actually lived, interacted, etc. While this is all good to stir the juices of curiosity, it also breeds lots of fictitious constructions that over time, pass as pseudo-science or 'truth.' Places such as these are never short of New Age, tarot-card reading, crystal toting, millenial prophets.

Leaving the Island, we continued along the shores of Lake Titicaca towards La Paz. The route winded up and down hills along the vast watery blanket of the aqua-blue waters below. The boastful clouds tried to attract our attention as much as the 'gringo-gringo' yelling sheepherder kids along the road.

After running out of luck with the wonderful tailwind that was following us, we battled the final few kilometers into La Paz with a stiff headwind. Although I had prepared mentally for the spectacle that was the capital city of Bolivia, nothing had prepared me for the madness, the pollution, and the chaos that come with each Latin American capital.

Dodging potholes and streetkids, Natalie and I finally found our way into the heart of the city, where the contrasts between the haves and the have-nots in Bolivia were more profound than ever. We were invited to the home of a friend – nay... the place deserved to be called a fairy tale castle – in the middle of the city. Juxtaposed against this wealth, there were streetkids with long looks and their mothers reaching out their hands to businessmen clad in three-piece suits.

The holiday season in full swing, it was difficult to grasp the reality of poverty when everything about the city screamed consumerism – from toys and new clothes to fresh television sets and fancy shoes. We spent Christmas Eve just as adrift as the homeless searching for a good place to dine, but even this proved to be a depressing spectacle. Between fried chicken and french fries, we ended up settling on a greasy Chinese restaurant, which, under the circumstances, was perhaps the healthiest food around.

After we exhausted our conversations about globalization, poverty, and pollution, what remained were long sighs and the familiar pains of farewell. After nearly a month of cycling from Cuzco to La Paz, it was time to say goodbye to Natalie as she was about to start a fresh semester in college.

Cycling solo again with my handlebars pointed towards the great Altiplano due South fueled me with a newfound energy. The landscape opened up to infinity, and the villages along the side of the road disappeared slowly as big noise and crushing silence took over. The pavement also bid me farewell, and at times my thoughts focused on nothing more than the crunching of my tires beneath my feat.

In a world so entwined in the frivolousness of everyday life, solitude, I find – is the best way to really learn about oneself. When stripped down to only our thoughts, we are exposed to an essence that is at times frightening, enlightening, beautiful, disturbing.... but always, honest.

The great altiplano thus stretched into the Southern horizon, seemingly endless. Some time in the distant past, the Incas traversed this high plain to expand their empire southwards; the Spaniards came after them to re-conquer those same lands and in the process discovered the world's richest silver mines in Potosi. And after conquest and wealth seemingly became unpopular, tourists flocked to the surrealistic landscapes of the Altiplano to witness the Salar de Uyuni and the unbelievable desolation of the region. Thankfully, the tourists were like moths who flocked around the singular brightness of Uyuni, a small tourist hub where 4 x 4's buzzed around like confused bumper cars.

To those who could resist the blinding draw of organized tourism, the dirt roads in Southern Bolivia were like a dream. Despite the ass-grinding masochism, in retrospect, it was a positive experience. Zero to no traffic. And pausing for a moment, I would often realize that I was truly in the middle of nowhere. As the English explorer David Livingstone, reduced to childish simplicity during his crossing of the Sahara Desert wrote: “the mere animal pleasure of traveling in a wild, unexplored country is very great.”

A crumbling set of ancient walls abandoned in a forgotten corner, decomposing llama bones returning to the void it came from – all served as uncanny reminders of why I had come here in the first place. I was a traveler in an antique land, where my passage was perhaps just a blip in the immensity of existence.

My hopes of cycling across the Salar de Uyuni were shattered by the first winter storms. For three days and three nights, Biblical rain seemed to punish me for all my sins and wrongdoings. Instead of repenting, I watched the world's largest salt flat fill up like a swimming pool. The next day, I dipped a toe in the waters to see if I could still perhaps tread my way across.

When filled with water, the Salar de Uyuni is like a vast mirror due to its immense reflective capacity. The ground and sky seam perfectly at the horizon and the still water blurs reality. Like Jesus, I walked across the shallow water, spun around in circles and drove myself dizzy, but I still found it difficult to drag my bicycle into the salty waters.

The salt is extremely corrosive, and thus wreaks havoc to any steel machine, so I gracefully decided to return to tierra firma with Bucephalus and promised the Salar that I would be back at another time when it was dry and I could cycle across to the other side. For now, I was still stuck with the terrible dirt roads!

Three days of difficult riding against headwinds across the Sur Lipez Desert confronted me with the Chilean border. For three days, the wind howled so fiercely that it fixed a permanent soundtrack in my head, much like the plaguing rhythm of electronic music days after a festival.

When I reached the border post, my physical state was reduced to a delusion... a body so broken down by the elements that when I sheltered myself from the wind behind the wall of the customs building, it felt like a 5 star luxury. Every inch of skin and every piece of gear I had was coated with a film of dust.

Perhaps my ghostly appearance scared the Bolivian immigrations officer at the exit post, but he didn't even budge as I crawled in the wind without paying him a visit in his sheltered trailer park office. My illegal entry in the country came to a glorious full circle when I was welcomed into Chile by the friendliest immigrations officer who not only gave me an official stamp into his country, but also filled my water bottles with clean, dustless water and my stomach with a filling meal.

Chile was a welcome respite from Bolivia. Even though I still had over 200 km to go across the Atacama Desert, my spirits were lifted high enough to soar across the remaining distance.

Physical hardship and Herculian feats of endurance are not the reason why I cycle. While some people thrive on dirt roads and are attracted by difficult passages, I find that I am happiest when interacting with the people who live in the places I am traveling across. For me, the human and cultural experience, in the end, is richer than the accomplishment of extreme physical feats. Aside from the desolateness of the Altiplano, the few people I encountered in Southern Bolivia seemed very reserved and fearful of strangers, unwilling to let me into their everyday lives.

As I write this, I am glad that the difficult roads of Southern Bolivia are now behind me.

But then again, in retrospect, a small part of me winks and wants to go at it again. Can the road ahead promise anything remotely similar?

There's only one way to find out.

---

Acknowledgments:

- Ricardo: thanks for your smiles and warm thoughts on the Copacabana hostel roof!
- John and Michelle: for the good vibes and conversations shared on the boat ride from Isla del Sol.
- Juliet and Sabine: thanks for the good company at Ariel's 'castle!'
- Ariel Conitzer: thanks for letting us crash in your wonderful 'castle' in the middle of La Paz.
- Natalie Stameroff: thanks for sharing all those moments on the road, and for your continuing friendship.
- Ricardo Velez: for sharing your enthusiasm and for the epic journey you're embarking on!
- Simon and Elias: thanks for the info on the route ahead between Uyuni and Ollague.
- Jean-Noel, Stephanie, and the Renard family: our roadside encounter before Oruro definitely ranks as the highlight of that day in the altiplano.
- Ricardo Rafael Hidalgo: for your well wishes and for convincing me that there are wonderful people in Bolivia.
- Franz Yucra: for the unexpected encounter in the middle of the Altiplano and the invitation for lunch!
- Sol Montechiari and Cintia Cerella: thanks for the unforgettable dinner and conversations in Uyuni, and most of all, for lightening up my spirits with your bottomless smiles!

Volcan Tupungato - 6,550 mtrs / 21,490 ft

2009-02-03T16:57:00.000-07:00

Volcan Tupungato, in all her glory

---

Wind. The mention of it drums up respect in nearly all outdoor pursuits. Sailers love it or fear it. Ordinarily easy going cyclists can become masterful at swearing in any language or gleefully happy depending on the direction of the wind. And mountaineers are often denied lofty summits due to this invisible enemy.

Cycling across the Sur Lipez in Southern Bolivia, I rose before dawn and pushed my wheels into revolutions to take advantage of the calm winds. After mid-day or so, someone would turn the great fan on, and cycling would become nearly impossible, even along the relatively flat altiplano. And yes, it was ALWAYS a headwind.

After crossing the vast Atacama Desert into Chile, a place which seemingly had everything – healthy food, heavenly wine, divine women, smooth roads – the wind seemed to smile, as if to say, “I'm still here.”

--

Friends. The reason why life is a precious gift worth sharing, and the best sources of inspiration. Arriving in Calama, I had a wonderful email awaiting me in my inbox. It was David Harden, a friend from the wonderful climbing community in the Sierra Nevada and Yosemite in California. His friend Sharkey and him were in Santiago de Chile, ready to embark on an expedition to climb Volcan Tupungato (6,570 mtrs).

Ready for a break from the bike, I left Bucephalus in the safe company of the family I was staying with in Calama, and made record speed over to catch up with David and Sharkey in Santiago. The next day, we were loaded with giant packs, food, and fuel enough for two weeks in the mountains.

Unfortunately, due to a family emergency, David had to return to California, so Sharkey and I continued along with the climb.

Mounting mules for the first day of the trip to surmout the formidable Azufre River, we made it across the river safely and thus commenced the slow climb from 5,000 ft to our base camp at 10,400 ft.

Unlike Aconcagua, just a few kilometers further along the Cordillera, Tupungato is an absolutely pristine mountain environment devoid of ambitious mountaineers and trash. The wildness is unforgettable, and throughout our nearly two weeks on the mountain, we only met two other parties, both of whom were on the descent.

Unfortunately, after reaching our high camp at 15,700 ft, the wind plagued us and made progress difficult to impossible.

During an acclimatization run, I made my way up to 20,000 ft only to find that the snow conditions were far more severe than we had expected. Lacking proper equipment for the high mountain (we prepared for a trek, nothing technical), and considering the high winds scraping across the upper mountain, we decided to retreat and come back to the mountain for another day.

Thankfully, chances are, the mountain will still be there the next time I return to climb it.

As for me... considering the passage of time, and especially, the passage of our human forms over that period of time, it is unlikely that the next time I return, I will be the same person I was that day.

----

Below are some photos from the climb:

Don Hertil, our eccentric mule driver's choice of dinner was a slab of steak over a roasted fire. Keep it simple.

A rare moment to witness your hero himself on horseback.

Sharkey and his animal negotiating the wild Rio Azufre.

The wild, improvised "trails" along the approach were often frightening.

The Tupungato massif finally comes into view.

Crossing paths with a team from Mendoza, Argentina at 16,700 ft. Note the sandals, my choice of footwear up to the high camp.

Cerro del Plomo shines between a field of penitentes.

High on the crest of the Continental Divide, I take my first steps into Argentina. Someone must have dragged this giant border control marker all the way up here!

Morning sunshine at the high camp.

---

Stage 9 - Southern Perú

2009-01-23T14:12:00.016-07:00

California to Patagonia: A Cycling Expedition
Trip Report

Stage 9 - Southern Perú

12 November - 16 December, 2008

* Photographs from this stage of the journey can be found here.

* Route maps of the journey can be found here.

Total distance cycled: 15,571 km
Total distance in S. Peru: 1,721 km
Days on the road: 420
Maximum speed: 79 km/h (downhill out of Loja to Catamayo, Ecuador)
Maximum altitude: 6,310 mtrs (20,561 ft) - Mt. Chimborazo, Ecuador

Highest altitude cycled to date: 5,021 mtrs
Flat tires to date: 30

Total money spent in Southern Peru: $310.86
Average daily expenses: $9.42 in S. Peru ($12.38 trip total)

***

Huaraz. 8am. Time to say goodbye to the wonderful community of friends I spent the past few weeks with. An unimpressive town tucked neatly in between the spectacular grandeur of the Cordillera Blanca, I was finally ready to set out and ride the challenging 1600 km to Cusco, the ancient Inca capital.

A few hours away from the city, I steered towards the crest of the Cordillera Blanca on a dirt path that would take me all the way to a mind-numbing 4800 meters. The only people I saw over the next 3 days were alpaqueros herding their stock of alpacas high up into the mountains.

Don Alfredo, an aging and toothless alpaquero offered me to take dibs into his stash of coca leaves when I paused next to him to gaze out across the magnificent scenery. Before I could gobble up this mild narcotic, he stopped me and nodded disapprovingly.

Demonstrating an ancient rite called kintu, he held three leaves pressed between the fingers of both hands and blew gently upon them. "Apu Pastoruri," he murmured in Quechua, calling the spirit of the largest mountain. A silent, reflective moment later, he stuffed the leaves in his mouth and started chewing.

Most of Peru's indigenous people both chew the coca leaf and brew it as a tea, just as they have done for at least 3,500 years. In its raw form, the coca leaf contains less than half of one percent of the alkaloid cocaine. "You've got to try it when you go to Peru," my archeology professor at UCLA once advised a room full of earnest undergraduates. "But don't go telling your parents that I told you to try cocaine. Thats nonsense."

Such it was, mildly inebriated, after parting ways with Don Alfredo, I continued pedaling up the high pass, content that no traffic graced these dirt tracks. Next, I crested a 4,800 meter pass (an altitude more than 600 feet higher than the summit of Mt. Whitney, ahem), faced a brutally cold and relentless snowstorm for 14 hours at camp, cruised a wild descent to where it was too hot, got chased by rapid dogs, and hiked around the Inca ruins of Huanuco Pampa for free after bribing the security guard with coca leaves. Just another day in the Peruvian Andes!

In the small mountain town of La Union, a visit to the local discoteca familiarized me with the other Peruvian vice: alcohol. The strong stuff, aguardiente, knocked me out and I was nearly chased out of the bar for the soft words whispered to the lady at the end of the bar.

After two more days of miserable cycling up and down a road that was so sandy and dusty that every plant on the surrounding hillside was covered with a film of grime, I arrived in Huanuco and promptly made friends with the local firemen. Seth and Kirsten, my riding buddies from Northern Peru also happened to be in town, so we parted together the next day to share the next stretch of road together.

Riding with Seth and Kirsten's company made the 7000 foot climb to Cerro del Pasco go by much quicker as their good humor and stories never failed to entertain.

The Central Peruvian highlands was also the place where all of us experienced an abundance of hospitality. Unlike elsewhere in Peru, we were gifted loads of food, giant cakes, toiletries, and lots of bread - gifts galore!

Riding onwards, we eventually split up and I continued alone towards Huancavelica, after which the road degraded to dirt once again and climbed to the skies. For the next 180 km, the road never once dipped below 4,000 meters and topped out at 5,029 meters, supposedly the highest drivable pass in the world.

My friend Natalie had already arrived in Cusco by then, so for the first time in my trip I felt rushed and was far behind a 'schedule.' After arriving in Ayacucho, a beautiful colonial town and birthplace of the Shining Path maoists that plagued Peru throughout the 80's, I decided to catch a bus to hitch the short, but gruellingly difficult stretch of road to Abancay in order to reach Cusco in time.

Still delirious from the bowel busting nightmare that was a Peruvian bus ride, I continued cycling for three more days up and down giant passes and steep gorges, across the infamous Rio Apurimac, where many a bridge was razed and burned by retreating Inca and Spanish troops during the Conquest. Finally, panting like a dog chasing buried treasure, I rolled into the ancient Inca capital of Cusco.

The reunion with Natalie was a wonderful experience and after exchanging warm hugs, she quickly discovered my bottomless appetite and love for greasy street food. Over the next week, we explored the city together and celebrated my 1 year anniversary into the trip with a Gato Negro, the cheapest wine available, and an awe-inspiring tour of Macchu Pichu.

Wildly overpriced and over-run with tourists, Macchu Pichu still did not fail to impress. Set upon a sheer mountaintop with the picturesque Huayna Pichu rising behind the ruins, it was among the dozens of Inca ruins along the Urubamba valley, and one of the few not discovered by the Spaniards.

Leaving Cusco, Natalie and I cycled across one last high pass and gained access to the Peruvian altiplano, a place where fierce winds, big silence, and vast horizons dominated.

Although our first view of Lake Titicaca, the massive highland lake that borders Peru and Bolivia, was across the bleak cityscape of Puno, our last few days in Peru cycling along the shores of the lake revealed its beautiful aqua-blue waters and supreme light. Arriving in Puno, exhausted, we smelled our way to the finest pizzerias in town (as advised by my friend fellow cycling friend, Eric who sampled just about every one of the dozens in town - thanks!), and finding a home in one particular Macchu Pizza, we put them out of business two nights in a row.

But Macchu Pizza was far from our normal diet. Food in Peru leaves much to be desired; greasy food like fries and burgers dominate the budget street scene, and the 'tipico' is usually a slice of chicken or meat with a heaping load of white rice.

Fighting stomach problems and the physical stress of the first days cycling with a fully loaded bike, Natalie was having a difficult time adjusting to the food, and perhaps, the altitude. We both hit rock bottom in the town of Sicuani, where after a prodigious heap of french fries and a fried egg, bathed in a small lake of oil tried to make entry to our mouths. It ordinarily breaks my heart to see food go to waste, but this one was nearly inedible! We were ready for a change (we could believe in).

With her characteristic strength and resolve, Natalie managed to ride through the entire distance with fortitude, and I was glad to have a cycling companion to share in the awe of experiences all along the way.

Needless to say, our stoves and culinary skills saw much more use and we made better friends with iodine tablets as we ventured our way closer to the Bolivian border.

Nearing the border, our anxiety levels rose, particularly because of the complicated bureocracy involved for American travelers; I, for holding a US passport since my immigration from Nepal, and for Natalie. Since Evo Morales took office in Bolivia, he made the entry requirements for Americans the same as those Bolivians would face to enter the US.

Fair enough, but that meant a whopping $135 fee per person. In the end, I decided to force an illegal entry into the country - an adventure within itself - and also justified the venture in my code of ethics because I saw the fee as a sign of petty politics between countries engaging in a childish war of words. If you're interested in my experience of the illegal border crossing, feel free to check out this post.

Having anticipated my journey through the length of Peru since the beginning of this trip, I looked back with mixed feelings on it. While I was greatly impressed and inspired with each turn at the stunning natural beauty, the cultural history of the Incas and the world-changing events of the Spanish Conquest, I found it a challenge to deal with the lack of good food and the startling effects of globalization. Used toilet paper and soda bottles littered the roads, sometimes even along remote mountains passes, children and villagers were hostile and demanding in their 'requests' for money, and the biting poverty made me delve deeper into questioning the discourses of modernization and the efficacy of the numerous 'aid-programs' working in Peru.

The people I did manage to make close contact with, however, left a deep impression of humility, wisdom, kindness, and hospitality. By the time I reached Cuzco, I had learned a sufficient amount of Quechua to carry basic conversations. Even though my photos from this section of the trip glorify the natural and archaeological wonders of Peru, the interactions I made with my new friends along the road helped enrich my Peruvian odyssey and made it far more rewarding than Macchu Pichu or the Cordillera Blanca ever could.

***

Acknowledgments

- Gilberto: for your good company and the lively conversations shared at the vast ruins of Huanuco Pampa.
- Alex Verde Acosta and Fredy Vicente: for sharing your hospitality at the Bomberos station in Huanuco.
- Markus Greter: thanks for the great info on the route ahead and for the exciting roadside meeting of cyclists!
- Seth and Kirsten Gates: for your amazing company throughout the Peruvian highlands and for all the good vibes shared!
- Senora Marleny and the whole village of Huariaca: for all the generous gifting and making a stinky group of cyclists feel very welcome in your village!
- Denise: the bread halfway up the hill to Cerro de Pasco was just what we needed to fuel the climb.
- Escuela 30 de Agosto: for your good humored cheerfulness and helping me celebrate 13,000 kilometers on the road!
- Cesar: for the giant coca cola and giant cake gifted in Cerro de Pasco.
- Kenya: for the gift of a seductive conversation and helping me hone my flirting skills in Quechua further.

- Señor Gomez: for your kind hospitality in letting me spend the night at the police station in La Oroya.

- Michel Sakamoto Santana: for helping lead me into the chaotic Huancayo, and for helping me to get Bucephalus cleaned and outfitted with new pedals!

- Max: for letting me use the services at the bike shop, and for all the positive vibrations!

- Miguel Torres: thanks for your wonderful hospitality in Huancayo and for all the amazing stories and 'dichos' shared!

- Lucila Mendez Ramez: thanks for all the Quechua lessons and for your angelic patience in helping me learn so many Quechua sayings and adages.

- Domingo William Anccasi: for helping me understand Andean geology in depth high up in the Central Cordillera.

- Don Delfin: thanks for filling up my water bottles with your sweet maté.

- Santiago Lema: for the travel stories and the good company on the long and lonely stretch of road between Lachoc and Rumichaca.

- Gilbert: thanks for helping me learn more about village life in the highlands and for all the stories shared late into the night and for all the cups of maté as we huddled around the fire next to Lago Choclococha on the highest road in the world.

- Ingrid, Nelly, and Nancy: you are the best bomberos in the world! Thanks for your good vibes in Ayacucho and for showing me the strength and independence of Peruvian women.

- Jens: for your good company and all the jokes shared on our hike up Huayna Picchu.

- Richard: for the hot tip on cheap lodging in the tourist infested Aguas Calientes.

- Enrique: for the memorable hitch and the good advice along the traintracks on our illicit 'Inca Trail' hike.

- Rolfi: for helping straighten my bent derailleur and for maintaining an excellent bike shop in Cusco!

- Sr. Quispe: for enthusiastically sharing all those stories with me in Sicuani, even though I was too tired and too hungry to sustain the conversation longer!

- Ted Van Eijk: you are an inspiration, and your hilarious stories and illuminated gestures will forever be remembered! Best on the rest of your trip!

- Macchu Pizza: I have never thanked a whole restaurant, but the pizzas were seriously divine and a welcome change to the usual Peruvian fare!

- Juan and Julio: for the exhilirating high altitude bike race near Pomata and for keeping up with my slow pace the remainder of the way for a chat!

- Edy, Veronica, and Maribel: thank you for your hospitality and kindness during our last night in Perú.

- Natalie: thank you for your company, for doing your best to overcome all the challenges, and for getting through the miles through thick and thin. You've seen me as I am, through the weak moments and the delirious highs, and I'm glad our time together has helped us both reach our goals. Until the next chapter...

The Other Side: Drawing the Line at International Border Crossings

2009-01-23T13:26:00.010-07:00

The US-Mexico border separates Tijuana (right) from San Diego (left). The prominent building on the left is a state of the art sewage treatment plant.

A journey into outer space to look back at the earth would paint the world much more differently than most world maps depict. The most obvious features – oceans, mighty mountain ranges, and islands – would still be easy to make out, but political boundaries and borders between nation-states would be as invisible as obscure constellations that require intense squinting or a wild imagination to see.

Human societies enjoy creating frontiers. Boundaries. Limits. Borders. In today's world, national identity seems to be such an important aspect of social identity. It is almost as if – after reaching the limits of San Diego and looking out across Tijuana, the world whispers: “this is where we end, and you begin.” Very few of us, however, ever delve into the metaphysical, and ask what makes up the limits of “you” and “I” anyway.

For travelers and adventurers, the border is one of those pauses in the railway of life where official looking people make us take a deep nervous gulp, finger our passports lovingly, and force a mental checklist of what contraband and illegal substances we may have accidentally forgotten in our packs.

Having successfully leap-frogged over 13 border stations with my bicycle along the length of the Americas over the past year and a half, by the time I arrived at the shores of Lake Titicaca at the Peru-Bolivia frontier, I had a feeling I knew a thing or two about border crossings. My passport had the scars and stamps to prove it, and the stickers on my bicycle frame nodded in agreement. This border crossing, however, was going to be completely different than the rest – I was soon going to be an illegal immigrant for the first time in my life...

Sometimes, countries try to pretend that nature herself winks and provides clever clues as to how people are supposed to belong to one side or the other. A mighty river spanned by a lonely bridge might divide two nations, or a windswept pass along the crest of a serrated mountain range might offer a similar delineation. Along the clear blue waters of Lake Titicaca, however, it was just a crumbled gate set amidst earthy-brown potato fields with a flag hoisted on each side that marked where Peru was supposed to stop caring.

Most countries on my Panamerican cycling journey have been free, or close to free. Mexico apportioned a reasonable $20 charge, and all the tiny countries with big histories in Central America such as El Salvador and Nicaragua made sure to take a stab at Western wealth by administering not just small entry fees, but also small exit fees.

After Evo Morales took office in Bolivia, one of his first Presidential acts was to impose a $135 fee to visitors from the US. Add to this a whole plethora of documents like yellow fever vaccinations, an invitation from a contact or institution in Bolivia, among others, and things get a bit complicated. However, this is still within the realm of good reason, because Evo simply made the requirements for Americans to enter Bolivia identical to the requirements a Bolivian would face entering the US.

I had all of the required documents ready, my pockets bulging with $135, far more cash than I usually carry, when I arrived at the border. My attempt to get a visa just a few days ago and save trouble in the nearby departmental capital of Puno was thwarted by the childish absurdity of Bolivian bureaucracy.

“Sorry Mr. Dhungana,” the Bolivian consulate said in Spanish with so much authority that half of his job description might have involved similar introductions, “but we don't have any more visas left to give out. No one knows why, but we don't have any more visa stickers.... You'll have to go to the border post itself.

”Very well. Advanced preparation be damned, even the best flutists in the Andes knew that there is no equivalent to improvisation.

I was reminded of the time when I was asked for three separate fees by three separate uniformed men at the Honduras – Nicaragua border and the improvisation that took place there. After the second fee, I began my instrumental cue to solo into full gear and sang, “Ciao senor, muchas gracias,” smiled wildly, and sped off. That seemed to work then.

But border crossings always have such an air of seriousness. Darkness racing, my friend Natalie and I arrived at the border station late in the day, tired and exhausted from a long day cycling. Sure enough, the border was closed. We'd have to wait until the next day.

The Peruvian side of the border was devoid of any hotels, and since potato farmers had staked out every bit of real estate, guerrilla camping was next to impossible. To our aid, a police officer and his wife invited us in for a cup of coffee, which turned into conversations, and then into an offer to stay the night.

It dawned on me then that unlike nearly EVERY border in Latin America, this one was unusually laid back. No hawking money-changers, no seedy slums, no heavy traffic backed up; only farmers and their fields alongside herders and their llamas.

Edy, my police officer host, machine-gunned me all night with questions about long-distance cycling, about Colombian women, and about Nepal. His wife next to him and Natalie next to me had drifted off into slumber, but we carried on. After I felt I had sufficiently gained his rapport, I inquired about the border crossing.

“Tranquilo,” he answered. “Its very laid-back here, unlike at Desaguadero (the principle Panamerican border post further south). Actually, the villagers here just walk back and forth all the time following their sheep and llamas.”

Bolivians had no pressing urgency to smuggle drugs to Peru, goods were equally cheap on both sides, and the border police's highest air of authority was to hawk suspiciously over gringo

passports and recklessly stamp half-inked, illegible marks into those clean documents tourists take such meticulous care of.

On a whim, the next morning, I decided to take up Edy's knowledge of the local terrain and hauled my fully loaded touring bicycle along a faint trail next to the lake. “Follow this road all the way along the coastline and you'll get to Kasani, a small farming village on the Bolivian side,” Edy advised me, even though he cautioned me that it was probably still safer to “just do it legally.”

Adrenaline coursing, and the thought of saving $135 (more than 2 weeks of travel with my luxury budgeting!) fueled me to walk on the edge and actually cross over the line this time. I bid farewell to Natalie after making plans of meeting up again in an hour on the other side, lest I make it across safely.

The narrow village trail soon degraded into a muddy path. Dismounting my bike, I pushed Bucephalus across freshly seeded potato fields and a cheerful “Imayna Katchkanki” (good morning) seemed to do the trick to get the villagers smiling again after seeing a strange looking fellow making an apparent illegal entry into the country.

The trail led to the end of one of the farms. Sure enough, if there's something there is that doesn't love a wall, that would be me. Laboring a heavy bike across the wall was no easy task, but I made it through, even with the intent gaze of the farmer nearby. “Good fences make good neighbors,” I hope thats what his mumbled, unintelligible rambling meant, because I just smiled and carried on.

Neighbors are not supposed to covet their neighbor's wife, but yet the grass always seems greener on the other side. And although both cross political borders, history rewards victorious conquerers, but forgets smugglers and illegal immigrants alike.

Of course, some neighbors are nosier than others – and also, more “dangerous.” Just like Ned Flanders pokes his head across Homer Simpson's fence much more frequently than the other way round, some neighbors need to be kept away by all means while other neighbors can come and go as they please. After the September 11 attacks, the United States drastically reinforced security measures, adding soldiers and high-tech infrared devices along entire length of the US – Mexico border, but made absolutely no mention of the Canada – US border.

Fortunately for me, the Bolivian border control was even more relaxed than the straight lines that make the difference between Canadian “eh's” and American “huh's.” Huffing up the last section of the steep trail, I connected with the highway again on the other side and the vehicles with Bolivian plates assured me that I hadn't accidentally ended up in a prison.

While the US-Mexico border sees nearly half a million illegal entries each year, I might likely have been the only person to have crossed illegally in recent memory. The poorest nation in South America, Bolivia isn't a hotspot for immigration activity, and as is the case with many developing nations, drugs are usually trying to leave a country to richer markets, not the other way around.

Throughout the four weeks I spent crossing the length of Bolivia with my bicycle, I was only stopped once by a police checkpoint to inspect documents. Although I am certain that my dashing charm had nothing to with it, the officer seemed to forget why he originally stopped Natalie and I after I rattled off a series of questions about the weather and the road ahead.

If the Titicaca border crossing was as easy to get across, a quick survey of the map told me that my best bet to made a clandestine exit would be at the far southern end of the country, right in the middle of the Atacama Desert. Sure enough, the exit border post at Ollague was nothing more than a lonely trailer with a gate next to it. The man inside the trailer responsible for walling people in or out didn't care much to come after me when I simply cycled around the gate. Perhaps it was the intense heat, or perhaps it was the gale force winds that made my nervous passage around his gate a turtle crawl, but he seemed to be more interested in the comfort of his trailer than in an illegal immigrant.

Like the devil in the deep blue sea, we often fear what we don't understand. In a world where 'where are you from?' seems to be a more important question than 'what the hell are we doing here?' border crossings are just another one of the boundaries that define social identities.

While I do not recommend anyone else to think that illegal immigration is a romantic act of heroism or that such frontiers mean nothing in an ideal world. Far from it, thousands of people often flee their countries to seek refuge, work, or freedom in other countries illegally. The reality that paints their existence is often grim and silenced in the passing wheel of history.

Riding through the Atacama Desert in Chile, safely on the other side, I let my hair loose and faced the roaring wind with renewed strength.

I imagined what the world would be like if everyone felt the sense of peace and contentment I felt with only the endless horizon ahead of me.

I imagined a world where adventurers and seekers of truth could pass freely between places, planting seeds of understanding and harvesting the fruit of other's seeds along the way.

I imagined Bolivians traveling to the US in numbers to meditate in the grandness of Yosemite or the Grand Canyon, just as Americans traveled to Bolivia to breathe long sighs on the Salar de Uyuni.

***

Scenes from the Highest Road in the World

2008-12-12T11:23:00.005-07:00

The section of road from Huancavelica to Ayacucho in the Peruvian Andes is considered to be the longest stretch of road in the world continuously above 4,000 meters. For more than 110 km, the road does not dip below 4,000 meters, and along the way it crests several high passes, including the highest drivable pass in the world at 5,029 meters ( ft). All of it, of course, is on the sweet grinding joy of dirt roads.

Between wind and snow, biting cold and chewing coca, thin air and thinner apprehensions, I pedaled away with a smile each day, meeting more llamas and alpacas than people, camping high each day, and speaking more Quechua than Spanish to the few alpaqueros I had the fortune of coming across.

Roads in the Peruvian highlands are forever ascending or descending.

An alpaca gazes out at the beauty of Lago Choclococha

Morning greetings after a snowy night at 14,200 feet.

One of the many strikingly beautiful alpine tarns along the highest road.

Alpacas, alpacas are everywhere!

The summit of Abra Huayrajasa (5,029 meters), the highest drivable pass in the world with a storm chasing behind.

When I finally descended back down to the realm of men and women, I decided to camp amidst a stand of beautiful Eucalyptus trees.

The Royal Inca Highway – El Camino de Inca

2008-12-07T19:57:00.004-07:00

Stretching across a network of over 25,000 miles, the Royal Inca Highway was a system of roads reaching across the Andes from the southern border of present day Colombia all the way south as far past as Santiago, Chile.

The roads were used as an artery of communications and transport, and were vital to the administration of the vast Inca empire. Since the Incas did not have wheeled vehicles or mountable horses (such as horses and donkeys), they utilized 'chasquis,' or long-distance runners who ran at full pace across the length of a horizon (anywhere from 10 to 35 km).

Chasquis stopped at various 'tambos,' or waystations, sprinkled along the route as hotels, relay stations, and supply depots.

The Inca nobility in Cusco could thus enjoy fresh fish from the coast, hundreds of miles away and listen to the daily news from across the empire in luxury thanks to the Chasqui runners and the intricate system of Inca highways.

My route along the highlands of Peru has for the most part followed the Royal Inca Highway all the way to the ancient Inca capital of Cusco, where I'm writing from. Hundreds of ancient ruins, remains of Inca walls and roads still dot the countryside. Although the Inca empire has long fallen, judging by the vibrant prevalence of the local Quechua language, and the perpetually rosy cheeked children who smile shyly as I pedal by, it seems to me that their legacy has left a mark that is unlikely to disappear as time draws forward.

Stage 8 - Northern Perú

2008-11-21T07:10:00.014-07:00

California to Patagonia: A Cycling Expedition
Trip Report

Stage 8 - Northern Perú

19 September - 12 November, 2008

* Photographs from this stage of the journey can be found here.

* Route maps of the journey can be found here.

Total distance cycled: 13,408 km
Total distance in N. Peru: 1,086 km
Days on the road: 357
Maximum speed: 79 km/h (downhill out of Loja to Catamayo)
Maximum altitude: 6,310 mtrs (20,561 ft) - Mt. Chimborazo, Ecuador
Flat tires to date: 28

-------

The desert is a siren that unleashes its weapons of desire from a distance. It seduces and lures one in and before you know it, the succubus of sand and sun has drawn blood and grasps your body aloft in perfect solitude, with no one else around to share in the ecstacy.

Exiting the Andes in Ecuador, I admit that I longed for the dry deadscapes of the deserts in Northern Perú. Having practiced abstinence from intense heat and lowlands for so long in the Andes, I thought that the desert would be a welcome change. That change came immediately in the form of a headache. Not for me, but for Señor David, my Seattlelite riding partner through most of Southern Ecuador. Our early morning departure from the border post to beat the heat, became for him, a rest day.

Like a restless schoolboy, I stubbornly insisted, and rode off alone to tickle the traces of sand on the other side of the river that separates Perú from Ecuador. And like a schoolboy, it didn´t take long for me to start peeling off clothing and drafting what little water I had vigorously. The mountain canyons opened up to Egyptian sand dunes and when the silence wasn´t disturbed by the occasional mototaxi, it was feathered along by desert lizards.
After nearly 9,000 km of riding, one of my tires finally developed an irrepairable gash and as I proudly dismounted my spare tire from my trailer, I realized that life in the back of the trailer had substantially deformed the tire, making it useless! Northern Perú, thus, was once again the bane of flat tires for me, much like the deserts of Baja California. Mounting a fresh $5 tire from the local market, I pushed on towards Piura, the last bustling city before the Sechura desert consumed everything in sight.

It wasn't just the desert, however, that seemed to be in full force that day. Señor David, had apparently recovered from his rest day and in a feat of superhuman prowess, had caught up with me in Piura after having navigated a wild stretch of desert roads. I was humbled, but we both knew that the next few days would prove to be the most challenging.

Bikes loaded with full reserves of water, we exited Piura before the sun had a chance to wake the roosters up. With each pedal stroke, the landscape started devouring everything in sight. First, the small mud huts along the side of the road disappeared... then the brush and scrub eeking out an existence, until finally, fully engrossed in the ecstasy of the desert, Dave and I found ourselves staring at horizons in each direction with nothing more than the thin black pavement cutting across sand.

Where we found a patch of shrub and brush, we made camp, and roared up a campfire that sang blues licks and screamed amber sparks against the dead stillness of the night.

Eventually, we arrived in Lambayeque and the cultural history of the region began to present itself. The whole coastal desert is structured such that human settlements lie along - and ONLY along - the paths of the river valleys that flow down from the Andes. Everything else is painted in an infinite shade of sand. Rain hardly meets the ground, and the intense aridity and dryness of the desert preserve artifacts far beyond their expiry date. This makes conditions in the Sechura almost identical to Egyptian ruins along the Nile River Valley.

I recall a time when I was listening to these descriptions of the North Coast of Perú in Professor Donnan´s archaeology class at UCLA and being fascinated with the incredibly vivid details of the archaeological remains. Where archaeologists elsewhere in the world get excited about pot sherds and coprolite (a fancy word for human faeces), here in the Sechura, researchers commonly dig up mummified tombs where individuals still have their hair and skin clinging to the fabric they were interred in.

'There is probably more wealth under the ground than there is above,' Enrique, a restaurant owner chimed as David and I were making the best of an unapetizing lunch. An unofficial 'huaquero,' he had done his fair share of tomb-raiding in the past, but had now given all that up. From June through August, when the archaeologists of the world descend upon the desert, locals like Enrique seek out work with them to do things 'legally,' because it should be obvious that looting tombs is highly illegal. Still, before we made motion to leave, Enrique made it a point to demonstrate an 800 year old perfectly crafted Moche ceramic vessel with a detail so intricate, it would make Michelangelo seem like a clumsy drunkard.

'Huacas,' or sacred locations (such as tombs, pyramids, immense rocks, etc.) are sprinkled endlessly across the rivers valleys cutting across the Sechura. The majority are remnants of pre-Inca civilizations such as the Moche and the Chimu. I'd like to think that one evening's sublime campsite in a row of ancient crumbling walls must have been the site of some ancient Moche family, also cooking dinner in the fading evening light sharing far flung stories.

The coastal ride was also characterized by a prodigious amount of wind - more specifically, headwind, the cyclist's worst enemy. I decided to part ways with the coast a while and made a several day detour to visit the pleasant colonial town of Cajamarca, where the fall of the Inca empire began more than 700 years ago when Francisco Pizarro and his ragtag group of adventurers-cum-conquistadors arrived at the town square.

My head still spinning in history and conquest, I rejoined the Panamerican Highway along the coast to make my visit to Trujillo. Armed with a piece of paper scribbled with directions to 'la casa de ciclistas,' I navigated the colorful streets until I met up with the famous Don Lucho Ramirez himself. Lucho is a something of a legend among expedition cyclists around the world. Since he started opening up his home to wandering travelers over 25 years ago, Lucho - at no cost at all - has fed, housed, healed, and inspired more than 1,000 cyclists and is a living example of pure altruism.

As entry #1036 in his stack of traveler logbooks, fondly christened 'libros de oro,' I was deeply humbled and felt the flames of wanderlust spark up with every anecdote, smiling picture, and message of love in the books.

Days hanging out at the Casa are still a blissful memory of friendships kindled with other travelers, all night jam-sessions, and endless tea, beer, stories, hugs, ceviches, and all around good-will.

The mind, however, is often seduced by such demons as dreams, hopes, and curiosity, so after nearly three weeks of recuperating at the Casa de Ciclistas and blessing Bucephalus with a fresh drivetrain, I pedalled off southwards into the unknown with a new riding partner, Seth, an arborist and do-everything Renaissance Man from Colorado. David, my friend and cycling companion, unfortunately, was seduced by other demons, this one taking the form of a Peruana love-interest, and so I bid him farewell with earnest hopes of meeting up further along the road.

The ride out of Trujillo immediately turned inland, and the coastal desert soon started nudging us along towards the serrated arms of the mighty Andes. Officially mountainbound, I knew I would not see the Pacific for several months and that the road ahead to Cuzco would be a long and difficult one, littered with dirt roads, vicious dogs, Quechua greetings, and breathtaking heights.

Following the Rio Santa all the way to its headwaters, the road to Huaraz and the Cordillera Blanca was an amazing spectacle. As the canyon walls closed up around us, the dirt road often resembled nothing more than a donkey trail, and as donkeys have not a care in the world for pavement, the whacked up engineers who built the road must have also been masochists in making a road that tested the souls of men with surfaces that seemed to be made up of rocks the sizes of fists and footballs.

Along the way, we passed through the Cañon del Pato, a set of impressive tunnels carved straight into the vertiginous rock cliffs to allow for access into the mountains. At some points, the canyon walls are so sheer and so steep that only a trickle of light filters down from a heavenly sky above, casting a thin flame on the walls that challenges the rushing water hundreds of feet below as to which one of the two is more spectacular.

After exiting the last of the tunnels, my rear-end was once again blessed with the smooth buzz of asphalt and pavement. Villages started appearing along the side of the road, and the canyon walls opened up to an immense and fertile valley. Upon reaching Huaraz, I simply checked into the cheapest hostel I could find, laid Bucephalus to recover, and set about practicing other motions than the circular strokes of pushing pedals.

My good friend from college, Pam came to visit me for a few days and we had a wonderful time wandering around local villages, engaging in local folk dances, and reliving old days. I also managed to trek countless miles into the spectacular Cordillera Blanca. Most importantly, I had chosen this beautiful mountainscape to call home for a while as I worked on graduate school applications hesitantly.

After almost three weeks of staring at snow-capped peaks and flocks of sheep and alpacas, I finally felt ready to tackle the next section of the journey.

The final 1500 kilometers to Cuzco - which will be covered in the next section - promises to be the most difficult section of the whole route. Following the Royal Inca Highway, the collage of dirt ahead involves crossing multiple 4,000 meter passes, with sharp river valleys between each one ensuring that one drops all the way to the bottom before climbing up again.

Fortunately, the sirens of the desert long behind me, a different song lures me towards the Inca Capital of Cuzco. My friend Natalie will be waiting for me in Cuzco, armed with bicycle and coca-leaves, and we plan on riding across the Bolivian Altiplano and Lake Titicaca to the Bolivian capital of La Paz.

Shall we meet there next?

-------

Acknowledgments

* Señora Elisa - for being an angel in the middle of the Sechura desert and gifting road hungry cyclists with fresh juice and sandwiches.
* Julio - thanks for letting us camp at San Jose de Moro and for your endless stories and good will.
* Javier - my time at Chiclayo could not have been more pleasant. Thanks for your hospitality and kindness!
* Felix and the rest of the firemen crew in Cajamarca - for all the good times had in the fire station and for your infinite kindness.
* Beto Carabanal - thanks for living the Couchsurfing philosophy to the max!
* Brent, Soren, and Sven - thanks for your friendship, and all the beers and gato negros shared in Trujillo and Huaraz! Above all, thanks for your inspiration for me to take up drawing and sketching!
* Lucho Ramirez - your hospitality is beyond leagues. Thanks for your warmth and making me feel like family at the casa.
* Araceli, Angela, and Lance - thanks for the cakes, the birthday celebrations, and all of the good times at the casa de ciclistas.
* Pam Tuttle - for bringing back a rush of good memories and for being the amazing inspiration you are by pursuing your passions!
* Berndt - the concept of breakfasts and burgers have forever been altered in my scale - thanks for your kindness at Cafe Aleman!
* Francizka - for the warm hugs and birthday greetings in Huaraz! Best of luck on your own travels!
* Nils and Janne - for your company throughout the Santa Cruz trek and for helping Dave and I sneak into the National Park for free.
* Pablo - for the ultimate ride out of the National Park and helping us save lots of money!
* The Baker Family - for all the music and memories shared in Huaraz.
* Mo Washburn - for your healthy dose of affection and poetic inspiration along the Santa Cruz trek.
* Isabelle and José - for the insider´s info to Huaraz and for your warm spirits!
* Olga, Cristian, Andi, Daniel, and Ryan - for all the amazing travel stories shared at the Casa de Ciclistas.
* Seth and Kirsten - your company on the roads and at camp were incredible! Thanks for keeping the spirit alive!
* Dave Breheny - thanks for all the jokes and good times had in Huaraz bro!
* Toyoda Family - for your strength, determination, and bottomless smiles!
* Segundo - for the humbling lesson you taught us and for sharing stories of mine-life.
* Policarpius - for the welcome bread in Yuramarca!
* Don Theo, Anita, Caroline, Rex, Pepe, and Alvaro - for making my stay in Huaraz very pleasant and comfortable!
* Ally Riggs - for all the engaging conversations on that balcony overlooking Huascarán.
* Dylan - for all the meals and conversations shared at Caroline´s.
* The crew of the S.Y. Drifter and the S.Y. Galathe - you are truly an inspiration -- keep on sailing!
* Dave Liddell - I share my deepest gratitude with you, friend and brother of the roads! Thanks for helping me out in my weakest moments on the trip and helping me get back on my feet!

24th Birthday

2008-10-18T15:43:00.005-06:00

Admiring the majesty of Nevado Taulliraju in the Cordillera Blanca. Santa Cruz to Llanganuco trek.

------

12 years ago, en route to Jomsom in the Himalayas with my family, I gasped painfully for air in the high altitude chill of the Annapurna Range. It was my first taste of altitude.

6 years ago, as I looked out across Yosemite Valley in California, I ran out of breath... not from the altitude, but from the sheer beauty of the divine sight in front of me.

2 years ago, I started dreaming of Perú and the Andes.

A year ago, I bought a bicycle - I had never toured before, but decided that I would visit the Andes with my bicycle.

Today, I´m more inspired than ever because as each day unfolds, I feel more and more humbled by the score of amazing people and places I come into contact with.

It means absolutely nothing to be 24 years old, but I am sure it means something to feel that I am exactly where I need to be.

Here.

Now.

-----

I want to thank everyone who has supported me through the past year with encouraging words, helpful advice, inspiring emails, and helpful pats on the back.

For my 24th birthday, please do not send any gifts. What little gear I carry with me in the back of my bicycle trailer is all I need to freely experience the infinite beauty of our world.

Funds however, are dwindling, and any monetary help goes a long way in helping me realize my dreams. Please consider contributing in whatever way you can by visiting the secure donation page on my website.

Here´s to sending everyone out there a giant hug and plenty of good vibes from the Peruvian Andes!

Namaste,
Japhy

Trip Report: Stage 7 - Ecuador

2008-10-17T12:59:00.005-06:00

California to Patagonia: A Cycling Expedition
Trip Report
Stage 7 - Ecuador
8 August - 19 September, 2008

* Photographs from this stage of the journey can be found here.
* Route maps of the journey can be found here.

Total distance cycled: 12,348 km (not including around-town distances)
Total distance in Ecuador: 1,038 km
Days on the road: 316
Days cycling: 140
Days spent in Ecuador: (14 days cycling, 28 days off)
Days spent climbing and trekking: 11
Average distance per day in Ecuador: 73.8 km
Maximum speed: 79 km/h (downhill out of Loja to Catamayo)
Maximum altitude: 6,310 mtrs (20,561 ft) - Mt. Chimborazo, Ecuador
Flat tires to date: 25

Nights spent...
... invited to a family home - 21
... with the local firemen - 8
... camping outdoors - 8
... in mountain huts - 3
... cheap hotels - 3

Best day: reaching the summit of Chimborazo right as the sun broke first light through the clouds.
Worst day: exiting Quito, saying farewell to my new friends, intense traffic and pollution.

Total money spent in Ecuador: $554.40
Average daily expenses: $13.20 in Ecuador ($11.15 trip total)
Total mountaineering expenses: $68.45 (6 summits, 8 days)

........

The Andes is a place where history, myth, legend, and landscape are inseparable. The cosmic past is as real as the human past; and the imagination is as vivid as reality.

The story of Ecuador, thus cannot be told without looking further south along the mighty range of the Andes, in Lake Titicaca. Let us begin with the Incas.

Incan creation stories begin with the creator god, Viracocha, who emerged from Lake Titicaca and formed the sun, moon, and stars from an island in the lake. He then proceeded northwards, walking across modern day Perú and into Ecuador, in each place, creating humanity from various huacas in the landscape - places imbued with energy, such as caves, mountains, and springs. As the story goes, when Viracocha reached the coast of Ecuador, he walked out over the water, promising to return one day.

The Incas, seemingly following Viracocha´s legacy, spread out from their native land in Cusco, creating what was perhaps the most powerful empire on the planet at the time stretching from the Colombian border all the way down to Chile.

The only difference is that while Viracocha has never returned, remnants of the Inca rule, along with countless other local tribes and groups, flourish in Ecuador and all the way down to Bolivia.

On my first day of cycling in Ecuador near the town of San Gabriel, Volcán Cayembe reared its giant snowy summit across the landscape like a sentinel threatening to punish illegal entries into the country.

Coming out of the tight canyons and steep river valleys of Colombia, cycling in Ecuador was a joy - the roads glided across vast landscapes where sharp pointy ridges were replaced by vast landscapes dominated by volcanos spread just apart such as not to encroach on each other´s territory.

'They speak to us,' Olger Andrés told me as he looked off in the distance. The aging fireman who provided me with a space in the station´s conference room to spend the night didn´t look at me when he spoke again.

'Sometimes they embrace us with nourishing water. And other times they tremble with fury, creating rivers of flame and clouds of ash.'

The evening light started fading away and Cayembe disappeared with it.

My mission in this country over the next month and a half was the same as every other country on this trip: make friends in a place where I didn´t know anyone previously, and learn first-hand, the history, mythology, culture, and contemporary problems it was facing.

Thankfully, Ecuador also gave me permission to climb high up its lofty volcanos, gifting me with perspectives from up high and down low.

Cutting high above the rolling farmlands and meandering streets, Ecuador is blessed with 10 volcanoes, all over 5000 meters (16,424 ft). When talking about the Andes, the whole concept of altitude must be adjusted for those only adjusted to European or American standards. Even the smallest of these ten summits are at least 1000 feet higher than Mont Blanc in the Alps, or Mt. Whitney in the continental US.

My first major stop in the country was Quito, the bustling capital which looked (and smelled) more like New Delhi than the Swiss Alps. Taxi drivers whizzed by honking at potential clients and mamacitas - the latter who often shrugged it off as if it was a shower of compliments.

Juan Carlos Rios, my host in the city guided me to his humble apartment and I settled once again, into the comforts of city life: a soft bed, warm showers, laundry, a computer, and best of all, a wonderful collection of books and music!

A professional photographer-cum-adventurer from Colombia, Juan Carlos and his fiancé Sandy were nothing short of angels - the kind that tell wonderful stories, savor the taste of fine beer, and hold on a bit longer than everyone else when giving hugs. 'Mi casa es tu casa, hermano,' he chimed, and one comfort after another led to me spending nearly a month in and around the bustling capital.

From the roof, I had a clear view of the broad valley and if I was lucky, the snow capped summit of Cotopaxi would be smiling at me.

It was time for a 'rest-break.'

As Bucephalus, my trusty bicycle was resting in Juan Carlos´ apartment, I romped off on multiple forays into the mountains in search of some well needed relaxation and rehabilitation from the circular motions of cycling - first into the Pichinchas, arriving at the summit in the middle of a snowstorm and spending the night at 15,000 ft; then stepping up to Cotopaxi, bypassing all the guided parties and menacing glaciers to reach the 19,347 ft summit alone before the sunrise; then donning technical ice-axes and sharp crampons to face spewing avalanches and whiteout conditions on Illiniza Sur, backing off, and embracing Illiniza Norte instead (and in the biting wind, losing my precious down-jacket to the crater); and finally, after long periods of waiting for the right weather window, reaching the top of Chimborazo and shedding tears of joy at 20,561 ft for being so humbled by the absolute magic and immensity of our planet.

The tears, however, were also for all the retreating glacier and devastating effects of global climate change. August, as all my friends from Quito reminisced, was supposed to be a time of clear sunny skies. Instead, it rained nearly every day and a blanket of white clouds shrouded the horizon as if a curse had been placed on humanity forbidding it to enjoy sunshine. Gabriel, a kind farmer who helped me hitch a ride into the tropical forests near Lloa explained to me how crop yields were at an all time low and how pesticide prices were not only rising, but they were being less and less useful at warding off encroaching bugs.

Apart from the shifts in climate patterns and retreating glaciers, many Ecuadorians also vividly recount the economic crash nearly a decade ago. The government´s gross mismanagement of expansionary money, coupled with large fiscal deficits, and corrupt bankers and politicians (sound familiar?) resulted in an economic crisis that was marked by a 65 percent devaluation of the national currency, the Sucre.

In an attempt to stabilize the Sucre, the government switched to using U.S. dollars as currency. In the exchange process, many Ecuadorians lost huge amounts of money by submitting to the horrible exchange rate the government imposed on the banks.

'You can never trust the government or the banks,' my host´s fiancé, Sandy explained to me. 'My family thought that we were doing the right thing when we saved money for the future, only to find that after the crash, we lost everything... all of our life´s savings!' Even respectable Ecuadorian families with considerable savings were reduced to a meager amount after the exorbitant exchange rates, effectively widening the gap between the select rich, and the poor masses.

The answer to Ecuador´s problems in the coming years came as another double-edged band-aid: intensification of oil production, the nation´s main industry, which is destroying the rich Amazon rainforest at an alarming rate.

Although Ecuador has the distinction of being THE country associated as being in the middle of the Earth, and although hordes of tourists return to their home countries each year with pretty postcards of windswept mountains and lush forests, I realized that even Middle-Earth is facing the same problems of ecological and social unsustainability as the rest of the planet.

Now officially in the Southern Hemisphere, I bid an emotional farewell to Juan Carlos and Sandy, ready to follow the spine of the Andes right into Perú. The modern highway roughly follows the path of the ancient Royal Inca Highway, a network of over 40,000 km in roadways that connected the northern Inca capital of Quito to Cuzco, continuing as far south as modern day, Santiago in Chilé.

The road South of Quito didn´t drop below 7,000 feet for almost two weeks as it winded up and over high passes, meandering across the Amazon and Pacific watersheds innumerable times. Camping in the paramó, the windswept territory above treeline was a dream. Although plagued by rains and constant wind, the vistas were breathtaking, and to date, I think Ecuador has provided me with the best campsites on the whole trip!

Just outside the town of Alausi, I joined forces with 'Señor David,' a cyclist from Seattle who had given up a high-paying career path in IT to learn more about himself and his world. We had both started on our journeys roughly at the same time, but amazingly had never met up until now!

The further South we cycled towards the Peruvian border, more and more indigenous villages and ancient ruins dotted the picturesque countryside. Near the town of Cañar, I was treated to my first taste of classical Inca architecture in the ruins of Ingapirca, an ancient fortress and waystation along the Royal Inca Highway. Andean crops such as quinoa and potatos, and irresistably cute llamas and alpacas also started making their appearances.

Perhaps it is just me, but my imagination runs wild on my travels, and I wonder often how life must have been like in the days before the arrival of the Spaniards. Lots of elements have changed - horses and sheep are much more plentiful than llamas and alpacas, and indigenous men and women, half attired in jeans and half in rich native embroidery, sip on Coca Cola on street corners as the loud roar of cargo trucks scream by.

Other elements, however, remain the same - whenever I sojourned well off the beaten-path, the roads narrowed into dirt tracks and local girls and boys would giggle in an incomprehensible Quichua dialect as I cycled past.

If I stopped for conversation, they would switch to a well inunciated and clearly spoken Spanish. The usual questions would follow, 'where are you coming from? where are you going? why on a bicycle? what about flat tires? and is that really a bicycle?'

Each time I answered politely and patiently, and when it was my turn to ask, I´d turn the topic towards local myths, mountains, and why they always had such curious looking hats.

Just as the realm of cycle touring and travel is strange and exotic to them, their world of ancient gods such as Viracocha who dwell over the earth, sea, and sky, and mystical waypoints such as belching volcanos and thundering waterfalls, is strange and exciting for me.

........

Acknowledgments

* Olger Andrés Peña Ayala, Jimmy Revelo, Diego Ibijés, and José Escobar - for the warm hospitality and camaraderie at the S. Gabriel Bombero station on my first night in Ecuador.
* Alex Coyaguillo y José Molina Tapia - for the geography lesson and folk stories at the Equatorial line.
* Viviana Ferrey y Patricia Valenzuela Wagner - for your wonderful invitation at the Equator!
* Eva Reznickova - for the conversations, stories, and late night adventures shared in Otavalo. * Pablo Palacios - for the unforgettable dinner at JC´s place in Quito and your kind words.
* Mercedes Proano - for living the couchsurfing spirit to the max in Quito.
* Laura Lin - for the wonderful reunion in Quito.
* Lisa Segesta - thanks for your good vibes and warm smiles at La Mariscal!
* Kellie Kemp and Sharon Williams - for making the freezing descent at 15,000 ft on the Pichinchas so memorable!
* Stephanie Eonta - great dancing and random crossings all over Ecuador!
* Juanita Garcia - thanks for all the wonderful moments on our trek from Lloa to Mindo! And FYI, the movie is 'Cast Away' and no one won the bet!
* Rose Peñaherrera and Tómas - for the beautiful gift of friendship and inspiration in Mindo. * Patricio - for the photos at Lloa! You´re going to be a pro soon!
* Gabriel - for being our savior and taking us deep into the jungle without getting stuck in the river.
* Manolo - for all the good times on the Rio Saloya.
* Trevor Marrs - for all the avalanches on the Illinizas and for all the high altitude laughs!
* Julián Lara - for the borrowed gear on Chimborazo and your great attitude on all of our climbs together!
* Boriss Aulestia - thanks for the stories and well wishes on Chimborazo and Illiniza!
* Esteban, Angela, and Natalia - for the wonderful dinner and stories in Quito, and congratulations with Natalia and the new family!
* Katya Guiñez and Mario Huber - for picking up a cold and stranded climber on the Illinizas and the hitchhike back home!
* Britta und Simon - for the great advice on the road ahead.
* Pepe Moreano - for your warm hospitality at the Casa de Andinistas in Riobamba.
* Rita Rodriguez, Erika Lara y José Gabriel - for the family-love and support in Ambato.
* Enrique Gordón - at Radio Illusion for the exciting interview.
* Hugo Silva - thanks for the giant free lunch at Riobamba!
* Dave Liddell - for the kilometers shared exiting Ecuador.
* Juan Luis - for all of your help at the Bombero Station in Cañar.
* Alex Rohl - great times on top of Chimborazo!
* Angelito - for helping us get to the mountain hut on Chimbo.
* Nick Rattray - for your warm friendship and unsurpassable hospitality in Cuenca.
* John Jairo y Fernando - for your classic Colombian warmth and the hospitality in Loja.
* Umanda - for making my last evening in Ecuador a fun and memorable one.
* Juan Carlos Rios and Sandy Espinosa - you are the kind of friends that feel more like life-long family! I am infinitely grateful for your buena onda and unending kindness during my stay in Quito!

Press: El Panorama Cajamarquino, Perú

2008-10-08T08:16:00.003-06:00

Thursday, 2 October, 2008

Collision at Cajamarca

2008-09-30T14:37:00.009-06:00

Friday, November 15, 1532.

168 Spanish conquistadors arrive in the holy city of Cajamarca at the heart of the Inca Empire in Perú after weeks of difficult marching.

They are exhausted, outnumbered and terrified – ahead of them are camped 80,000 Inca troops and the entourage of the Emperor Atahualpa Inca himself.

Yet, within just 24 hours, more than 7,000 Inca warriors lie slaughtered in the square; Atahualpa is held captive and enchained; and the victorious Europeans begin a reign of colonial terror which will sweep through the entire American continent.

-----------

World history thus took a sharp turn when the Spaniards collided with what was perhaps the most numerous and powerful empire on the planet in the 16th century, the Incas.

The history of the Conquest of Perú is one that is wrought with tragedy, violence, deception, and espionage.

And it all began right here, in the town square of Cajamarca.

The city today is a peaceful and tranquil place, a charming red-roofed Spanish town with fine colonial architecture and an impressive cathedral. The broad valley embracing the city is a pleasant sight: cows grazing beneath broad eucalyptus groves, a giant chocolate factory, and an elaborately developed hot-springs which boasts magical healing properties.

All of these are imported and unusual sights, especially imagining the city before the arrival of the Spaniards.

I have now spent almost a week here in Cajamarca, learning about the Conquest and its modern consequences as I stroll through the shady plazas and observe indigenous Quechua speaking women quietly spinning yarns of wool as they hurry along the uncluttered streets. Little remains of the original Inca architecture, but remnants can still be seen, especially in the 'cuarto de rescate,' where Atahualpa was held captive.

In his famous ransom, Atahualpa offered to fill the room over with gold, and twice over with silver to secure his release. Pizarro and his men promised to let him go if he could provide the ransom amount, and over the next few weeks, llama trains from all over the Incan empire arrived with vast hordes of gold and silver, eventually fulfilling the ransom amount.

One can imagine Atahualpa´s shock when the Spaniards responded to his good will by strangling and burning Atahualpa, leaving his body in the square so that everyone could learn of his death.

Perú -- The Sechura Desert and First Impressions

2008-09-30T13:15:00.011-06:00

No matter how one enters Perú, the Ecuadorian Andes spits you out from the cool mountain air into the hot, dry, and desolate desert of Northern Perú. The only other navigable road enters from the lowlands of the Amazon basin, which would add intense humidity to the mix.

I chose to enter through Macará, one of the more isolated - and as a result, more peaceful - border posts into Perú.

The first week or so in the country was spent traversing long stretches of the dry coastal Sechura desert.

Long stretches of vast emptiness.

The sign reads: 'Entry Prohibited. Risk of Death. Explosives in the Area.' WTF is this doing in the middle of the Sechura Desert ?!?

Pushing Bucephalus across minefields and sand to a beautiful desert camp.

Mt. Chimborazo, 6310 meters (20,561 feet)

2008-09-11T10:10:00.011-06:00

Before Sir Andrew Waugh and the British Survey triangulated the proper height of the Himalayan peaks, including Chomolungma (Mt. Everest) in Nepal, there was a good deal of confusion amongst explorers, geographers, and scientists as to what the highest mountain in the world was.

Prior to the 19th century, Chimborazo was, for a long time, considered to be the highest mountain on earth. Staring at the the sheer mass of this giant volcano in Ecuador, which commands a striking presence over the entire Ecuadorian Andes, it is not difficult to see why they thought this one, of all mountains, was the highest.

Now dethroned by the higher Himalayan and Peruvian summits, Chimborazo still has the title of being the farthest point away from the Earth's center - farther than that of Mt. Everest - considering its proximity to the equator and the oblate spheroid shape of the Earth (i.e, the earth bulges out at the equatorial line).

On Saturday, September 6, I received an email while cycling a few days past Chimborazo from a good friend, Julián Lara, a local mountain guide I had met while climbing Cotopaxi a few weeks prior. He excitedly reported that the weather had finally settled after weeks of heavy storms, fresh snow, and violent winds. He also had a client to guide to the top and generously offered to lend me gear and free transportation to base camp.

Without wasting a breath, I landed at the next nearest village on my route, Cañar. In record time, I made friends with the local bomberos (firemen), stashed my bike in their storehouse, strapped my backpack on and walked to the edge of town to stick out my thumb.

A few hours later, I reunited with Julián in Riobamba and was speeding off in a vehicle towards the hulking mass of the mountain.

The weather was perfect and the volcano shone forth in all its glory as we drove to base camp at 4800 meters.

The summit mass of Chimborazo, from just below the "Castillo."

We made the short trek to the mountain hut at 5000 meters and after preparing a hearty dinner, made our preparations for the next day's climb.

Julián presented me with the gear - a pair of heavy plastic boots, crampons, and an ice-ax that were all older than I was and had previously seen many high ascents. In terms of clothing, I opted to use my tried and true method from previous high summits of piling on every piece of clothing I had, and moving fast and light enough to stay warm.

Several cups of warm coca-tea helped me clear the million anxieties in my head about such a big climb and I shortly found my way to my cozy sleeping bag.

Precisely at midnight, I forced myself awake, strapped on my boots and made preparations to leave for the climb.

Julián and his client, Alex, a young and adventurous German biologist left first. There was another group of 4 guided clients as well heading out of the hut as I was still preparing breakfast. All of these groups were roped together in teams of 2 or 3 to protect themselves from the crevasses lurking ominously along the route and in case of a fall by either member.

I opted to climb solo, and unroped, because of several reasons: 1) I was confident of my abilities on steep snow and ice to perform the necessary self-arrest and rescue procedures; 2) following shortly behind the guided parties, the route would be well marked and relatively easy to recognize.

Julián and Alex fiddling around with gear in the darkness.

I headed off at 12:30 am under the cover of a clear, cloudless sky. A million stars above sang symphonies that rang beautifully with the rhythm of my boots crunching the perfect snow underfoot. Following the faint headlamps of the guided parties ahead, I negotiated a tricky section called El Castillo ('The Castle') with no trouble. Beyond that were the massive glaciers that composed the upper mountain.

Breathe, breathe, kick, plant ice ax, kick. Breathe. Breathe. This was the routine throughout the climb. The thin air forced a steady rhythm and the dark of night focused my senses on just what lay ahead.

Just above the Castillo, I felt my toes turn frighteningly cold. Upon closer inspection, I found that the thick plastic in the toebox had cracked beneath the insulating overboots, letting in snow and ice come into dangerous proximity to my toes. Uh-oh.... it was still over 2 hours until the sunrise came, so I decided to keep moving at a steady pace to avoid frostbite. A break of even just a few minutes froze them sufficiently enough to become alarmed.

The beautiful mass of rock and ice near the "Castillo."

Breathe, breathe, kick, breathe breathe. Repeat. This mantra took me all the way across the giant features of the upper glaciers and at 5:30 am I was atop the cumbre Veintimilla, a false summit just 100 meters below the true summit. By this time, I had caught up with Julián and Alex, and the three of us decided to navigate the penitentes of the final plateau to the high point.

Just before reaching the top, the sky turned purplish blue and began with its daily procession of bringing light and warmth to the world.

I reached the top, breathless and exhausted from four and a half hours of steady climbing.

Celebrating the summit with my friend Julián.

A carpet of clouds lay 1000 meters below, and the high summits of Cotopaxi, Tungurahua, and Sangay peeked out like islands in the unwordly horizon.

It was absolutely one of the best moments in my life. Reaching new heights, forging new dreams, and growing new wings. This is exactly what this journey is all about.

Julián and Alex along the summit plateau.

The three of us celebrated at the summit, and I let my beloved prayer flags flap in the light wind. I gave thanks to the world for its infinite beauty and turned to head down.

The sun warmed things a bit, but at this altitude, my toes were still cold, so I made my way down the giant volcano ahead of the roped parties to avoid a bottleneck at the key sections of the climb.

Descending the mountain, I finally got a glimpse of what I was climbing in the dark. The surreal beauty and the sheer size of all the features - the glaciers, crevasses, bergshrunds, and rock walls all had a menacing look. When I finally arrived at base camp, my toes were just fine and the summit was shrouded in mists, as if a jealous lover was guarding it from prying eyes.

Sometimes we climb mountains because we are drawn to their ethereal power. Other times it is a personal challenge - a test of internal strength, and of physical and mental preparedness. More often, to me, they are like teachers or elders who allow us to confront our fears and anxieties, and upon overcoming them, gift us with a taste of ecstasy and unrivalled joy. Distancing myself from the ego of reaching the top or of victory, I prefer looking at mountains like growth experiences that offer us poetic lessons of our own lives.

Reflections across the Andes with Bucephalus.

Crossing the Equator and Mountaineering in the Andes!

2008-08-30T09:37:00.005-06:00

A quick update from Quito!

The past few weeks, I crossed the equatorial line and for the first time in my life, entered the Southern Hemisphere.

In Quito, I took a short 'break' from the bicycle, wandering off into the Ecuadorian rainforests, kayaking, visiting indigenous villages, and climbing Rucu Pichincha (4700 mtrs), Illiniza Norte (5100 mtrs), and Cotopaxi (5897 mtrs). Freezing fingers, wild snowstorms, and giant volcanos. My idea of a relaxing break...

Next up... cycling down the spine of the Andes into Peru! Stay tuned for the next chronicle!

: )

Happy trails,
Japhy

Trip Report: Stage 6 - Colombia

2008-08-17T10:14:00.006-06:00

California to Patagonia: A Cycling Expedition
Trip Report
Stage 6 - Colombia
21 June - 7 August, 2008

* Photographs from this stage of the journey can be found here.
* Route maps of the journey can be found here.

Total distance cycled: 10,908 km (not including around-town, unloaded distances)
Total distance in Colombia: 2,220 km
Days on the road: 255
Days cycling: 126
Days spent in Colombia: 48 (27 days cycling, 21 days off)
Average distance per day in Colombia: 82.2 km
Maximum Speed: 75 km/h (descending to El Pedregal out of Pasto, Colombia!!!)
Maximum altitude: 5,636 meters (Citlatépetl, Mexico)
Flat tires to date: 17

Nights spent...
... invited to a family home - 24
... with the local firemen - 9
... camping outdoors - 8
... in cheap hotels - 5
... at gas stations - 2

Best day: following the headwaters of the Rio Magdalena from Pitalito to San Agustín
Worst day: intense diarrhoea, loss of appetite, and diminished energy due to intestinal parasites 2 days out of Medellín with the next closest town 80 km and 6000 feet of climbing away!

Total money spent in Colombia - $498
Average expenditures per day - $10.32
Price for soldering my broken YAK trailer: $3

........

Violently Pleasant Experiences

I arrived in Colombia with little expectations. Yes, yes. I know - the intense guerilla activity, the kidnappings, the infamous drug cartels of Pablo Escobar and the internationally feared drug cartels - these were all images that flashed in my mind when I searched for imaginations of my days to come in Colombia.

In many ways, these dramatic Hollywood-esque images were easy to draw as I reunited with my beloved bicycle, Bucephalus and cycled into the beachside paseo that lined Caribbean jewel of Cartagena de Indias. What was more fuzzy, and difficult to imagine was what was *good* about Colombia. What kind of friends would I make? Would I be welcomed openly? Robbed again? And how would my body hold up to cycling across the Northern reaches of the longest mountain range on Earth, the Andes?

I had just arrived from a tiny twin-otter plane that skipped across the infamous Darien Gap from Panama like a child hopping across a wet and dirty puddle to avoid getting wet. As I assembled my bicycle and rode away out of the airport in the morning sun, everything felt good. A group of men hanging out drinking beers outside a corner mini-mart shot remarks about my attention-seizing bike and invited me to a beer. I gladly downed the Aguila Cerveza handed to me, and asked for directions to the beachside paseo.

"Hey - good luck and have fun in Colombia," the moustached shopkeeper at the mini-mart shouted as I handed the empty bottle back. "And welcome to my country!" he proudly declared and sent me off with a warm pat on the back.

So far so good. Two blocks away was the ocean and I cycled gently along the coast with the warm ocean breeze tossing the flags at the back of my bicycle. It was a sunny Saturday, and the sandy beaches were lined with happy families playing in the water, classically divine Colombian women in bikinis tossing frisbees and couples strolling slowly hand in hand.

Four hundred years ago, this same coastline was the site of glorious battles between crafty English pirates and greedy Spanish elites who guarded the hordes of gold and silver they seized from the mighty pre-Columbian civilizations along the length of the Andes. Cartagena de Indias - the most important port in the Americas during colonial times - was therefore sheltered with heavily fortified walls and massive cannons lining the waterfront. After Francis Drake sacked the town in 1586 and ransomed it back to the Spaniards for 10 million pesos, the Spanish made very sure that their precious port and all its wealth would be protected from further attacks and walled in the entire town from the outside.

Today, this historic Inner City is a living museum, with many beautifully restored 16th and 17th century mansions, palaces, and shady plazas along its twisting narrow streets. I was stunned at its beauty and realized why the oversized yellow stripe along the top of the Colombian flag signified its abundant gold and resources.

As the evening caught up with me, I pulled myself away from a pleasant scene at Plaza Bolivar and went about my evening duties of finding a free place to camp. The beach = too busy; hotels = too expensive and impersonal. I stopped at a local panaderia to buy some bread for the next morning and the owner invited me to set up my tent inside his bakery in exchange for travel stories. A great deal! The atmosphere in the town was so pleasant and my new friend and host, Andy, was so friendly that I spent the next few days doing much the same as the first: wandering along the city paths, looking up at the beautiful architecture, and chatting it up with folks resting at the plazas.

There was something about Colombians that was different than the rest of Latin America so far. It wasn´t just their hospitality, although so far, just in my first few days, I had already experienced so much of it. Everyone I spoke to were fiercely proud to be Colombian and wanted to make sure that I had a positive experience in their country. This outpouring of good energy turned to be a constant theme throughout the coming 7 weeks I spent crossing the country.

Riding out of Cartagena took me across the northern agricultural plains: hot, humid, and stretching out across large tracts of green farmlands. Taking the advice of my friend Andy from Cartagena, each night, I seeked shelter not in hidden campsites, but with the local firemen, policemen, and the very frequent invitation to a family home - for reasons of safety. One evening, in the small, predominantly Afro-Caribbean town of Maria La Baja, I was invited by Amaury, the director of a local dance group to his home. I had hardly changed my sweat-drenched clothes when he pulled me out the door.

"Tonight, my friends are all hanging out at the edge of town - drums, music, dancing. You´ll love it - lets go!"

I was a bit tired and very smelly, but the prospect of a lively musical scene made both of these concerns disappear quickly! Amaury introduced me to everyone. The men greeted me with a firm handshake and the girls added a typical kiss on the cheek. What ensued was one of the most unforgettable nights in my life -- jamming loudly on all manner of drums, dancing wildly to the seductive moves and rhythms of salsa, cumbia, bullerengue, and ballenato. Everyone but me and maybe two others were of African descent. A few older women at the back of a nearby house cooked up a hearty meal of sancocho - a delicious stew with chicken, potatos, yucca, and plantains in a giant three-foot pot over an open fire and poured large portions for everyone in bowls.

I don´t recall what time it was, but sometime very late into the night, Amaury pulled me away again, just like the first time, and in a happily drunken laughter told me that it was time to return home. By that time, I had already been dancing most of the night with Vivian Yulieth, a beautiful 21 year old daughter of a policeman who would insist and pull me closer towards her every time Amaury made motion to leave. At one point, she left to make a phone call and my host won the battle, and I had to leave very reluctantly to return to his home and my bicycle. Still sweaty and tired, I went to sleep that night in his backyard with very high spirits.

I did something foolish the next morning - I left. Perhaps I was a little intimidated by how welcome I felt, or maybe I was afraid that I would end up staying in that small village for a lot longer, but whatever it was, the magnetic pull of the road attracted in much the same way, and I decided to follow the more familiar siren song of the road.

During the next few days, I slowly shed all the vivid images of that evening and prepared my mind for my first climb into the Andes. After Puerto Valdivia, the road rose over 1800 meters in less than 40 kilometers into the Cordillera Central. I was making my way towards Medellín, the second largest city in Colombia and the heart of the most intense drug activity during the heated 1980´s era of Pablo Escobar and his goons. The road leading to Medellín took me up through the towns of Yarumal, Santa Rosa de Osos, and Don Matías, and thanks to my good fortune, each of the towns were holding their yearly fiestas when I arrived.

It was refreshing to be in the highlands where the temperature was much cooler and one could ride throughout the day without having to worry about the intense heat. In its place, fierce and violent thunderstorms and downpours were common each day. Mostly, I just waited out the rains, but I got soaked many a time and getting wet in the mountains made me feel intensely cold for the first time in a very very long time. Fortunately, there was always a cup of "tinto" - the Colombian expression for dark mountain grown coffee, truly the best in the world.

In sharp contrast to the rest of Central and South America, this country of 45 million people harbors a very distinct 'coffee culture.' Cups of the brew usually run for less than 25 cents on the streets. As a nation geographically divided within itself by three mighty chains of the Andes, Colombia houses a diverse range of ecosystems: the hot, fertile, and swampy coasts; the Andean mountain spines; and the Amazonian jungle. There are no seasons in Colombia beyond a wet season and a rainy season, but the gradients of altitude make for perpetual summers in the lowlands and perpetual winters in the highlands.

The city of Medellín, like many pleasant mountains dwellings in Colombia, fortunately, enjoys a perpetual spring due to its moderate altitude in a rich river valley. When I arrived in Medellín, a friend of a fellow cyclist I had met in Baja California received me in his home. Alejo Puerta, or "Machacho" as he preferred to be called, made me feel more like a brother than an invited guest. The accommodations were supremely comfortable and the city´s tranquil atmosphere inspired me to stay a lot longer than I had expected. An avid sportsman and adventurer himself, Alejo had a wealth of stories and advice to share. Throughout my time in Colombia, I was warned to keep my mouth shut about politics, about the internal conflict between the government and the guerrillas in the country, and to refrain from voicing my personal convictions about these issues too much, since one could never know who they were talking to. Fortunately, my new friend and host was incredibly helpful and generous enough to fill me in and answer all the curious questions I had in my mind.

While the stories of violence, assassinations, drugs, and guerrillas do hold some credibility to them, they are largely exaggerated by the international media and Hollywood. The average person in Colombia is just like you and I - they don´t all have connections to the mafia or deal in illicit substances. Just like all of the Colombians I met convinced me of this, I found myself writing emails and postcards home with the same message. The current government under President Álvaro Uribe since 2000 has run an extremely effective campaign to secure principle highways and roadways throughout the country, which were once the site of vicious guerrilla attacks and kidnappings.

"Just a few years ago," my friend Alejo explained, "the highway you cycled to get here would have been prime territory for the guerrillas." I had read reports from other expedition cyclists in the past having to wait fearfully in small towns because the nearby bridge was the site of a violent skirmish between guerrillas and the military. Under Uribe´s presidency, however, military presence on the roadways were about as frequent as gas stations. Every 10-20 kilometers, a military post made its presence felt, with proud signs along the side of the road convincing travelers that the roads were safe, thanks to the power of big guns. And no kidding - these men, who were mostly around my age - were always armed with large high profile rifles and on occasion, even grenade launchers! Big news hit when Ingrid Betancourt, the celebrated ex-Presidential candidate of Colombia was liberated from over 5 years of captivity in the jungles with the guerrillas. Uribe´s campaign of reducing the guerrilla presence was creating very visible change in the country´s image.

My time in Medellín pleasantly rolled along with long, stimulating conversations such as this, and with frequent visits to the beautiful plazas lined with stunning architecture and the distinctive art of the artist and scupltor, Fernando Botero, a native of Medellín. When it was time to leave, I had to peel myself away from the comfortable amenities of city living: hot water, a real bed, a well-stocked kitchen, and most importantly, a good friend.

The first night out of the city took me up another mountain pass to a small town called Guarne, where I camped under permission at a building under construction looking over the valley. Strange sounds rose from within my bowels that night, but I just shrugged it off, thinking it was something that would pass away in the morning.

What followed perhaps the worst 4 days of my life! Little did I know, my excitement for cycling in the high mountains and drinking from (seemingly) pure creeks dribbling from the mountain tops as I had done on the road to Medellín, had now inflicted me with Giardia lamblia, an intestinal parasite that is well known among outdoor folks. Bloating, intense diarrhoea, and a lack of appetite are just a few of the more pronounced symptoms. For me, now caught in the middle of nowhere again crossing the Cordillera Central on my way to Bogotá, I felt incredibly weak; I couldn´t eat food that I would normally inhale in a few seconds. And worst of all was that I was cycling through amazing terrain through sweepingly green and lush vistas of the rich mountains, but didn´t have the presence-of-mind, or the energy to appreciate it. The uphills looked like giant monsters to be defeated and for the first time since the giant hills of Guatemala, I was forced to walk - at times, crawling - to reach the top of the hill.

I sought refuge at the first small village, and a kind lady who owned a restaurant allowed me to rent a room in the back, since the nearest hotel was still a long distance away. As with many things in life, the infliction diminished over the coming days and I continued along at a snails pace, making small progress each day towards the Colombian capital.

When I finally made it into Bogotá, a miserable downpour had cast down on the city, and I blindly navigated the complex web of city streets with the usual confusion in big cities. A truly cosmopolitan and modern city, the nerve center of Colombia, compared to other Latin American capitals, is a dream in urban planning. Laced with over 300 kilometers of ciclorutas, or bicycle lanes, it is a very bike-friendly city, and the Trans-Milenio metro system does an arguably good job in reducing the chaos and clutter so typical of capital cities. The giant meseta, or high plateau that shelters the city sits at a high 2,650 meters, which made the pouring rain very very cold.

I was welcomed by my hosts, Luis and Jaime, who wasted absolutely no time in making my stay memorable. From browsing the world-class art and history museums, the local music scene, the pleasant walks along the numerous plazas, Bogotá turned out to be one of the most pleasant capital cities I had ever visited! Sometime during the 1980´s, a word which originated from the Caribbean arrived in Bogota to describe the frantic activities of Bogotá´s nightlife: the "rumba." The people here live and breathe the rumba - a word that reminds us that the night was made to go out, eat, dance, amuse oneself, watch the dawn, and just celebrate life in a metropolis. Along with Luis and the wonderful community of friends I got to know, this is exactly what we captured in our almost daily sojourns into the city.

Another friend, Anita, introduced me to a nearby mountain crag called "Suesca," the center of rock-climbing in all of Colombia. While by no means comparable to Yosemite Valley or Joshua Tree in the US, this place attracted many aspiring climbers and I got to know a few of the more colorful characters through Anita. A spirited young Colombian girl from the highland town of Manizales, one would never guess that her petite frame and beautiful smile had successfully climbed the highest mountains in the Himalayan, Andean, and Alaskan ranges. As the first of three Colombian women to climb Mt. Everest, she was something of an inspiration to me. Not just for her humility and kindness, but more for her unfailing drive and tenacity to achieve her goals. In Suesca, as we scaled up and down the craggy sandstone, we swapped many stories about Nepal, mountains, and life. Other company included world-class Colombian climbers either just returning from expeditions in the Himalayas, planning such an expedition, or as was the case of several hardy fellows, both! I left with much needed excitement to be in high places and with lots of information and contacts for the days to come.

After almost two weeks off the bicycle in Bogotá, it was time to bid farewell to the people I had grown so close to. The most difficult part of a journey such as this is leaving the people who end up influencing one´s experiences so profoundly.

The road out of Bogotá plunged in a wild downhill into the Rio Magdalena, where the intense heat and humidity embraced me once again. I followed the deep river valley to its headwaters over the next week through wide expanses of farmlands, bordered on both sides by the Central and the Eastern Cordillera. Somewhere near the town of Aipe, a strange climactic phenomenon gave birth to the Tatacoa Desert. It felt entirely out of place and had a strange energy that was captivating. I had first heard of it through my friend Alejo in Medellín, and was curious enough to explore.

In order to reach the desert, I first had to find the winding trail that exited the town of Aipe. Then, I had to navigate a short stretch of what could only be described as a swamp or a wetland system to get to the edge of the mighty river, which I crossed on a dugout canoe. On the other side, a 18 mile stretch of unmaintained roads led first through open pasturelands and ranches. A short climb up a knoll, and then, BAM - cactuses appeared out of nowhere, the terrain took up a dry reddish and grayish tone, and the landscape seemed to turn around 180º. The fun never stopped, and apparently in the middle of the desert was a spring the indigenous people once used to use as a bathing spot and recharge point. Now, a local family had converted it into a pool, but the strange energy of the place was still as vibrant as could be. The day I went, there was absolutely no one in the desert and I had a wonderful time soaking in the pool, yelling into the wide open spaces, and running around the furrowed canyons.

Life was good, and what was even better, was that I crossed the 10,000 km line on my odometer as I returned to catch the main highway. What an emotional experience! I cried, sang, laughed, and then let the silence of the desert envelop me.

The next goal was the famous archaeological site of San Agustín, 300 km away. Since Bogotá, I had abandoned the busy Panamerican Highway in order to cross the length of the country via an alternate route passing through San Agustín, and the lack of traffic and the stunning scenery made for some of the best cycling on the whole trip. I had no trouble connecting with local families along the route, who welcomed me with open arms to their home. Mornings and evenings were pleasant moments when I always had a cycling companion and conversation partner: campesinos and farmers making their way to and from work.

In San Agustin, I stayed at Finca La Campesina, a farm which was also secretly known as the "Casa de Ciclistas," a safe-haven for long-haul cyclists to call home. Igel and Paola, a German couple had fallen in love with the town when they arrived two years ago on their multi-year around-the-world cycling journey and purchased some prime property overlooking a vast vista of mountains. They built a home in record time, got a caretaker to maintain operations on the farm, and continued along their cycling journey. A world map was taped up on the door of the basic kitchen which traced their route across the globe, and a logbook of cyclists detailed wild adventures, world-tours, and ambitious dreams fulfilled. I was moved.

Dala, the caretaker and a devout rastafarian handed me the keys to the place and smiled, "welcome home!" Just like all the cyclists who had lived at the finca before me, I felt renewed, recharged, and more inspired than ever for the journey ahead. The nearby archaeological ruins, stunning mountain trails, and lush coffee fields were all just a meander and a stroll away. Paradise!

The road leading out of San Agustín is an un-maintained dirt track that climbs steeply across the crest of the Cordillera Central. Although the safety situation with roadways had vastly improved in recent years, I was warned by a few people that the road out of San Agustin to Popayán would take me straight into the heartlands of the guerrillas. The forested reaches of the Department of Huila (of which S. Agustin is a part of), is reputed to be one of the birthplaces of the resistance movement and I didn’t want to take any chances. Therefore, for the first time on my whole journey, I skipped a section of navigable road and loaded my bicycle on a rickety bus next to a stock of squealing chickens. It took more than 7 hours to cover the short 130km stretch because of the horrible road conditions across the steep precipices of the range.

When I arrived at the town of Popayán, I was welcomed by my Couchsurfing host, Emma Franco. A bright young University student, Emma and her friends engaged me for a few days in wonderful academic conversations on social thought, critique, and philosophy, something that had been distinctly lacking in my life for a long time. Known as "Ciudad Blanca," or "White City," for the color of its distinctive colonial architecture, Popayán is also known as the University Capital of Colombia for its selection of excellent programs and intellectual traditions. We spent some time in her family farm, at the local plazas, and of course - exploring the rumba! Leaving Popayán, I added another person to that precious list of close friendships and intense connections.

I will be honest - my last few days in Colombia were a painted by a slight tinge of melancholy and sadness. I wasn´t ready to leave the country. The mountains grew steeper, the canyons deeper, and the cycling ever more challenging. The days leading up to the border post to Ecuador, I often contemplated just returning to a place like Popayán, or San Agustín, or even Bogotá, and stay there for a while. Memories, emotions, and fleeting moments swirled around my mind like water in a lazy swimming hole, not yet ready to flow further down the river.

Throughout the 48 days I had spent in the country, never once did I feel unsafe or threatened. For a country waging an internal civil war, Colombia is a remarkably peaceful place. If my writings sound like I want to you, dear reader, to travel through Colombia and see for yourself, you have read properly. It hurts me to see how the rest of the world thinks of places such as Colombia and Nicaragua and a host of other Latin American countries to be filled with violence and chaos. What about the people? Their rich cultural traditions? Their sense of community and family? And the happiness they find in their everyday lives just like you and me.

I think of the words printed on a travel brochure I received on my first day in Cartagena: "the only risk is that you will want to stay." In the end, I survived Colombia despite this grave risk..., and despite all the violently pleasant encounters along the way.

Japhy Dhungana
Quito, Ecuador

............

Acknowledgments

* Luis Acosta - for warmly inviting me to my first beer in Colombia and pointing me towards the beach.
* Andy Barraza - for inviting me to camp in the bakery and showing me around Cartagena.
* Hader, Jorge, y Fabian - for the amazing jam session in Cartagena!
* Amaury Pereira Osorio - thanks for taking me to one of the most memorable parties in my life! Lots of good vibes!
* Vivian Yulieth Pérez - for teaching me all those salsa moves and giving me my first primer on Colombian music. Gracias!
* Carlos - for fixing my YAK trailer when it needed it the most.
* Elizabeth Villegas Boto - for gifting me the beautiful pulsera in Planeta Rica.
* Eduardo Gonzalez & Ostiló Ayala - thanks for the warm accommodations with the Bomberos in Caucasia.
* Carlos - for the laughs and the free lunch at Tarazá.
* Enrique Gerardo Areiza - thanks for the good vibes and the hospitality in Yarumal.
* Ubaldo Martinez - for welcoming me to Medellín and cycling the last few kilometers into town during ciclovia day!
* German Correa - for your stories and inspiration at Parque Poblado in Medellín. Keep up the good work!
* Cata Posada - for helping me get in touch with Alejo!
* Alejo "Machacho" Puerta - for the irreplaceable friendship and brotherhood we shared in Medellín! You will always be like family to me!
* Jorge and Sonya Puerta - for the delicious lunch and for your warmth and inspiration for the road ahead.
* Ximena and Damían Lopez - for the wonderful dinner and stories we shared in Medellín.
* Luis "Pepe" Pérez - for the great conversations at Alejo´s place and connecting me with Juan Carlos in Quito.
* Ana Maria Giraldo Gómez - thank you for the inspiration and strength you have given me, and for sharing this wonderful friendship!
* Ricky Gómez - for the laughs, the stories, and the pulsera! Hasta la proxima, hermano!
* Andrea Pulgarin - for helping a very sick cyclist find accommodations late in the day in Puerto Libre.
* Cesar Santana Escobar - thanks to the whole team at Bomberos Honda for your hospitality.
* Luis, Dario, and Yohan at Bomberos Villeta - for the music, the company, and lifting my spirits in Villeta!
* Luis Betancourt - for your limitless good vibes, and for introducing me to Bogotá and helping me get settled comfortably during my first few days.
* César Alberto León - for your amazing craftmanship with the new Nepali flag.
el Desgar - for taking care of me in Bogotá and helping keep my bicycle in top shape.
* Jaime Plaza - for your unforgettable hospitality and friendship in Bogotá! It was essential in helping me prepare for the road ahead.
* Stephany Howard - for raising my spirits in Bogotá and rekindling that gift of friendship when I needed it the most.
* Alex Torres, Lucho, Katty Guzman, and Hernan Wilkes - for all the good times and stories climbing in Suesca.
* Jorge Jaramillo - for the wonderful outing to Suesca and for your good energy!
* Helver Betran - for helping me get across the Rio Magdalena to the Desierto de Tatacoa.
* Luz Angela Santiago, Yenny, Yuciera, and Jhoara - for treating me like family and for your wonderful gifts in Garzón.
* Maria de Jesus and Lynda Facundo - for treating me to a huge delicious lunch in Timana.
* Alcides Puentes - a million thanks for your warm hospitality in Pitalito.
* Carlos Piamba and Libaniel Oni - for cycling up the hill together to San Agustin.
* Dala - for the searching conversations and adventures we shared together at Finca La Campesina!
* Igel and Paola - you are visionaries and saints for opening up the Casa de Ciclistas in S. Agustin!
* Emma Franco - for your friendship, affection, and love in Popayán. Thank you for positively inspiring me to reach higher and fulfill my goals!
* David - for crossing paths at the right time in Popayán and for the advice on the road ahead.
* Mabel Velasco - for the salsa lessons and good times in Popayán.
* Vincente Bustamante - for the free meal at El Tablón. I really needed it!
* Franco Salazar Cabrera - for inviting me to your wonderful family home and your heartfelt friendship.
* Ivonne Ximena Cerón - thank you for all of your good vibes in Chachagui.
* Com. Alejandro Vargas Suarez - for your hard work in keeping the highways safe and the meal at El Pedregal.
* Francisco Alejandro Calderón Cortés - thank you for the great article in Pasto and for the lively conversations. Jorge Andres Lara - for making my last night in Colombia a very comfortable one. Thank you!!!
* Oscar Cañon - for making Colombia my favorite country on the whole trip and for connecting me with a host of amazing friends. I feel proud to know you and wish you the best on your adventures, my brother in arms!

Press: Diario del Sur / EXTRA, Colombia

2008-08-07T09:16:00.003-06:00

Click on the image for the full sized picture. And no -- I did not really ride by bicycle from Nepal to Pasto! Just from California... : )

Colombia: A Preview

2008-07-19T10:00:00.005-06:00

Colombia: Would you take the risk?

2008-07-04T19:44:00.001-06:00

Press - La Chiva: Nuestro Diario

2008-07-04T19:28:00.002-06:00

Click on the photo for a full sized image. The article proudly appears on the same page as an advertisement for 'Personal Lubrication' as a friend pointed out to me.

Trip Report: Stage 5 - Central America

2008-07-04T12:59:00.022-06:00

California to Patagonia: A Cycling Expedition
Trip Report
Stage 5 - Central America
20 April - 21 June, 2008

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

Total distance cycled: 8440 km (1995 km in Central America)
Countries crossed: 5 (El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panamá)
Days on the road: 205
Days cycling total: 99
Average daily riding distance in this portion: 110.8 km
Maximum speed: 74 km/h (Peten, Guatemala)
Maximum altitude: 5,636 meters (Citlatepetl, Mexico)
Flat tires to date: 17

Total weight of the bicycle with all the gear: 55 kilos, or 121 lbs (not including food and water)

Best day: Snorkelling in Manzanillo and harvesting coconuts with my twin sister, Karla!
Worst day: Watching my twin sister leave : (

Total money spent on the trip until South America: $2,373

Average money spent each day on the trip: $11.57

Most expensive item on the trip: $239 - plane ticket across the Darién Gap to Colombia

Cheapest item on the trip: $0.03 - bananas!

-----

Entering the El Salvador border, I had a vague idea that for the next three countries, I would be trodding upon countries that had all very recently seen bloody and violent civil wars. Learning about the political strife in these countries through brief conversational glimpses, I was left entirely humbled by the intense poverty and deep social divides that are very apparent everywhere.

The natural beauty of Central America, however, has no comparison to anywhere on earth. Set along a narrowing peninsula between the Yucatan in Mexico all the way to Colombia and encompassing the countries of El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and Panamá, these countries are stacked like pancakes atop one another with dirty border towns, revolutionary histories, and breathtaking tropical scenery forming the syrup that makes this place unforgettable.

On my first day in El Salvador, I parted ways with my cycling companion and good friend Damián López; he had to pursue the social work aspect of his journey in various Aldeas Infantiles sites, thus making for a divergent schedule than mine. And as for me, since my sister had booked a flight to meet in in San José on April 25, just two weeks away, I had a good amount of distance to cover in relatively little time so had to continue along at a faster-than-usual pace.

The intense tropical heat once again reappeared in the Pacific lowlands, and would not disappear for the rest of this whole section. Temperatures soared to over 100 degrees each day after 8am, and on a few days, reached as high as 120 degrees. I thus adjusted my riding strategy to wake up pre-dawn each day and to start pedalling by 5am. A long afternoon siesta between 9 am and 3pm or so at a local plaza or cool stream made for a perfect way to kill the torturous mid-day hours, and the last few hours before sunset always made for excellent cycling.

Throughout most of the coastal road along El Salvador, Honduras, and Nicaragua, most of the homes were made of black plastic bags stitched together, cardboard boxes, and haphazard pieces of wood and palms occasionally providing structure. Stores were always protected by huge, imposing metal bars to prevent robberies, and their stock of supplies was meager at best. In sharp contrast to all this, the elite resided in large gated communities with armed private guards and beachfront views. All of the people I made contact with in El Salvador and Honduras were at the bottom end of the social strata, since I started camping again and did my best to avoid big cities and hotels. They were all very warm and welcomed me with smiles and greetings. I was humbled by their stories and they were all very interested in my journey (and some were perhaps more interested in my 'fancy' touring bike!). Fortunately, after I said farewell to Damián near the Guatemalan border, shouts of ´gringo! gringo!´also diminished rapidly, and I was often mistaken for being some form of Latino.

In Choluteca, Honduras, as I was checking my email during a roadside stop, a well-dressed man approached me and we started talking about my journey. He turned out to be a journalist and invited me to conduct a television interview on National Television! Even in my sweat-drenched clothes and long-unshowered appearance, I promptly agreed and had a great time talking about my trip and rambling about climate change and anthropology in spanish.

The roads throughout El Salvador and Honduras were excellent, with butter-smooth asphalt and nice wide shoulders because of the large amount of foreign aid coming in. In addition, there were bridges and tunnels constructed with the aid of the Japanese, American, and Taiwanese governments that was a sharp contrast from Guatemala, where the road would simply go up every hill and all the way down to the valley in every river! When I entered Nicaragua, the main Panamerican highway deteriorated considerably to a dirt road, and didn´t improve for another 18 kilometers. That day, as I had set a goal of reaching the historic city León before dark, I got caught in the mid-day heat and for the better part of the day was cycling as if in a dream with strange shapes and characters greeting me on the side of the road. The looming presence of the volcanos along the countryside contributed to the surreal feeling of the landscape. When I saw an ice-cream man on a bicycle toting an oversized cooler in the middle of the 120-degree heat, I thought I had finally gone crazy. To this day, I don´t know if he was real or not, but I sure remember how good that ice-cream tasted and how it gave me renewed hope of reaching my destination for the day!

And what to say of León? It is a magnificent colonial city with a bustling intellectual presence. It is also the birthplace of Ruben Darió, perhaps one of the most famous Latin American poets. As I had no idea where to go, I made myself comfortable the shady plaza with my beloved Bucephalus parked nearby. In just a few minutes, a young man introduced himself as Francisco Caceres, and we embarked on a long discussion about Nicaraguan politics and history. Some of his friends entered the scene and engaged in the conversation, and pretty soon, it was a beautiful image of the vibrancy that this former capital of Nicaragua fostered.

The next stop was Granada, the pride of Nicaragua, and a close contender to León for its colonial grace and traditional antiquity. It is also the oldest city in Central America, and the site of many pirate raids from hungry English Buccaneers like Sir Francis Drake and Captain Henry Morgan. It is easy to see why: during the 16th and 17th Century, Granada was the seat of the Spanish gold, its wealth and prosperity apparent in the beautiful colonial streets and bustling port along the Lago de Nicaragua. This huge freshwater lake, which is connected to the Pacific via the Río San Carlos is entirely navigable and only complicated by strong rapids and currents in the river. Remnants of the Spanish defense against these pirates can still be seen along the cannon-lined port.

My last two days in Nicaragua cycling were marathon 120km plus days to reach the Costa Rican border as my frolicking around with pirate history and Nicaraguan revolutionary stories had cost me much time and my sister had already landed in San José. Thus, as soon as I crossed into Costa Rica in La Cruz, I packed my bicycle for the first time on the whole trip in a bus and sped off to the capital (after my sister left, I would later bus back to the same location where I left off and continue cycling).

It was an emotional experience reuniting with Karla, my twin sister. For the past 23 years, we had almost always been very close to each other in proximity. When we met up, it was like old times again - babbling away in Nepali, eating the delicious Nepali and Filipino snacks she had brought for me, and planning our adventures together for the next few weeks. We were fortunate enough to couchsurf with Rachel Loughery, a local schoolteacher and new-old-friend. In the cosmopolitan ambience of the capital of Costa Rica, we enjoyed all the amenities of the first world and shared the good company of Rachel´s many friends in the big city.

Our first stop together was the Caribbean Coast. We spent a blissful week vacationing in Cahuita, Puerto Viejo, Manzanillo, and Bocas del Toro enjoying the boundless sunshine, the picture perfect beaches, snorkelling, and of course, all of it was accompanied by never-ending reggae music. Then we made our way to the mountains in Monteverde, where thanks to Jessica, our second couchsurfing host in Costa Rica, we nestled ourselves in a cozy mountain cabina overlooking the cloudforest, replete with toucans and capuchins scurrying around. The enormous biodiversity and biodensity of the Monteverde Cloudforest Reserve was breathtaking. My sister even claims to have seen the Resplendent Quetzal, a rare sight indeed, of a bird that many Pre-Colombian cultures considered very highly of. It is also a symbol of freedom, as the Quetzal cannot survive in captivity.

Costa Rica is a country that stands in deep contrast to the rest of its neighbors. Its economy is prosperous (the highest GDP in Central America), its natural resources well managed (the highest number of national parks in all of C. America), and the people take pride in being known as a country of peace.

'We are a country with more teachers than soldiers, ... and a country that turns military headquarters into schools,' boasted President Jimenez Oreamuno in 1922, and indeed, his prophecy later surpassed itself when Costa Rica became the first country in the world to abolish its army in 1948. 'Ticas' as Costa Ricans fondly call themselves, pride themselves in having a longstanding tradition of political stability and democracy, much unlike most of the bloody civil wars throughout the rest of Latin American.

However, what all this means is that tourists - and especially American tourists - flood the country in droves, thus making everything extremely over-priced. Most of the artesan goods are mass-produced and the beaches, especially, are teeming with all manner of surfers, stoners, birders, and rastas. After having had enough of this, I convinced my sister to hop on a local bus to experience the magic of Nicaragua, officially my favorite country of this section. We went back to Granada and I enjoyed meandering about the colonial streets and checking out the cathedrals with Karla, whose background in art history and religious iconography was like having a personal tour guide. We hopped on a boat across the Lago de Nicaragua to spend a few days in hiking, drinking, and not doing much else on Isla de Ometepe.

Then followed a harrowing 12 hour boat ride in the lower deck to get back to Costa Rica (the upper deck was twice as expensive, which of course, all the 'foreign backpackers' took). Everyone was trying to get some sleep through the course of the night, and Karla suffered considerably more than me since I had had enough of the intense heat and bodies piling up on the lower deck; while no one was looking, I snuck out to the open deck above just next to the high mast, where I enjoyed perfect solitude for the whole night, with nothing but boundless views of the open water for 360 degrees and a blanket of stars above.

After more than three weeks together, it was time for my sister to head home. It was a bittersweet farewell, and I spent the next few days in an unelevated mood, sighing a lot and looking fondly at our pictures. The solution to keeping my spirits up, of course, was to get back on the bicycle and continue on, but just as I was preparing to leave, I was robbed by a group of kids for $130 in cash, along with all of my credit cards and identification (see this post for more details). I was able to cancel my cards, but the cash was gone forever, and that meant that I had to wait for my new bank card.

Fortunately, my hosts in San José, Rachel and Dennis, helped me out tremendously in getting me back on my feet. They opened up their homes unconditionally, and we enjoyed many fond moments together in the big city playing music, going to bars, watching movies, taking roadtrips, and talking world history as I waited for my cards to turn up. When it did arrive and I was ready to leave, they surprised me with a wonderful going-away party with all the new friends I had come to know in the city. It was a very touching experience.

As I had promised myself, I bussed my way back to the spot near the Nicaraguan border where I had left off and continued cycling southwards from there. On my first day cycling after over a month of non-cycling, I realized how I´d lost much of the fitness I had acquired throughout my trip. But perhaps it might have also been the 10 kilos of additional gear I was toting around after a healthy resupply from Karla (which included a guitar, winter clothing, spare tires, and a mountaineering backpack for the Andes coming up).

The first few days cycling and camping along the Northern Coast near Puntarenas was a difficult experience because the rainy season had hit in full force and my gear was in a perpetual state of wetness. When I set up my tent in the evenings, a swarm of mosquitos would engulf me and I would spend the rest of the night looking like a chicken pox patient.

As I pedalled into the beach-town of Jacó, I noticed two backpackers toting around a pair of devil sticks and poi (for fire-dancing) and when they turned around, was pleasantly surprised to cross paths with my friends Denise and Claudia yet again (recall, random meetings since Southern Mexico)! So we continued together along the road south; them bussing and hitching, and I cycling.

In Uvita, we were lucky enough to be invited to a beautiful finca, or a farm, by Carolina and Gabi, two wonderful girls who had built their home and tilled their land entirely by themselves. Needless to say, I postponed my trip southwards for a few more days and enjoyed many rich conversations with them, preparing home-cooked meals, and visiting the local waterfalls and beaches.

Crossing the border into Panamá gifted me with wonderfully long stretches of road with very little traffic. Frantically searching for a campsite my second night in the country, I encountered an indigenous community of the Ngäbe people in the town of Tolé, who provided me hospitality for the night. Excited to be in their company, I stayed up late into the night talking to the elders of the village and playing football with the little kids. When the chief´s wife started joking about pairing me up with her young daughter, I laughed nervously and found my way to bed with only my bicycle within arms reach.

A few days of frantic, rain-drenched riding later, I reached the Bridge of the Americas, an imposing construction over the Panama Canal that provided access to Panama City. It was both, a harrowing and an emotional experience crossing it. The other side signaled the end of the road for me in North America, and I would have to somehow negotiate my way across to Colombia.

Between Panamá and Colombia lies a section of primary rainforests and swamplands known as the Darién Gap. This 160 km section is the only place along the length of the Americas between Alaska and Argentina that is not connected by road. It is one of the most biodiverse ecosystems in the world, and hosts a number of indigenous tribes that live out of contact with the outside world. However, the region is also wildly dangerous, as drug-runners, paramilitary forces, and armed guerrillas battle for supremacy. While an overland crossing has been made a handful of times, most adventurers consider such a journey into the Darién Gap a one-way trip.

I have no death-wish, so when I reached Panamá, I considered two options. One was to take a sailboat across the Caribbean Sea to Cartagena, Colombia, and the other one was to fly to the same destination. I had my heart set on the first option, but after realizing that the sailing trip would cost twice as much as the flight, I was convinced that it was wiser to fly and save money for the road ahead instead of a multi-day sailing trip.

After spending a few days in Panamá City checking out the impressive Panamá Canal and the historic old-town, I was ready to move on to Colombia. I dished out $239 on a plane ticket, spent hours cleaning up and packing my bike, and went through great pains with the airport administration, but 3 short and anxiety ridden hours later in Cartagena, Colombia, my beloved Bucephalus was once again reassembled and ready to take on the next chapter of the journey: continent of South America.

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Acknowledgements:

Luis: for your wonderful stories and cycling with me through the intense traffic in San Miguel, El Salvador.
Doña Lilian: for gifting me with ice-cold water and bananas when I almost passed out by the side of the road in the intense heat. 'El camino te sirve!'
Victor Argañal: for the television interview with Channel 15 in Choluteca, Honduras.
Jorge: for riding with me all the way to the border in Honduras and for helping me avoid the greedy money-changers.
Francisco Caceres: for the enlightening conversation we shared on Nicaraguan politics in the plaza in León.
Miguel Angel Mantilla Contrera: for your generous hospitality in Nagarote, Nicaragua.
Jimmy, Mundo, and Augusto: for the primer on Nicaraguan beers and for helping me find a place to sleep for the night!
Kathrin and Phillipe: for the nice moments and bike stories shared in Rivas! Best on your cycling journey and hope to see you somewhere along the road again.
Eddie and Joaquin: for letting me sleep in the back of a semi-truck during my first night in Costa Rica.
Joe Gouldby: for your classic Couchsurfing attitude and wonderful sardonic humor in San José.
Nikki Adelaide: for all the good times we shared from football games to hot springs in Costa Rica.
Josie and Greiven: for your seemingly boundless energy and for all the inspiring stories about South America.
Hannah and Fabio: for all the amazing football games!!!!!
Lilly and Christine: just for making everything that much more fun in every gathering!
Dennis Ross: for all the ridiculously fun moments jamm´n, beetl´n, and loung´n in San José.
Rachel Loughery: Ah Raquelita... you were a true blessing on my trip. Thanks for helping me get back on my feet after the robbery and for your unsurpassable kindness and friendship. Also, thanks for always being able to drink more than me and falling asleep after me!
Pamela Young: for your beautiful spirit and the wonderful gifts you showered on me to aid me on my quest. What could have been a low point on the trip turned out to be one of the highest for me, and thanks for all of your good vibes. Namaste!
Laia Obiols Bragulat: for your company throughout Nicaragua and all the amazing stories you have!
Marik and Helen: fellow cyclists understand what its like - thanks for the water bottle cage!
Serena, Michiel, and Joris: for your wonderful travel companionship throughout C. America.
Reyna Latino: for the postcards in Granada and that warm unforgettable farewell hug.
Silvio: for stories of the Nicaraguan Revolution and for your inspiring knowledge on our trip to Volcan Maderas.
Ana y Alberto: for the excitement that only comes with meeting other touring cyclists!
Justin and Jess: for the good times Wii´n, the magical kazoo, and all the good vibes shared at Dennis´place.
Nic and Anna: for the company, music, and drinks shared in San José.
Kate Cruse and Monica Brockmyre: the dancing, the music, and the drinking were top-notch! Kate, esp. thanks for your stories and for the toe-stumbling salsa!
Pablo Gutiérrez Martínez: for inviting a hungry cyclist to lunch with your family!
Carolina y Gaby: for the infinite buena onda that seems to permeate your spirit and your space. Uvita was by far my favorite destination in Costa Rica.
Aref Hasan Isa: for the roadside conversation in Panamá.
Wakan Sadhana: for helping me get my bearings straight in the big bad Ciudad Panamá.
Roman Sainz: for your unconditional hospitality and help in Panamá City, and for helping me negotiate the tricky crossing to Colombia! Most of all, thanks for your amazing friendship. Bien cuidao, jefe!
All the Bomberos of Central America: for the safe refuge and warm company your provided throughout my travels.
Denise Ellensohn: for your irreplacable friendship along the road and all the unforgettable moments we shared together!
All of my friends who raised enough money to gift me a beautiful 'Baby' travel guitar, and who sent me letters of support and other goodies when my sister Karla came to visit me in Costa Rica!

Status Updates

2008-07-01T15:24:00.001-06:00

June 17 - Preparing to tackle the Darien Gap

May 4 - ¡Pura Vida!

Apr 24 - chasing dreams through Nicaragua... and wondering whatever happened to Honduras?

Apr 20 - eating 'pupusas' voraciously in El Salvador.

Apr 15 - performing rain-dances beneath mighty volcanos in Lake Atitlan.

Apr 10 - recuperating from a respiratory infection in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala after a punishing ride through the highlands.

Trip Report: Stage 4 - Guatemala

2008-05-26T09:00:00.004-06:00

California to Patagonia: A Cycling Expedition
Trip Report
Stage 4 - Guatemala
27 March - 20 April, 2008

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

Total Distance Cycled: 6571 kms (1178 kms in Guatemala)
Days on the Road: 143
Days Cycling: 81
Average Daily Riding Distance: 79.9 kms
Maximum Speed: 74 km/h (Peten, Guatemala)
Maximum Altitude: 5,636 meters (Citlatepetl, Mexico)
Flat Tires: 16
Average Daily Expense: $10.86 in Guatemala; $7.67 trip total
# of River/Lake crossings by boat: 9
# of Poisonous snake sightings: 11
# of those snakes alive: 4
Best Day: Lago de Atitlán to Antigua along quiet rural roads
Worst Day: Santa Cruz del Quiche to Nahualá, fighting an illness, heavy traffic and smog, the steepest hills, thick fog, and strong headwinds, landing after dark.

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The first glint of space between the trees made me peer across curiously. The dense forest we were riding through briefly gave way at the Mexican border post of Frontera Corozal. Excited and filled with anticipation, I rushed to the opening further down the road. The road deteriorated rapidly; a dirt track dipped across a dry watercourse, and then as I reached the end of the road, it came to life: the mighty Río Usumacinta.

Stretching over a quarter of a kilometer, it was how I imagined the Amazon to be, only not quite as wide. Across was Guatemala, and after over four months of cycling across Mexico, I was eagerly awaiting a new country and all of its peculiarities, currencies, lingos, mannerisms, and delicacies. My travel partner, Damián López, whom I had run into in San Cristobal de las Casas followed behind shortly. He paused abruptly as the river came to view and I smiled, '¡Listo! Vamanos, hermano!'

We had a similar route, a similar style, a similar philosophy, but vastly different reasons for riding. Yet, the next month through the Guatemalan highlands would unite us along our respective quests in ways we could never have predicted that day on the banks of the Río Usumacinta.

It didn´t take long for a local boatman to approach us and erase the stupendous looks on our faces. We were staring across the river, perhaps like the countless of people before us who saw the river as a formidable impasse. In the 1980´s, at the height of the bloody Guatemalan Civil War, many Guatemalan refugees fled across the river to relative safety in México. Only this time, Damián and I were crossing the other direction, escaping what was seemingly a safe and tranquil México to reach the supposedly more dangerous Guatemala. We struck a quick deal with the boatman, and within minutes, our hair was flying over eyes as the swift, deep currents of the river tossed us downstream and across to the tiny settlement of La Tecnica.

We were too cheap and uninterested to do the traditional crossing a few kilometers upstream to the larger (and perhaps safer) town of Bethel, and since we had absolutely no information on the road from La Tecnica to Bethel, we chose the mystery and adventure of an unknown crossing over the more preferred route. As we struggled to get our bikes above the sandy river bank on the other side to the closest road, we found out why we had not heard any reports from travelers about this route.

Our first welcome to Guatemala was a terrible dirt road! Rocky and rutty, it was as if ranchers had cut down the trees of the jungle and let large trucks roll over all the plants along the way, making a continuous clearing amidst the thick vegetation, and thus called it a road. Then, it degenerated into steep descents and even steeper climbs. For the first time in my trip, I found hills I could not pedal over, and had to walk up them . The heat and the dust, thereafter ever-present throughout most of Guatemala made their nasty welcome and seemed to laugh in my face every time I grunted up the next rise in the landscape.

We ended our first night, spent and exhausted in Bethel, after getting our passports stamped at a lonely outpost that passed for the immigration office. After striking a deal with a $2.50 hotel overlooking the imposing Rio Usumacinta, we collapsed on our beds and turned the fan at full speed, although that seemed to do nothing to the lingering heat.

This would be a pattern repeated nearly each day in Guatemala - rise early and start pedaling at first light to beat the tropical heat, take leisurely breaks throughout midday to wail away the hottest hours, and ride into the sunset as the temperatures eased, eventually checking in to a local hotel. Throughout my whole journey before Guatemala, I checked into a hotel (and thus paid for accomodations), perhaps just three or four times. However, in Guatemala, prudence and safety advised me to sleep in hotels each evening for several reasons.

First, the thick forest vegetation often made finding good stealth campsites almost impossible to find. Second, there were indigenous Mayan people EVERYWHERE! Even places where it seemed like the middle of nowhere, a man with a machete would seem to just stroll out of the woodwork and inquire what was going on. I speculate that the dispersed population density throughout the highlands for resource efficiency made the Mayans take advantage of every navigable path on a routine basis. Safe campsites are those that stay out of view and out of contact with people, and so if someone 'discovered' us, it would be startling for both of us, and most of the locals were wary of strangers. Third, there were a LOT of poisonous snakes and strange crawly spiders and bugs all over the jungle floor and canopy. Lastly, Guatemala has a reputation amongst all travelers - even the most hardcore ones - of being a dangerous country.

Moreover, because cheap accomodations ($2-3 a night or so) were plentiful, we opted to stay at hotels throughout most of Guatemala. These hotels, however, were not what most people in America are perhaps accustomed to. In each case, it was no more than an old musty bed, with or without sheets in a wooden or basic concrete block room and a communal bathroom. Most garages in the US are more comfortable than these hotels.

At any rate, after getting our immigration documents settled and bargaining for competetive exchange rates for the Quetzal, the Guatemalan currency, we set our sights on the elusive archaeological site of Tikal, inconveniently set in the northernmost department of the country. The long road to the ruins took us across rich pasturelands to Flores, a beautiful island community nestled comfortably in the Lago Peten Itza, whose clear blue waters glistened in the mid-day heat prompting us to abandon reason and jump in like schoolboys on their first day of summer vacation out of school.

As we neared Tikal, we began to get alarmed by the numerous roadsigns warning visitors of the wildlife in the Mayan Biosphere Reserve, the largest swath of protected rainforest in the entire Yucatan Peninsula. There were snakes, tarantulas, pumas, howler monkeys, crocodiles, and a dizzying array of dangerous critters listed on roadsigns. Pausing to take frequent photos of all the wildlife we saw, darkness started setting on rapidly, and soon we found ourselves in the heart of the jungle, still 16 kilometers short of the ruins, where we were eagerly looking forward to a real campsite (the only camping we would do in all of Guatemala). Damian mumbled some nervous words and the whole world seemed to come alive.
Fireflies dotted the dark road; howler monkeys growled with a ferocity that seemed like they wanted us out of their primeval forest; and every rustle in the trees would make us clench our teeth tighter. With nothing more than adrenaline and spirited pedaling, we reached Tikal at dark, set up our tents, and prepared dinner, grateful to be able to seal ourselves from the viseroys of the outside world with our tent flaps.

Dawn rose the next day as splendidly as a tide of good news, and as I was wiping off the sleep from my eyes, Damian greeted me with a warm brew of yerba mate. A traditional drink in his homeland Argentina, I gladly accepted; Mate always brought us closer together and helped ease difficult decisions .

This time, we were contemplating amongst ourselves how to avoid the draconian $24 entrance fee to the park. The Guatemalan government had decided just three months ago to increase the park fees threefold (it was about $7 previously), and we were not happy about spending three days' of travel budget for a park entrance fee. As one of the top tourist destinations in all of Central America, I suppose the government decided that the average tourist would have no trouble paying the large sum. As we would soon find out, however, the blatant corruption in the park administration was perhaps a more plausible reason for the draconian fees.

Unfortunately, no amount of sneaking through or pursuading the guards that the fee was unreasonable worked, and we reluctantly lightened our wallets. Eager for more money, they even offered us moonlight hikes (illegal, and clearly stated in the park rules pamphlet), sunrise hikes (also illegal), and a special permission to take photos with our bikes near the ruins (yup, this too, illegal). Bribery! Sheesh... it seemed like one could get away with anything with money. As one guard explained to us, "the two of you are not the usual kind of tourists we receive. Most have more... um... resources."

My criticisms of the Tikal park administration aside, the experience itself justified the arbitrary fee.
Tikal was the largest and perhaps, most important centers of the ancient Maya civilization. Its jungle setting still shrouds more than half of the site, and archaeologists have not excavated or reconstructed a large portion of the ruins. Walking amongst the ruins, one can see trees and thick vegetation consuming large mounds which hint at ancient pyramids. Of the most prominent buildings excavated and reconstructed are six enormous Mesoamerican stepped pyramids and numerous carved stelae.

My mind racing the whole time, walking up the pyramids and strolling through the ancient thoroughfares brought me back to countless archaeology courses where I would routinely nod off at the highly technical descriptions of the sites. Somehow the sensual intake of Tikal and its surroundings made those lessons easier to grasp, and I enjoyed bouncing off numerous discussions with Damian and some other travelers we had met. The small guide to Mayan culture I brought with me made perfect sense, but I was also glad that the more time I spent thinking about what we know about Mayan culture, the more questions seemed to arise, of which I had absolutely no idea how to answer.

Reluctantly returning to our campsites at the end of the day, Damian and I spent that evening after dinner silently gazing at the vast canopy of stars that peeked in between the dense treetops of the Mayan forest. Questions, I concluded, often felt better than answers.

Retracing our steps from the jungles around Tikal, we made our way southwards once again, our next destination being Cóban, the high mountain town famous for its coffee. The ride into Cóban also meant confronting the infamous Guatemalan highlands head on. There is a local legend around these parts of the country. Apparently, when the first road engineers arrived with the intent of putting up a navigable road network, they were stunned at the sheer enormity of the landscape. Instead of resorting to science and reason and switchbacks, they just turned to their trusty load-bearing burros (donkeys). They let 'em loose and watched the burros rump up the hillside with ease. Following right behind, they constructed the road along the path of the donkeys.

And thus, Guatemalan roads were born.

Struggling up grades of up to 20% (mind you, a 7% uphill grade is usually considered a difficult hill), we quickly exhausted our limited store of curse words to describe the Guatemalan road engineers. The road to Cóban was frustratingly steep, and involved many climbs and descents, thus breaking a trip record for us of climbing over 2,200 meters in one day! As soon as we reached the high mountain town, we checked into the first ramshackle hotel we found and brewed a cup of coffee to calm our rattled nerves. The next day was no better. This time, the road deteriorated further and we found ourselves cycling the worst road we had ever encountered! It was a freshly cut dirt road from the sandstone mountainside. As trucks passed by, they kicked up a plume of dust and black smoke that choked my lungs. The road being under construction, we had to negotiate large boulders, lifting our bikes and gear over our shoulders to clear the obstacles, and rush along sections where construction crews and Caterpillars were demolishing the local mountainside.
Riding alongside these infrequently traveled roads, however, also gave us the unique opportunity to interact on a different level with the scores of indigenous Maya people. At each settlement, we would try and learn some basic phrases of the local language. 'Usa watch! Ech chi na na ga!' we´d casually say to the local men and women strolling along the trails. Unfortunately, this proved to be remarkably difficult. It seemed that each valley had a different language, at times completely unrelated and foreign to the other. For most of these people, Spanish was their second language, and I greatly appreciated their more careful speech and warm smiles.
The clothing of the indigena also changed with each group. While they all had unique patterns, the predominant themes were brightly colored skirts and blouses for the women with an astonishingly intricate weave. As one Mayan lady explained to me, most of the women only own one set of the traditional clothing, taking great care to preserve it for a lifetime!

Following the dirt road out of Cóban, we spent the next five days traversing a multitude of high mountains and river valleys through the towns of Chicaman, Uspantan, Sacapulas, Santa Cruz del Quiche, Chichicastenango, and Nahualá, eventually reaching Quetzaltenango (or as it is more fondly referred to in the indigenous tongue, 'Xela'). Two days before reaching Xela, I caught a nasty illness, perhaps more from the accumulated fatigue than from anything else. I tried to fight it off with cups of tea and the good old 'just ride' method, but as I arrived in Xela, I had noticeably lost a good deal of weight and was coughing intermittently.

Fortunately, our guardian angels came in the form of a wonderful Guatemalan family. Miriam Isabel Bartlett, the matriarch of a progressive-minded family, invited Damián and I to their home. The hospitality that Miriam and her daughter Marta Isabel showered onto us was unforgettable. For the first time in months, we felt like we were in the company of family, and she took care of us like a mother! Bountiful home-cooked meals, real laundry, a warm shower - these were the simple things in life that we felt immeasurably grateful for.
A strong and free-thinking woman, Miriam and I spent long hours discussing Latin American politics, social work, and development systems in Latin America and across the world. Her daughter, an equally spirited medical student at the university with a cosmopolitan world-view, shared with me her hopes and dreams of transforming the medical system in her country. All in all, the few days I spent in their company helped me recover from my illness, broadened my perspective immensely, and most importantly, left me with a warm feeling inside of having forged a lasting relationship.

After Damián and I both felt sufficiently ready to forge ahead, we set our sights for Lago de Atitlán, an enormous highland lake nestled perfectly between three imposing volcanos. As we penetrated the surrounding hillside, we were sacked in by fog and clouds so thick that we were unable to see just a few meters ahead. This proved to be exhiliratingly risky and dangerous, not to mention - fun - as we carved down the steep hillside, descending a million curves, eventually dropping below the cloud level to the lakeside town of San Pedro de la Laguna.

In San Pedro de la Laguna, once again, I ran into my friend Denise, with whom I had crossed paths several times throughout Chiapas. One look at the aqua-blue waters of the lake, the calm and tranquil village setting, and the daily breaths of clouds that embraced the nearby volcanos like passionate lovers convinced Damián and I to pause for a few days before continuing on.

As it followed, the next few days involved very few things other than lounging on one of the lakeside hammocks, diving off large boulders into the mystery of the lake, and exploring the narrow footpaths that carved serpentine tracks through the local villages.

San Pedro is an infamous international hang-out, drawing a fair collection of dread-locked, guitar strumming counter-culture that does its best to co-exist with the local indigena. The locals have responded remarkably. One day, as Denise and I were strolling casually along one of the crooked footpaths in the nearby village of San Marcos, an elderly indigenous lady approached us with a large basket over her head, presumably filled with delicious local pan (bread) or an enticing selection of fresh tropical fruits like the rest of the indigenous ladies. Instead, her inquiries were, 'hongos? hongos?'. She was selling psychedelic mushrooms!!!

The tragic thing is that, due to the recent influx of tourists, incidents of crime and drugs have also risen dramatically in the area. Conversations with the local villagers in San Pedro de la Laguna revealed to me their conflicting views; while some saw tourism as something of a plague that brought quick money and drugs, and threatened local customs and religiosity, others saw it as a promising path towards economic prosperity. As it remains, it is clear that Guatemala, just a few years now since its bloody civil war, is still recovering from a national image of violence and risk-fraught travel, and is thus trying to appeal to the international community as a prime tourist destination. The contrasts are startling and dramatic, much like the landscape.

On my last in Lago de Atitlán, I gazed across the still blue of the lake, contemplating the journey ahead. I was only a few days away from the border to El Salvador, and was trying to fight off the emotions that came along with saying farewell yet again to a place I had grown so fond of. The ground rumbled ominously under me, hinting at the frequent earthquakes and geo-activity in the area.
The next morning, I rose early to greet the dawn. The eastern heights glowed purple, and the lake shimmered to life. I packed my things and bid a sleepy-eyed Denise farewell. The road was calling and I had set my sights across the lake. Damián and I loaded our bikes onto a lancha, one of the daily local boats that chopped swiftly across the lake like a perpetual stone skipping over the water. Within an hour, we were stumbling down the rickety docks on the other side of the lake and snapping a million pictures as a feeble way to say goodbye.
Fresh and well-rested, we rode that day through rural roads and farmlands, doing our best to avoid the busy and polluted Panamerican Highway. As we winded slowly through the landscape, giant volcanos peered from the sky, and billowing clouds assaulted their ramparts. First, Volcan Tolíman, then Acatenango, then Fuego, then Agua - each guarded the terrain like sentinels, still seemingly asleep as humans migrated to its flanks to set up innumerable villages and hamlets.

The spectacular scenery soon gave way to the majestic colonial architecture of Antigua, the colonial capital of the Spanish empire in antiquity. Battered over the years by ferocious earthquakes and volcano eruptions, the capital was moved to its present site in Guatemala City, thus preserving the colonial charm and mountain-air of Antigua. The old cathedral, in particular, was a spectacular sight, and a faded reminder of Guatemala´s colonial glory.

That night, as Damián and I were strolling down the cobblestone streets flirting with the local women, we heard about a live-performance at a local bar by a few of the remaining ensemble members of the Buena Vista Social Club, the legendary Cuban jazz band! We couldn´t believe it - in an instant, despite the day´s long and tiring ride, we found our way through the city streets to the performance. And it was all free!!!!

As we arrived, we caught a whiff of the smoke filled room and the smell of sweet rum, and in the hazy background was Ignacio, now a living legend, thundering the room with his percussions. We had drawn the company of two girls to our table, with whom we were largely uninterested in, given the spectacular ambience of the music. The next two hours was an experience of a lifetime, concluded by celebratory high-fives between Damián and I as we stumbled back to our bikes with giant smiles plastered to our faces.

The next morning, we departed before dawn to hike up the slopes of the nearby Volcan Pacaya, reputed to be the most active volcano in the country. The forest cleared quickly and soon we found ourselves on a molten moonscape with the towering cone of the volcano above us. The rumors were true: steam and smoke bellowed from the perfect cone of the volcano in an alarming frequency. Our guide, Pablo, pointed to a lava field below and started making progress to the splotches of molten red lava. As foolhardy adventurers, we followed without question!
'Nowhere else in the world,' he reported, 'can you walk on a lava field like you can here in Guatemala.' Pablo was proud that Guatemala harbored none of the safety procedures or park regulations that other countries would have enforced. The walk into the lava field was thrilling, and we got within touching distance of freshly surfaced lava, but it was slightly disconcerting to know that accidents did happen and that even a minor eruption while we were in the fields would spell bad news. The most common incident, however, was nothing more serious than burnt footwear.

From Antigua, we took a long and blistering descent into the Pacific lowlands. We hardly pedaled as the road led us along a smooth downhill and we saw the horizon shimmer once again, hinting at the intense heat waiting for us in the lowlands. Nearing darkfall, I found my way greedily through the sanctuary of Monterrico to the ocean and jumped into the waters of the Pacific, after over a month and a half since the last time I had done so in Oaxaca.

Our last night in Guatemala was spent scratching our ankles profusely and slapping our feet because of the plague of insects and bugs that seemed to infest the lowlands. No amount of prayer or goodwill seemed to chase the bugs, so we retired early, eager to face the next day and cross into the 4th country of the trip: El Salvador.

Stay tuned for the next update, which will cover the distances of El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and Panama, as well as the time I spent with my beloved twin sister, Karla. More roaring volcanos, more colonial towns, more embittered poverty, more revolution, and more friendships forged.

-----
Acknowledgements:

the random strangers on motorbikes out of Bethel: for gifting us with ice-cold water in the unrelenting mid-day heat.
Nike, Kati, and Bo: for the excellent company in Tikal.
Josue: for your kindness and hospitality in Chicaman.
Kathrin and Phillipe: for raising our spirits and for the wonderful encounter atop Alaska Pass.
Miriam y Marta Isabel y familia: for your immeasurable hospitality and kindness in Quetzaltengango. Thank you for opening your doors and your arms to us when we needed it the most!
Carlos de Aldeas Infantiles: for helping us get through safely to Alaska Pass.
Buena Vista Social Club: for the unforgettable musical performance you put on in Antigua!
Siri and Hilde: for all the laughs and memories atop Volcan Pacaya!
Topps and the crew at Hostal Los Amigos: for all the free drinks and the free food to satiate road-weary travelers!
Maritza: for the bountiful licuados during our last day in Guatemala.
Señora Julia: for going the extra kilometer by mailing my postcards and for making the best and cheapest licuados in the world!
Denise Ellensohn: para siguiendo a su rumbo en la vida y para su increible amistad.
Damian Lopez: para su hermanidad y buena onda por el camino.

Robbed!

2008-05-23T16:09:00.006-06:00

The intense rains of the tropical rainy season lulled for a few moments after a day of relentless pouring. I had just finished a wonderful conversation-studded Peruvian dinner with a new friend, Pamela, and my wonderful couchsurfing host, Rachel.

Their homes were just a few blocks apart, so Rachel and I walked Pamela to her apartment to bid her farewell. I had nothing more than an umbrella, my wallet, a few coins in a pocket, my ever-constant travel diary, and a few precious gifts Pamela had given to aid me in my quest (a pair of handmade Nepali wool gloves for the Andes, an embroidered purse for depositing money to aid foundations in Nepal, and a silk kata, a traditional Sherpa scarf used for greetings and blessings on long journeys or farewells).

After dropping Pamela off, Rachel and I took the main road to get back home. The air was fresh from the recent rains, and the grass was damp beneath our feet as we crossed the nearby park to the main drag. We passed the American Embassy in Costa Rica, well lit and heavily fortified like a military base. It was the most imposing building in the whole city and there were armed guards at every entrance.

We strolled a few meters down, still reeling in the good vibes from our wonderful dinner and making fun of the bright yellow neon arches of MacDonalds, one of the most familiar symbols of multi-national capitalism of our time.

We saw three men approaching us from the other direction. One of them was walking a bicycle. When they got closer, it was apparent that they were just young boys, perhaps 18-21 years of age. They said something.

I thought they were greeting us, and replied in a jovial manner, '¡buenas noches!' Almost everyone greets each other in Latin America, even strangers.

They stopped and surrounded us, murmuring something rapidly. I didn´t understand. They said it again, but I still didn´t understand. I offered them my umbrella as a joke and tried to push through the guys, but he stopped my progress.

'Tengo un pistol, tengo un pistol,' one of the guys kept repeating.

Then Rachel and I looked at each other, and we knew that we were clearly being robbed. I didn´t see a weapon, and neither did Rachel, but with the three guys surrounding us, I found it imprudent to fight back.

I tried to diffuse the situation by responding in Spanish that we didn´t have any money and to leave us alone. Then one of the guys placed his hands on my pockets searching for something. Fearful that he might take my diary and Pamela´s gifts, I took out my wallet with the intention of handing over all the cash.

Instead, as soon as I pulled out the wallet, one of them grabbed it, and without even inspecting it, and signalled to the rest. In an instant, they were gone! The three cycled off on one bike, like mischievous youngsters scrambling away from the police after saying a bad word.

So what did I lose? I had just taken out cash earlier in the day for the rest of Costa Rica (somewhere around $80 in colones). I had my bank card. In a secret compartment, I had hidden $100 in traveler´s checks, a driver´s license, and 500 Mexican pesos (about $50), to be used only in emergencies. Then, there were random cards and notes of encouragements from friends along the road.

Now that a few days have passed, my reflections on the incident are as follows.

First, the positive things:

My load is lighter now. All those extra things I guarded in my wallet besides cash and cards have now been liberated.
I am safe. I am grateful that the altercation did not escalate into a fight, with guns, knives, or any sort of weapon. Neither Rachel nor I were hurt by the robbers.
I learned a valuable lesson: I will never carry so much cash at one time; I will never let my guard down, even in places that seem safe and secure.
Cash is paper and cards are plastic. Thats it. Nothing more. Had any of my gear or equipment been stolen, it would be much more difficult to find replacements. Money can be earned, and I will NEVER let a lack of funds deter me from my goals.
The whole experience made for a bonding experience with my friends in San José - we shared our sympathies, and then quickly resorted to joking about the experience, of course, ALL of us learning a lesson from it.
Petty theft hasn´t stopped me before. And its not going to now. All of the people I have met in Costa Rica (and all of Central America) have been very friendly, extending their help to me beyond imagination, and I am not going to let this isolated incident tarnish my view of these wonderful people. Ticos are no more dangerous than Nicas or Mexicans or Americans. Good and bad people exist in every society.
All of my cards and travelers checks were canceled without any hassle. Whats more, my bank is sending a new card expedited, straight to Costa Rica, for FREE!
The incident happened a day after my twin sister, Karla left. I am glad she did not have to experience such a thing.
My diary was left unscathed... woot!
I´m excited and motivated for the trip ahead, and VERY ready! Yay - onwards!

Now, the bad stuff:

The roughly $130 in cash was about 14-18 days of my budget, which would have propelled me all the way to Panama City. Thats more than two weeks of traveling!
I have to wait an extra few days in the not-so-scenic city of San José before continuing along the journey.
I was in the middle of an awesome conversation with Rachel about the effects of McDonalds in third world countries! And it was cut short! grrr...The thieves were on a BICYCLE!!! I thought that device could only be used for good.
The thieves might rob other people in the same fashion.
The thieves considered threatening and robbing people to be a good thing to do.

So even though this whole incident is unfortunate, I am not at all depressed or upset about it! No tears were shed, and I whined to no one. I am in the middle of a voyage that I dreamed about my WHOLE life, and each day continues to fill me with amazing experiences of growth, knowledge, experience, and friendships. Is it inconvenient to be short of cash and behind budget? Of course! But far worse things happen to people each day in much safer places. Life goes on. Each time I get drenched in the rain, I know that the sun will shine very soon. The road ahead is glittering in my imagination... more grand vistas, more friendships and farewells to shed tears for, more tailwinds, and more cycling!

Lets go at it together!

Gratitude - Music Sweet Music, I Wish I Could Caress It

2008-05-22T09:46:00.000-06:00

Dear Friends,

I want to extend my thanks to all of you for helping bring music back into my life.

My sister Karla presented me with a Baby guitar just a few weeks ago, and ever since, I have not been able to put it down. It has since accompanied me on my sojourn into Nicaragua and the island paradise of Ometepe, Volcan Maderas, and all throughout Central Costa Rica.

After spending 6 months of traveling - from Los Angeles, CA to San José, Costa Rica - without a musical instrument, I was beginning to feel a cavernous longing for expression. I bought a harmonica in Baja California, which helped ease the long sections of journey through flat straight roads when I could it up and sing myself ballads. It also helped in entertaining local kids during rest stops. Still, it wasn´t quite the same.

Yesterday, a friend here in Costa Rica taught me how to devise a simple system of making a harmonica holder with a coat-hanger, which now allows me to play the guitar and the harmonica at the same time -- Bob Dylan style! What a beautiful world it is, indeed!

Needless to say, the past few days of waiting for my stolen bank cards have been spent mostly harping away on the Baby and writing a new selection of songs that have been swimming in my head for the past few months.

Perhaps, some time or distance aside, we shall all be able to get together over a warm campfire and celebrate in the joy of singing once again. With the new guitar, for some reason, I don´t quite feel so far away from every one of you.

Thank you, thank you, thank you...

A few days ago, I reluctantly bid farewell to my sister and gave her a care package to deliver to all of you with a small note for each one of you. Over the coming days, I hope this all reaches you safely.

I hope to travel with the new guitar all the way down to Patagonia, 'the end of the world,' regardless of the added weight. My friend Damián, a fellow long-haul cyclist poked fun at the monstrous load I seem to be carrying now in my beloved Yak trailer; what I´ve grown to learn about myself recently, however, is that music now is probably just as important in my life as a spare tire, or a collection of photos, or a wistful revery of magic moments of the past.

After all, aren´t we all carrying a heavy heavy load?

See you in the next bend along the river!

Namaste,

Japhy Dhungana

San José, Costa Rica

Trip Report: Stage 3 - Southern Mexico

2008-04-10T10:37:00.017-06:00

California to Patagonia: A Cycling Expedition
Trip Report
Stage 3 - Southern Mexico
April 10, 2008

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

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."
--
Mark Twain

Today, I gazed across the aqua-blue waters of Lago de Atitlan in Guatemala as my bicycle odometer measured 6,000 kilometers of cycling across Latin America. A series of misadventures and life-whizzing-under-my-two-wheels feeling prompted me to take a moment and reflect on the portion of the journey I had thus completed through Southern Mexico and Guatemala. It was by far, the most exhausting experience I have ever immersed myself in: physically and mentally. And by far, the most rewarding.

On February 26, I bid farewell to Martina and my newfound family in Colima after nearly a month of experiences off the bicycle.

Riding through the picturescape beaches of Michoacan was a dream. In a rare display of common sense and reason, the coast highway actually followed the coast, and there was a distinct absence of traffic and cities. The only settlements were small villages, none of which appeared on my map.

I ended my first day of riding in Maruata, a tiny Pomaro Indian village. It didn't have much in the way of tourist infrastructure, and I was happy enough to pitch my tent under what passed for a palm palapa overlooking the steep bluffs of rock that lined the coast. I struck up a conversation with one of the villagers, Pablo, and we spent a long evening exchanging stories of our entirely separate journeys. He had no idea where Nepal was, no matter how much I tried to explain, which included maps drawn on the sand and images of rugged mountains, he couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that I was not from Mexico. In the end, I walked away with many new words in my Nahuatl lexicon (the principal language of the Aztecs, and of numerous indigenous groups in Mexico today).

In fact, I also learned that a majority of the communities along the Michoacan coast spoke Nahuatl, and as such, that section of the Pacific coast was righteously bestowed the title, "Costa Nahuatl."

After leaving the solitude and tranquility of Michoacan, entering Guerrero proved to be a shock! Giant cities appeared once again, and the traffic grew considerably until it reached its climax in Acapulco, where it was the worst I had ever experienced in the trip thus far. I also had my first collision with a car, but thanks to my helmet and rear-view mirror, both Bucephalus and I walked away with nothing more than a few scratches.

In Acapulco, I was shocked at how much the tourist economy had affected the city. Spring break was only a week or two away and all the bars, hotels, and restaurants had giant signs welcoming the imminent onslaught of thronging college undergrads from the US. Just for kicks, I stopped in a tour agency and inquired what an average tour package for a week of partying would cost for most students. It turns out that it was just about the same amount that I was spending for my WHOLE trip! This made me feel great!

Campsites along the coastline are also worth commenting on. From meadows along coastal estuaries with iguanas and hundreds of tropical birds, to beach camps, to coconut plantations, I found no trouble each night finding a place to call home.

My spanish improving, for the first time, I was also able to connect on a deeper level with the people I encountered. The further South I rode, the more I met people whose lives had been drastically affected by globalization and economic interdependence with the US. Many folks shared stories of working in America supporting their families in Mexico. The ones that had returned to their native villages seemed to radiate much more happiness and satisfaction being surrounded by their friends and their family rather than being in a distant country without a supportive community network where they were treated as second-class citizens.

I was shocked to find entire villages with a distinct absence of men, most of whom had gone off to America for employment. It is incredible how often, a handful of relatives working in the US can support their families thousands of miles away. This was not just in one or two places but everywhere I went. If you´re reading this from the US, check it out yourself by striking up a conversation with a Latin American service worker - at the local fast food joint, or your personal gardener, or a family nanny. As long as you don't have convictions of turning them in to the Department of Immigrations, I'm sure you can gain their trust. The story of their illegal border crossing alone will blow you away. Remember that although in the US these folks may just be a lowly Taco Bell bathroom cleaner, but in Latin America they are idolized like rock stars as the $300 to $500 they send home per month can support an entire village.

Entering the state of Oaxaca, I spent my first rest day in over two weeks in Playa Mazunte. I crossed paths yet again with Jesse and Sherilyn, two original members of the Pleasant Revolution crew. Our second encounter was promptly celebrated by a night of peaceful camping along a hidden cove in the beach with bicycles, musical instruments, and local vegetables strewn mercilessly around. It was a wonderful feeling to be surrounded by music in my life once again after such a long time.

After the Oaxaca coast, I decided to take a major detour by heading into the Sierra de Miahuatla to visit some mountain communities and the magic of Oaxaca City. Climbing to a height of 2800 meters from the coast, I spent a whole day spinning very slowly up grinding hills until I reached San Miguel Suchixtepec, a mountain-top Zapoteca Indian community. While searching the nearby woods for a campsite, Arminio and Alfredo, two young men living in the village invited me to set up camp under their watch behind their house, which commanded a grand view of the entire Sierra and the local cathedral! Random acts of kindness such as those expressed by my new friends definitely rank high on the most rewarding aspects of this journey.

The next day, I continued climbing the Oaxacan mountains until I reached San Jose del Pacifico. This village is known for its indigenous usage of hallucinogenic psilocybin mushrooms. As soon as I pedaled into the main drag of the village, old señoras in traditional garb with baskets would ask "¿hongos? ¿hongos?"

Following the advice of a friend I had met in the Distrito Federal, I asked them where I could find the residence of one Doña Catalina. An elder Española lady, Cata, as she preferred to be called, was well known in the village as an eccentric character - perhaps much more well-weathered teacher, musician, poet, astrologer, shaman, and healer than anything.

I found Cata sitting in her front porch engaged in a lively conversation with a few others. She welcomed my bicycle and I before I could introduce myself. My original plan was to spend a night in the village then continue on, but after a few moments with Cata, I decided to chain Bucephalus up to a nearby tree and do nothing but share storie with her and the folks at her home for 2 days.

Thanks to Cata's unique way of making everything seem profound, I left the magic of San Jose del Pacifico with a healthy proportion of confusion and illumination of my journey ahead.

After negotiating the requisite traffic of the city, I soon entered Oaxaca City. Cycling along the cobblestone streets of the Centro Historico with no clue as to where to go, I saw of youth hostel where I decided to check in for the night. After not having paid for a night of accomodations with hotels or hostels on the whole trip thus far, it was incredible how comfortable a real bed felt!

Before I could get very comfortable, I said my farewells to the quick friends I had made at the hostel and rode the short distance to the archaeological ruins of Monte Alban. In a dazzling feat of luck and word-play, I somehow managed to trick the security guards into thinking I was a local student and got in for free!

Overlooking the entire Valley of Oaxaca, the mountain top ruins of Monte Alban were breathtaking! An ancient Zapotec ceremonial center, Monte Alban was one of the most powerful of religious sites in its heydey. Largely a warring expansionist empire, the Zapotecs were aligned with sites as far north as Teotihuacan, near Mexico City and the mountain-top site gave them a particular dominance over the surrounding landscape.

As ruminations of ancient Pre-Columbian life criss-crossed my mind, I struck up a wild idea of camping somewhere near the ruins. It was largely deserted and the few security guards present seemed to be very lax with their duties. Moreover, inspired by my friend Eric's recent accounts of camping along ancient ruins he had discovered on the side of the road, I had a burning desire to do just the same. I reconnoitered the environs and struck up a friendly conversation with one of the security guards, who informed me that during the night, only one or two vigilancias (voluntary security guards) patroled the area, giving me an idea of the kind of hurdles I would have to navigate.

Turning along a dirt bend off the main road connecting to Monte Alban, I found a rough dirt hikers trail that I followed with my bicycle. At times, I was forced to walk my bike up the steep dirt track, but I eventually found myself at the periphery of the site, where I gained easy access to a plaza surrounded by several ruins. I selected a patch of grass to erect my tent and spent the fading minutes of sunset gazing across the Valley of Oaxaca.

Just then, a rough looking man with a large machete scared the crap out of me and asked me what I was doing. I delivered a well-prepared speech about how I had traveled half the world on my bicycle to fulfill a life-long dream to visit Monte Alban. He paused and said nothing. Turning to see my bicycle, he disarmed himself and relaxed a bit, mumbling a few words about how as long as I didn't burn the place up or litered trash, he would allow me to stick around for the night. Ahh.... fortune does indeed favor the bold.

The first day out of Oaxaca, I rode into Matatlán. Unbeknownst that it was the Mezcal capital of Mexico, I was stopped on the side of the road by a man with a large sombrero harvesting specimens from an Agave field. A friendly roadside conversation blossomed into an invitation to his family Mezcal distillery to sample hand-crafted Mezcal. Largely overshadowed by its close cousin, Tequila, Mezcal is an alcoholic spirit brewed from the Maguey plant (a type of agave). Unlike Tequila, however, Mezcal still reflects strong traditional roots from the Pre-Columbian era. Hand-crafted in small family farms, it was the kind of drink that prompted me to drink more and more of!

My new friend Neu, an indigenous Zapoteca, walked me through the entire production process and after a few healthy swigs of the good stuff, I stumbled back to my bicycle with a canteen full of Mezcal.

Continuing along, I eventually rode into the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, the narrow strip of land that forms the skinniest portion of Mexico between the Atlantic and the Pacific. Devoid of high mountains, this region is infamously known for being plagued by extreme winds, dust-storms, and intense heat. I saw semi-trucks and large passenger busses on the side of the road tossed flat by the winds. Fortunately, the three days I spent crossing the Isthmus turned out to be a mild spell, with the winds measuring on average about 30 miles per hour. Occasionally a gust would prompt me to lose balance, but I was lucky that it was never quite strong enough to cause significant danger.

Arriving in Tuxtla, I was greeted by the hospitality of Rodolfo and Irving, my couchsurfing hosts in the city. I spent a few blissful days getting to know them and being entertained by their wonderful collection of stories and music. We visited the requisite tourist destinations: el Cañon del Sumidero, Plaza Marimba, and even a run-down Chiapan cantina, where every town drunk seemed to have made a permanent encampment.

After warm hugs and a million farewells, I said goodbye to Tuxtla and pedaled up into the mountains again, reaching the beautiful colonial city of San Cristobal de las Casas. At the central plaza, I saw a familiar face and immediately recognized my friend Damian Lopez, a fellow cyclist heading to Patagonia whom I met in Baja California, almost three months earlier! Comparing our notes on the road ahead, we decided to tackle the remaining distance in Mexico together and head into Guatemala as a team. I was exuberant meeting up with him again and it was a wonderful feeling to connect with someone who had already taught me so much!

The road from San Cristobal de las Casas to Palenque blessed Damian and I with amazing mountain scenery and literally no traffic! However, at the same time, it also cursed us with some of the most hostile experiences we have ever experienced on the trip. We had officially entered Zapatista territory, and perhaps the most politically unstable region in all of Mexico. The Zapatistas are an outspoken anti-globalization, anti-neoliberalism social movement that is based largely on indigenous communities seeking autonomy and control over their land and resources.

Most of these communities are currently on the margin of poverty. Every person we passed either warned us against being attacked or robbed on the road ahead, or, if they were little kids, accosted us for money.

"Regalo me un peso" (gift me a peso), they chanted, to which we would reply with a hearty smile and offer besos and abrazos (kisses and hugs) instead of pesos and regalos. The looks and stares from locals were often unfriendly and we felt very tense riding through the mountains of Chiapas.

I was finally able to unwind as I reached Palenque and resolved to make the most out of enjoying the ruins. From Chiapas onwards to Guatemala, the ruins reflected the remnants of the Maya, perhaps the most famous of all the Mesoamerican groups. The ruins were well preserved and the jungle setting made this my favorite of all the ruins I visited in Mexico.

Throughout Chiapas, I also forged a friendship with a fellow traveler I would cross paths with serendipitously at the most unexpected moments. Denise, an Austrian backpacker who was also taking time away from the first world to learn about herself and her path, had a similar goal of reaching Patagonia. Farewells and encounters seemed to be the theme with Denise; first, we got to know each other in Tuxtla, then we met up once again in San Cristobal de las Casas. By the time I saw her out of the corner of my eye as she was hiking along a forest meadow near the road in Palenque a few days later, I started wondering how often crossings like these happened.

Over the course of watching the rain drizzle over the Chiapan forests, exchanging life-stories, dreams, aspirations, and plenty of long sighs southwards, I felt the now-familiar joys and sensations of friendships realized grow ever stronger. During my last evening in Palenque, as howler monkeys growled sinister noises in the jungle and the rain drenched everything in a foliage of rich green, I invited Denise to share my campsite under a comfortable palm-palapa. Drenched in the warmth of candle-light, I gave her a soft kiss and we decided to part ways one last time, unsure about what the future would hold for both of us.

My last few days in Mexico were spent navigating through the Lacandon rainforest with Damian towards the Rio Usumacinto. Strapping our bicycles on a river boat, we said our final farewells to Mexico... after nearly 4 months, 5000 kilometers, and a spicy river crossing, we entered Guatemala in fine style.

Echoeing the Mark Twain quote I began this section with, I felt myself sailing away from the safe harbor. And it felt good.

Explore. Dream. Discover.

Until next time

Expedition Statistics

Distance Cycled: 5267 km
Days on the Road: 120 days
Days riding: 65 days
Average daily riding distance: 84 km
Maximum Speed: 71 km/h (downhill out of Acapulco, Guerrero)
Maximum Altitude: 5,636 meters (Citlatepetl - El Pico de Orizaba)
Flat Tires: 13
Maximum heat recorded cycling: 122 deg. Farenheit (50 deg. Celcuis!) - nearly each day between 11am and 4pm along the Pacific Coast.
Masked men with machete sightings along rural roads: too many

Acknowledgements

Geraldo, Gina, y Mario: for the excellent company and beers at Maruata, Michoacan.

Gerard, Linda, and Pierre: for nourishing me with dinner and breakfast at the most unexpected encounters all along the Michoacan coastline.

Chris and Marie-Ange Bujian: for the wonderful anecdotes about Nepal and inspiring me to finish the hill that almost killed me!

El Marveloso: for being at the right place and the right time. And for helping me recover, physically and mentally from my accident.

Hilario Hernandez: for re-affirming the goodness of people in Playa Azul with the free drink!

Sol y Fernando: for the good info on the road ahead in South America.

Remy and Luis: for sharing your campsite with me in Acapulco and for treating me to large portions of tacos and beers!

Fabrizio: for stopping by on your motorcycle to see how I was doing in the hot and musty road to Oaxaca.

Jakub Holecek: for all the laughs we shared in Puerto Escondido!

Chandra, Federico, Jo, Alejandro, and Sam: for music, for friendship, and for sharing all of these things to beyond their capacity!

Jesse and Sherilyn: for the wonderful welcome in Zipolite and all of your buena onda!

Duglas: for helping me catch up with all the local happenings and slang in Zipolite.

Arminio y Alfredo: for providing me with a safe place to sleep in San Miguel Suchixtepec and for all the new words in Zapoteca!

Antonio y Aurelie: San Jose del Pacifico would never be the same without your smiles and good vibes!

Doña Catalina: for all the transformations and learning you inspired in me during my brief stay in San Jose del Pacifico.

Shalui, Ben, and David: for the encouragement and well wishes as I was riding to Oaxaca.

Juliane: for regaling me with wonderful travel stories and for the good company in Oaxaca.

Omar y Luisa: thank you for treating me to an unexpected and delicious meal at the Buffet Economica in Ocatlan, Oaxaca.

Michael and Pia: for the wonderful travel advice across the Panama Isthmus.

Cesar Hernandez: for the giant pollo you packed up to the ruins at Monte Alban to share!

Pedro: for not killing me when you found me camping atop Monte Alban, and for protecting me from the burglars and bandits instead!

Neu and the whole crew at the Tacho Mezcal Brewery: for the delicious mezcal, the tours, and the unique camaraderie that alcohol can inspire.

Raquel and Kobi: for the unforgettable campfire we shared in the Tehuantepec and for everything we shared that evening!

Rodolfo Robles y Irving Niño: for hosting me in Tuxtla Gutierrez, and for all the good vibes in the casa de Irving - all the music, the beers, and the buena onda helped me recharge for the last section in Mexico!

Victor Manuel Hernandez: for your hospitality and kindness in Tuxtla Gutierrez.

Cluud and Manu: for all the adventures throughout Chiapas!

Denise Ellensohn: for sharing your beautiful spirit with me, and for re-affirming my belief that the best connections are realized when we least expect them.

Ame Ramos: for getting me even more excited about riding the Chiapan highlands and for welcoming me to San Cristobal de las Casas.

Michaela and Tómas: for the bongo bashing, fire-dancing celebrations at the plaza in San Cristobal de las Casas.

Proteción Civil de Ocotsingo: for the brotherhood and camarederie you shared with us in Ocotsingo, Chiapas.

Don Israel: for your kindness in helping us out with your Lacandon lodge in our last night in Mexico.

Status Updates

2008-04-09T11:10:00.000-06:00

Apr 1 - tackling the steep hills across the Guatemalan Highlands to Coban and Quetzaltenango.

Mar 23 - in the Mayan ruins of Palenque, ready to cross the Rio Usumacinta to Guatemala for more never-ending rainforests to Tikal.

Mar 16 - past the Isthmus of Tehuantepec... way past, in Chiapas, and enjoying every giant hill along the crooked path.

Mar 11 - very very happy to be bumping around the cobblestone streets of Oaxaca.

Mar 6 - pedaling up big big hills to Oaxaca, Oaxaca.

Mar 3 - in Pinotepa Nacional, Oaxaca, having had enough of the coastal heat and ready for a rest day. Onwards to Zipolite.

Mar 1 - in San Marcos, Guerrero, glad to be far away from the crazy traffic of Acapulco, and back in little pueblos with little old senoras selling fresh bananas.

Feb 27 - dodging iguanas in campsites along the coastal estuaries of Guerrero. 200km to go to Acapulco.

Feb 23 - riding South through the picturescape beaches of Michoacan.

Trip Report: Stage 2 - Central Mexico

2008-02-23T13:09:00.010-07:00

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!

Status Updates

2008-02-23T13:08:00.001-07:00

Feb 9 - descending from the reveries of Citaltepetl (El Pico de Orizaba), 5500 meters, having reached new heights... ever growing.

Jan 27 - in Playa Ahijadero, spending long hours gazing at the surf, sand, and stars.

Jan 24 - Crossing into Colima, and crawling across the open road like a tarantula in the intense heat.

Jan 19 - Resting in Puerto Vallarta after endless hills and too much coco frios.

Jan 16 - Humbled by the warmth and beauty of Escuinapa, Sinaloa.

Jan 13 - Soaking up the thriving local art scene in Mazatlan and getting a lesson in Nortec music... an eclectic combination of Nortegna music fused with electronica.

Trip Report: Stage 1 - Baja California

2008-01-01T22:09:00.002-07:00

California to Patagonia: A Cycling Expedition
Trip Report
Stage 1 - Los Angeles, CA to La Paz, Baja California del Sur
January 1, 2008

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

Happy New Year 2008!

It is now Day 32 of my journey, and I am writing from the beautiful coastal town of La Paz in Baja California. Baja is truly a land of contrasts. Since taking my first steps in Tijuana nearly a month ago, I have experienced extreme heat and freezing temperatures, beautiful landscapes and disgusting trashpiles, coastlines and mountainscapes, deep class divisions, extreme poverty and affluence, and moments of anxiety coupled with whooping high-fives.

After saying the most difficult farewells I have ever had to live through, I rode away from my mother's front door in Los Angeles on November 30, 2007 drenched with a million questions and raindrops. Crossing into Mexico a few days later was the first time I ever subjected myself entirely to the adventure and unpredictability of traveling solo in an unfamiliar place. Self-propelled and self-driven, I now started to look for whatever refuge and reassurance I could find in my poor Spanish and complete uncertainty about what lay ahead.

Fortunately, I quickly discarded the flood of "What the hell am I doing with my life?" type questions and occupied myself with more important matters, like figuring out which road led South, where to get food and water, and nervously forgetting the words to "Let it Be."

Starting out on a mellow pace through Ensenada, I stayed each night with new and old friends, knowing that after departing from Ensenada, the landscape would change dramatically and the desert would vastly overshadow towns and pueblos. For most of the ride through Northern Baja, I was drenched with heavy rains and unrelenting headwinds. Through it all, however, I remain grateful because crossing into Mexico offered me a glimpse into the beauty of random crossings with random people. For more detailed accounts of the ride through Northern Baja, please check out some of the earlier posts in my journal.

Changing time zones for the first on the trip, Baja California del Sur marked my favorite sections of the Peninsula. From the string of historical missions, to the beautiful beaches along the Bahia de Concepcion, to the rugged mountains of the Sierra de la Gigante, I found myself stopping more often for photos and becoming much pickier about selecting the prettiest campsites. Most of all, however, I continued to cross paths with an incredible array of new friends. As I was cursing the wind and taking a break by the side of the road in the grim vastness of the Vizcaino desert before San Ignacio, I met the first cyclist heading the same direction as I. We exchanged a few words and made empty comments about the weather. Then we continued riding together, and between the gusts of semis and trucks threatening to drive us off the highway, I got to know Damian Lopez, an Argentinian scientist who started his ride in Alaska and is heading home to Argentina.

Damian's classic porteno charm and endless repertoire of stories made the remaining 90 kilometers of what was already a difficult day pass by much faster. We quickly grew to become good friends and tacitly decided to ride together for a while. I benefited a lot hanging out with him, and was exposed to much more interesting conversations in Spanish beyond my limited abilities with simple verb tenses and basic topics. Forming a formidable duo now, it was a pretty comical situation, because almost everybody we encountered would think that he was a gringo and that I was a Mexican. Of course, I just played the role of the quiet, laconic dark-skinned guy, while he blabbered off convincing everyone that he was from Argentina.

Just like the classic story of Ernesto "Che" Guevarra and Alberto Granada biking across South America, Damian also taught me an important lesson that with enough sweet-talking and charm, one could find a free place to stay just about anywhere in Latin America. Previously, my strategy was to camp in cactus patches, or when there was sign of meterological funkiness, to ask the local police station for a roof. This didn't always turn out to be the best because police stations weren't always the most peaceful of places to crash in for the night because of their close proximity to the noisy highways. With Damian, not only did we win the hearts of many local ranchers with our stories, but they were always kind enough to either offer their home or recommend a safe spot for the night. This was also a great way for me to make new friends and involve myself in much more interesting conversations than the ones I would previously have. A well traveled cyclist and academic alike, I also discovered in him a brother I looked up to a great deal, and he gave much valuable advice on the road ahead, on bike maintainance, and on how to curse effectively in Spanish.

We continued riding to the Sea of Cortez, passing through San Ignacio, Santa Rosalia, and Mulege. There, we met Amber and Duhane, a Canadian couple riding their bicycles to Cabo San Lucas from Canada. The four of us thus formed what we dubbed "Critical Mass Baja" and rode together as a force to be reckoned with until the end of the day, where we found Playa Santispac, a beautiful cove tucked away on the Bahia de Concepcion. Without much discussion at all, we rode right into a string of empty palapas by the beach and decided to take an extra rest day here. Between kayaking on the warm waters, lazing around all day, and dancing away at an aging 60's hippie party nearby, it was a relief to finally be spending more time in the sea than in the saddle.

Then, as Christmas was drawing near, I set my sights on La Paz, which was still over 400 kilometers away. The group we formed thus split up thereafter, as we all had to maintain a different pace to accomodate our goals for the road ahead. We planned to meet again in La Paz, and so throwing my leg over the crossbar, I pedaled solo into the hils again. I eventually reached Loreto, the first permanent colonial settlement in Baja. As I was wandering around the scenic plaza with no clue as to where to go, I ran into Diane and Lee, who graciously offered me a warm shower and a place to stay in nearby Nopolo. They were among the few traveling Americans thus far who expressed an interest in my trip; the majority of whom just whizzed by in their RV's, occasionally tossing an angry honk while the Mexican truckers were kind enough to provide a much wider berth on the road.

Riding skywards from Loreto, I climbed up a precipitous grade over the Sierra de la Gigante, and after a two more days of crosswinds, cactus patches, and more flat tires, I finally rolled into the windswept bay of La Paz on the 23rd. The relaxed atmosphere along the Malecon - the local paseo over the waterfront boulevard - and the urban sophistication of the city were a welcome commencement to the first stage of my journey. I met Josie and Marie, two vibrant French Canadian sisters (whom I initially mistook as nuns, thanks to the ambiguity of language), and they introduced me to the town and my accomodations. I have since been staying at my friends Davida and Sid's home. After the rugged 1800 kilometer journey which offered rare opportunities to shower, do the laundry, or listen to music, Davida and Sid's place was a godsend, and I am infinitely grateful for their kindness.

Much to my chagrin, however, La Paz, as beautiful and tranquil as it is, was also the place where I had my first experience of theft. Sometime through the veiled darkness of night, someone managed to climb over the front gate of the house and stole my Chaco sandals, one of two pairs of footwear I brought to live with over the next few years. Fortunately, my bicycle and the rest of my gear were safely tucked inside the house, which they were not able to enter. I grieved the next day and vowed to abandon my Nepali ethic of always leaving my shoes outside a home. Never again...

So I'm here in La Paz for another two weeks or so learning Spanish at a local language school. I have kept myself busy exploring the local surroundings and getting comfortable speaking Spanish. Josie, Marie, and a host of new friends here have been incredible at keeping me inspired with their warmth and camaraderie.

The next stage of the expedition will take me across the Sea of Cortez via sailboat to Mazatlan, where I will continue South to the state of Colima along the Pacific Coast. After a much anticipated encounter in Colima with the man who changed my father's life (stay tuned to hear the rest of this tale!), I will continue to Mexico D.F and climb Pico de Orizaba, the highest mountain in Mexico.

The web-site is still undergoing improvements, so please stay tuned as it blossoms to its desired state. As always, email is still the best way to keep in touch, so feel free to write to me at any time. I may not be able to respond right away or write as much as I would like to write, but please know that I think of all of you a great deal during those long moments on the road.

Thank you for taking this journey with me, and I hope you're enjoying the ride as much as I am.

Here's to sending my warmest vibes and positive thoughts for the New Year!

Expedition Statistics

Distance Cycled: 1827 km
Days on the Road: 32 days
Days riding: 20 days
Average daily distance: 91.35 km
Flat Tires: 11
Dog Chases: 93, and counting...

Acknowledgements

Pam: For riding the first, and most difficult miles with me despite the rains, tears, and soaked jeans.

Alex, Iris, and Ivan: For hosting me on my first night of the journey and for the dinner at my favorite restaurant: The Wheel of Life, a vegan restaurant in Irvine. Also, many thanks to Alex for riding to Oceanside with me the next day - it was tough keeping up with you, but I did it!

Tammy Jackson: For your amazing friendship! Thanks for letting me crash at your place and for the tour of UCSD. The champagne went down with glory in Tijuana, and the food was healthier than anything I've found to date in Mexico!

Tank and Sablove: For riding with me during my last day in the US, and seeing me off in Tijuana. I'll miss you guys a lot!

David Roman: For hosting me in Tijuana and for making me feel comfortable in the big city.

Rob Cochran: For all the cervezas, conversations, and compassion you shared during my stay in La Mision.

Bianca Cinelli and Blanca: For hosting me in Ensenada, for the delicious meals, and the homey-atmosphere that I miss so much!

Javier: For waking me up at 3am and scaring the shit out of me, only to invite me to coffee at daybreak and share conversations that I would never have had I not taken this trip.

James: For being the only person to date who stopped at the side of the road to offer assistance while I was fixing a routine flat tire.

Fernando, Elsa, and Juan: For making my stay in El Rosario absolutely unforgettable, even though you may never read this!

Doris and Klaus: For inspiring me and convincing me that you're never too old to LIVE!

Damian Lopez: For everything bro! Crossing paths with you has been one of the best parts of my journey yet, and the best part is that this is just the beginning!

Marco Antonio, Eduardo, and the rest of the crew at Rancho Nuevo Crucero: For the tacos, the drinks, the stories, and the floorspace.

Duhane and Amber: For sharing the ride, the camps, and the smiles while our paths briefly crossed!

Diane, Lee, Peter, and Shona: For your generosity and kindness in taking care of me in Loreto Bay.

Josie and Marie: For continuing to make my stay in La Paz so unforgettable, and for living your lives so passionately in the things you believe in!

Davida and Sid: For so so much! My stay in La Paz has been incredible, and I'm honored to share this road with friends like you.

Crossings in the Baja Desert

2007-12-14T17:14:00.001-07:00

If By Chance You Meet a Friend
- Alexa Goldfarb, moontriber and fellow visionary

If by any chance you meet a friend in the desert...
hold that friendship sacred.
For it is a rare and wonderful thing to spy a creature such as yourself
in that space...
a rare and wonderful thing indeed.
And as you grow in that friendship and love, you will become like a
magnet for others ready to connect with you in their own unique way.
And if you respect each new connection as the first, there will continue to be
Joy in the sight of each other...
as if you were seeing for the first time.
Comfort in each other´s company...
like family.
And within that bond there will be
Growth and strength
Support and forgiveness
Laughter and affection
Kindness and generosity
And it will all seem so familiar...
and new at the same time.

-------------------------------------------

These words seem appropriate now that I have crossed the longest and most remote stretch of desert into Baja California del Sur, crossing the 28th Parallel, officially the furthest point South I have ever been in my life.

If Baja California ever boasts of perfect weather, I will be the gendarme that stands up to declare otherwise. Since my departure from Ensenada, the skies wreaked havoc with rain and heavy winds for five days! That meant five days of rising up to mournful and malicious clouds, and searching deep within myself whether to ride that day or not. Fortunately, I had enough strength and resolve through three of those storm-days to battle headwinds and spin against mud-soaked streets. Perhaps it was for the better, however, that the virtues of patience and reason convinced me to stay put for the other two storm-days. The first, as you know, was in Ensenada, and the second was in the sleepy little Mexican pueblo of El Rosario. I´m probably alive today because of these two forced ¨rest¨days.

Needless to say, the most frustrating thing during that week of the storm was how muddy and filthy it got everything. I spent each evening tending to Bucephalus´chains and dérailleurs, only to find them speckled with mud and grit the next day. I´m happy to report, nonetheless, that as I write now from Guerrero Negro in Baja California del Sur, that both of our gears and bearings and muscles, and hopefully our minds, are all in working order. The weather has also finally cleared, giving me three days of sunshine to help me cross the first of three trans-peninsular desert crossings.

Everyday has been an eventful one thus far, and each moment of this journey brings me to new and adventurous experiences - from my camp sites each night, to the ride itself, but most vividly, the cast of characters I have encounterd along the way have been unbelievably incredible, thus the poem I started out this post with. Crossings in the desert are truly special.

First there was Bianca, in Ensenada. Then, while finding shelter from the nightlong rain in an old abandoned building just outside San Vicente, at 3am in the morning, a figure startled me with a whistle (it seems, everyone here whistles to catch people´s attention, especially when good looking women are involved). After clutching on to my trusty blade and being thrown to full alert, I realized that he was just as startled as I was and that his was a whistle of alarm. I spent a few moments with my still-broken Spanish getting to know Javier, who lived inside a ramshackled house across the field from where I was. He couldn´t sleep and was in a mood to talk, and so we did. He turned out to be unbelievably kind, and was very patient as I explained my journey to him. He told me his story of growing up in Michoacan and coming to Baja California for work. In what struck me as the most genuine display of friendship, he invited me to his home for coffee and breakfast as the sun broke through the clouds in a fiery display of dawn. We spent hours that morning sharing stories, and as soon as the rain lulled around 10am, I hesitantly departed San Vicente, still shocked at this guy´s hospitality!

Then there was Fernando in El Rosario, who engaged me in a lively conversation about God and religion as I was waiting out the storm. Again, inviting me to his little home overlooking the desert, I felt incredibly touched that complete strangers would take the time to get to know me and listen to my miserable Spanish. That same morning, as I was having breakfast at Senora Elsa´s loncheria, the trickle of rain from the morning turned into a veritable flood, bringing the whole pueblo to a wreck. Her little makeshift loncheria was flooded and as her husband frantically shoveled dirt and gravel to channel the water away from their meager belongings, I felt like I was finally taking part in a story of struggle, triumph, and celebration. They explained to me that a storm of such ferocity had not hit Baja for over five years. Regardless, I am thankful I did not ride that day, not just for being alive today, but also for meeting Fernando and Elsa.

The next day, I stocked up on food and water to attempt a crossing of the vast Baja desert. Through post-storm crosswinds and endless hills, I rode into Catavina. The landscape was magically transformed to a rich harmony of giant boulders, huge cardon cactus (which look a lot like Saguaros), Boojun trees (which look like stringy Christmas trees), and Cirios (which look like inverted carrots with flowers coming off the end!). When I finally figure out how to post pictures, I hope these childish descriptions come to life.

That night, and every night in the desert thereafter, I drifted off to sleep beneath a blanket of innumerable stars. With the sweet smell of verdant sage, I was flooded with a wave of memories and emotions - from an endless summer in the Sierra Nevada courting the Milky Way each night, to that special night in the Black Rock Desert with my dear friend Natalie, as the constellations we traced guided each other´s eyelids along the slow and meandering path to slumber.

Amidst the boulder fields and flora of Catavina, teary and exuberant, I thus proclaimed that any place I would ever choose to settle in would be bathed in the symphony of starlight and the simple harmony of sagebrush.

Fortunately, my journey onward from Guerrero Negro bids well - there are two more major desert crossings, a string of historic Baja missions, and beautiful stretches of beaches along the Sea of Cortez I hope to camp on.

Most of all, I await more crossings in the desert and more experiences that seem all too familiar and new at the same time. Amidst it all, thoughts of friends and family and home abound during those long stretches of riding.

If the winds bode well and the hills are kind, I will likely be arriving in La Paz around Christmas time.

Until then, here´s to wishing you all a Merry Christmas.

Happy Trails,
Japhy

Serenading Ensenada

2007-12-07T12:08:00.001-07:00

Day 4:
San Diego, CA to Tijuana, Mexico

Day 5:
Tijuana to La Mision
48 km

Day 6:
Las playas de La Mision y Santa Anita

Day 7:
La Mision to Ensenada
54 km

Day 8:
Ensenada

Total flat tires to date: 4

The past few days transported me from the comfortable environs of the US to Mexico.
After bidding adieu to my friends Sablove and Tank in downtown Tijuana, I spent my first evening with David, a medical student at the local University. My second day in Mexico turned out to be the hardest riding day yet! The road leading out of Tijuana was extremely narrow and big rigs zoomed inches away at a clip that seemed to shake every pebble on the non-existent shoulder! This is also where I got my first taste of frequent flat tires from the debris and scraps on the side of the road. After leaving the dust and pollution of Tijuana, the world opened up and each kilometer brought more smiles. I spent the next night at Rob´s, a couchsurfer in the beautiful coastal town of La Mision. As I was preparing to ride out the next day, one look at the 15 foot waves at the beach, and an inviting grin from Rob with a 6 pack of Pacificos convinced me to spend the day relaxing at the beach and walking around the beautiful pueblo. He introduced me to his friends and it was a wonderful experience practicing my Spanish and getting to know the community.

The ride to Ensenada, although an easy one, presented me with a foreboding warning of malicious weather ahead. Riding through strong headwinds, the day was overcast and cloudy all day, and it was a pleasure to see Bahia todos Santos and Ensenada across the distance. I met up with Bianca, my last couchsurfer for the Baja Peninsula and we spent the rest of the day meandering through Ensenada sampling the best anti-tourist holes and local marisco stands. Bianca is a high school senior with an unlimited enthusiasm for psychedelic trance and we hit it off right away. We drifted late into the night hanging out with her friends, wandering the streets, and making fun of my broken Spanish. The next day I opted to take another rest day, as dawn brought a spell of nasty Southerly winds and heavy rain. It looked like another weather system was moving in, so it was not a difficult decision to continue spending time with Bianca and her sweet mom, Blanca. I was invited to a psy-trance party, but deflected that offer instead to spend more time with Bianca´s friends who were in a punk-ska-cumbia band (imagine that!).

It was difficult leaving Bianca, whom I now call my hermanita... or ¨cachetita¨. She leaves for Sweden next year for college, and she shared her anxieties of leaving her home community with me. Bianca made my stay in Ensenada unforgettable, and I´m happy to be able to have connected with her and hear her stories and perspectives on life.

This morning I leave Ensenada, despite lingering clouds and light showers. It has been a mellow past few days, and I´m looking forward to more spirited riding ahead. This may be my last post for a while, until I get to somewhere comfortable enough to spend a few moments on the internet. The messages of love and encouragement I have received from everybody have been invaluable - I got my first pangs of missing home as I felt lost and confused in the dizzying vortex of what the Spanish world sometimes seems to be. My Spanish is being challenged each day and I feel an inward and outward growth each day.

But now, its time for the road yet again... I´ll be praying for tailwinds, wide shoulders, and strong tires, even though these may be grand illusions rendered amiss next to the beautiful magnitude of the Pacific.

Que te vaya bien,
JD

Day 3: San Diego, CA

2007-12-02T22:14:00.001-07:00

Day 1:
Los Angeles, CA to Irvine, CA
58 miles

So I left Los Angeles on a day of epic rains - I couldn't have asked for a better day to start this journey. The rains cleansed the city of its detritus and I felt a renewed vigor with every splash of water on my face. Sans-fender, I loved riding through the city drenched with life. It was very difficult leaving home; watching my parents disappear in the distance, and crossing the threshold at the edge of town were moments that really made me reflect on the gravity of my decisions.

Pam rode her bicycle to Long Beach with me, which made a lot of things easier. Laughing and then crying, and then reminiscing days gone by, I was very happy to have her along the first few moments of the voyage.

I ended the day fording through heavy streams and fertilizer run-off in the Irvine wetlands. It was how I imagined some of the more eventful and challenging days to be like. I spent the evening at Alex's place and had dinner at my favorite vegan restaurant, The Wheel of Life.

The night ended with my mind spinning in thoughts of the day, friends, the night before, the trials coming up, the lessons coming up. I felt ready. It was good.

Day 2:
Irvine, CA to Encinitas, CA
75 miles

Alex rode with me to Oceanside, reminding me how sluggish I was with my 42 lbs of gear trailing behind me. His exuberant personality and warm company kept me smiling the whole day, as we enjoyed a perfect post-storm ride day. The clouds billowing against the horizon and lazily sauntering over the nearby hillsides made for an image of dramatic contrasts. A swift tailwind propelled us down the road and the crisp air was a blessing beyond measure.

My first fall, a spill down a muddy wash left me looking like a hardcore adventurer. My clothes dirtied and my bike well worn, I was now savoring everything about being on the road.

I spent the evening at San Elijo State Beach with two other bicycle travelers: Aaron, who was riding from Seattle to San Diego, and Bill, who started in San Francisco. I concluded that if every day of my journey turned out to be like this one, I think I made the right decision.

Day 3:
Encinitas, CA to San Diego, CA
26 miles

Met up with Sablove and Tank at UCSD and enjoyed a wonderful ride around La Jolla and Pacific Beach. The sky finally cleared up and it was finally feeling like Southern California again.

We ended my last day in America performing sun salutations as the sun dipped down the not-so-infinite horizon.

Departure

2007-11-30T11:33:00.001-07:00

And thus it begins.

I awoke last night to the gentle caress of rain on my face as I slept in my mom's backyard. With a full and heavy heart, I was still under the spell of gratitude, inspiration, and whatever other virtues there were that surrounded us that evening.

Thanks to everyone who were able to make it out last night for your support and friendship. I am immeasurably grateful and thankful to have such a wonderful community of friends.

If a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, perhaps this is my cue to join the rest of you in taking that step. My journey leads South, but the collective movement of steps we are all taking expands in all directions of the heart, the mind, and the feet.

Please join me on my voyage through this site. Until I find a better way to post stories and pictures, you will find them here.

Here's to wishing everyone the best in all of your endeavors.

Happy Trails,
Japhy
www.jeffdhungana.us

--

"Benedicto: May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds. May your rivers flow without end, meandering through pastoral valleys tinkling with bells, past temples and castles and poets towers into a dark primeval forest where tigers belch and monkeys howl, through miasmal and mysterious swamps and down into a desert of red rock, blue mesas, domes and pinnacles and grottos of endless stone, and down again into a deep vast ancient unknown chasm where bars of sunlight blaze on profiled cliffs, where deer walk across the white sand beaches, where storms come and go as lightning clangs upon the high crags, where something strange and more beautiful and more full of wonder than your deepest dreams waits for you --- beyond that next turning of the canyon walls."

-- Edward Abbey

Charlotte Dome: South Face in a Day

2007-07-01T19:04:00.000-06:00

Climbed the classic South Face route on Charlotte Dome as a dayhike on June 23. Alex Amies and I swung leads. It was easily the BEST climb I have ever done. Daylight fading at the end of the day, we decided to spend the night at the summit and return the next day. It was a cold cold night with lots of shivering, but in retrospect, a LOT of fun!

: ]

Here are some pictures from Alex.

Cloud Stories

2007-06-03T15:34:00.000-06:00

i shall listen
to the stories of the clouds tonight.
  and...
when they're done,
i shall drift
back into the world.

they forbid me to take
  pictures
of the sacred light,
  so...
all i can do is
express my wonder
and fascination,
and convince
one more person...
to go up and
listen
to what they
  have to say.



as life tenses up, and new horizons reach near,
thoughts from days past...
                        - February 2006

The Scales of Desire

2007-05-04T17:40:00.000-06:00

The head is where the cricket sings
The cheeks are what the teeth will bite
The lake is where the lover flings
The other in the dead of night
The lips are where the blood goes in
The eyes are what the fingers claw
Knowing now what might have been
Will the lips tell what the eyes saw?

Knife-Edge Ridges and Endangered Treasures

2007-03-29T14:49:00.000-07:00

After ten hours above 12,000 feet in the High Sierra with a numbing headache, I find myself in awe at the sound of a car-sized boulder tumbling to eternity as my feet dislodge it from the knife-edge ridge. The sound is deafening. A rhythmic crescendo whose cadence grows louder and louder as it tumbles down the steep coulouir. And then it stops - silence.

My partner, Doug, is making his way back to camp. We're done with the day's ordeal - a ridge traverse of Mt. Pinchot and Mt. Wynne, two remote peaks deep in the heart of the Sequoia and Kings Canyon high country. We said our farewells over an hour ago. Something about the jagged ridge leading South to the sharply-pinnacled summit of Mt. Perkins beckoned me. Having come so far into the Sierra in full winter conditions (although just past the cusp of spring), I couldn't pass by a peak that looked so beautiful from so many vantage points throughout the day. Doug has climbed these peaks more times than anyone alive and gives me some valuable advice: "have fun!"

Thankfully, I can still see Doug's comforting red figure making its way across the snow a thousand feet below me. His tracks paused when he heard the thunderous roar as the boulder ripped loose further down the crest. Farther down the ridge, I see the bright yellow dot that is our trusty tent, a welcoming sight. It is perched on a narrow ledge at 11,600 feet with a stunning view of the sharp eastern escarpment of the mighty Sierra Nevada. Bordered by Colosseum Peak and Mt. Acrodectes nearby, I can't help but feel like a dizzy gladiator in some epic battle competing against the mountain gods themselves.

The ridge seems endless. Soon it will be dark. Just as I swallow some desperately deep gasps leaning on my ice-axe and contemplate the idiocy of my struggle, fifty yards away from me, half a dozen bighorn sheep dart across the pointy ridgeline. As the only foreign visitor all winter, I must have startled them. The endangered Sierra Nevada bighorn sheep's numbers dwindled to as low as 125 in 1999, and any sighting of them is truly a treasure! Fortunately, recent protections and policies have provided the sheep favorable conditions for a fighting chance to renew their numbers.

Cautiosly, I negotiate the ridgeline, making my way across the snowfields and intermittent towers of jutting rock. If only I could dart across this terrain just as the graceful bighorn sheep, I'd be on the summit in no time! Judging that they know the terrain best and have probably climbed the peak dozens of times, I resolve to follow their tracks, perform the same moves they do, and follow the same trajectory, except with two limbs and an ice-axe.

They must have grown impatient with me, because it took me forever to catch up to them before they raced off higher again. For the first time all day, I smelled my first scents: fresh poop and alpine bighorn piss at 13,000 feet! It is clear now who is more comfortable traveling across this territory. I'm not the only one who lustfully wishes to call this place home.

I soon reach the summit. I thank the bighorn sheep for their kind directions. The shadows grow longer and longer as I embark on the long journey across the ridge back to camp. Doug greets me with warm smiles.

It soon becomes dark. The moon is a silvery strand of an eyelash, barely visible in a thick veil of stars resting amidst the black velvet of night. Today was the best day of the whole year. I pray for more to follow.

What a perfect weekend in the mountains!

The Approach:

The Climb:

Tent Life:

The Peaks:

Love is a Broken Sonnet

2007-02-15T02:56:00.000-07:00

Love is a Broken Sonnet

So there are the hearts, the candles
the chocolate and the jewelry
we use to quantify and exemplify
one's love for the other.
Valentine's, the essence of romance
the prophecy of ideal love.
Yet aside the furnishings and generous giving,
lies the path many seem to miss.
Romance is humanity's adventure
through unforgiving time. Unbridled
and unabashed against all odds.
Just as there is no mother's day,
Valentines should be everyday.

-------------------------------------

I wrote this piece on this same Valentine's evening of 2003 as a naive high school senior, eager and optimistic to be thrust headlong into college. My experiences with love have since journeyed through the heights of pure ecstasy, forever strengthening my fragile ruminations of happiness, to the dark personal depths of loneliness.

Through it all, I've learned that love is something to be cherished. I'm not as disapproving now of Valentine's Day as I was four years ago, when I first pledged to shed a critical eye on the disgustingly commodified world of contrived holidays like Christmas and Valentines. I realize now that there are indeed some genuine expressions amidst the symbolic cloaks of flowers and hearts.

Still, I look back at the most eventful four years of my life and recount moments where it seemed like time truly stood still. Regardless of all the moments of doubt I can recount, I always keep in mind those special moments where I have felt that life is indeed more beautiful than I can ever imagine. Its moments like these when I feel more alive than ever: when staring across a mountain vista, reaching my arms out and turning my mind outward to an infinitesimal vision of peace and hope, to sharing the company of good friends and lovers, turning my arms inwards and wrapping them around comfort and intimacy.

Sometimes when I sleep, I envision myself falling back in midair, wafted along by my natural state. I'm four years ahead in the future, looking back, reveling in new experiences of love and adventure and happiness and hope. Still in my dream, I drift on, waking at the feet of dazzling emotion. Life is good.

iPoison + iWaste

2007-01-06T21:24:00.000-07:00

-- Be Aware --

The Relics of Empire

2006-12-28T10:40:00.000-07:00

Happy Buy Nothing Day!

2006-12-26T09:53:00.000-07:00

HAVE LESS, LIVE MORE: BUY NOTHING CHRISTMAS

RECLAIMING THE SEASON: Those of us who shiver at the thought of hour-long line-ups and $5 gift tags finally have something to rejoice about over the holidays: fed-up citizens and social activists from across the world are inviting everyone to take part in Buy Nothing Christmas.

Inspired by the international successes of Buy Nothing Day, and disgusted with the personal debt, spiritual emptiness, and ecological damage that the holiday season now entails, writers and activists began to heavily promote the idea of a downshifted Christmas in the late nineties. Since then, the idea has been taken up by individuals, community groups, churches, and schools in at least a dozen countries, with strongest support in Canada, the USA, the UK, Australia and New Zealand.

Despite the name, the Buy Nothing Christmas campaign is not really about refusing to spend a dime over the holiday season. It’s about taking a deep breath and deciding to opt out of the hype, the overcrowded malls, and the stressful to-do lists. It’s about reminding ourselves to really think about what we are buying, why we are buying it, and whether we really need it at all.

“First and foremost, it’s about restoring authenticity to one the world’s great religious and secular traditions,” said Kalle Lasn, editor-in-chief of Adbusters magazine and long-time advocate of holiday restraint. “Christmas has been warped beyond recognition by commercial forces. It’s about time we took it back.”

Most participants will still exchange gifts, but will opt for recycled, homemade, locally produced, or fair-trade items. Some will excuse themselves from gift-giving altogether, and focus instead on valuable time with family and friends, on charitable works, and on rediscovering older, non-commercial holiday traditions as they also invent a few new ones.

Throughout the month of December, activism-minded participants will be taking two of these new traditions to their local malls and commercial districts. Groups of meditating Santas – dubbed “Zenta Clauses” – are offering stressed-out shoppers free soup, coffee, and a place to rest their aching feet as they take a break from buying. This year, they will be joined for the first time by slow-moving activists in robes and Jesus masks, who will be asking their fellow shoppers one all-important question: “What would Jesus buy?”

- Buy Nothing Christmas Campaign

Buy Nothing Day
Adbusters

dorian

2006-12-09T15:42:00.000-07:00

but the hour is nigh for me to rest,
for another dawn will break shortly
to rise from the ebbing tides of mediocrity
and leave this sullen field of conformity.

I'm saving nothing

2006-11-22T02:12:00.000-07:00

You will be slaves in a castle.
For every kiss there will be a snicker.
For every bottle there will be a pupil.
We are free and can climb mountains,
But for every passport there is an entrance
And for every flake there is a drop.
Grains of former mosaics haunted us
And for every shred there was a sob
And for every sob there was a silence.
For all our freedom we had been chained,
But for every laugh there had been a caress;
But for every love there had been a smile.