11/2/2008
It’s time I began recording the details of my Mexican bike tour, the first 5 days of which I have spent in Cuernavaca with Stephany and her family. It has been good to be back here, in the doting hands of the Spíndola clan. As has become the usual, I was treated like an honored family member with my breakfasts of fresh fruit, bean and avocado tortas and coffee served to me in the garden. I’ve spent the mornings eating slowly and talking to Stephany’s mother Lily, who is never at a loss for words. She is truly a teacher at her core and seems more determined to teach me Spanish than when she was being paid to do so two years ago. (Has it been that long?)
After long conversations with Lily in Spanish, I would lie in the hammock and read or study, sheltered from the mild sun by guayaba and pear trees. My Spanish improves by the day, and there is little I miss in the protracted and fast soliloquy that Lily belches forth. In the garden, we discuss politics, culture, economics, family, travel; we are learning from each other what perspective is had by extranjeros, members of a different culture, a different country. We agree on a lot of things, and sometimes we catch ourselves in stereotypes we have of each other, and both of us are eager to correct the other’s oversimplifications. After a while, Lily busies herself in the house or the garden and I continue my studying.
It’s time I began recording the details of my Mexican bike tour, the first 5 days of which I have spent in Cuernavaca with Stephany and her family. It has been good to be back here, in the doting hands of the Spíndola clan. As has become the usual, I was treated like an honored family member with my breakfasts of fresh fruit, bean and avocado tortas and coffee served to me in the garden. I’ve spent the mornings eating slowly and talking to Stephany’s mother Lily, who is never at a loss for words. She is truly a teacher at her core and seems more determined to teach me Spanish than when she was being paid to do so two years ago. (Has it been that long?)
After long conversations with Lily in Spanish, I would lie in the hammock and read or study, sheltered from the mild sun by guayaba and pear trees. My Spanish improves by the day, and there is little I miss in the protracted and fast soliloquy that Lily belches forth. In the garden, we discuss politics, culture, economics, family, travel; we are learning from each other what perspective is had by extranjeros, members of a different culture, a different country. We agree on a lot of things, and sometimes we catch ourselves in stereotypes we have of each other, and both of us are eager to correct the other’s oversimplifications. After a while, Lily busies herself in the house or the garden and I continue my studying.
Luís, Stephany’s father, is the same as ever: a joker and gentle patriarch that seems to know everyone who crosses his path, and if he doesn’t know them, he manages to start a conversation and they are friends thereafter. He reminds me of my grandfather, possessing a socialability and likeableness that he seems to have been born with, a strange gift that compels every soul who hears his voice to smile and open their mouths in eager conversation. But he is no socialite, no smooth-talking bullshitter. Last year, this man read my palm and told me my future as we sat late at night in a darkened kitchen, smoking cigarettes and discussing fantasmas, ghosts that seem to wander profusely in México. An ex-Army engineer, Luís is now a professor of Spanish literature, and has studied many subjects, including metaphysics. He can manipulate energy. He has seen many ghosts in his life, but he is far from superstitious. “Religion is slavery,” he has said to me. “Religion is slavery and fear, and it forces the people into the bondage of their fears.” It is easy to see, he says, when studying Isaac Newton and Albert Einstein, the way energy works. It cannot be destroyed, it only changes form. And where does it go when it leaves a living body? he asks solemnly, his gold-framed teeth glinting in the soft yellow light. He is one of the primary reasons I get nervous alone in the dark in México, getting up in the middle of the night in the house that Luís built with his hands. There are just so many ghosts.
And then there’s Stephany, still studying medicine, spending 12 or more hours per day in class or at the hospital, and still managing to fit a little fun in her life before coming home and studying all night, sleeping 4 or 5 hours, and waking early to do it all again, every day. Her energy, determination and resilience amaze me. More so than most Mexicans, she feels no limits upon her desires. In spite of the infuriating bureaucracy, patriarchy, corruption and inequity of México, she wants everything for herself: to be a doctor, a traveler, an artist, a musician, and still more. It is common in México to choose a path (or more often, have a path chosen for you) and follow it dutifully. The culture does not encourage spontaneity or big dreams. It needs dedicated laborers to turn the gears of the clumsy system, not broad-thinking, desirous souls with their heads in the clouds. But Stephany is not afraid to disrupt the flow of this system to get what she wants. In México, Stephany Spíndola is considered a troublemaker.
It was with this unique and humble family that I spent my days in Cuernavaca, this year and last year and the one before that. As usual, my stay was characterized by much imbibing of chelas and straining to hear the words spoken to me in a foreign language over the pounding din of a bar’s stereo. We also went to festivities for Día de Muertos and Halloween, and on one day, the parents and I ventured to Tepoztlán where I climbed to Tepozteco pyramid for the third time, and again visited their wonderful market. I’ve predictably had to break somewhat with my vegan diet by eating quesadillas and gorditas with some cheese. And, a bit regrettably, I even ate jumíles, small beetles eaten live that were gathered in the forests outside of Taxco, Guerrero. They taste somewhat like a stinkbug smells, but with a strong shot of spice that explodes in the mouth at the moment the teeth rupture the abdomen. I didn’t like them as much as I liked grillas, grilled crickets.
While in Cuernavaca, I’ve had to track down some tools for my bike that I didn’t have time to purchase before leaving the United States, and also maps of Oaxaca and Chiapas. Now I am totally equipped to begin my journey, lacking only food for the road and fuel for my stove. My intended companion for the trip, Lana, informed me a couple days before I left for México that she would be unable to accompany me. She is a forest fire fighter in California, and was held on her crew because of continuing fires late into the season. But, my bus ticket already bought, I came to México to do the same trip as intended, but alone.
Last night, Stephany and I sat on the rooftop and smoked some marijuana that she’d been given for her birthday (in May.) Lying beneath the low clouds with the Sierra Madre all around, I couldn’t believe what an ambitious and perilous adventure I was about to undertake. For my first bicycle trip, I am venturing to and through one of the most untamed regions of the continent, through areas of great political instability, and I’m doing it all alone. I have a feeling of how crazy this plan is, but perhaps due to my recklessness or uncompromisingly adventurous spirit, the gravity of the plan does not seem clear or immediate. Perhaps tomorrow night when I am in the mountains of Oaxaca, searching for a place to pitch my tent away from the potential dangers of curious or hostile bystanders, I’ll have a greater sense of the reality of this voyage. Until then, I continue to adapt and learn, and hope for the best. There is always the presence of a little bit of trepidation before a trip, especially in a foreign land. And I am aware of the very real possibility of having some of my equipment stolen or being robbed or mugged. But for this first time, on this voyage, I feel like it’s possible I won’t make it back home alive.
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The bus ride from Puebla to Oaxaca was indescribably beautiful, literally breathtaking. There were mountains that I could scarcely believe I was seeing, they seemed to defy possibility. There was no sign of a town for many miles, mostly because there wasn’t any place to put one, and the sierra was covered in agave, yucca and saguaro cactus. I spent a lot of time inspecting the highway to see how favorable it might be for cycling, and it wasn’t bad but definitely unsafe. I understand my route has even less of a shoulder most of the way to Chiapas. In addition to my worry of being accosted by hostile thieves or political guerillas, I’m worried about how safe I’ll be on the highway. Mexican drivers are notoriously reckless, and drunk, and I’ve been having fleeting feelings that I’m in over my head and that I’m not being realistic about the actual circumstances of this proposed voyage. But I’m in this far now, and I can’t turn back. If I can do this, I can do anything.
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After arriving at the bus station in Oaxaca, I set to work reassembling my bicycle. It took some time and a couple of curious onlookers made conversation, but just after sundown, I rode off through Oaxaca City to find one of the cheap bodegas I’d found on the Internet. After a bit of wandering and asking directions, I made my way to the closest option, a few kilometers away. Down a few dark streets (down Ninos de los Heroes de Chapultepec, left on Avenida Crespo, right on Al Fortín, left on Ignácio Cononfort, #108) But no one was home, so I asked at a nearby shop, and they sent me further down the street to an apartment that was for rent monthly. The landlords, who live below, seemed a little confounded by my desire to rent for only one night, and even more so by my plan to ride my bike to Chiapas. But they agreed to let me stay, and brought me sweet pan de muertos and coffee. We chatted for a while, and they asked 200 pesos for the night. This was way above what I was willing to pay, but it was getting late and the dark streets I’d ridden through to get here didn’t seem inviting. I offered 150 pesos (about $13) and they agreed.
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There was quite a bit of climbing to get to El Camerón, but it wasn’t straight up as the man in las Gracias had led me to believe. This was both good and bad: I didn’t have to climb for 20km straight, but I’m also not so high in altitude as to be able to coast down for a long distance, as he told me I’d be able to. I arrived here utterly exhausted, my skin burning in the cruel unforgiving sun. Drenched in sweat, I found a pharmacy (which was little more than a few sundries scattered on some shelves in a dark room) and bought what may or may not be some type of sunscreen. I got a couple of opinions on how many mountains are between here and San Bartolo and decided to have some food and think over whether I ought to head for it today or stay here.
The restaurant I visited served me a huge plate of rice, beans, tomatoes, avocado and tortillas for 25 pesos. While I was eating and studying my map, a man approached me and asked in English how I was doing. His name was Umbérto, and he’d been living in Los Angeles until just this week when he returned home. His English was fairly good, but we spoke mostly in Spanish about his 14 years in L.A., my route, etc. He suggested I try the hotel in town, saying it was cheap. I felt entirely unable to press on any further, even though I’d only done 54km. The mountains and sun had taken every bit of energy I had. So I rented a room for the night for 100 pesos, less than $9, took a much needed and truly rapturous shower, and am going to try to find some internet in town.
My loneliness is really getting to me, and I can’t explain why. Normally, I’m fine to travel alone, I do it all the time. Perhaps it is the unforgiving nature of the terrain, the foreignness of the place, and the emotional drain of such mind-bendingly difficult work. I’m frustrated and I miss Stephany, I want to be in Cuernavaca with her right now. I don’t understand myself, but something about her hits a very tender nerve in me. This experience is freaking me out in a profound way, I’m so lonely and feel so isolated, so far from anything warm, so far from love. My emotions are totally wrecked, I’m sitting in this tiny motel room throwing a fit like a child and I DON’T KNOW WHY!!! I don’t even feel scared, just empty and far far far away.
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I’ve brought myself under a little more control now. I found some Internet in town and emailed my family and Stephany. I filtered and purified some water for tomorrow, and looked at a relief map of the region. It looks like after about 40 km of hills, I’m home free in the flatlands to Tehuantepec and beyond, until the border with Chiapas when I’ll hit another range. It’s 115km, about 70 miles, from here to Tehuantepec. I’m going to see if I can make it tomorrow, like I’d planned originally. The flatlands will be gravy after all this climbing.
I got a message from Adam. I had asked him to call the Lake Dallas court to reschedule my court date, because I’m here and would have missed it. They put me down for 11/17 at 9 a.m., so I must be back in Lake Dallas by then. Honestly, I’m considering making it to Tuxtla Gutierrez or San Crístobal de las Casas and hitchhiking back to Puebla and taking a bus to Cuernavaca. I feel like I’ve got to see Stephany again, but I don’t know if that’s reasonable. In any case, I think I miscalculated my capacity to do this one alone. It’s almost not enjoyable to be so empty and solitary. Yes, I’ve met people and I’m conversing a lot, etc., but it’s not that kind of loneliness. I hate to even think it but I get a great rush of relief and comfort when I think about going home. We’ll see where the road leads me, it could just be exhaustion talking, but I feel like the few hundred miles between Oaxaca and Tuxtla or San Crístobal solo on a bicycle would be accomplishment enough.
11/5/2008
TOTAL FAILURE! I sit in El Comedor La Estancia, across the street from the central bus station in Oaxaca City. This morning, I left El Camerón a little after sunrise. I had gotten a good night’s sleep on the hard bed of the little motel room, in spite of all the bug bites I awoke with in the morning. My muscles ached but I was determined to make it to Tehuantepec by that evening. As I rode out into the cool, dewy morning in El Camerón, I psyched myself up and told myself that my struggles were over and that I was strong and able, able enough to make my goal for the day. Then I could rest.
I passed the restaurant where I had eaten the afternoon before and saw Umbérto opening the patio for breakfast. I hollered at him, and he turned and waved, wishing me good luck and safe travel. Over the Puente El Camerón, around a couple of corners, a brief section of dirt road, and I was back on MX 190. Hopeful because of the assurances of the man in las Gracias that it was all downhill from Camerón, I exploded into the steep rise out of town, sure that after one hill I’d begin a descent. After a switchback, another hill stretched long before me, then another, and another. The guy in las Gracias was un mentiroso, or as we gringos are fond of saying, “full of shit.” In fact, I faced the longest climb yet on the trip. Luckily, the morning was cool and cloudy, and I had some solace from the brutality of the sun. But I was absolutely pouring sweat, which gave me a chill and prompted me to go through almost all 4 litres of water I’d purified the night before.
Finally, after about 17km of climbing, I enjoyed a fairly long descent into the lovely pueblo of El Coyul. As I reached the apex of the mountains I’d been climbing and crossed to the other face, the terrain appeared to instantly metamorphose into a more coniferous, alpine environment. Jungle wildlife abounded. As I sped down the mountain, exotic birds called wildly from all sides, and I would flick my eyes into the trees and see streaks of brilliant yellow, blue, orange, green, huge birds like parrots screaming at me as I whizzed by. I had been seeing quite exotic creatures the day before, like giant iguanas and other brightly colored lizards. But this side of the range opened up into a true biosphere. I grew excited knowing that I was approaching the lowlands, the jungle. Soon, it would be toucans, monkeys, jaguars, and leafcutter ants, the rainforest!
It was with this unique and humble family that I spent my days in Cuernavaca, this year and last year and the one before that. As usual, my stay was characterized by much imbibing of chelas and straining to hear the words spoken to me in a foreign language over the pounding din of a bar’s stereo. We also went to festivities for Día de Muertos and Halloween, and on one day, the parents and I ventured to Tepoztlán where I climbed to Tepozteco pyramid for the third time, and again visited their wonderful market. I’ve predictably had to break somewhat with my vegan diet by eating quesadillas and gorditas with some cheese. And, a bit regrettably, I even ate jumíles, small beetles eaten live that were gathered in the forests outside of Taxco, Guerrero. They taste somewhat like a stinkbug smells, but with a strong shot of spice that explodes in the mouth at the moment the teeth rupture the abdomen. I didn’t like them as much as I liked grillas, grilled crickets.
While in Cuernavaca, I’ve had to track down some tools for my bike that I didn’t have time to purchase before leaving the United States, and also maps of Oaxaca and Chiapas. Now I am totally equipped to begin my journey, lacking only food for the road and fuel for my stove. My intended companion for the trip, Lana, informed me a couple days before I left for México that she would be unable to accompany me. She is a forest fire fighter in California, and was held on her crew because of continuing fires late into the season. But, my bus ticket already bought, I came to México to do the same trip as intended, but alone.
Last night, Stephany and I sat on the rooftop and smoked some marijuana that she’d been given for her birthday (in May.) Lying beneath the low clouds with the Sierra Madre all around, I couldn’t believe what an ambitious and perilous adventure I was about to undertake. For my first bicycle trip, I am venturing to and through one of the most untamed regions of the continent, through areas of great political instability, and I’m doing it all alone. I have a feeling of how crazy this plan is, but perhaps due to my recklessness or uncompromisingly adventurous spirit, the gravity of the plan does not seem clear or immediate. Perhaps tomorrow night when I am in the mountains of Oaxaca, searching for a place to pitch my tent away from the potential dangers of curious or hostile bystanders, I’ll have a greater sense of the reality of this voyage. Until then, I continue to adapt and learn, and hope for the best. There is always the presence of a little bit of trepidation before a trip, especially in a foreign land. And I am aware of the very real possibility of having some of my equipment stolen or being robbed or mugged. But for this first time, on this voyage, I feel like it’s possible I won’t make it back home alive.
------------------------------------------------------
The bus ride from Puebla to Oaxaca was indescribably beautiful, literally breathtaking. There were mountains that I could scarcely believe I was seeing, they seemed to defy possibility. There was no sign of a town for many miles, mostly because there wasn’t any place to put one, and the sierra was covered in agave, yucca and saguaro cactus. I spent a lot of time inspecting the highway to see how favorable it might be for cycling, and it wasn’t bad but definitely unsafe. I understand my route has even less of a shoulder most of the way to Chiapas. In addition to my worry of being accosted by hostile thieves or political guerillas, I’m worried about how safe I’ll be on the highway. Mexican drivers are notoriously reckless, and drunk, and I’ve been having fleeting feelings that I’m in over my head and that I’m not being realistic about the actual circumstances of this proposed voyage. But I’m in this far now, and I can’t turn back. If I can do this, I can do anything.
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After arriving at the bus station in Oaxaca, I set to work reassembling my bicycle. It took some time and a couple of curious onlookers made conversation, but just after sundown, I rode off through Oaxaca City to find one of the cheap bodegas I’d found on the Internet. After a bit of wandering and asking directions, I made my way to the closest option, a few kilometers away. Down a few dark streets (down Ninos de los Heroes de Chapultepec, left on Avenida Crespo, right on Al Fortín, left on Ignácio Cononfort, #108) But no one was home, so I asked at a nearby shop, and they sent me further down the street to an apartment that was for rent monthly. The landlords, who live below, seemed a little confounded by my desire to rent for only one night, and even more so by my plan to ride my bike to Chiapas. But they agreed to let me stay, and brought me sweet pan de muertos and coffee. We chatted for a while, and they asked 200 pesos for the night. This was way above what I was willing to pay, but it was getting late and the dark streets I’d ridden through to get here didn’t seem inviting. I offered 150 pesos (about $13) and they agreed.
The apartment is good sized, with two small bedrooms, a small kitchen, a sort of dining room and bathroom. It rents for 2,500 pesos per month. The previous tenants were Argentine artists, I’m told. I assume because today is the final day of the Día de Muertos celebrations, it’s noisy and there are fireworks going off all over the city. I feel a bit nervous and unsure of myself, but I must press on and adapt to all that comes my way. I just hope the highway is rideable. I’ll be very glad to be out of the worrisome chaos of the city and in the familiar solitude of unoccupied expanses. God, I’m worried about the roads.
11/3/2008
My bike is locked outside the large indoor market of Oaxaca. I’m inside drinking coffee from a clay bowl, sweetened with world-famous Oaxacan chocolate. I’m looking for a frutería so I can stock up before I head for Chiapas. I have a little bread and some water. I’m a little worried about my bike. I don’t have change for this coffee.
11/3/2008
My bike is locked outside the large indoor market of Oaxaca. I’m inside drinking coffee from a clay bowl, sweetened with world-famous Oaxacan chocolate. I’m looking for a frutería so I can stock up before I head for Chiapas. I have a little bread and some water. I’m a little worried about my bike. I don’t have change for this coffee.
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After about three hours of riding, I arrived here in Santiago Matatlán, the self-proclaimed mescal capital of the world. Most of the ride was enjoyable, flat, and there was a narrow shoulder on the autopista. But after the highway split for Mitla, the hills increased and there was no shoulder at all. My left calf began to cramp and I was unable to compete with the hills, and actually had to walk my bike up a couple of them as the traffic screamed past me. It was beyond frustrating and humbling. It was worrisome, that only a few hours and 45km into my first day, my legs were spent and I hadn’t even hit the serious mountains. The weight of my panniers is quite apparent on the climbs.
Thinking (rightly) that my cramping was due to my meager breakfast of a banana and coffee, I stopped in Matatlán for some food. The town seems to have around 2,000 people, with a small zocalo and cathedral. The smell of fermenting agave wafts through the dusty air, and mountains stand high above the town. The streets are paved with concrete, not blacktop or cobblestone, and the blocks are relatively featureless. The town has a strange feel. From this spot, comedor El “Pirul”, where I sit eating my mushroom quesadillas, the road appears to head into the mountains, and the locals tell me it’s about to get a bit hairy.
While sitting here eating, a woman approached me and sat down next to me, asking what I was doing and where I was going. We chatted for a while, and she mimicked what every other Mexican I’ve spoken to has said about the trip: it’s very dangerous, and there are bad people, gente mala, bandidos. The consensus seems to be that I shouldn’t camp. I should find rooms to rent in the villages. Anyway, this woman invites me into her home across the street and shows me the altar she’s built for Día de Muertos. There were many offerings to the dead, like tamales, fruit, beer and mescal, money, etc. A photograph of her dead nephew sat at the center of the ofrenda, colorful regalia dedicated to providing the dead with their favorite things in life, but in the next world. She insisted that I take a photo, and then she gave me an apple and an orange. It was a custom, she said. I feel better having eaten and having experienced such kindness from a stranger.
After about three hours of riding, I arrived here in Santiago Matatlán, the self-proclaimed mescal capital of the world. Most of the ride was enjoyable, flat, and there was a narrow shoulder on the autopista. But after the highway split for Mitla, the hills increased and there was no shoulder at all. My left calf began to cramp and I was unable to compete with the hills, and actually had to walk my bike up a couple of them as the traffic screamed past me. It was beyond frustrating and humbling. It was worrisome, that only a few hours and 45km into my first day, my legs were spent and I hadn’t even hit the serious mountains. The weight of my panniers is quite apparent on the climbs.
Thinking (rightly) that my cramping was due to my meager breakfast of a banana and coffee, I stopped in Matatlán for some food. The town seems to have around 2,000 people, with a small zocalo and cathedral. The smell of fermenting agave wafts through the dusty air, and mountains stand high above the town. The streets are paved with concrete, not blacktop or cobblestone, and the blocks are relatively featureless. The town has a strange feel. From this spot, comedor El “Pirul”, where I sit eating my mushroom quesadillas, the road appears to head into the mountains, and the locals tell me it’s about to get a bit hairy.
While sitting here eating, a woman approached me and sat down next to me, asking what I was doing and where I was going. We chatted for a while, and she mimicked what every other Mexican I’ve spoken to has said about the trip: it’s very dangerous, and there are bad people, gente mala, bandidos. The consensus seems to be that I shouldn’t camp. I should find rooms to rent in the villages. Anyway, this woman invites me into her home across the street and shows me the altar she’s built for Día de Muertos. There were many offerings to the dead, like tamales, fruit, beer and mescal, money, etc. A photograph of her dead nephew sat at the center of the ofrenda, colorful regalia dedicated to providing the dead with their favorite things in life, but in the next world. She insisted that I take a photo, and then she gave me an apple and an orange. It was a custom, she said. I feel better having eaten and having experienced such kindness from a stranger.
But a warm heart won’t get me the next 32km to San Pedro Totolapan, my goal for the day. It’s about 8km to Ocotepec, the next village, so I’ll see how I feel when I arrive there. I definitely don’t want to head past it and not be able to make it to Totolapan, because it’s 24km between the two and absolutely nothing in between. Andele.
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Leaving Matatlán was immediately excruciating. The road leaves the town at a significant grade, and halfway up I had to stop to let my quesadillas settle, meditate in the shade and gasp a few chesty breaths at the profound loneliness of the place I found myself in (in the mountains of Oaxaca, agave and saguaro growing on the mountainsides, the far off sounds of herders scrambling down rocky slopes behind their protesting goats, the cruelty of the sun this far south and this high up) and the simple fact that I am a very long way from anyone I know, not just in distance but in condition. I am very much on my own, and I’ve no chance for help but from my own resourcefulness and the good will of those I meet along the way.
Which is exactly what landed me my place to sleep tonight. After leaving Matatlán, I labored up a mountain with more than considerable difficulty (I was ashamed to have to stop every few hundred kilometers and take a short rest.) Several times, I felt stupid for getting myself into something I was physically incapable of, but knew that this was simply the labor of a first day in the mountains. After almost two hours of struggling for only 9 or 10 km, the road took a downward turn, and I coasted at high speed for almost the entirety of the next 20km. And I have never seen such mountains. It was such a privilege to simply coast down and watch the spectacular creation fly by me as I struggled to control the bicycle. I wondered after some time why I hadn’t been passed by any cars, and it occurred to me that it was because I was traveling as fast as the motored vehicles. After the struggle and frustration of climbing, coasting down a long descent feels like a reward from god.
Eventually the terrain evened out and the agave cultivation resumed. Finally, I came to the tiny poblada of San Pedro Totolapan. I asked a few people if they knew of a place I could stay or pitch my tent, and I was sent to three different places to ask, and each place sent me to still another place to ask, and no one knew where I could rest. I was on my way to the next possible source of information when I saw a sort of hut with a palm frond roof, filled with tires and a fat man on a hammock. I asked him where the gas station was, and as an afterthought, if he knew of a place where I could stay. He told me to wait for his muchacho who had gone into a house across the street. When the guy came out, we discussed my options until he suggested with sudden revelation that I sleep in the hammock in the hut. I was assured that no one would bother me and guys seemed nice enough, so I accepted, but I believe I’ll pitch my tent outside the hut instead. (There are large, strange insects here and it gets rather cold at night.) So I rested a bit and talked with the guys, and learned that I’ve got a bit of climbing to do tomorrow. My hope is that I’ll be more accustomed to the work and it won’t be quite as hard. I know that the first day is always a killer.
I bought a beer and believe I’ll hit the sack soon. I’m surrounded by mountains and can hear traditional Mexican (Oaxacan?) music being played by a large band across a canyon in the residential part of the town. I got sunburned pretty badly today and need to find some sunscreen, and also fill my water bottles. Today I rode 83km, which is somewhere close to my 50 mile per day expectation. Death has been constantly on my mind, perhaps because this trip makes me feel so close to it. The heat, the solitude, the traffic, dead animals rotting everywhere on the roadside with large claws and teeth embedded into the flattened masses of fur, agave, cactus, iguanas, sun, sun, sun, vultures, dry river beds, the rocky dry sierra. This is out of control.
11/4/2008
Last night was filled with more or less fitful sleep, probably due to my sunburn, the incessant passing of vehicles on the highway, and slight nervousness to be sleeping in the open in an isolated Oaxacan pueblo. At one point, I awoke to a pair of footsteps approaching and stopping outside my tent. Whoever it was began nudging the tent and tugging on the guylines outside. “Quién es?” I shouted, and no reply. I asked again. “Que quieres, guey?” Yeah, that’s it. Use some regional slang, for emphasis. “Quién es, cabrón?” A couple more tugs on the guylines and I heard them walk away. I didn’t understand why a couple of Mexicans would walk up to my tent in the middle of the night, tug on the tent body and not say a word to my protests. I fell back to sleep, but was awoken again a couple of hours later by more footsteps approaching. The tugging on the tent resumed, but by this time the moon had shifted and provided a silhouette against the form of the culprit outside. I saw a giant head, long nose and pointy ears craning toward the guylines. It was a donkey, curiously inspecting my tent. I unzipped the tent and ran after him, shooing him away, asking him to leave me alone and give me some peace.
At sunrise, I made a breakfast of avocado, bread, a banana and orange. While cutting the orange, I slashed a deep cut into my left ring finger. It bled forever, and I’ve had to ride all day with a bandana wrapped tightly around it. Every couple hours, I’d remove the bandana and the finger would go right on bleeding again, so it’s been wrapped all day.
Most of the way to San Juan Guegoyachi was a mild descent, but after that it was a long and difficult climb up to Las Margaritas. After that, a refreshing descent. Now, I’m having a soda pop in San Jose de Gracia. I believe I have a few kilometers along the river, which should be more or less even terrain, but a man here told me it’s a great climb to El Camerón, which is still 36km short of my day’s goal of San Bartolo.
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Leaving Matatlán was immediately excruciating. The road leaves the town at a significant grade, and halfway up I had to stop to let my quesadillas settle, meditate in the shade and gasp a few chesty breaths at the profound loneliness of the place I found myself in (in the mountains of Oaxaca, agave and saguaro growing on the mountainsides, the far off sounds of herders scrambling down rocky slopes behind their protesting goats, the cruelty of the sun this far south and this high up) and the simple fact that I am a very long way from anyone I know, not just in distance but in condition. I am very much on my own, and I’ve no chance for help but from my own resourcefulness and the good will of those I meet along the way.
Which is exactly what landed me my place to sleep tonight. After leaving Matatlán, I labored up a mountain with more than considerable difficulty (I was ashamed to have to stop every few hundred kilometers and take a short rest.) Several times, I felt stupid for getting myself into something I was physically incapable of, but knew that this was simply the labor of a first day in the mountains. After almost two hours of struggling for only 9 or 10 km, the road took a downward turn, and I coasted at high speed for almost the entirety of the next 20km. And I have never seen such mountains. It was such a privilege to simply coast down and watch the spectacular creation fly by me as I struggled to control the bicycle. I wondered after some time why I hadn’t been passed by any cars, and it occurred to me that it was because I was traveling as fast as the motored vehicles. After the struggle and frustration of climbing, coasting down a long descent feels like a reward from god.
Eventually the terrain evened out and the agave cultivation resumed. Finally, I came to the tiny poblada of San Pedro Totolapan. I asked a few people if they knew of a place I could stay or pitch my tent, and I was sent to three different places to ask, and each place sent me to still another place to ask, and no one knew where I could rest. I was on my way to the next possible source of information when I saw a sort of hut with a palm frond roof, filled with tires and a fat man on a hammock. I asked him where the gas station was, and as an afterthought, if he knew of a place where I could stay. He told me to wait for his muchacho who had gone into a house across the street. When the guy came out, we discussed my options until he suggested with sudden revelation that I sleep in the hammock in the hut. I was assured that no one would bother me and guys seemed nice enough, so I accepted, but I believe I’ll pitch my tent outside the hut instead. (There are large, strange insects here and it gets rather cold at night.) So I rested a bit and talked with the guys, and learned that I’ve got a bit of climbing to do tomorrow. My hope is that I’ll be more accustomed to the work and it won’t be quite as hard. I know that the first day is always a killer.
I bought a beer and believe I’ll hit the sack soon. I’m surrounded by mountains and can hear traditional Mexican (Oaxacan?) music being played by a large band across a canyon in the residential part of the town. I got sunburned pretty badly today and need to find some sunscreen, and also fill my water bottles. Today I rode 83km, which is somewhere close to my 50 mile per day expectation. Death has been constantly on my mind, perhaps because this trip makes me feel so close to it. The heat, the solitude, the traffic, dead animals rotting everywhere on the roadside with large claws and teeth embedded into the flattened masses of fur, agave, cactus, iguanas, sun, sun, sun, vultures, dry river beds, the rocky dry sierra. This is out of control.
11/4/2008
Last night was filled with more or less fitful sleep, probably due to my sunburn, the incessant passing of vehicles on the highway, and slight nervousness to be sleeping in the open in an isolated Oaxacan pueblo. At one point, I awoke to a pair of footsteps approaching and stopping outside my tent. Whoever it was began nudging the tent and tugging on the guylines outside. “Quién es?” I shouted, and no reply. I asked again. “Que quieres, guey?” Yeah, that’s it. Use some regional slang, for emphasis. “Quién es, cabrón?” A couple more tugs on the guylines and I heard them walk away. I didn’t understand why a couple of Mexicans would walk up to my tent in the middle of the night, tug on the tent body and not say a word to my protests. I fell back to sleep, but was awoken again a couple of hours later by more footsteps approaching. The tugging on the tent resumed, but by this time the moon had shifted and provided a silhouette against the form of the culprit outside. I saw a giant head, long nose and pointy ears craning toward the guylines. It was a donkey, curiously inspecting my tent. I unzipped the tent and ran after him, shooing him away, asking him to leave me alone and give me some peace.
At sunrise, I made a breakfast of avocado, bread, a banana and orange. While cutting the orange, I slashed a deep cut into my left ring finger. It bled forever, and I’ve had to ride all day with a bandana wrapped tightly around it. Every couple hours, I’d remove the bandana and the finger would go right on bleeding again, so it’s been wrapped all day.
Most of the way to San Juan Guegoyachi was a mild descent, but after that it was a long and difficult climb up to Las Margaritas. After that, a refreshing descent. Now, I’m having a soda pop in San Jose de Gracia. I believe I have a few kilometers along the river, which should be more or less even terrain, but a man here told me it’s a great climb to El Camerón, which is still 36km short of my day’s goal of San Bartolo.
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There was quite a bit of climbing to get to El Camerón, but it wasn’t straight up as the man in las Gracias had led me to believe. This was both good and bad: I didn’t have to climb for 20km straight, but I’m also not so high in altitude as to be able to coast down for a long distance, as he told me I’d be able to. I arrived here utterly exhausted, my skin burning in the cruel unforgiving sun. Drenched in sweat, I found a pharmacy (which was little more than a few sundries scattered on some shelves in a dark room) and bought what may or may not be some type of sunscreen. I got a couple of opinions on how many mountains are between here and San Bartolo and decided to have some food and think over whether I ought to head for it today or stay here.
The restaurant I visited served me a huge plate of rice, beans, tomatoes, avocado and tortillas for 25 pesos. While I was eating and studying my map, a man approached me and asked in English how I was doing. His name was Umbérto, and he’d been living in Los Angeles until just this week when he returned home. His English was fairly good, but we spoke mostly in Spanish about his 14 years in L.A., my route, etc. He suggested I try the hotel in town, saying it was cheap. I felt entirely unable to press on any further, even though I’d only done 54km. The mountains and sun had taken every bit of energy I had. So I rented a room for the night for 100 pesos, less than $9, took a much needed and truly rapturous shower, and am going to try to find some internet in town.
My loneliness is really getting to me, and I can’t explain why. Normally, I’m fine to travel alone, I do it all the time. Perhaps it is the unforgiving nature of the terrain, the foreignness of the place, and the emotional drain of such mind-bendingly difficult work. I’m frustrated and I miss Stephany, I want to be in Cuernavaca with her right now. I don’t understand myself, but something about her hits a very tender nerve in me. This experience is freaking me out in a profound way, I’m so lonely and feel so isolated, so far from anything warm, so far from love. My emotions are totally wrecked, I’m sitting in this tiny motel room throwing a fit like a child and I DON’T KNOW WHY!!! I don’t even feel scared, just empty and far far far away.
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I’ve brought myself under a little more control now. I found some Internet in town and emailed my family and Stephany. I filtered and purified some water for tomorrow, and looked at a relief map of the region. It looks like after about 40 km of hills, I’m home free in the flatlands to Tehuantepec and beyond, until the border with Chiapas when I’ll hit another range. It’s 115km, about 70 miles, from here to Tehuantepec. I’m going to see if I can make it tomorrow, like I’d planned originally. The flatlands will be gravy after all this climbing.
I got a message from Adam. I had asked him to call the Lake Dallas court to reschedule my court date, because I’m here and would have missed it. They put me down for 11/17 at 9 a.m., so I must be back in Lake Dallas by then. Honestly, I’m considering making it to Tuxtla Gutierrez or San Crístobal de las Casas and hitchhiking back to Puebla and taking a bus to Cuernavaca. I feel like I’ve got to see Stephany again, but I don’t know if that’s reasonable. In any case, I think I miscalculated my capacity to do this one alone. It’s almost not enjoyable to be so empty and solitary. Yes, I’ve met people and I’m conversing a lot, etc., but it’s not that kind of loneliness. I hate to even think it but I get a great rush of relief and comfort when I think about going home. We’ll see where the road leads me, it could just be exhaustion talking, but I feel like the few hundred miles between Oaxaca and Tuxtla or San Crístobal solo on a bicycle would be accomplishment enough.
11/5/2008
TOTAL FAILURE! I sit in El Comedor La Estancia, across the street from the central bus station in Oaxaca City. This morning, I left El Camerón a little after sunrise. I had gotten a good night’s sleep on the hard bed of the little motel room, in spite of all the bug bites I awoke with in the morning. My muscles ached but I was determined to make it to Tehuantepec by that evening. As I rode out into the cool, dewy morning in El Camerón, I psyched myself up and told myself that my struggles were over and that I was strong and able, able enough to make my goal for the day. Then I could rest.
I passed the restaurant where I had eaten the afternoon before and saw Umbérto opening the patio for breakfast. I hollered at him, and he turned and waved, wishing me good luck and safe travel. Over the Puente El Camerón, around a couple of corners, a brief section of dirt road, and I was back on MX 190. Hopeful because of the assurances of the man in las Gracias that it was all downhill from Camerón, I exploded into the steep rise out of town, sure that after one hill I’d begin a descent. After a switchback, another hill stretched long before me, then another, and another. The guy in las Gracias was un mentiroso, or as we gringos are fond of saying, “full of shit.” In fact, I faced the longest climb yet on the trip. Luckily, the morning was cool and cloudy, and I had some solace from the brutality of the sun. But I was absolutely pouring sweat, which gave me a chill and prompted me to go through almost all 4 litres of water I’d purified the night before.
Finally, after about 17km of climbing, I enjoyed a fairly long descent into the lovely pueblo of El Coyul. As I reached the apex of the mountains I’d been climbing and crossed to the other face, the terrain appeared to instantly metamorphose into a more coniferous, alpine environment. Jungle wildlife abounded. As I sped down the mountain, exotic birds called wildly from all sides, and I would flick my eyes into the trees and see streaks of brilliant yellow, blue, orange, green, huge birds like parrots screaming at me as I whizzed by. I had been seeing quite exotic creatures the day before, like giant iguanas and other brightly colored lizards. But this side of the range opened up into a true biosphere. I grew excited knowing that I was approaching the lowlands, the jungle. Soon, it would be toucans, monkeys, jaguars, and leafcutter ants, the rainforest!
I was greatly enjoying this new environment on the descent, but with the cessation of my labor, my body cramped and burned and I felt very sore and dehydrated, in spite of the fact that I’d consumed a gallon of water in 3 hours. On the climb, for much of the time I felt like I’d fallen into the cyclist’s fabled “zone” in which I kept my eyes on the road directly I front of my tire and didn’t look up to see how much more I had to climb. Expectations are very dangerous things in mountain cycle touring. You must simply go, and keep going, and expect that things aren’t going to get any easier. This way, you cannot be disappointed. But this doesn’t change how much it takes out of you. By the time I reached the bottom of the descent, in a tiny establishment called Río Hondo, I was exhausted and desperately needed rest and food. The “town”, which was on the map, was literally nothing more than a small bridge, a disgusting and decrepit outhouse, and a comedor where I assume the matrons also lived. México can be frustrating because of the erratic nature of goods distribution across the country. For example, if you need duct tape in Morelos, forget about it. It’s just not something that comes in. In the United States, we take the availability of any commodity for granted. You can get anything, anywhere. In México, it’s hit or miss. But, one thing that is always certain is a place to find some food. There are simply not enough jobs to go around here, so many people make money by preparing and selling food. It’s easy, it’s inexpensive, and everyone needs to eat, so a comedor is a very common sight, even in the most isolated regions in México. The food is good, cheap, and plenty.
I crouched next to the outhouse and opened a can of beans, the last of my food, and the clouds began to clear, and suddenly I was back in hot, dry, sun-baked Oaxaca with my flesh burning red in the white light. Apart from the few avocados, bread, some fruit and cans of beans I’d brought in my panniers, I’d been subsisting on the fare of the comedores I’d passed in the tiny towns along the way. Usually this consisted of beans and tortillas, and perhaps a tomato if I was lucky. This kind of nutrition was completely insufficient for the kind of cycling I’d been doing. Many thousands of calories per day were being burned as I labored up the mountains, my body constantly generating many units of thermal energy, the heat radiating from my flesh like a gas heater. The calories I was consuming were few, and weak. I needed protein, I needed sugar, I needed more water. I was getting nowhere near enough of these essentials, and my body was paying for it. The emotional drain was due to exhaustion, and the exhaustion was due to lack of nutrition, I was sure of it.
I rested in the shade and drank the rest of my water as I ate my beans, hoping to refuel enough to get to the next town, La Reforma. I despaired at how weak I was; my hands were shaking and my shoulders and legs burned. I had felt so good and strong earlier. Now, I felt sick and helpless. That feeling of solitude and deadly remoteness overtook me again. I was powerless, incapable of reaching a place of hope and power because no such place existed. What changed when I reached Tehuantepec? Fewer mountains, yes, for a while. But still more cycling to be done, still more nights alone counting pesos, nursing wounds, and stretching aching muscles. More awful sun, burning my skin without remorse, sucking my body dry of every last bit of water, pounding me into trembling submission, like I was, there, in Río Hondo, hiding in the shade and shaking like a leaf as I knifed refried beans into my dry mouth.
The worries of what I would do once I reached Chiapas had plagued me from the beginning. It is the poorest, most remote state of México. Did I expect to find a box for my bike? Where would I take the bus toward home, and how much would it cost? Would I have enough money to get home? I’d nearly be in Guatemala. What lay ahead and how would I cope with it? Traveling alone is not what bothers me, I travel alone in the U.S. all the time and never have such worry and despair. It is this bastard exhaustion, the worry over my expensive piece of equipment (is it safe? how will I transport it? can I leave it alone for just one moment while I……?) and the lack of freedom at any time to pursue a decision. I’m trapped, this machine fused between my legs. And I’m at least 150 miles away from any town with more than 1,000 people. In one of the most mountainous regions of the world.
These thoughts shot around in my mind as I disconsolately shoveled beans into my mouth. But soon, as before, I stood up and decided there was nothing more to do but press onward! Into the heart of darkness! Arriba!
Thus began yet another long, grueling climb. I was out of water, and it couldn’t have been later than 1:00. I climbed for the next half hour, probably only 2km, and spotted a portion of the road in the shade with a large rock to lie on. This was a lucky find, because in the Sierra, there are no spaces on the side of the road to pull off and rest, find shade, pitch a tent. It is sheer mountain cliffs, 15 feet of flat pavement for the road, and then more sheer mountain cliffs, peppered with endless goddamn agave and cactus and giant insects that make it impossible to find any space for rest. It is you and the road, ahead and behind. So when I found the rock, I parked the bike and lay upon it’s cool surface for a long time, resting and thinking. I fell into a deep state of contemplation as my body thanked me profusely for the break. My thoughts were thus:
You came all the way to Oaxaca because you wanted an exotic, challenging adventure. You thought it would be a great accomplishment you’d take pride in all your life. What you didn’t consider, either out of ignorance or masculine bravado, was the fact that Oaxaca is indeed one of the most hostile environments on the continent, and its mountains are great and wide. You didn’t consider the physical impediments of such a journey, nor the logistic and emotional effects going alone would have. You had a great idea, a heroic plan. But for the first time in your life, you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. It’s no longer a matter of will. It’s a matter of survival. This is why death has been gnawing at your conscience since you left Cuernavaca. It could come from anywhere, from a speeding truck behind you, from a curve you can’t quite make and flying off the mountainside, from a fall, from hostile bandidos, from stopping on the road out of pure exhaustion like you are now and having a heat stroke and being 150 miles from the nearest hospital. This isn’t hitching up to Minnesota, this isn’t hopping a train to New Orleans, and it isn’t hiking in the Rocky Mountains. This is the Oaxacan Sierra Madre, and it doesn’t bat an eye if you die.
At that, I reentered my body and resolved to hitchhike with my bike to Tehauntepec and catch buses back to Cuernavaca. I had experienced all I could of this bike trip, and it was eating me alive. I had to admit to myself, in spite of my hubris, that I had asked for more than I could handle. I had failed.
I turned the bike around and descended back to Río Hondo. It amazed me how far I’d come up despite my exhaustion. When I reached the comedor, I lay down my bike, put a rag over my head and my thumb in the air. I supposed it would be extremely easy to get a ride in México, as I had heard from friends who’ve hitched here. But there was very little traffic, and after four vehicles passed me in an hour, I decided I ought to make my bike look a little less large and intimidating to prospective rides. So I disassembled the bike, zip tied it, and had it down to traveling size in 15 minutes. It felt very good knowing I’d be taking a four-wheeled vehicle out of Río Hondo.
I asked a young lady at the comedor if buses to Tehuantepec came by often, and she said every hour, for 30 pesos. Shit, I could spare $2.50 for a ride to Tehuantepec. As I waited, I saw a bus bound for Oaxaca pass by in the opposite direction and began to think it would make more sense to return there. A trucker had stopped at the comedor, and I asked his advice. He thought I ought to go to Oaxaca, and said buses pass every half hour, I just had to wave it down. So, my mind made up, I sat down and had a soda pop and ordered, yet again, beans and tortillas. The trucker and I conversed for a while until he headed out on the road again, and I sat there alone savoring my food and feeling like the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders and I was free. I was amazed at how intensely a short time on the road had affected me.
After waiting for about half an hour, a bus came by and I waved it down. I put my bike and one pannier beneath and then I was sitting like a king in a comfortable seat with the wind on my sweating face. Shortly thereafter, a man came to collect the fare. “Seisenta pesos, favor.” Sixty pesos. Less than $6 American. Six dollars could get me back to Oaxaca, from which I’d traveled more than 200km, many mountains, heat, cold, pain, despair. Six dollars. It almost felt like mockery.
Against my need for rest and sleep, I stayed awake for the several hours it took to return to Oaxaca City and observed the route over which I’d ridden. At times, when the bus descended steeply for what seemed like forever, I couldn’t imagine that I’d climbed so much on a bike loaded with 50 pounds of gear. Although the awful sting of defeat still reverberated in my mind, I managed to feel proud that I had accomplished as much as I had. These climbs were very steep, and many miles long. I don’t understand how some cyclists manage to vanquish endless distances in mountains and desert, but I have a greater respect for them. I am not weak, in body or in desire, but what I’d experienced was enough to send me back from whence I’d come. I’ve definitely learned some things about cycle touring, and about my abilities, both physical and emotional. In that motel room in El Camerón, I was as a child, bare and alone and helpless in a place that felt too powerful for me to understand. In reality, I consider myself powerful, able, and sometimes even invincible. I believe I can survive on my own and adapt to any situation. But this situation has humbled me, because there are certainly things out there for which I am not prepared. This is simply a fact of life, and of death.
11/6/2008
After returning to Oaxaca City, I took a taxi to the central bus station and deposited my panniers and bike in the guard room. I bought a ticket for Puebla that left at 8:30, two and a half hours later, and went out in search of food, drink and a box for my bike. I asked at a few different places before asking, on a whim, at a furniture store, and they supplied me with an oversized box of thin cardboard. I bought some tape from a papelería, a quesadilla from a taquería, and returned to the station to set to work boxing my bike. After sizing up the dimensions of both box and bike, I further disassembled the bicycle, removing the derailleur and rear wheel and zip-tying them to the frame. My work attracted the attention of a young boy, José Angel, who helped me for the next hour, suggesting better ways to tape the box, how I ought to put the bike in, and asking me many questions about my machine.
There are many Norteamericanos and Europeans in Oaxaca, especially in the bus station, and José Angel kept asking me to translate simple Spanish phrases into English so he could run and recite them to the white people. After much taping with the cheap and weak transparent tape, the box was more or less ready to travel. During this time, I met an English girl named Zoe who was traveling solo in México, now headed to San Crístobal de las Casas. At the mention of the name, I felt the sting of not being bound for it any longer. As if to add fuel to the fire, an American woman approached me and asked if I’d be interested in accompanying an English friend of hers on a bike trip to…San Crístobal de las Casas. Oh, failure.
I dragged my baggage and box to the bus and loaded it up. A fork end stuck out here, a quick-release there, but I hoped for the best and bid a farewell to my friend José Angel. I arrived in Puebla at 1:30 a.m. and carried all my stuff through the giant station into the main foyer, where I paced around in the foggy-breathed cold for 4 hours before I could buy a ticket for Cuernavaca. The counter for the Estrella Roja bus service opened at 5:30 a.m., and I immediately purchased a ticket and was told the bus left in less than 10 minutes. I scrambled desperately, pushing and dragging my box as it wore holes in itself, trying to make it to (of course) the farthest departure gate and NOT drag the fork across the pavement in the process. I finally made it, breathless, and got on the bus for Cuernavaca and got some much needed sleep.
A few hours later, in the growing daylight, I arrived in Cuernavaca. Coming into that city, I felt like I had returned home. In spite of the fact that it is far from my home, and they speak a different language, and the culture is entirely different, it felt profoundly familiar in comparison to the remoteness of the places I’d been the past few days. Everything finally felt right.
I crouched next to the outhouse and opened a can of beans, the last of my food, and the clouds began to clear, and suddenly I was back in hot, dry, sun-baked Oaxaca with my flesh burning red in the white light. Apart from the few avocados, bread, some fruit and cans of beans I’d brought in my panniers, I’d been subsisting on the fare of the comedores I’d passed in the tiny towns along the way. Usually this consisted of beans and tortillas, and perhaps a tomato if I was lucky. This kind of nutrition was completely insufficient for the kind of cycling I’d been doing. Many thousands of calories per day were being burned as I labored up the mountains, my body constantly generating many units of thermal energy, the heat radiating from my flesh like a gas heater. The calories I was consuming were few, and weak. I needed protein, I needed sugar, I needed more water. I was getting nowhere near enough of these essentials, and my body was paying for it. The emotional drain was due to exhaustion, and the exhaustion was due to lack of nutrition, I was sure of it.
I rested in the shade and drank the rest of my water as I ate my beans, hoping to refuel enough to get to the next town, La Reforma. I despaired at how weak I was; my hands were shaking and my shoulders and legs burned. I had felt so good and strong earlier. Now, I felt sick and helpless. That feeling of solitude and deadly remoteness overtook me again. I was powerless, incapable of reaching a place of hope and power because no such place existed. What changed when I reached Tehuantepec? Fewer mountains, yes, for a while. But still more cycling to be done, still more nights alone counting pesos, nursing wounds, and stretching aching muscles. More awful sun, burning my skin without remorse, sucking my body dry of every last bit of water, pounding me into trembling submission, like I was, there, in Río Hondo, hiding in the shade and shaking like a leaf as I knifed refried beans into my dry mouth.
The worries of what I would do once I reached Chiapas had plagued me from the beginning. It is the poorest, most remote state of México. Did I expect to find a box for my bike? Where would I take the bus toward home, and how much would it cost? Would I have enough money to get home? I’d nearly be in Guatemala. What lay ahead and how would I cope with it? Traveling alone is not what bothers me, I travel alone in the U.S. all the time and never have such worry and despair. It is this bastard exhaustion, the worry over my expensive piece of equipment (is it safe? how will I transport it? can I leave it alone for just one moment while I……?) and the lack of freedom at any time to pursue a decision. I’m trapped, this machine fused between my legs. And I’m at least 150 miles away from any town with more than 1,000 people. In one of the most mountainous regions of the world.
These thoughts shot around in my mind as I disconsolately shoveled beans into my mouth. But soon, as before, I stood up and decided there was nothing more to do but press onward! Into the heart of darkness! Arriba!
Thus began yet another long, grueling climb. I was out of water, and it couldn’t have been later than 1:00. I climbed for the next half hour, probably only 2km, and spotted a portion of the road in the shade with a large rock to lie on. This was a lucky find, because in the Sierra, there are no spaces on the side of the road to pull off and rest, find shade, pitch a tent. It is sheer mountain cliffs, 15 feet of flat pavement for the road, and then more sheer mountain cliffs, peppered with endless goddamn agave and cactus and giant insects that make it impossible to find any space for rest. It is you and the road, ahead and behind. So when I found the rock, I parked the bike and lay upon it’s cool surface for a long time, resting and thinking. I fell into a deep state of contemplation as my body thanked me profusely for the break. My thoughts were thus:
You came all the way to Oaxaca because you wanted an exotic, challenging adventure. You thought it would be a great accomplishment you’d take pride in all your life. What you didn’t consider, either out of ignorance or masculine bravado, was the fact that Oaxaca is indeed one of the most hostile environments on the continent, and its mountains are great and wide. You didn’t consider the physical impediments of such a journey, nor the logistic and emotional effects going alone would have. You had a great idea, a heroic plan. But for the first time in your life, you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. It’s no longer a matter of will. It’s a matter of survival. This is why death has been gnawing at your conscience since you left Cuernavaca. It could come from anywhere, from a speeding truck behind you, from a curve you can’t quite make and flying off the mountainside, from a fall, from hostile bandidos, from stopping on the road out of pure exhaustion like you are now and having a heat stroke and being 150 miles from the nearest hospital. This isn’t hitching up to Minnesota, this isn’t hopping a train to New Orleans, and it isn’t hiking in the Rocky Mountains. This is the Oaxacan Sierra Madre, and it doesn’t bat an eye if you die.
At that, I reentered my body and resolved to hitchhike with my bike to Tehauntepec and catch buses back to Cuernavaca. I had experienced all I could of this bike trip, and it was eating me alive. I had to admit to myself, in spite of my hubris, that I had asked for more than I could handle. I had failed.
I turned the bike around and descended back to Río Hondo. It amazed me how far I’d come up despite my exhaustion. When I reached the comedor, I lay down my bike, put a rag over my head and my thumb in the air. I supposed it would be extremely easy to get a ride in México, as I had heard from friends who’ve hitched here. But there was very little traffic, and after four vehicles passed me in an hour, I decided I ought to make my bike look a little less large and intimidating to prospective rides. So I disassembled the bike, zip tied it, and had it down to traveling size in 15 minutes. It felt very good knowing I’d be taking a four-wheeled vehicle out of Río Hondo.
I asked a young lady at the comedor if buses to Tehuantepec came by often, and she said every hour, for 30 pesos. Shit, I could spare $2.50 for a ride to Tehuantepec. As I waited, I saw a bus bound for Oaxaca pass by in the opposite direction and began to think it would make more sense to return there. A trucker had stopped at the comedor, and I asked his advice. He thought I ought to go to Oaxaca, and said buses pass every half hour, I just had to wave it down. So, my mind made up, I sat down and had a soda pop and ordered, yet again, beans and tortillas. The trucker and I conversed for a while until he headed out on the road again, and I sat there alone savoring my food and feeling like the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders and I was free. I was amazed at how intensely a short time on the road had affected me.
After waiting for about half an hour, a bus came by and I waved it down. I put my bike and one pannier beneath and then I was sitting like a king in a comfortable seat with the wind on my sweating face. Shortly thereafter, a man came to collect the fare. “Seisenta pesos, favor.” Sixty pesos. Less than $6 American. Six dollars could get me back to Oaxaca, from which I’d traveled more than 200km, many mountains, heat, cold, pain, despair. Six dollars. It almost felt like mockery.
Against my need for rest and sleep, I stayed awake for the several hours it took to return to Oaxaca City and observed the route over which I’d ridden. At times, when the bus descended steeply for what seemed like forever, I couldn’t imagine that I’d climbed so much on a bike loaded with 50 pounds of gear. Although the awful sting of defeat still reverberated in my mind, I managed to feel proud that I had accomplished as much as I had. These climbs were very steep, and many miles long. I don’t understand how some cyclists manage to vanquish endless distances in mountains and desert, but I have a greater respect for them. I am not weak, in body or in desire, but what I’d experienced was enough to send me back from whence I’d come. I’ve definitely learned some things about cycle touring, and about my abilities, both physical and emotional. In that motel room in El Camerón, I was as a child, bare and alone and helpless in a place that felt too powerful for me to understand. In reality, I consider myself powerful, able, and sometimes even invincible. I believe I can survive on my own and adapt to any situation. But this situation has humbled me, because there are certainly things out there for which I am not prepared. This is simply a fact of life, and of death.
11/6/2008
After returning to Oaxaca City, I took a taxi to the central bus station and deposited my panniers and bike in the guard room. I bought a ticket for Puebla that left at 8:30, two and a half hours later, and went out in search of food, drink and a box for my bike. I asked at a few different places before asking, on a whim, at a furniture store, and they supplied me with an oversized box of thin cardboard. I bought some tape from a papelería, a quesadilla from a taquería, and returned to the station to set to work boxing my bike. After sizing up the dimensions of both box and bike, I further disassembled the bicycle, removing the derailleur and rear wheel and zip-tying them to the frame. My work attracted the attention of a young boy, José Angel, who helped me for the next hour, suggesting better ways to tape the box, how I ought to put the bike in, and asking me many questions about my machine.
There are many Norteamericanos and Europeans in Oaxaca, especially in the bus station, and José Angel kept asking me to translate simple Spanish phrases into English so he could run and recite them to the white people. After much taping with the cheap and weak transparent tape, the box was more or less ready to travel. During this time, I met an English girl named Zoe who was traveling solo in México, now headed to San Crístobal de las Casas. At the mention of the name, I felt the sting of not being bound for it any longer. As if to add fuel to the fire, an American woman approached me and asked if I’d be interested in accompanying an English friend of hers on a bike trip to…San Crístobal de las Casas. Oh, failure.
I dragged my baggage and box to the bus and loaded it up. A fork end stuck out here, a quick-release there, but I hoped for the best and bid a farewell to my friend José Angel. I arrived in Puebla at 1:30 a.m. and carried all my stuff through the giant station into the main foyer, where I paced around in the foggy-breathed cold for 4 hours before I could buy a ticket for Cuernavaca. The counter for the Estrella Roja bus service opened at 5:30 a.m., and I immediately purchased a ticket and was told the bus left in less than 10 minutes. I scrambled desperately, pushing and dragging my box as it wore holes in itself, trying to make it to (of course) the farthest departure gate and NOT drag the fork across the pavement in the process. I finally made it, breathless, and got on the bus for Cuernavaca and got some much needed sleep.
A few hours later, in the growing daylight, I arrived in Cuernavaca. Coming into that city, I felt like I had returned home. In spite of the fact that it is far from my home, and they speak a different language, and the culture is entirely different, it felt profoundly familiar in comparison to the remoteness of the places I’d been the past few days. Everything finally felt right.
I spent the next 4 days in Cuernavaca, resting and enjoying parties with Stephany’s extended family. My day to depart finally came, and I took a bus to México City, waited 6 hours for the next bus bound for the United States, and was off. 24 hours later, I pulled into the Dallas Greyhound station. My bicycle survived the trip with only minor paint chips. I survived as well, with considerable blows to my pride, but this is probably a good thing. I hate to quit. But I also seek always to diminish my ego. This two week trip was a unique experience and now I feel far smarter and more able. My next bike trip, I’m confident, will seem quite mild by comparison.
Truly, I have fallen in love with the foul smells of industry, the loud hard heartless cold of steel on steel, trains, trucks, factories. It is the ugly soul of human society, and yet it is there to be seen, not ignored. It is through ignorance that we let it become our world. It is one of many evils we pretend does not exist by simply looking away. In America, there are millions of dying souls, lonely and lost in timeless oblivion and it's hard to say if there was a beginning or will be an end. I know this, I know them. They have told me their pitiful stories. They are the workers and taxpayers, and yet they are invisible. Unless you are one of them, you don't even know they're there. Until you have invited their stories into your life, their horrible miserable histories, they remain phantoms in a society that prefers they remain unseen. 
