Lowerider: Life's a Journey...Enjoy the Ride

Day 9 - Palmer to Chicken, AK

2011-08-29T00:40:00.001-07:00

Yes I am back in Chicken. Why? I cannot go home without at least trying to get to the Arctic Circle, so I am headed back over the Top of the World to Eagle Plains. I called Dawn in Dawson City and she says the Dempster is awesome and it hasn’t rained since I left. Cool…I’m on my way.

As I rode away from a depressing and smelly night in Palmer, I decided I need to go to at least the Arctic Circle, otherwise I couldn’t shake this sense that I’m going back to Canada with my tail between my legs. I will need to change my ferry reservations, but I have time to run up there. Then, when I get back to Dawson, I can get sour-toed.

I took the Glenn Highway from Palmer to Tok; another beautiful day with spectacular landscapes. Alaska is an incredibly beautiful place to be. Mountains, glaciers and boreal forests in full autumn colours—unreal.

Once in Tok, I gassed up and headed to Chicken 80 miles away. Unfortunately, somehow I missed the turn to Chicken 12 miles in. I ended up going 90 kilometres along the wrong road and almost ended up back in Canada before I realized my mistake. Which is kind of a big mistake since I was on the road from Chicken to Tok only three days ago.

It took me three hours to get from Tok to Chicken today.

I ran into some bikers in Glennallen and again in Tok; they were heading to Chicken too and left Tok a few minutes before I did. I was a little embarrassed to pull up in Chicken three hours later, but I went over to their camp and said hello anyways.

Nice guys, 5 of them from Washington just coming back from Prudhoe Bay. Whatever.

We chatted; they met the Cheech and shared their dinner with us. Then Cheech and I headed up the hill to the Chicken Creek Saloon—the one I wanted to hang out in last time I was here.

Imagination is better than reality. The mystique created by Sue the owner of downtown Chicken is thinly veiled. Stay longer than a beer and a sandwich and you see that Chicken is just a tourist attraction; an amusement park.

I went into the saloon and ordered an Alaskan summer ale from the bartender who was maybe 21 and definitely stoned. The other ‘customers’ were three summer staff just killing time until they get to go home on September 15. So there I sat, in the saloon with the Cheech (coolest thing about Chicken is a dog-friendly saloon—worst thing about Chicken dog-hostile accommodations at the only place in town) and four potheads from Seattle. Not quite the conversation I was looking for in Chicken.

The female pothead offered to blow up my panties with a cannon so I can hang them on the wall I politely declined an asked for change for the jukebox. She said that it hasn’t worked in years, “it’s just for show”. Takin up a lot of real estate I said. She just looked at me. Not sure if she knew I was speaking English. She was nice enough, just bored and stoned, I guess.

I finished my beer as Chicho protected me from the other two potheads. They couldn’t even walk in my direction without him exploding. They were very offended. I was grateful and wondering where the hell the Cheech gets such energy after a long day.

As I was leaving, an old timer showed up with the biggest caribou rack I have ever seen. He'd just shot it on the river a few hours ago. It weighed about 50lbs and stood 4 feet tall. Not exaggerating. Whatever animal was attached to those antlers was a granddaddy.

I finished my beer, shook hands and rode back down the hill to my room. My chain is jerky and sounds weird. I asked the motorcycle guys camped across the creek if they would mind checking it out for me. We have a 7am appointment. Best get to sleep then.

Tomorrow, I head over the Top of the World to Dawson to Eagle Plains. I am so excited! I'm gonna do this!

Day 8 Denali to Palmer, AK

2011-08-28T23:59:00.001-07:00

I learned the true meaning of the word “majesty” today. I spent the morning cruising as far as I could into Denali National Park before heading south toward Anchorage.

Words cannot describe what I saw today. A couple times, the tears welled and I found myself filled with a sense of gratitude and fortune to see what I was seeing, on my bike, alone, in the middle of Alaska, on a beautiful sunny day.

Amazing. Awesome. Majestic. Solid and timeless.

I thought of my mom: “She needs to see this.” And of course as I rode, I planned a whole trip for her and her husband: Ferry from Port Hardy to Prince Rupert (foot passenger of course—way too expensive otherwise). Then hop the Alaska ferry with the Elvis cook/karaoke star and teeny little lounge on board. Get off at Skagway, take the White Pass railway into Anchorage then take a Holland America bus to the park and cruise around. I have a lot of time to think these days.

After I left the park, I started thinking about where I should go. I would definitely stop in Trapper Creek to say hello to Hal and Nancy, but then what? Anchorage? Valdez? Since I’d axed Deadhorse as a destination, I’ve been drifting south with no idea what to do or where to go.

In the end, I chose Palmer instead of Anchorage and now I’m in a shitty motel with stinky carpets and a gross neighbour lady. She has a bad smoker’s cough, a raunchy voice and is mean to her dog. I don’t like it here. I wish I had kept going… somewhere, anywhere else.

I really need to figure out where the hell I’m going next. I’m struggling with the disappointment of not going to Inuvik or Deadhorse and the thought of going home without even crossing the Arctic Circle. I guess I’ll head back to Canada and down the Cassiar—I hear it’s pretty.

Day 7 – Tok to Denali National Park

2011-08-27T08:35:00.011-07:00

I really should stop setting goals like “Tierra del Fuego” and “Prudhoe Bay”—just setting myself up for failure. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m in Denali National Park, which is nowhere near Prudhoe Bay or the Arctic Circle.

At least it’s pretty.

I arrived in Fairbanks fairly early today, after taking nearly 3 goddam hours getting my stuff together in Tok. Even though I got up at 7:30am (6:30 Alaska time), I still did not leave town until 11am. Between 7:30 and 10:00, I heated water to clean my face, packed up my stuff, packed the bike…and that’s pretty much it. WTF. I am baffled as to why it takes me so long to get it together.

I tried to make up lost time by choosing “Fast Eddie’s” for breakfast. I ordered just toast, swallowed it down as fast as I could with only one cup of coffee (less coffee=less breaks), left cash on the table and made no eye contact with anyone. In and out in 20 minutes.

I was at my bike, tucking in my hair and pulling on my gloves when a little old lady came up to me smiling about the Cheech. She asked if I was riding alone, where I was headed and how the dog likes the ride. So much for hitting the road any time soon.

Marguerite (Mrs. Ketchum) told me she admired me for traveling alone on a bike in Alaska, “That’s some spirit”, she said. She finished with, “My husband and I are travelling, too”.

I expected her to point out their RV. Instead she points at a Road King parked next door to the motel. The Ketchums are riding a Harley “somewhere in Alaska”. She is 85 years old and her husband is 88, have been traveling by motorcycle for years and have no plans to slow down soon.

I laughed and told her that I’m inspired that they’re still riding in their 80s!

Soon, Mr. Ketchum came out of Fast Eddie’s and started sharing some road stories.

Three years ago they rode El Espinazo del Diablo (Devil’s Backbone) in Mexico between Mazatlan and Durango—a road that I am familiar with and that I credit with what little sense of spirituality that I have. I rode it on a perfectly warm and sunny day and I swear I almost died.

The Ketchums rode it in the rain and fog: “It was a little scary”. Uh. Yeah.

She was 82 he was 85. They later got into a bit of a crash in Durango (forever unbeknownst to their children). They and the bike were a bit bruised and battered but no serious damage to any involved. Amazing. Whatever kool-aid and wheatgrass they’re drinking I want some.

An hour after arriving at Fast Eddie’s I finally left town under a heavy grey sky. Before rolling into town from the campsite, I’d believed that it was a beautiful sunny morning in all of Alaska. Then the low hanging fog in Tok made me realize that I had absolutely no idea what road or weather conditions lie ahead of me.

Despite a really good Visitor Centre with all such pertinent information, I—once again—was just winging it and rolling with the punches: “The best way out is through”. Maybe I just didn’t want to know.

As I was contemplating all of this under a heavy blanket of clouds, I remained ever hopeful that they would burn off and it would be a beautiful sunny day and an easy ride all the way to Fairbanks. I was right.

The weather today was the best yet. The clouds burned off by 11am Alaska time and by the time I reached Fairbanks it was 20 degrees and sunny. I arrived at 2pm, having driven through breathtaking views of the mountains and rivers of northern Alaska. Beautiful. Unfortunately, I didn’t have power at Tok to charge my camera.

Once in Fairbanks I searched for two things: 1) The BMW dealership and 2) the road to the Arctic Circle. I was disappointed by both.

First, the BMW dealership is shut down. Damn. I wanted to buy a clear visor and have my chain checked out since I did a roadside adjustment in Dawson with the help of Tony, a leather clad 1957 BMW rider who admitted he’s not used to “these fancy new ones with their computers and all that”.

Second, I found out that the Arctic Circle is 300 miles NOT kilometers from Fairbanks. FSAKES. I’d hoped to meet someone at the motorcycle campground in Tok who was headed to Deadhorse. When I didn’t, I thought that I could at least go to the Arctic Circle and back by myself, if I went through Fairbanks to Coldfoot.

Sadly, when I arrived in Fairbanks, I learned that the Arctic Circle was at more than 250 miles away and that the road is REALLY bad: “worse than Dempster”. Guess I should have gone to Eagle Plains. Instead I am headed “somewhere in Alaska” that is not Deadhorse or Inuvik.

Day 6- Top of the World to Tok, Alaska.

2011-08-26T08:33:00.001-07:00

Well, thought I’d be a little further along than I am right now. It may be no surprise that I spent three nights and two days in Dawson City. It’s probably more of a surprise that I actually left Dawson City—and that didn’t get sour-toed before I left.

Deadhorse is out, and I have no real interest in going there anymore, though I do want to go to the Arctic Circle. I decided that I was going to go to Inuvik instead of Deadhorse after talking to Dawn at the Dawson City Visitor Centre about where I should go from Dawson City: Deadhorse or Inuvik?

I’d decided on Inuvik for three reasons: 1) Inuvik is a town, not an oil camp 2) there’s not as many commercial trucks on the Dempster Highway 3) the Arctic Circle is less than a day away from Dawson City. The Dempster Highway is rough, but passable she said and I decided then that Deadhorse was out and Inuvik was in.

Then Big Charlie put the kaibosh on that idea.

So, my new plan is to take the Top of the World Highway to Tok, then head north to Fairbanks, ride up to the Arctic Circle and come back to Fairbanks then head south to Cassiar Highway before August 31 (umm; what day is it today?).

The Top of the World highway did not disappoint. I really did feel like I was on top of the world. I hope I got some pictures before my camera died. The highway is a typical single-lane, northern highway—chip seal, gravel, potholes, and patches with extraordinary veiws. The road is well-traveled but remote so you can go for an hour without seeing another vehicle. The sense of remoteness coupled with “top of the world” views overlooking mountain ranges and miles of tundra was well worth the shit show that is the Taylor Highway on the other side of the border.

Gravel. Gravel and potholes. Gravel and frost heaves. More gravel. Throw in some switchbacks and hairpin corners and you’ve got the Taylor Highway. Fun only because it wasn’t raining and because Chicken is in the middle of it all.

Chicken, Alaska. Year-round population: 9. Not much there. I found a saloon; had an Alaskan Summer Ale and a pulled chicken sandwich in the late summer sun. Hot and dusty, Chicken felt like an old west town, I was waiting for the tumbleweed to blow on by down ‘Main Street’.

After lunch, I chatted with Dean, a California farmer by winter and a gold miner by summer. The Cheech took a liking to him, so I figured he must be a good guy. He’s been working the land for crops and gold since the late 70s and is seeing a real resurgence in gold mining since the crash of 2008.

“People don’t trust money no more. Just gold.”

He also sees how different the younger generation of miners is compared to the “old-timers”.

“People don’t like to do the hard work anymore. They think it’s beneath them. There’s no honour in hard work anymore. Kids today think that someone else should do the work for them—that’s success these days. I don’t understand.”

I agreed and soon the conversation turned to: “Why Chicken?”

“Well, I married the devil.”

Huh.

“Yeah, nearly lost my mind. Knew I had to get out and do something different. I’m not a violent man.”

“Sounds like you made a good choice”.

“Same can’t be said for that old timer who burnt up his cabin with his wife inside. Mail order bride she was. Threatened to take everything. He went to jail for a few years. Back now. Still works his claim yonder.”

“Well, love and money are two things that people will kill for”.

I think I spent almost two hours in Chicken, which is an interesting town considering it only has an RV park and restaurant on one street and a saloon, restaurant and souvenir shop on the other.

I like the saloon because it’s next door to a coop of real live chickens (the ones that cluck, not the ones that fly up in your face last minute when your walking in the bush). It also has about four tables; six rawhide barstools; baseball hats Toad River style; bras, panties and money Big Bad’s style, and a pool table. It looks like a great place to hang out with friends old and new, have a couple beers, a shot of whiskey and sing Hank Sr at the top of your lungs (or in the bottom of your beer, whatever works).

Wishing I could stay for the day, I shook Dean’s hand, loaded up the Cheech, bid farewell to Chicken, and headed down the Taylor Highway to Tok. Two hours later I arrived.

I ran into Loni and Dean when I arrived in Tok. They went on the Dempster the day that I was to go. They made it as far as the Arctic Circle and turned around. They had planned to go to Inuvik. According to Loni, “It was hairy” and it had taken them 4 hours to go 80kms. When they got back to Dawson last night they went to the Downtown and got sour-toed. Seems I’d missed all the fun. Loni and Dean are headed home now.

I am in the motorcycle campground in Tok, heading to Fairbanks in the morning and then the Arctic Circle and back to Fairbanks. I’d hoped to meet someone heading that way here at the campground. Unfortunately, I am the only one here today. There is a group coming in later from Glenallen—no mind, they are coming back from Deadhorse.

I do not want to go on the Dawson Highway by myself, but I do want to get to the Arctic Circle. Goddamn Big Charlie—why couldn’t he just leave me be in my blissful ignorance. Maybe I’ll meet someone on the way to Fairbanks.

Day 5 - Dawson City, Yukon

2011-08-25T23:27:00.015-07:00

Yes. I am still here in Dawson City...and I'm still loving it.
After a day of touristing around town, taking pictures and learning about the history of the place, I strolled into the Visitor Centre to find out the road conditions for the next day's travels to Deadhorse. This is how I met Dawn.

Dawn works summers in the Northwest Territories information centre and brings busloads of tourists to the Dome overlooking Dawson City in the evenings. Meanwhile, her husband Tommy runs river tours and pilots the ferry from town to the Top of the World Highway. In the winter they live out at their cabin 10 miles downriver and mush dogs. Pretty sweet life.

Dawn and I were chatting about my trip and where I should go. When she asked where I was from, we discovered some mutual acquaintances. This led to an invitation to have dinner with her and Tommy and some friends—wing night at Triple J!

Wing night turned into beers and live music at The Pit, aka The Westminster Hotel, aka The Romance Capital of Dawson. Earlier, I'd walked by the hotel and noticed that it was the only bar with people inside early in the day; there were three or four people at the stand up and the door was wide open to entice others in for a cold one. It reminded me of old school pubs like the old Sam Steele in Cranbrook and the Ivanhoe in Vancouver--seedy but not sketchy. I snickered at the Romance Capital designation, thinking, "I'll bet it is," and clicked away for my facebook gallery.

Later in the evening, I found myself there with Dawn, Tommy, Beat, Mertha and Ester. Good people, good music and lots of beer. The band was great and the bar was packed. Turns out the Romance Capital is also the hotspot for all the young people who gravitate to Dawson to work in the tourist industry in the summer. It's also the place to be for locals; the bass player is even running for political office. The clincher, however, was the presence of the "Movie Stars".

I'm not sure who the Movie Stars are, but there are three and they are the stars of some Discovery Channel series about gold mining. From what I could see, the Movie Stars are very popular with tourists and service industry workers. Not so much with the older locals, who feel that these guys should go back to their day jobs in Oregon and California.

While at the Pit, Dawn introduced me to Big Charlie. Big Charlie works for highways and knows all things Dempster. Dawn told him I planned to head to Eagle Plains in the morning. He said something to Dawn that I didn't hear. She told him not to scare me. "She needs to know", he said.

"Know what?" I chimed in.

"Two motorcyclists were killed on that road this year and it's rained out right now. You need to know that." Big Charlie looked me straight, got up and walked away.

I think it must be frustrating for him to see so many motorcyclists come through ready to 'conquer' the Dempster, only to get themselves hurt or killed. From a northern perspective, I can see how it seems senseless to take such risks for nothing more than a thrill. No meat, no money, no nothing, just a sticker saying, "I survived". Doesn't make a whole lot of sense around here.

I'm taking Big Charlie's advice and I am not going to Eagle Plains (it didn't help that the lady from the Eagle Plains hotel wouldn't book me a room until I was sure I wanted to travel the road; "there's been lots of rain lately.") I know enough about northern roads that when the locals tell you to stay off the road, it's probably a good idea to stay off the road.

Besides, Tommy and Dawn had a better idea.

This morning, I woke up feeling like I should never drink Pilsner again and dragged my ass out of bed to go downriver with Tommy to do some minor repairs on the fish wheel--a plan devised sometime between Big Charlie's call and last call.

Shortly after 9am, I showed up at Dawn and Tommy's. Coffee was on.

After a leisurely breakfast and visit, I headed back to check out and load my bike. For some reason, it takes me an hour to load my stuff. Seems inordinate, yet I can't seem to get it together faster. Stupid piddly shit that needs to be done in order otherwise I have to unpack/undo the work I'd just done. I'll probably have it figured out just in time to park the bike.

Finally got on the river at 12:30. Not just any river--the Yukon River. Awesome. Beautiful. Powerful. Iconic. Awe-inspiring is the best way to describe it.

Tommy took me to the fish wheel, where we spent the good part of two hours trying to dislodge a tree from the paddles. I almost fell in twice and the f'n chihuahua did too because of his neurotic weirdness--he's just stupid sometimes. We made some headway, but we had to leave it because Tommy had a river tour set up and couldn't be late.

I joined the tour (all I had to do was sweep the boat and then secure the boat whenever we docked), which took us from Dawson City to the Sternwheeler graveyard, Moosehide village, Dog Island and Tommy and Dawn's cabin. I can't even capture it all, it's something you have to see and feel for your ownself. To top it all off, Tommy took me to the Dome and the Dredge just for something to do.

In all it was a great day and I'm glad I didn't chance it up to Eagle Plains. I wonder how Loni and Dean are making out.

Day 3 - Dawson City, Yukon

2011-08-23T23:19:00.003-07:00

I’m in a twin bed in a one-room cabin on the river in Dawson City, Yukon. My bike’s outside. Got my Cheech. Got a glass of wine. Got a chocolate granache cupcake from Klondike Katie’s. Had salmon, saskatoons and goat cheese for dinner. Life does not get better than this.

I’ve only been in Dawson City for 3 hours and I’m already wondering what it’s like in the winter. I like it here and I’m staying another day. It’s the coolest city north of San Francisco…it’s like Fort Nelson with character and good food. Not sure what staying another day will do to my Deadhorse plans.

For those of you who may have read my previous blogs, this may be a déjà vu: Argentina schm-argentia. Deadhorse schm-edhorse. When I fall in love with a place, who knows what could happen next.

The trip here was quite uneventful. I made it to Whitehorse fifteen minutes late for Chicho’s vet appointment so I had to wait around for 3 hours for another one. While I waited I watched a pitbull get spayed…her guts and tongue hanging out. I had no idea what they go through.

I finally left Whitehorse at 1:30 after meeting Loni and Dean from Vancouver. They are riding to Inuvik. Loni is one of the first ladies I’ve met on the road who’s riding her own bike; most are content to be passengers. Not Loni; her and Dean consistently kicked my ass up the Klondike Highway—going at least 130 all the way. Me, I’m at 110-125; any faster and the dog starts to squirm and I worry about moose. Though it makes me wonder if I had a riding partner that pushed me (and would be there to help me pick up the bike) whether I’d be a faster, more aggressive rider. As it stands now, I err on the side of caution.

I usually caught up to them at the gas stations. Dean noticed my rear mud guard was hanging loose and fixed it with some zap straps and loktight. Good thing he noticed it. Ladsco must not have tightened the screws properly when they changed my tires. Oh well, fixed now.

The road from Teslin to Dawson City is good. There’s the usual potholes, gravel patches and frost heaves, but nothing to write home about. The weather was perfect: a beautiful sunny day with just enough cloud to provide some air conditioning and just enough rain to clean the bugs off my visor…until the wretched 11kms before Dawson City. Wretched.

Wildlife count: crows and magpies, some soaring hawks. Four dead porcupine. I hate road kill, it upsets me for miles, especially when I see a trail of blood leading from first impact to the body. In Mexico it was dogs, horses and burros. In Canada it’s porcupine, moose and bears. I have to force myself to think of other things than the pain that animal felt and the senselessness of their death. Just something I think about on the road.

Near the end of the day, I was thinking that all the animals in the Yukon are either hapless porcupine or hiding out during hunting season, when a sow and two cubs jumped on the road in front of me. I slowed to let them pass. As she neared the centre line, she stopped and looked at me—her cubs still running around the road.

I didn’t want to run over the cubs and I definitely did not want to put my feet down and stop. I tried not to look at her as I inched past saying, “Nothing to see here. Just passing through.” Just then Chicho got a whiff of them, decided he could take her and exploded into a barking fit, straining out of his bag to get a better look. F’n Chihuahua. I risked running down one of the cubs and gunned it before she decided that we were a threat that needed to be taken down. I’ll say it again: F’n Chihuahua.

Shortly after, I hit rain and gravel on the last 11 km into Dawson City. Even though I’ve been through this before and know that the worse thing that could happen is that I skid out and fall over, I was tired, my right knee ached and I was in no mood to deal with it. But I did. I slowed to 30km, gritted my teeth, opened the visor and squinted through the rain, bugs and gravel, all the while swearing at the bugs crawling around in my helmet and the 4x4s speeding past me kicking rocks up in my face. Worth saying again: the stupidest thing I’ve done on this trip is to leave my clear visor at home.

At any rate, I made it to Dawson City, a little worse for wear, but I’m here and I’m loving it.

Alaska 2011 - Day Two - Liard to Teslin, YK

2011-08-22T22:44:00.001-07:00

I woke up at 7:00am to get an early start. Rolled out of bed at 7:04 and took the Cheech out for a pee. Noticed that the restaurant that was supposed to open at 7:00 wasn't open yet. Well, can't get up without a cup of coffee, so I went back to bed.

At 8:00, I woke to the voices of a field crew waiting in the common room for the restaurant to open. Figured I'd get up and shower, maybe they'd be open for coffee soon. Half hour later, I sauntered into the restaurant, poured my own coffee, missed the cup completely and poured coffee all over the floor and counter. I cleaned it up, grabbed the coffee to go and sat with Paddy in the common room while he waited for the rest of his field crew to eat breakfast.

We chatted about his plans for the day: heading out to do a fish study for the Alaska Pipeline Project. I told him I was heading to Alaska for a few days--going to try and get to Deadhorse, weather permitting.

"Alone?" he said, raising his eyebrows.

"No, I hope to meet up with some motorcyclists in Tok at a motorcycle campground".

"You're camping?"

"Yes, don't be so surprised."

"You have bear spray?"

"Um. No."

"Lots of grizzlies up there."

"I know." I shrugged, suddenly feeling naive and unprepared.

He got up and walked out.

Two minutes later he came back with a big can of bear spray, "Here. We have a bear shooter, you don't."

Not sure what to do with it now except hang on to it in case I run into a grizzly.

After my visit with Paddy, I grabbed my dog and headed across the highway to the Hot Springs, picking mahthee-loo along the way. We arrived at the hot springs, sat with my feet in the water and ate a breakfast of boiled eggs, grandma's bannock and mahthee-loo.

After about a half hour, I headed back to the lodge to pack and get ready to go. As I packed, I met Hal from Trappers Creek, Alaska. Hal was just returning from a two month trip around the USA and had spent the night in Toad River. I thought I'd better get my act together, this guy's already been on the road for an hour and here I am still in my slippers.

Hal went inside and ate his lunch while I started the long process of packing up the bike and the Cheech. He finished his lunch, chatted about his trip and left up the highway long before I finished packing.

At 11:00 I finally left the Hot Springs. Geez. Going to make it to Whitehorse before dark I hoped.

I was a fairly decent ride except for the wind gusts between Liard and Contact Creek--they always piss me off. Wildlife count: one sow and two cubs, one caribou, one bison herd, one dead porcupine, one two-year old black bear and one culvert bear. Met up with Hal at Contact Creek we chatted some more. He mentioned a nice campground at Teslin. I was still thinking Whitehorse.

I raced down the highway cursing myself again for leaving so late again. The wind picked up and the clouds gathered, with the exception of a few showers, the rain stayed away. Still by the time I got past Rancheria, I was thinking that Teslin might not be such a bad idea after all.

Maybe I'm tired. Maybe I shouldn't have stayed out til 3:00am on Friday. Maybe I am out of shape and not used to riding anymore. Whatever it is, the thought of going the extra 180km to Whitehorse and racing the sunset yet again did not appeal to me today.

So here I am in Teslin. $95/night for an overheated room at the Yukon Motel (a "lakeshore resort"). Hal's camping out back behind the hotel in a little damp tent. I kinda wish I'd set up my tent, too; looks like a nice spot.

The Cheech has an appointment with the vet at 10am tomorrow morning in Whitehorse. Hal said he's on the road by 8am and I could join him if I'm up that early. Stranger things have been known to happen.

Alaska 2011 - Day One - Fort Nelson to Liard

2011-08-21T21:55:00.001-07:00

I am an idiot. After celebrating my birthday into the wee hours last night, it took a good part of my day just to get up and pack the bike for the trip. You’d think that since I planned to leave last Friday and then this Friday, I would have been packed already. Nope. I just had all the stuff I wanted to pack in little piles all over my apartment. Suffice to say, I wasn’t ready to leave until 3:30.

Then my grandma called. She’s back in town. I haven’t seen her for two weeks and I never leave town without visiting her first. So off to grandma’s I went. We had a nice visit—she gave me bannock and told me to not be crazy on my trip. I told her that I will drive safe and stay out of sleazy Alaskan bars.

As I was leaving grandma’s, the bike started...then stalled. Started...then stalled. Great. I started it one more time and throttled it until it finally kept running. Thinking it’s dirty gas, I decided to make a stop at FasGas and get some gas treatment before I left town.

FasGas didn’t have anything so I went to Overwaitea.

In the meantime, I developed a craving for an apple, so I moseyed over to the produce section, got an apple. Then I wandered around looking for the car stuff aisle. Just as I was about to give up, I found gas treatment. Waited in line and paid for my stuff. Hung around outside, ate my apple, treated the gas and chatted with a nice man with a pug. Left Overwaitea, drove around town a couple times to make sure the bike was done stalling. Stopped at the wine store—love the 375ml Wolf Blass; it's the perfect travel size with a screw top. Ran into my buddy Dave in the parking lot, chatted, met his new chef.

By the time I hit the road it was 5:30.

Fast forward two hours. I’m in Toad River thinking what an idiot I am for leaving so late. “I do this every time.” I leave late then end up racing the sunset all anxious and stressed out. To make matters worse, I think I forgot to pack my wallet. So there I am at the gas pump in Toad, unpacking all my stuff, wondering if I had enough time to get back to Fort Nelson before dark. Just as I had resigned and reassured myself that ‘these things happen for a reason’, I found my wallet in the bottom of my Touratech.

I gassed up, chatted with one of the locals, he recognized me from Fort Nelson—figured I was a Dickie—and another guy heading to Liard with a couple quads who helped me check my tire pressure (coming across the grated deck bridges did not feel good with my new knobbies). In all, I spent about a half hour pissing around at Toad River.

I figured I could still make it to Liard before dark—if I giv’er.

I made pretty good time and my new tires felt a lot better after deflating them a bit. I was enjoying the ride, counting wildlife: 2 caribou, two goats, and a dead bear so far, paying no mind to the light rain shower and thinking I’ll make it to Liard in no time. Just then the road turned to follow the shores of Muncho Lake (one of my favourite ‘twisties’ in BC) and 25 kilometres of loose gravel began. Then the rain shower turned into a downpour. So much for making good time.

I slowed to 40 km, my new tires are good on gravel but not that good. As I made my way along the soupy gravel road I thought this is good practice for the Northern Slope haul road. After about 10 minutes I was thinking do I really want to go on the haul road, this sucks.

The clouds darkened the sky and heightened my anxiety about getting to Liard before dark. It was getting hard to see with my tinted visor. Another idiotic thing to forget to switch out my tinted visor for the clear one. I had a choice: protect my face from the pelting rain or see where I am going. Choosing the latter, I lifted the visor and squinted my way through the flying gravel and pouring rain, its drops feeling like needles on my skin. Finally, the sky lightened and the rain stopped. It was only a half hour storm but I was soaked and cold and thinking that I will surely run out of daylight.

After the rain stopped and pavement resumed, I settled in for the final half hour stretch to Liard. I saw another caribou, a deer, 3 bison and a sow with her cub. I thought again about what an idiot I am for leaving so late and not bringing the clear visor. Couldn’t see shit and it was getting dark fast.

I pulled into the parking lot of the Liard Hot Springs Lodge at 9:45pm. Paddy Parson, one of our field guys, was sitting outside the lodge having a smoke. I gave him a cheerful hello, relieved that I made it before it was totally dark. He just smiled and shook his head.

So here we are, Day One, Fort Nelson to Liard in just over 5 hours. The Lodge is lovely. My room was all ready for me and it’s on the main floor so I didn’t have to pack everything up and down the stairs. I’m looking forward to a good night’s sleep and an early start in the morning—probably mosey on over to the hot pools in the morning.

Shoot for the Moon

2011-08-19T21:51:00.003-07:00

...even if you miss, you'll land among the stars...so the saying goes. August 12 has come and gone and I'm still in Fort Nelson. Lana Manana.

Missing the open road

2011-06-19T16:40:00.001-07:00

Except for a quick run up to Toad River last year, I haven't gone anywhere. I can't handle it anymore. Next trip: Prudhoe Bay. Departure Date: August 12. Anyone want to join me? Must be ok traveling with a dog and not worried about getting chips in your paint job heheh ;)

Fort Nelson-Muncho-Fort Nelson

2009-08-04T22:04:00.006-07:00

It's summer in Fort Nelson. It's been PLUS 35 Celsius with clear blue skies for 3 weeks now. It's been so dry and hot that there is a fire ban on right now. So it was with great confidence that I planned my 'perfect motorcycle escape' to Muncho and back.

Back in May, when I took a trip to Victoria and back through Alaska, I was awestruck by Muncho Lake. Though the lake was still frozen, the jade green edge of the thawing ice promised a beauty that I wanted to see in full bloom. That, and the road from Liard Hot Springs to Summit is probably the best motorcycle road within a day's drive from Fort Nelson, put the thought in my head that I would DEFINITELY ride back sometime this summer.

When I realized somewhat belatedly that it was August long weekend, I made reservations at the Northern Rockies Lodge for the following evening. It would be perfect: a four hour ride through the rugged beauty of the Northern Rockies to Muncho, let the ride take my mind a million miles from the craziness that is my life right now, bunk out at the lux lodge, have some good wine and a nice dinner, do some writing, chill out with the Cheech, wake up and do the ride all over again! Perfecto.

Not so. As I packed my bike, the thunderclouds gathered. Dark and ominous, I stubbornly refused to acknowledge them. Instead insisting, "They're probably just on this side of Steamboat--definitely moving south--all I have to do is get past Steamboat before it rains".

By the time I got to the foot of Steamboat Mountain, Chicho and I were in a downpour. Not sure if it was optimism, stupidity or stubbornness that prevented me from donning my rain gear when I set out, but whichever, I was paying for it now. The clouds were low, the fog was dense, the winds were high and the rain pelting us sideways. Only 45 minutes on the road and we were soaked, muddy, and I couldn't see 2 feet of the shitty road in front of me.

There are no pullouts or rest stops along this stretch of the highway, so I had to just keep on going as fast as I could given the "loose gravel patches" that were spaced every 10 metres or so. Summer time is also highway repair time :| . Finally, about three quarters of the way up the mountain, a pull-out came into view.

I edged over onto the gravel shoulder and parked. Chicho was pissed. Shivering more than usual, he peered at me over his shoulder, and hunkered further down into his bag. To appease the dog, I installed his gortex cover first. Then I rummaged through my bags to find my rain gear. While I was digging, the wind stole my one pair of pants only to drop them in the nearest puddle. I didn't care. All I wanted was my rain coat and gloves--I was freezing already. Mental note: don't stuff rain gear inside bags, must be easily accessible at all times.

Once I found my gear, I got my coat on no problem. The 'challenging' part was getting my cotton lined gloves on over cold, wet hands. I'm only going to say this once in this blog: Mutherfucker! Easily one of the biggest piss-offs in the whole world is being caught in a freezing rainstorm, getting colder and wetter by the second, while trying to force your fingers into a vice grip of twisted, damp cotton, knowing that you can't go anywhere until this particular, seemingly menial, situation is resolved.

There was no way to dry my hands enough to just slide the gloves on. Even worse, thoughtlessly, I'd pulled my clutch hand out, wiped it on my pants and tried again only to make the cotton more resolute. Sadly, the more I pulled, the tighter the vice grip became. Finally, after much dancing, tugging, and swearing around the rest stop, I managed to get most of my fingers in the gloves. Fuckin stupid shit.

Soon, Chicho and I were waterproofed and ready to ride. I must admit that at the rest stop I was thinking about turning around and going home. Three things kept me going: 1) I wanted to ride the ride to Muncho, 2) I was optimistic that the weather would be great once we get over Steamboat 3) I didn't want to ride back through the shitty road and shitty weather again. Number three was the most powerful motivator, so I kept on going. The best way out is through.

It rained all the way to Toad River. By the time we got there, Chicho and I were frozen, and had been pretty much since Steamboat. To make matters worse, the road was under construction, with loose gravel patches all the way to Muncho. Still, the landscape managed to captivate me and make all the discomfort worthwhile.

Once at Muncho, I checked in at the Northern Rockies Lodge. Looking forward to a luxury room and fine wine, I was very disappointed with the Lodge. For an extra $25 pet charge, Chicho and I ended up in a less-than-luxury room in the basement, and while the brochure promised fine dining in the lounge, it was closed to guests due to a private function. Nonetheless, I had a hot shower to bring up my core temp and wash off the road mud and headed upstairs to the restaurant for dinner.

Despite it's fabulous location and the grand log chalet structure, complete with river rock fire place, the restaurant managed to feel more like an ABC Family Restaurant than the world class fly-in resort that the Lodge claims to be. At least the schnitzel was good, especially when paired with the Scandinavian dumplings-yum :d .

In the morning, the Cheech and I went for a stroll along the lake shore. It was beautiful, refreshing and grounding. I miss walking outdoors, along the lakes, the seashore, the cedar stands... . When I lived in Victoria, I walked in the woods almost everyday; I would find a place just to be in the trees or by a lake or the ocean. I miss it all; I missed it when I lived in Mexico, where my fear of snakes and spiders kept me from walking the bush, and I miss it now, where my fear of grizzly bears keeps me walking the treadmills and subdivisions of Fort Nelson. I vowed on that day to get a 30-30 and learn how to shoot it. I'm not going to spend another summer indoors and afraid.

It rained all the way back to Fort Nelson, but again, the landscape made up for it. At the end of the ride, I stopped at the Northern Rockies Cafe for some liquids. By the time I'd washed my hands and bought a drink, the clouds parted and the sun beamed down, warming the landscape and pissing me off...wtf? As soon as I get back!? C'mon.

I would like to do the run again when the weather is better. Maybe in September, hopefully by then most of the road construction will be done. Guaranteed, if I do go, I will not be staying at the Northern Rockies Lodge. Stone Mountain Safaris is supposed to be a really good place; I wonder if they allow chihuahuas.

North-West-North

2009-05-25T19:21:00.020-07:00

Ramona has been parked since November :| It's been a LONG cold winter. Chicho and I surprised everyone by surviving our first winter in Fort Nelson, BC, where we endured short days, 5 feet of snow and temperatures that hovered around -35 Celsius.

To celebrate the melting snow and beginning of motorcycle season, I packed up Ramona and the Cheech and headed off on a quick little motorcycle trip south to Vancouver Island, coming home through Alaska.

On May 8, we headed south to Victoria for a visit before heading up-Island to Port Hardy to hop a ferry to Prince Rupert and on up the Inside Passage to Skagway and on back down the Alaska Highway home to Fort Nelson.

We headed out after work, reaching Fort St. John by sundown. The next day, I chose the straight route south through Prince George. The day was cold and rainy and I saw the last traces of snow around Summit Lake (just north of Prince George). By the time I got to Cache Creek the sun was shining :) . We arrived in Williams Lake and bunked down for the night.

I headed out early-ish (not too early since it's still a bit cold in the mornings) and arrived in Victoria on the 7pm ferry. I chose the Fraser Canyon route since I'd yet to take that road--usually, I opt for the Duffy Lake road. It was a beautiful ride that reminded me of family road trips from back in the day when the Hell's Gate tram was a novelty--a symbol of British Columbian modernity.

Once through the Fraser Canyon, in a hurry to catch the boat, I chose the freeway to Vancouver, easily the most frustrating part of the ride. I really can't stand that kind of riding. Give me a quiet, winding road any day. Missed the boat I was aiming for anyways.

After spending a too-short week in Victoria, I headed home. I left Victoria in the rain, which poured harder as I headed north to Port Hardy to catch the new ferry to Prince Rupert. I had a ticket on the second sailing ever of the Queen of the North, (the newest addition to the BC Ferry fleet) which left in the morning.

Cheech and I bedded down at the Pioneer Inn, one of the only dog-friendly places that still had availability in town. I guess all the rooms get booked fast when the boat's in town. We got up early and headed to the boat.

I planned on smuggling the Cheech on deck so I booked a cabin, which I didn't need since they had a separate, heated pet room with kennels on the car deck. Still, it was a nice retreat to curl up and read a book (wouldn't do it again though--not worth the cost, since it's not an overnight sailing). The boat is quite luxurious for a ferry. Cloth napkins and real cutlery in the dining room, private shower, bathroom and tv in the cabins, and a lounge with movies--they even serve wine in the cafeteria, unexpected for a BC Ferry.

Once we disembarked we headed straight to the hotel, which turned out to be a disappointment. It was clean, but it's been at least 20 years since it's been renovated. Which is fine, but the hotel's website presented photos of clean, modern rooms with duvet-covered beds. What I got instead was a dim, dingy room with old carpets and a threadbare bedspread. I'm learning that this is a common misrepresentation, especially when traveling with a dog.

To many hoteliers in this part of the world, "pet-friendly" means they charge me $25 extra for the worst room in the house. However, there are the Hiltons, Westins, and Marriots of the world who don't discriminate when issuing a room, and usually provide a pet bed, some treats and of course, doggy-bags, for the extra charge. I'd rather pay the extra couple of bucks for a luxury hotel that doesn't discriminate. Sometimes, there is no pet charge at the fancier places, which means the difference between the 70's suite in the basement and the one with the fancy soap and feather duvet is less than $25.

Speaking of luxury, the Alaska ferry isn't as nice as the BC Ferry, but I figured I had a better chance of smuggling the Cheech on deck--which I felt was imperative since the boat ride would be a day and a half, and I had to stuff Chicho in a rusty old kennel next to old cans of paint, tools and miscellaneous spare parts. Once on deck, I went to the Purser's office to put my name on stand-by for a cabin in case someone canceled out. I had planned to camp out on a deckchair in the solarium, which would have been nice, but I couldn't stand the thought of the Cheech downstairs, alone with all that noise and stink. I know he's a dog, but still.

Breakfast in the galley was a lively, greasy affair, complete with half-cooked bacon (which I set aside as a peace offering for the Cheech) and Elvis karaoke courtesy of Albert, the cook/cashier/entertainer. It was the perfect start to my 'Alaska adventure'. I reveled in the feeling of being somewhere out of the ordinary, and even though I was actually heading home, and not on some epic journey, I felt once again like I was free-wheeling and heading out into the unknown.

Over breakfast, I met Michael, a photographer from Vancouver on his way to Juneau to work for the summer. We talked about our travels. Michael worked in the cruise ship industry and talked of his travels around the world. I shared my lowerider journey south.

Michael has been to Ketchikan several times and when we disembarked, he showed me around. My favourite part was Creek Street, the old red-light district, now tamed and gentrified to delight us tourists.

Once back on board, I put the Cheech back in his cage and headed upstairs to hang on the deck. It was a beautiful day. As I was chilling in a deck chair, staking my claim and getting reading to set up bunk for the night, the Purser's office paged me over the PA system. I got cabin. I was a little disappointed since I was looking forward to bunking out under the stars, still, I wanted Chicho out of that cage.

I hatched my plan: when we stop in Wrangell at 11:45pm I will have 45 minutes to take the Cheech for a walk, stuff him in my purse and head upstairs, straight into the cabin. I wandered around a bit, orienting myself and memorizing the best route from car deck to cabin. During my recog, I'd noticed a small lounge on deck. Cool. Once I had my smuggler's route planned, I went to the lounge for dinner.

The lounge was by far the liveliest place on board. Here, I met fellow travelers and local commuters. After dinner, Michael joined me for a drink. We were sitting beside three Alaskan fishermen who were no-holds-barred when discussing their distaste for the cruise ship industry. One man, a candid, charismatic, long-term resident of Ketchikan, was on his way up to Wrangell to check on some property. He was relocating because the town caters too much to tourists and the cruise ship industry has "wrecked the place". Needless to say, it was a lively and interesting conversation between Alaska guys, Michael (cruise ship guy) and me (defender of place and tradition, skeptic of industry and pandering, lol). I gotta start taking pictures of the people I meet on the road!

We docked in Wrangell and I put my plan into action. I rescued my much-relieved chihuahua from his cage and met Michael ashore for a midnight tour of Wrangell. As Chicho happily pranced around the streets, sniffing every single patch of grass, we happened upon a bar. And it was open :) Michael, Chicho and I strolled into the small, deserted tavern. As we sidled up to the bar, the bartender and her lone customer eyed us up. The bartender gave a disapproving glance at the Cheech. Before she could say anything, I ordered two shots of Patron "for the road". She obliged. We drank, paid and left, now in a hurry to catch the boat.

Emboldened by the tequila, I stuffed Chicho deep in my purse, bid farewell to Michael on the car deck and stole my way to the door closest to my cabin. Seconds later, the Cheech and I were home free. Now all I had to do was keep Chicho, who breaks out in annoyingly loud barks at the slightest sound, quiet for the night. Thankfully, he didn't make a sound until the next morning when some young girls ran past our window looking for whales. We had a good sleep and awoke well-rested.

At mid-day, we arrived at Juneau and I smuggled Chicho back in the cage. By early evening, we arrived at our last stop, Skagway, Alaska. Skagway is a teeny town with boardwalked streets loaded with tourists. I found a decent place to stay, a nice pub for dinner, and spent a little too much time and money at the Red Onion. In the morning, after nearly three days on boats, I was eager to hit the highway.

A half an hour on the road and I wished I had more than two days to get home. I miss the road. I miss free-wheeling. I wished I could keep heading north to Prudhoe Bay. As I rode, my mind wandered to my southern adventures and I marveled at how easily I took it all for granted. Like I actually believed that things would always be as they were and that the road trip would never end--that I would keep on going south. I thought of those days in rural Mexico, parked in the dusty heat at a roadside stand, eating tortillas and beans, hot, sweaty and not really knowing where I would end up. Now it's different. I'm not free-wheeling anymore. I had to get home and back to work by Monday.

The ride through Alaska was the most beautiful scenery and weather of the whole trip. Sunny and warm, the snows were melting and the rivers rushing. The sky was blue and hardly a cloud in the sky. I love the north. It feels like home.

Though I wanted to go to Whitehorse, 'just to see' (my mom spent a year in residential school there), I turned at the junction and cruised around Carcross. There, I met a couple other bikers and rode with them to Jake's Corner, where we had lunch and parted ways. They were northern bikers out enjoying motorcycle season, cruising from Whitehorse and back. I was heading to Nugget City.

Nugget City came recommended by a fellow Fort Nelson resident who knows the area better than I do. I figured Nugget City was close enough to Fort Nelson that I could stay the night and make it home by dinner the following day if I left at a decent hour. Nugget City is a RV park with cabins on the Alaska Highway. The cost of a room (private cabin facing the highway) was the most expensive yet: $160/night! Geez. The food was typical for these parts and left me wishing for roadside tortillas and beans.

I left around ten the next morning. Sigh. My last day. Almost said 'screw it all' and took the Cassiar highway turnoff. But my sense of duty and love for my job kept me on the straight and narrow to Fort Nelson.

When I neared the Liard Hot Springs, I knew I was almost home. Fort Nelson First Nation owns the lodge so I stopped in for lunch and to see who was working. It was a bit chilly and rainy out, and I didn't want to leave Chicho on the bike alone for too long, so I had a quick lunch of hot soup and a bun, ran the Cheech a bit then saddled up again. As I was getting ready to leave, a woman came up to me and asked, "Are you the girl that I met in Zihuatanejo and again in Victoria last year!?" hahaha. It was Sharon and yes...I run into her everywhere! We met while I was in Zihua December 2005 and now, here we meet again at a lonely lodge somewhere on the Alaska Highway. I wonder where we'll meet again.

I was in the final stretch...and what a stretch it is! Liard Hot Springs-Muncho Lake-Steamboat. What beautiful country. One of the many places I've been that takes my breath away and inspires gratitude and awe with its beauty and grandeur. Love. That's what I feel. Love for this land and a certain pride that this is the land that creator chose for us Dene and our cousins, the Kaska Dene. It's a feeling that makes the back of my neck tingle and is so hard to describe that the closest I can get is to say that it feels 'otherworldly'; I feel at once infinitesimal and powerful. Humbled and empowered by this sense of place that has challenged and sustained Dene people since time immemorial.

I'm home now. Chicho is curled up at the foot of the bed. Ramona is under the grey tarp outside my window. The rez dogs are barking and the poplar leaves are rustling in the breeze. I can smell woodsmoke from my grandma's campfire out back. It's good to be home.

Click here to see photos.

Moving Camp

2008-10-04T00:09:00.005-07:00

After a year and a half in Victoria, I've moved camp. I left the south and moved 1,000 miles north to Fort Nelson, BC. Of course, I can't leave Ramona and the Cheech behind, so we headed north before (or so I thought) first snowfall.

I took my time, taking the long way around, seeking out the best motorcycle roads east from Victoria to the Kootenays, through Banff and Jasper National Parks, up into Prince George, Tumbler Ridge (where I caught up to the snow) and finally Fort Nelson, where I am going to hang my helmet for a year or two.

See the photos here.

Lowerider too

2008-08-24T18:52:00.003-07:00

My brother went to this year's Sturgis on our dad's 1980 superglide lowrider (after he completely redid the engine, wiring, seat, front end...well, pretty much everything but the frame). A dream come true.

After two weeks aboard the harley, two-up, he says he would do it again, but not on that bike...maybe a newer harley, but never again on a shovelhead. Still, it looked like a fabulous ride, and a great BIG party.

I must admit that fter seeing the pictures, I've decided that Sturgis is one place in the world that I would NOT go to alone. Images of thousands of aging bikers, swaggering around and drinking made me rethink future plans of riding to Sturgis alone. No wonder all my dad's harley buddies were so worried about me traveling around by myself; the culture that they are used to is no place for a woman riding solo. The photo of the penis-shaped mechanical 'bull' reinforced this.

I also noted the hyper-patriotism of the whole event. The American flag and Budweiser beer are everywhere; Kid Rock, the king of American Redneck rock and raunch, headlined the show; meanwhile veterans hold special places of esteem, with VIP camping and tribute bikes to the fallen. Makes me wonder about the connection between American motorcycle gangs and american wars.

Like, I'm thinking that back in the day, motorcycles were developed as military vehicles. Then all these returning vets who got to ride motorcycles in wartime wanted to keep riding and wanted to keep in touch with their war buddies, (which reminds me: I got Band of Brothers for my birthday :)). Throw in the conformism and jingoism required of soldiers, a feeling of alienation from 'civilians' and an inability to fit in to mainstream society...and viola...you have a group of motorcycle riders ("brothers") who only ride American-made machines, who look, think, and talk the same, all while cultivating the image of a hyper-macho rebel. ...I'm just sayin'.

Anyways, it looks like a great ride and good place to swagger around and drink whiskey for a couple days. I hope to go with my brother one day...on my little German beemer, of course.

Cowichan Loop

2008-08-18T00:01:00.002-07:00

I was itching for a road trip and the weather's awesome so I took Ramona and the Cheech out for a ride from Victoria to Lake Cowichan and back. Sadly, Ramona died halfway. Happily, the kindness of strangers prevailed once again and we all got home safe and sound with little damage to the pocket book. Click here to see the pictures.

Helmet Head

2008-07-23T18:49:00.000-07:00

COAST SALISH TERRITORY-VICTORIA, BC. I got a nice email from my brother yesterday:

Hi, I saw you on your bumble bee yesterday. Man that helmet of yours is huge.

The pic is courtesy of my brother, too.

$$$e vende...Ramona

2008-04-30T18:47:00.001-07:00

COAST SALISH TERRITORY-VICTORIA, BC. I test rode the new F650GS today. I love it. I want it. My next bike was going to be a CBR F4i in patent leather black. I have since come to my senses and I'm planning on upgrading Ramona, instead of keeping her and buying a shiny 'round the town sport bike...who needs both when there's the new 2008 F650GS!!

This new GS has an 800cc engine...and it shows! It's amazing what an extra cylinder and another gear can do for a bike. With the low chassis/low seat option, I am no longer tippy-toeing when I back up and I feel like I'm sitting in the bike, rather than on it. Lovely.

Speaking of lovely...this bike is being marketed to riders like me...women with more of a traveling than a reckless spirit. I guess the sales stats revealed that the motomen who buy this style of bike inevitably gravitate to the larger, mas macho, 1150GS. Here's the official word :

BMW say the F650GS is aimed at motorcyclists who are not looking to venture too far off the road and who may just be looking at an all-around capable motorcycle rather than an ‘adventure bike.’ Compared with its elder brothers, the F650GS is lighter, has a lower seat, better maneuverability, and better fuel economy. The chassis is a basic, tubular steel unit and the F650GS gets chain drive instead of BMW’s traditional shaft drive. The emphasis here is on having fun, rather than going all out on the performance front. BMW hope the bike will find an audience with beginners, people returning to motorcycling after a long break and women riders.

Funny how they put "beginners, people returning to motorcycling after a long break [ummm...do they mean OLD?], and women riders" in the same bracket. Tssss. Tell that to all them boys I rode with today. I woulda mentioned it to them but most of them were waaayy too far behind.

Anyways...back to the bike. I like that they kept the chain drive. And I've already mentioned the extra gear, which is always desired, ever elusive on my dear Ramona. I noticed that it is now a single exhaust, which I'm not sure I like, asethetically (and structurally since I have touratech cases, I wonder how this would effect the mounting system). To top it all off...brand new, it costs what I paid for Ramona when she was two years old :| After today's ride, I'm convinced that the price is going to rise significantly when they roll out the next batch.

And then there's the whole sentimentality bit. Ramona got me to Granma's and back. Honduras and back. To Hell and back (those of you who bore witness will agree). My one constant. My ticket to ride. Ramona. Slow. Sturdy. Reliable. 54000km. Blood, sweat, tears. Wipe outs on the rez; drop downs in the Redwoods, fall overs in Chichicastanango. Braving espinazo del diablo, goat trail mountain (aka Duffy Lake Road) and Hurricane Mitchell fallout. Damn. Durell (the BMW sales guy) told me not to be sentimental, it's just a machine...but damn she's a good bike.

I Miss my Dad

2008-04-24T18:46:00.001-07:00

My dad's dead. He didn't die from prostate cancer, but these ugly buggers in all their harley glory remind me of my dad, Wayne, Harvey, Beerbox, Dave, Scuz and the rest of 'the boys', so I'm compelled to do the ride...might even see if I can wrangle dad's harley from my brother for the occasion...depends if he's as sentimental about the whole "Ride for Dad" thing as I am.

I miss that old scuzzy biker...

Motorcycle Ride for Dad

Click here to register online now or for more information. Registration packages are also available at ALL Mark’s Work Warehouse locations.

Viva la prima vera! Viva! VivA!

2008-04-15T18:44:00.001-07:00

COAST SALISH TERRITORY--VICTORIA, BC, CANADA. After two winters living and riding in Mexico, this past one in Victoria was a cold, wet, dose of 'oh yeah...now I remember.'

Finally, after a winter of cursing the cold, wet days, I've found a reason to celebrate being back in the Canadian climate: the new spring line :)

My new helmet, like my old, is an HJC full-face with a moveable chinbar. My new one, unlike my old, has a sun visor that flips up and down with the push of a button...awesome. Wish I had that when I was driving around in the sunny south! No more fumbling. No more squinting. No more forgotten Ray Bans flying off the back of the bike into the mexican sunset. Love it. And at $300, totally worth it...the next brand up with a sun visor costs more than twice that.

There is one thing that pisses me off at nearly every stoplight though...the full visor is a bitch to open...and the tab to lift it is on the left (clutch) hand side. So, there I sit at the stoplight: either fogging up and unable to see; or struggling to lift the visor with my right hand (while fogging up); or shifting into neutral to free my left hand to lift the visor. I'm hoping that the stiffness is newness that will loosen up over time. Until then, I'm the girl on the yellow bike at the stoplight, swearing and apparently trying to tear my own head off.

Grounded

2008-01-20T18:43:00.000-08:00

VICTORIA, BC -- Writers write. Riders Ride. I haven't been doing much of either these days. Seems, for me that the two go hand in hand: when I ride I write. When I write I ride. And when I don't do either, I seem to lose my way...or at least stop searching for it.

Perspective

2007-12-10T18:42:00.000-08:00

Spotted in Vancouver

2007-12-05T04:49:00.001-08:00

COAST SALISH TERRITORY--VANCOUVER, BC. Last week I made a quick trip from Victoria to Vancouver for a business meeting at the Pan Pacific. It was cold and rainy, still I rode. As I was leaving the hotel, chit-chatting with my new boss, the concierge took one look at me in all my motocycle gear and asked if I was "Lowerider".

I was surprised and a bit thrown...it's been a while since I've been called that (and never in Vancouver--Van holds many other, vastly different identities and memories for me) and I'd been working hard to put the whole Lowerider journey behind me.

Yet there I stood on the cold, wet streets of Vancouver: Lowerider.

I laughed and admitted, in all my chagrin, that yes that was me, and no, I did not make it to Argentina.

He said he'd read about me in a local magazine and followed my website until I was no longer updating it. He said I had inspired him.

I felt my face burn. I was ashamed of myself for giving up so easily and for something SO not worth it. But then is anything ever really worth giving up a dream for?

Extreme Roadrash: Cause, Effect, and Lesson Learned

2007-07-24T18:35:00.001-07:00

Back in the day, I took a motorcycle training course. The riding school had a finely honed technique to get us neophytes into proper riding gear: incorporate tales of death and mayhem into the daily theory ("ride like they are going to kill you out there"), and top it off with a few scary stats from the aptly named "Hurt Report" ("Motorcycle Accident Cause Factors and Identification of Countermeasures," by H.H. Hurt, 1981).

Even without all that training, I had learned well from my dad, who rode harleys throughout my adolescence. Never was I allowed on his bike without a helmet and at least jeans and a leather jacket. Unfortunately for me, it was the 8o's and BIG hair was in...helmet hair was not. Nonetheless, I dutifully wore my helmet as I sat sulking on the back of his 1980 SuperGlide.

I learned well. When I got my own bike, before I even went down the street to the store, I'd don the full riding ensemble: armoured, non-slip boots that covered my ankles; full-face helmet in a conspicuous colour; gauntlet gloves complete with finger squijee (in case it rained). I had it all: kevlar, armour, foam padding, leather. There was no way I was going to go down and not get up again, if I could help it.

Fast forward a couple years and there's me riding around Mexico with no helmet, flipflops (if not barefoot), shorts and a tank top. Granted, I only went helmet-less sometimes. Other times, I would think, geez my education cost a lot of money, better protect that big brain.

Such dumbass riding wasn't limited to Mexico. Two weeks ago, when the weather was half-decent (36 degrees and loving it!), I could be seen riding the streets of Victoria in a (long) skirt, tanktop...and yes, flipflops.

This is particularly crazy since I know that people drive worse in Victoria than they do in Mexico. I've had more close calls in the past two months in Victoria than the whole two years I spent riding in the south...WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE!? OPEN YOUR EYES...you assume too much and pay zero attention to the world outside your little box.

I digress. Then I came across this article about a girl who flew off the back of a bike, wearing only a tanktop and capris. They say you can't learn from other people's mistakes, but the line, "I remember hearing a doctor saying I had lost my entire left breast," was all that was needed to scare me back in to my gear.

This article was first published here:

http://www.speedfreakinc.com/content/articles/riding/roadrashqueen.html

Extreme Roadrash: Cause, Effect, and Lesson Learned

Published: October 4, 2006

4th Annual Ride for Breast Cancer Research

2007-06-16T18:32:00.000-07:00

HUL'QUMI'NUM TERRITORY, PARKSVILLE, BC, CANADA. On Sunday, June 10th, Chicho and I took part in the 4th Annual Vancouver Island Ladies Motorcycle Ride for Breast Cancer Research from Parksville to Courtney and back.

For me, it was a full day of riding since Victoria is an hour and a half south of Parksville. Chicho got off easy because my mom is a big softie and insisted on driving him up there in case it rained—she didn’t want him to get cold. He got a ride home, too!

The weather was unsettled so I wore full cold-weather gear and brought Chicho’s fleece-lined highway bag. The morning was crisp and dry and the ride to Parksville was nice. Once there, I found my way to the rallying point at Oceanside Chevrolet.

I was greeted by the sounds of roaring Harley engines and garage band rock. I was an hour early so I had time to register and take off in search of gasoline and Chicho. Once I found both, I was ready to ride.

I have only ridden in a group a couple times before: once in my training course and once during the BMW Convention at Lake Atitlán in Guatemala. With over 200 bikes, this one is by far the biggest.

While riding, I noticed that women ride differently than men do. Well, ok, granted I have only ridden with one group of men…Latino men at that…mucho machismo! But I noticed that the women are far more patient and supportive riders (ie; less likely to cut someone off and leave them eating dust). Riding with those guys in Guatemala was cool, but I preferred to fall back as I watched them race each other, pass on blind corners and basically ride like jackasses. There was none of that here today.

It seems the most popular bikes among women are Harleys and Harley knock-offs. Other than big fat cruisers, there was only one other bike like mine, a couple sport bikes and one KLR. Looking around at the bikes, I decided that my next bike is going to be a sport bike. Something beautiful, shiny and black...reminiscent of black patent stilettos…for going out on the town. Haha, motorcycle as accessory…this is what happens when women ride. Whatever, Harley guys have been doing it for years.

Anyways, I digress. The ride was cool: 200+ ladies on motorcycles roaring down the highway, two by two. It sounded awesome with all the Harleys and almost everyone we rode past waved and honked. Sometimes people were waiting on the side of the road with signs like, “Hi Grandma! Ride On!” and ballons and pink streamers. It was cool to see the excitement that these ladies bring to this event.

Chicho…well he slept through the entire ride. That’s what he does.

In all, my mom and her husband David, raised $350—$50 more than our goal. And the ride itself raised over $40,000 for Breast Cancer Research. So, on behalf of our family and the 4th Annual Vancouver Island Ladies Motorcycle Ride for Breast Cancer Research and the BC Cancer Foundation, thank you all for your support!

Home.

2007-04-28T17:49:00.001-07:00

VICTORIA, BC, CANADA. Exactly a month after leaving Zihuatanejo, Chicho and I arrived home. We were a little cold and wet having traveled 5 hours, from Seaside, OR to Port Angeles, WA in the fog and the rain, but my heart warmed to see my mom and her husband, my aunt, and my grandma and grandpa waving when Chicho and I rolled off the MV COHO into Victoria, BC.

The ride through the USA was pretty uneventful. Once I left LA, I headed straight to Santa Cruz/Halfmoon Bay to visit some Zihua friends.

As I headed north, the clouds started to gather and the temperature dropped. When the rain started, I wanted to give up and get a room in San Luis Obispo, but a little pep talk from my friend, Cooper, kept me going and I made it to Santa Cruz a couple hours later.

I stayed in Santa Cruz for a couple days, waiting for the rain to stop. While there, we visited Monterey, Carmel (doing a little Clint-stalking), Halfmoon Bay and San Francisco, it was cool.

My days in Cental California were nice. I particularly enjoyed visiting my friend Kim and her family in Halfmoon Bay. I met Kim in Zihua and promised I'd give her a call when I got north. She invited Cooper and I to a great dinner party at her parent's place. The food was delicious (steamed artichokes...yum!) and the conversation stimulating and humourous. Good food, good people.

Once the rain stopped, I continued on my way north, making it as far as Fort Bragg, CA on the first day. I took Highway 1, a great motorcycle road. I love the ride from San Francisco to Mendocino. The road is nicely paved, well-engineered and winds along stunning coastal landscapes.

The next day, I followed the road from the coast, through the redwoods and back to the coast. I stopped in Gold Beach, Oregon for the night. Once there, I knew I was only days away from the end of the road.

That night, I had some mixed feelings about going home. I was anxious to be around family and friends, yet sad that the journey was coming to an end. And I was pained that the journey didn't turn out as I had planned. I didn't make it to South America; I had taken a pitstop and somehow, suddenly that pitstop became my life.

I ward off regret by telling myself that if I really want to ride South America, I will. I tell myself that the journey isn't over and as I ride, I plan my next trip and I think of all the places I could go on this thing.

Two days later, I arrived home. I had traveled the entire west coast USA without turn signals or insurance (and who knows what else is going on...I haven't had my bike serviced since Guatemala City; over a year ago, sigh, where did the time go?). I'm pretty sure that's illegal.

I did my best to avoid cops and riding in town. Though, I did pass a State trooper about 60km south of Port Angeles. I was going 130km/h. He didn't pull me over, he just stayed behind me all the way to town. I was a little freaked out since my plates are a year and a half out of date. That would have totally sucked getting busted less than an hour away from the border.

Anyways, either he didn't notice or he didn't care. When he pulled off near the edge of town, I breathed a sigh of relief and headed straight for the ferry to Canada. Two and a half hours later, I was home.

So that's it...I made it. A little anti-climactic, but I'm home, ready to start my life anew. Chicho is settling in and my motorcycle (dubbed Ramona while I was in Chiapas in tribute to the Zapatista Comandanta who died in January 2006) is soon to be repaired, cleaned and insured for the upcoming riding season.

Thank you everyone who encouraged, supported and hung out with me during the many stages of my journey. You've all in aided in this pretty amazing journey that has opened my eyes, my mind and my heart and I thank you all for that.

I wouldn't have made it without the support and kindness of you all: my family and my friends, old and new. Hasta la vista mis amigos, til next time...keep the shiny side up. Lana

April 16, 2007 - Goin' Home: La Paz to East Los

2007-04-16T16:48:00.002-07:00

BOYLE HEIGHTS, EAST LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA, USA. I'm in East LA right now, sitting in my friend Caxo's mom's living room for the first time since I met his family a year and a half ago. I was sad to leave Mexico, so being here with Caxo's family is nice, it's like I'm still there...a nice transition.

Fidela and I are listening to merengue. She is a little disappointed that I lived in Mexico for so long without learning how to dance. She makes it look so easy. Though, she seems pleased that my Spanish is better.

I left El Sargento last Monday. I bid a sad farewell to the turquoise waters and sandy beaches and stayed in La Paz for a couple more days visiting with Gloria. I bid yet another sad farewell (the hardest part of traveling is always saying good-bye) and headed out for what turned out to be a mind-numbing 7-hour ride through cool, flat plains and cardon forests...think Wile E. Coyote & Roadrunner landscapes.

I had a hard time staying alert and focused on the road. Even Chicho was bored: he fell asleep sitting up and stayed that way most of the day.

Finally, about 50km south of Loreto, things got interesting again when I came to the winding roads of the Sierra Gigantes and the Sea of Cortez reappeared. A couple hours later, we arrived at Mulege, an oasis on the Sea that's popular with the gringos. It's a nice enough town--a small, verdant, tourist-touched town.

I had felt a little melancholy after leaving La Paz and it struck again after I settled in Mulege for the night. It might have been the dark hotel room or the crappy dinner I had. Fortunately, Chicho and I were both really tired and once we settled in, we fell asleep almost right away.

Before I fell asleep, I thought about how 'green' I was last time I rode Baja. I remembered feeling scared and alone, almost on the verge of tears as I made my way slowly down a steep and winding section between Loreto and La Paz. This time, I rode the same road at 80-100km. Well, I did get my moto license only a week before I left Canada, haha. A little experience and some confidence go a long way.

The next day, Chicho and I woke early since I knew it was going to be a long ride to our next destination 500km away. But I had no idea how brutal it would be.

Within an hour of leaving Mulege the weather turned cold and windy. For the rest of the day, I rode at a 60 degree angle into the wind and took the corners as upright (slowly) as possible since I was faced with heavy crosswinds and never really knew which direction the next gust would come from. Once, I got knocked so hard by the wind, my tank bag flew sideways and I stuck my foot out thinking we were going down. My recurring thought of the day: "This wind is really pissing me off."

I struggled for control of the bike for nine hours, stopping only for gas and to put more clothes on. Chicho was freezing. Fortunately I found a windbreaker and a fleece vest for him in La Paz so he was bundled up pretty good. But he had a little growth spurt while we were in La Paz; the reason he slept sitting up the day before was because he no longer fits in his bag. So while I struggled with the wind, poor Chicho slept sitting up and shivering all day long.

We were still hours away from our destination when exhaustion and stress took its toll. My hands, shoulders, back, neck and head ached from fighting the wind and cold and Chicho was shivering uncontrollably, giving me "what-the-hell-are-you-doing-to-me" eyes when I pulled over at a Pemex for some much-needed gas.

As it turned out, the station was all boarded up and the pumps empty. A minor set back, since I had some spare gas with me. Still, my hands were cold and aching and not working properly and when I couldn't get one of the gerry cans out of its bag, I totally flipped out: swearing, tugging at the can, kicking the dirt... .

Cold, pissed off and frazzled, I looked up. A little girl about 8 years old was standing there looking up at me with huge, searching eyes. I managed a self-conscious, "Hola". She asked if she could hold Chicho. I think she wanted to rescue him from my wrath. I handed him to her and soon calmed down enough to get the can out of the bags and the gas into the tank.

We couldn't rest long since the wind was still picking up and sunset was fast approaching. Within minutes I thanked the little girl, loaded my boy and my cans and road off, quite literally, into the sunset.

Three windswept hours later, we arrived in El Rosario, a small town perched on a bend in the road. Chicho and I were both shivering uncontrollably from cold and fatigue, but we made it just before sunset. I think I cried a little bit when we passed the sign welcoming us to town...the day was finally over and we had made it safely.

I couldn't remember a worse ride on this entire trip. But, the rewards were plenty: a room that smelled like peaches, a king-size bed with fresh linens, and a hot, luxurious shower...and next door, Mama Espinoza's crab soup with hot chocolate and flan for desert.

Chicho and I slept well, got up early and spent a leisurely morning in the room before going for a quick walk. It was a fresh spring day; sunny and crisp. I loaded the bike, dressed Chicho, put on my cold-weather gear and took off for our next and last stop in Mexico: Ensenada.

I didn't even get out of the parking lot before I heard a clunking, chugging sound low on the bike. I pulled into the gas station next door and took a look. Holy crap. The chain was hanging like stretched taffy and the sprocket was worn down so bad the teeth formed sharp points.

I thought I might quickly tighten the chain and be on my way. After a few attempts and advice from helpful strangers, it was clear that this wasn't going to be a simple adjustment.

Since it was already noon, I figured it would be unwise to try and get the bike fixed and ride to Ensenada that day. I went back to the motel, booked another night and set out to find a llantera (tire repair shop), a bank and internet.

I was right about the severity of the problem. The mechanic I found to help me told me he was going to have to turn the sprocket around, (ie, take it off and put it on the other side of the tire) otherwise, the chain will just slip off. Rats.

I left him the bike and called the nearest BMW shop (San Diego) for some advice. They told me that it wasn't a big deal: just do what I can to get the tire straight and the chain secure, ride easy and I should make it to San Diego (450km), no problem. They'd take care of it for me, but I had to be there early the next day, since they're closed Sunday-Monday, and it was already Friday.

Meanwhile, my search for a bank and internet proved futile...which brought in a whole other set of problems. I hadn't prepared for an extra night in El Rosario and had planned to hit the bank in Ensenada. I don't have a credit card and since there is no bank in town, no one accepted travellers cheques; cash only, which I had a limited supply of. I hoped I had enough in my emergency stash to pay for my room, pay the mechanic and fill up my tank.

While I waited for the mechanic to finish the job, I went to the tienda and bought some food and water for dinner and breakfast (about $3 dollars). No more crab soup for me.

Three hours later, my bike was ready and the mechanic wanted $80 for his work. But after paying for my room and phone calls to San Diego, I only had $70 left, some of which I needed for gas. The mechanic accepted $50 and though I was very grateful, I felt really shitty not being able to pay him the full amount.

Just after sunrise, I left El Rosario with $12 and a tank full of gas. I hoped to get to the BMW shop early and maybe even make it to LA by sundown. The Tijuana-San Diego border was only 4 hours away, so I figured I had lots of time to get to where I want to go. I don't know why I always think that.

I got to Ensenada in three hours. I decided not stop at the bank since I didn't want any more pesos. I gassed up and left Ensenada with $6 and change.

Five dollars got me through the first two toll booths, after which I was hoping there were no more, and if there were, I hoped the toll would be magically less than $2. Nope. The last toll was $2.60. After searching all my bags, pockets and secret hiding places, I found only $1.90 and travellers cheques.

Sheepishly, I pulled up to the tollbooth and handed the guard a $20 travellers' cheque.

The guard shook his head, "Efectivo o una tarejeta de credito, nada mas." Cash or credit card only.

Embarrassed, I handed him the $1.90. He counted the change then took a long look at me. Just as I was convinced that I had to go back to Ensendada for some more cash, he flashed a smile, waved me though and wished me a good trip. Whew.

Ten minutes later I was in line for the border crossing. I split lanes to get to the head of the line and ended up splitting myself right out of the line onto another highway. Rats.

It took about an hour to find my way back to where I started. I split lanes again, took the correct lane this time and crossed the border in about 15 minutes.

I was a bit surprised when the border guard welcomed me to the United States with little more than a wave. Aside from my passport, he didn't ask for any papers for me, my bike or my dog. I asked him where to turn in my vehicle permit. He told me I had to go back to Mexico.

So, I turned around and went back to Mexico. I am so glad that I understand directions in Spanish now--it only took about 45 minutes to find the customs office and turn in my permit. It took another hour to get back across the border into the United States. By the time I limped across the border with no cash, an aching clutch hand and a hurtin' machine, it was 3:30pm.

Now in San Diego, I realized I was lost (again) without a map. It took me an hour to find a bank machine, buy a map and find the BMW shop.

I arrived a half an hour before the shop closed. I was totally freaked out, but they were expecting me and knew it was an emergency situation that couldn't wait until Tuesday. The service manager told me to relax and unload my bike; the mechanic would stay as long as it took to finish the job. Cool.

By sundown, my bike was fixed, my bank account $300 lighter and Chicho and I were heading north on the I5 out of San Diego to find a cheap hotel to spend the night.

It's weird being in the United States 'just like that'. Suddenly there's magazines and newspapers in English and people understand what I am saying! There are McDonalds, Jack-in-the-Box, and Taco Bell on every corner. And stores, stores, stores! So much stuff. And after a couple years away, it seems that Americans drive so fast!

Chicho hates going faster than 110km...especially when he can't hide in his bag. Unfortunately for him, the average speed on the Interstate is about 120km. So, when he gave me those eyes again, I turned off the I5 onto the slower moving, albeit colder, Pacific Coast Highway. Somewhere between Laguna Beach and Los Angeles I bought him a new, bigger, fleece-lined bag. He's happy now that he can snuggle in out of the cold. He's not so happy with the raincoat I bought him though.

Now I'm in East LA, hanging out with Caxo's mom. We're watching talk shows in Spanish, listening to Mexican music and for lunch we had camarones mojo al ajo and I still have to use my limited Spanish to communicate. It's nice having another Mexican mama to hang out with.

I'll be here for a couple days before heading north again, since I have a few friends I want to see here (the best thing about traveling is saying hello). Which means I'm 3 or 4 days from Santa Cruz (my next stop) and 10-14 days from home.

Though the last several days have been kinda rough, at the end of the day, when Chicho and I are all snuggled in, I think about where I've been and where I'm going, and I realize that even the bad days are good days, not just because I am free wheelin' again, but because every day, especially the 'bad' days, I experience human kindness and compassion in small but important ways--and that's pretty cool.

Spotted in Baja

2007-04-06T20:08:00.000-07:00

April 6, 2007 - Goin Home: Zihua to La Paz

2007-04-06T16:07:00.012-07:00

EL SARGENTO, BAJA CALIFORNIA SUR, MEXICO. I left Zihuatanejo what seems like a lifetime ago, though it's only been like 10 days mas o menos. The first day was short and sweet...a nice little four hour ride to Maruata, a cool little beach with a few palapas and a restaurant with cabanas. Chicho (my baby chihuahua) and I had camarones and cerveza for dinner and I went to sleep knowing that leaving the Zihualife behind is the smartest thing I have done in a long, long time.

In the morning we headed north to Melaque, a small beach town in Jalisco where I spent last christmas hanging with a bunch of BC gringos. I was hoping to hook up with some of the people I met last year, but I guess it's too late in the year since the town was empty of gringos. I stayed two nights anyway, trying to get as much beach time in before I head north (though the beaches pale in comparison to those in Zihua).

In Melaque, Chicho and I stayed in a cool hotel with a lagoon on one side and the ocean on the other, there was even another Chihuahua for him to play with. We froze at night though; the nights were cold and they didn't have blankets on the beds, just sheets. When I asked at the front desk for a blanket, she said she'd get me one, but never did...I guess she didn't believe that I was cold. So I wore the thermal underwear I brought for cold weather riding and Chicho and I slept under a pile of pillows to try to stay warm. I didn't realize how acclimatized I had become to Zihua heat. We've been cold every night since.

From Melaque, it took about seven hours to get to Tepic. I read online that it would only take about four hours...but then it took us an hour just to get through Puerto Vallarta traffic. I'm glad I spent a week in Puerto Vallarta last year, otherwise I would have been tempted to stay a couple days...the beaches there are still beautiful, even if the town itself is a little too touri$ty. Besides, I had a ferry to catch the next day, so I plugged onward to Tepic.

Once in Tepic, I drove around for like two hours looking for a hotel. I found a couple, but no one would let me bring Chicho in...damn city-folk. So, around sunset, I gave up and headed to the edge of town where I knew I would find an Auto-Hotel...those motels where Mexican men bring their mistresses. I figured they wouldn't care about the chihuahua and I was right.

Auto hotels are safe and luxurious and when I'm in a big city only for the night, I usually end up in one. They have 24 hour security (to keep wives from coming around), private garages for each suite (so the vehicles are hidden and guilty parties aren't seen coming and going), which means I don't have to unload my bike, which is supercool and the suites always have a king size bed, tv, hot shower...all for $20...and there's always room service.

Chicho and I pulled in the garage and the guard closed the garage door behind me. I left my bike loaded, had a nice hot shower and ordered room service. Chicho and I curled up in the big-ass bed, ate ensalada de atun and watched Animal Planet until we fell asleep. Since we only had the room for 12 hours, we got up early and were on the road to Mazatlan by 6:30.

It is damn cold that early in the morning...Chicho had to wear a sweater and his sheepskin vest. He likes it, really. We took the cuota, (the toll highway) and made it to Mazatlan in 4 hours and waited for the ferry for three or four hours. Though pets aren't allowed; it says so in Spanish at the ticket booth. I pretended that I don't know any Spanish and walked up to the ticket booth with Chicho in plain view. She didn't say anything about Chicho and sold me the ticket.

An hour or so later I was instructed to get my ticket confirmed before loading, so I did; they didn't say anything about Chicho either. When they weighed, loaded and secured my bike they didn't say anything, the guys just patted him on the head. Then I brought him upstairs. Soon, the ferry gestapo were on me; good thing we had already set sail. Fortunately, I had met two other motorcyclists while waiting for the boat and they offered a bunk in their cabin to Chicho and I. I stashed Chicho in the cabin and went back on deck and spent the night avoiding the gestapo.

The Mazatlan-Baja ferry is pretty rough and I suffered a little sea-sickness, but there's a lounge and a bar with dance music to help pass the time. We spent our time in the lounge watching movies on the big screen...first time in my life I've been called a 'teetotaller', since I ordered cranberry juice instead of the Tecates that were going around. haha, me a teetotaler. Anyways, seasick, long night at sea, woke up to Chicho having to pee...hmmm...had to sneak him out to the deck in my jacket. I got to see a nice sunrise before I smuggled him back down into the cabin. We docked in La Paz, Baja California around 11 in the morning...which means we spent about 20 hours at sea. Blah.

I bid farewell to my motorcycle buddies and headed into La Paz. As always, the deep blues and greens of the Sea of Cortez took my breath away and I smiled as I rode down the highway. It felt good to be back in Baja. I can't believe it's been over a year and a half since my 'epic' journey through Mexico began here in Baja. Soon, I was at Gloria's house, my "mexican mama"--a wonderful lady I rented a casita from last time I was here, we kept in touch and now I'm here visiting her again...I almost forgot what a good cook she is! Her flan is to die for.

My plan was to stay in La Paz for the weekend and head north on tuesday. The night before my planned departure, Gloria and I called our friend, Anne, in Colorado who has a beach house in El Sargento, about 45 min east of La Paz...it's her "little piece of heaven". She insisted that I stay at her place for a few days since she wouldn't be there until the end of the month and she doesn't want it empty during the holiday weekend...ummm, hell yeah. So it's Semana Santa and here I am in El Sargento, in Anne's cool beach house overlooking the Sea of Cortez.

My first night in town, Anne's neighbours came over and invited me to a full moon party. The food was awesome, the people interesting, but the coolest thing was the full moon rising over the sea of cortez...holy, I've never seen anything like it. I guess you have to be facing east over a body of water to see a moonrise like that. Beautiful.

Since then, Chicho and I have been chillin in the hamaca, walking the beach, floating around in the cool turquoise sea in the mornings, and in the afternoons I'm learning how to windsurf.

I guess this part of Baja is one of the best windsurfing areas in the northern hemisphere. One of Anne's neighbours is an avid windsurfer and I'm his new student. I was scared at first, but it's fun. I banged up my knee pretty bad and got a few nosefuls of salt water and I haven't been able to go more than ten feet without wiping out, but it's a lot of fun.

Anyways, the point of all this is...I'm not leaving Baja as early as planned. I will be leaving El Sargento on Monday, then back to La Paz for a day or so before heading north. Once I leave La Paz, I'll be four days to the border (Mulege-San Ignacio-El Rosario-Ensenada). I'll be in LA on the same day. Which means I'll be in LA next saturday. From there, we'll have to see how the journey unfolds. From the border, I figure I'll be about 10 days from home. Again, I must say that leaving the Zihualife behind is the smartest thing I have done in a long, long time.

March 28, 2007 - Adios, Zihuatanejo

2007-03-28T16:35:00.005-07:00

MELAQUE, JALISCO, MEXICO. Two days out. My life in Zihuatanejo is best summed up in the words and wisdom of Kabir, the Indian poet:

The truth is that you turned away from yourself, and decided to go into the dark alone.
Now you are tangled up in others, and have forgotten what you once knew, and that is why everything you do has a weird failure in it.

That's all I am going to say about that.

Playa La Madera...Life IS a Beach

2007-02-06T21:08:00.006-08:00

PLAYA LA MADERA, ZIHUATANEJO, MEXICO. What does a norte-americana with a Master's degree and not enough Spanish do in Mexico?

Waitress.

Arguably the best opportunity that has come my way since deciding to stay in Mexico with Mao, I've landed a job working in his dad's restaurant on Playa La Madera.

The pay is standard, maybe even good, I don't know, but at $50USD a week for 7 ten-hour days, I'm happy that the tips are good. I also get two squares a day and all the refrescos and agua I want. I wear surf shorts and t-shirts to work. I only wear shoes in the mid-afternoon when the sand is too hot to walk on. I love it.

The best thing about this job is that it gets me out of the Mao-life (la vida parranda) and into one where I have my own friends and people actually understand what I am saying...some even get my jokes!

I am homesick. I miss all my friends and family, but every day on Playa La Madera, I get to meet people from 'home'. Not only that, but I am the only person on staff who speaks English so my Spanish is getting better everyday and that makes me not so lonely in the world outside.

I enjoy working with Rafael and Marta (Mao's parents). Rafael is a very serious man and I'm not sure if he likes me very much. But here I am. I show up everyday at 9:30 and I leave around 7:30. It's a good day's work...something I've been missing during these sultry days and nights of love and war.

Working here has given me a very different perspective about the "Gringos". Most of them think I'm Mexicana (some even comment how good my English is!) and they treat me accordingly.

A couple days ago, a cruise-ship-lady approached me while I was counting money at the till. Frizzy-haired, white-skinned and khaki-clad, she seemed perfectly harmless until she shrilled right in my face, "DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS?"

I was a taken aback. I thought I was dealing with a crazy lady. Then she lifted her forearm and began pointing emphatically at her wrist, her index finger doing a very impressive Woody Woodpecker, "TIME! You know, TIME!?"

It was all so cliche. She obviously thought that I was Mexican and that if she talked really loud in my face, it would help me understand English.

I gave her a quick glance before looking up at the sun (I know...another cliche altogether, but that's just how life is for me right now), and in my perfect Western Canadian English said, "About one o'clock."

She didn't believe me. She turned on her heel and quickly asked another Gringo (a man with a watch, reading the Miami Herald Mexico Edition) for the time.

Five after One.

Satisfied, she thanked him, hoisted her beach tote over her shoulder and scuttled off to her cruise ship in the bay.

Rafael got a good chuckle out of the whole scene. Check out his restaurant: http://ixtapa-zihuatanejo.com.mx/joomixzi/where-to-eat/seafood/m.-j.-and-richie.

The Lost Summer,,,,

2006-09-16T04:05:00.001-07:00

September 16, 2006 – Fort Nelson Indian Reserve

Yesterday it was -5 and snowing. Despite the cold, the air was fresh and it was nice to see gently falling snow once again. Still, summer has definitely come to an end and I’m making preparations to head back to Mexico and collect my motorcycle—whether I go south or head north from there is a matter of money now.

My plans to work for the summer didn’t quite work out. Rather than resume my work in the city, I thought I would take a chance and live in the north, near my family and work for my Band. I figured that no matter what I did, the job would be a rewarding experience, I’d make some money to continue my travels and I’d get to be around my grandparents for the whole summer. Unfortunately, the day before I arrived in Fort Nelson, the entire Band Council resigned. No decision-makers means no hiring.

Still, I submitted my resume, did a couple interviews and received some positive response. It looked good; all I had to do was wait…a couple weeks. Then a couple more weeks…and a couple more. Finally, in desperation, I went to town and put in some applications for waitressing.

There is a severe labour shortage here in the north; there are “help wanted” signs in every second window from here to the Yukon. I guess the service industry and small businesses can’t compete with the high wages being offered in the oil patch. It doesn’t help that the wages being offered in town, though far above minimum wage do not reflect the cost of living here in the North.

For example, an A&W counter person gets paid $11/hour; a chambermaid, $12. I almost accepted a waitressing position for $10/hour, though I prefer something a little more challenging, but I figured it would be better than nothing and the hours would be flexible enough for me to still spend time with my grandparents. Right after the interview, I went to Subway for a quick sandwich. It cost me almost $14 for a sandwich and a bottle of water. I guess they have to charge that much so they can pay their counter people $11/hour. After lunch I went and got some gas—‘Indian’ gas, which if sold on Reserve to an Indian, is tax-free—it still cost $100 to fill the tank. If I were to go to town and back everyday, which I would if I was in fact working in town, the tank would last about a week.

Ever hopeful, (and a bit proud, I suppose. I spent ten years in college/university, all the while waitressing at night, thinking, “Once I get my degree, I’ll never have to waitress again”. Without that little glimmer of hope to get me through the shift, I just couldn’t do it) I decided to hold out for a job with the Band; they should be calling any day now. In the meantime, I would help my grandparents around the house and work on my grandpa’s stories.

Well, now it’s mid-September, snow is falling, and I’m still waiting. The good new is, I’m on Chapter Three rough draft of my grandpa’s stories—only 70 years to go, lol—and family feedback is good. I’ve had time and privilege to help my Et-soo work on dry meat and moosehide; I got to spend time with my aunties, uncles and cousins; and I’ve learned a lot about rez life—as good and bad as it is.

The bad news is I didn’t make any travel money this summer, which makes Lowerider an interesting prospect to say the least. Nonetheless, the journey is set to resume on October 11, when I board the plane back to Mexico.

Rez Life – The Pull of the Bannock is Strong

2006-08-16T03:41:00.001-07:00

Denendeh. Well, summer’s almost over and if nothing else, I’ve learned a bit about rez life these past couple months. Much of what I have seen makes me wonder how much longer the Rez will exist—not just this one, but the Indian Reserve in general; as a concept and a reality. But that’s fodder for another discussion, some other day.

My first observation about Rez life: it’s really hard to stay in shape here. There are three main culprits that I think just might be the source of the diabetes epidemic currently attacking Rez communities across Canada.

Number 1 culprit: Et-soo’s bannock. She has a wonderful way of combining refined flour, lard, salt and a bit of baking soda into the most delicious bread that when warm is even more delicious slathered in butter. Add some drymeat (which on its own is fine…it’s the practice of dragging it through butter or lard before eating that adds a ton of fat to an otherwise lean meat) or another favourite, bacon, and you’ve got a really good way to fatten up for the winter.

Now, I’ve tried to mitigate the effects of Et-soo’s bannock by limiting myself to eating only bannock that’s fresh out of the oven…once it’s cooled, it’s not as good and therefore, not worth the side effects. Still, the pull of the bannock is strong and I’ve had a couple day-olds since I got here. I have managed to refrain from adding bacon or buttered drymeat to my bannock, eating berries or fruit with it instead.

Number 2 culprit: Lack of facilities on Reserve. There are no exercise facilities here; no sports teams; no running clubs, not even a treadmill. You’d think that a community with so many young people would have a baseball diamond, a hockey rink or a playing field of some sort—nope. Nothing here.

I guess you could argue that we don’t need all that stuff. We didn’t need it in the good old days when it was just us Indians; all we did was go out in the bush, walking, hunting, fishing, snowshoeing; all that good stuff. Good argument—if people actually did those things. But the sad truth is the majority of the people don’t and neither do their kids. Those that do go out only go out for a couple weeks at a time and they use trucks, ATVs and snowmobiles now. Things have changed.

The closest exercise facility is five miles down the highway in town, which is okay if you have access to a vehicle. Once in town, there is a swimming pool, a couple weight rooms and a rec centre with fitness classes, sports teams and clubs. That’s good, but most of them are suspended for the summer and are pretty expensive. In the city you average about $35/month for running, yoga or gym membership, even less at a local community centre. Here, I found a gym for $50/month. It’s a good gym and I like going, but still.

When I can’t get to town to go to the gym, I figured I could do some walking. I’m living in Dickieville, a subdivision about a 35 minute walk from my grandparents’ house, so I walk down there sometimes. People are friendly, always waving from their 4x4s as they drive by and the Rez dogs aren’t too much of a bother if you give them hell when they run after you. Still, walking is surprisingly difficult to do out here on the Rez.

Besides the main road, there are a few quiet roads that wind for miles through the bush that I figured would be good for walking roads. I was wrong. First, I’m afraid of bears. I have no gun, so I just brought three of my uncle’s dogs along for the walk; this makes me feel a little safer. But, lately I’ve developed an even bigger fear that has stopped me from walking the quiet roads alone.

Forget the bears; I’m afraid of Rez rednecks. When I was walking with Hiker, my uncle’s biggest and youngest dog one morning, a big, black 4x4 with a big black dog in the back drove by. He drove by a second time. And a third time. This time he’d let his big black dog run behind the truck, soon Hiker was running behind the truck, too.

I started to get scared; I thought all this guy has to do is shoot Hiker—gunshots in the bush aren’t out of the ordinary—drag me into his truck and ditch my body in the bush. So as soon as he was out of sight, I turned around and jogged back to the main road.

Then he drove by again, slowly at first to get a good look at me, then he sped away, spitting gravel and dust at Hiker and I. Thankfully, the fourth and last time he drove by, I was almost at the main road and within running distance of Dickieville. He slowed down, unrolled his window and said something in drunkspeak to me; I have no idea what he said but I ignored him until he sped away.

I got a description and license plate number. It’s a small community so a quick description to the family and I figured out who he was. Even though I know who he is, I don’t go down that road alone anymore. Sadly, as this community has already experienced; if there’s no body, there’s no crime; just a rash of Missing Person posters and a lot of rumours.

He still slows down and says stupid shit to me when he sees me walking the main road, but I feel fairly safe on that road so I’m not too bothered. Though I feel safer walking on the main road, it comes with other small annoyances, which brings me to #3.

Number 3 culprit: Attitude. It seems that the pursuit of good health is socially unacceptable here. And I think it might be a corollary of the oft-cited “crabs in a bucket” phenomenon—the idea that people are often pulled back into misery and dysfunction by their own people when they try to escape.

Which again makes me wonder why community leaders don’t support team sports here—if exercise for the sake of good health is scoffed at then for the sake of the young people, at least give them the opportunity to engage in exercise for sport.

You never see people running or jogging on the roads around here and when you do, your first thought is, “They’re not from around here.” I run on the main road here sometimes; much to the amusement of the Rez kids: “Did ya get kicked outta yer car?” They yell as they ride by on their bikes; when my uncle’s dogs give chase, I don’t call them off. Unfortunately, Rez dogs don’t just chase kids on bikes. If you don’t give them hell, they’ll chase runners, too.

A week before the Rez Redneck scared me back on to the main road, a carload of drunk Rez girls sped by me a few times, yelling and jeering. They were obviously just riding around the Rez avoiding the main roads as best as they could, but the third time they drove by, hooting and hollering, the thought that I might get beat up crossed my mind.

I still walk the main road sometimes, but as the weather gets colder, my motivation level drops. Fortunately, I have a couple aunties that go work out in town to serve as inspiration and motivation so all is not lost.

Mmm, I wonder if Et-soo made bannock this morning.

Back on the Rez

2006-07-23T16:49:00.000-07:00

DENENDEH - FORT NELSON INDIAN RESERVE, MILE 295 ALASKA HIGHWAY. After 13 months, a few phone calls and a couple tough decisions I find myself back in Denendeh.

It's been a year since I left for Argentina on my motorcycle. I made it as far as Honduras, only to turn around and head back to Guatemala (planned), Mexico (unplanned) and finally Denendeh (also unplanned).

Since my last post I've made some tough decisions, the toughest was whether to turn around once I hit rain and mudslides in the mountains near Lake Atitlan or keep going south through Central America despite the rains. Obviously I chose to head north and wait out the rains...and reunite with Mauricio in Zihuatanejo :)

The ride from Guatemala to Guerrero was the most eventful so far: flying iguanas; washed out bridges; not-so-sleazy Autohotels; outwitting Mexican border bureaucrats; getting caught listening to Melanie, "Brand New Pair of Roller Skates" at a military checkpoint (geez I'm such a dork). And I came thisclose to hitting hit a bus in Oaxaca (I always thought I would panic in a situation like that, but I didn't, all I thought was, "This is going to hurt," (unlike a little canopy tour I did in Guatemala where I lost my mind and cried like a baby as my fear of heights kicked in).

I'll write about it all one day.

Anyways, once back in Mexico and knowing that my journey south was stalled, I felt the pull north. I wanted to go home to see my family.

During those lonely days in Guatemala I decided that when I go home, I'm really going home: to Denendeh. I couldn't imagine living alone in the city like I was before my travels began. And when I called my 93-year-old grandfather in June he told me he was waiting for me to come home. Three weeks later, I parked my moto at a friend's place in Zihuatanejo and Mao and I boarded Alaska Airlines flight 211 to Vancouver.

Now here we are in Denendeh. Shortly after my arrival my grandfather asked me to help him write his stories. So, though I throw wistful glances at all the motorcycle travelers cruising through town on their way to and from Alaska, I feel good about being here. This is where I belong right now.

Expectation, Myth and la vida aventura

2006-05-22T16:20:00.001-07:00

ZIHUATANEJO, MEXICO. It’s been almost two months since my last post. Why? Somewhere, somehow Lowerider.ca; the destination; the "Plan", overtook the journey. I felt myself suffocating under expectations and hopes that I make it to Argentina. Though I do appreciate all the emails: the advice, encouragement, support and kind thoughts from around the world made me feel less alone.

As I traveled and met more and more people who were impressed with my mode of travel, I became weary of it all…of being "Lowerider". I longed to just be a girl on a bike again.

For many reasons, motorcycle travel is steeped in an aura of adventure that reaches mythical proportions…and like all myths, it’s based largely on fear, exaggeration, and a healthy dose of bullshit.

Don’t get me wrong, I still believe it’s the best way to travel, but after my trip sin moto to Tikal, I’m convinced that it is no more valiente or dangerous than travel by bus in this part of the world. There are those who would fight me on this (those who sell adventure or hope to cash in on their motorcycle adventures, in particular).

I believe that we each have our own style of riding and travel. I don’t seek out adventure and rarely take unecessary risks when riding. I realized this while riding with others in Guatemala: passing on blind corners, riding at night, going too fast or riding terrain that I’m not sure I can handle is not my style. This comes from many, many kilometres riding solo, far from home in lands where it is difficult for me to communicate. I understand the implications of inflicting damage on myself or my bike out here and I ride accordingly.

This journey has never been about adventure or heroism…it’s always been about freedom and rootedness. To some that may seem a contradiction. To me, being rooted is what sets me free.

April 4th, 2006 – The Road to Honduras

2006-04-07T17:07:00.001-07:00

COPÁN RUINAS, COPÁN, HONDURAS, MAYAB'. As soon as I got over my cold I jumped on my bike and headed to Honduras. Since they only gave me six weeks (and my bike less) to visit Guatemala when I crossed from Mexico, I need to renew my permits before I begin working for the Nahual Foundation in Antigua. The ride to Honduras was wonderful…I remember now why I chose to travel by motorcycle in the first place. Read More...

April 2, 2006: San Bartoleme Milpas Altas

2006-04-07T16:03:00.001-07:00

ANTIGUA, GUATEMALA, MAYAB' KACHIQUEL. This morning I woke long before sunrise…on the agenda today: a trip to San Bartolome Milpas Altas to watch a procession commemorating the crucifixion of Jesus. Besides the one that will be held in Antigua on Good Friday (previously known to me only as “a day off”), the procession in San Bartolome is the largest, with 90 men carrying a statue of the crucifixion of Jesus on their shoulders followed by 60 or so women carrying another statue of a really sad Mary through carpeted streets to Antigua. It was really cool. Read More...

March 30, 2006 – Hangin' my Helmet in Antigua

2006-04-07T15:57:00.001-07:00

ANTIGUA, GUATEMALA, MAYAB' KACHIQUEL. By the time I arrived in Antigua early this afternoon, I had decided to pull the plug on Lowerider. I awoke this morning in yet another drab Lonely Planet recommended hotel room, somewhere in “Latin America"--an America superimposed on and obscuring the true spirit of these lands. Though I believe I may have caught glimpses of this spirit in the Mayan women and the sunrise over Yax Mutal, riding the carreteras and hanging in Gringo towns, I am not making the connections I'd hoped for. Read More...

March 29, 2006 – Sunrise over Tikal - Robbers in Flores

2006-04-07T15:55:00.001-07:00

TIKAL, EL PETEN, GUATEMALA--YAX MUTAL (Q'EQCHI'). I awoke in the morning to the growls of the howler monkey echoing throughout the forest--I can see where the generations of jungle beast stories originate from. I would have been damn scared if I hadn't known that the ferocious growls were emanating from the cute lil monkeys I'd seen yesterday peacefully eating zapote fruits in the treetops. Read More...

March 28, 2006 – A Lesson in Anthropology at Tikal

2006-04-01T15:05:00.004-08:00

TIKAL, EL PETEN, GUATEMALA--YAX MUTAL (Q'EQCHI'). Today, I arrived in Tikal, one of the largest ancient cities of the Maya, after an all night bus ride from Guatemala City, where my traveling companion is in the shop getting a 40,000 km service and a new chain and sprocket. After spending a couple hours in La Capital I was thrilled to get on the night bus to El Petén. The ride itself was comfortable and it was nice to just sit back, relax and let someone else do the driving. When I awoke I was in the jungle. Read More...

March 26, 2006 - Lonely as Hell in Panajachel

2006-03-31T14:21:00.001-08:00

PANAJACHEL, SOLOLÁ, GUATEMALA, MAYAB' MAYA' CHOLQ'IJ. The BMW Convention was a nice break from the loneliness of the road and after a weekend of riding and hanging out with motorcyclists from Guatemala, Mexico and El Salvador, my apparently persistent loneliness hung a little heavier when we finally bid farewell and I lunched alone on the shores of Lake Atitlán. Read More...

March 17, 2006 – Resting in Xelaju

2006-03-31T10:50:00.003-08:00

QUEZTALTENANGO, GUATEMALA – XELAJU, MAM MAYA TERRITORY. I went to see Dr. Henry today hoping to get the go ahead to continue on my journey. Instead he ordered one more week of rest--without the sling (yay)--and some more meds. He also recommended that I don't travel for another month. Impossible. The rains are coming and I'd like to get south before they hit. Apparently, the steroid shot will only last for three months...which means another shot (and irreversible weakening of the tendon) or stop long distance riding long enough for some serious physiotherapy/healing. I'm a little vaklempt thinking about the possibility that I may have to stop riding soon. I'll write more later....

March 19, 2006 – Next Stop: Atitlán 2006, BMW International Convention

2006-03-31T10:50:00.002-08:00

QUEZTALTENANGO, GUATEMALA – XELAJU, MAM MAYA TERRITORY. Much of my time here in Xela has been spent in the Internet café...turns out the owner, Mario, is a member of the local BMW riders club. After some conversation, he informed me that there's a BMW convention in Panachejel next weekend. Cool. So, I'll be riding to the convention with the Xela BMW club...first time I've ridden with someone else since my trip to BMW Cabo. I'm looking forward to the convention; it will be nice to meet some more motorcyclists and it might even inspire me to continue south. I'll let you know how it goes....

March 10, 2006 – Chillin’ (literally) in Xelaju

2006-03-31T10:49:00.001-08:00

QUEZTALTENANGO, GUATEMALA – XELAJU, MAM MAYA TERRITORY. I’ve been in Xela for ten days now. And it doesn’t feel like it. Time is flying by and it’s not like the whole ‘time flies when you’re having fun’ bit either. I’m not having fun; my arm’s in a sling, I don’t feel like my strong self and I feel disoriented and detached from all that’s going on around me; I’ve been ‘losing’ things (most notably my translator and my Ray Bans) and just generally having bad sleeps, bad dreams and bad days. Read more...

March 1, 2006 – Leaving Chiapas

2006-03-31T10:48:00.003-08:00

SAN CRISTÓBAL DE LAS CASAS, CHIAPAS, MEXICO. I leave Chiapas tomorrow and I didn’t see as much of it as I had planned (Palenque) or hoped (Zapatista communities). Though, I got to see more than I had expected when I went to San Jose Chamula. I feel that my time here in Chiapas hasn’t been well spent. One reason is this melancholy that has set in, which seems to be worsened by the cold. Another reason is the high expectations that I had when I arrived here. Read more...

March 2, 2006 – The Road to Guatemala, Central America

2006-03-31T10:48:00.002-08:00

HUEHUETENANGO, HUEHUETENANGO, GUATEMALA. I’m in Guatemala and I’m freaked out. All of a sudden I feel very far from home and very vulnerable. But then again, I felt the same way when I got to Mexico. Once again, I know nothing about nothing: I can’t wrap my mind around the money system, I don’t know how to call home and the whole country is just a series of lines and names on a map. Read more...

February 26, 2006 – From the Mountains of the Mexican Southeast...

2006-03-31T10:47:00.001-08:00

SAN CRISTÓBAL DE LAS CASAS, CHIAPAS, MEXICO. Chiapas. Land of the Mayas and the Zapatistas (EZLN) and one of the poorest states in Mexico. As soon as I crossed the state line from Oaxaca, the roads immediately worsened…gone were the nicely banked curves and smooth pavement. In their place were narrow, torn up lanes and signs warning of dangerous curves ahead—curves that wind through the Sierra Madre de Chiapas mountains, where for over twenty years Mayan communities and their allies have dreamed and organized one of the most progressive political movements these continents have seen in generations: Zapatismo. Read more...

February 24, 2006 – Six Days to Guatemala

2006-03-31T10:46:00.001-08:00

JUCHITÁN, ISTHMUS OF TEHUANTEPEC, MEXICO – ZAPOTEC TERRITORY I arrived in Oaxaca City just in time to miss my contact. I decided to stay in town for a couple nights anyways; I’d been told it’s a beautiful city with incredible food. So after driving around the city for more than an hour looking for a budget hotel/hostel with secure parking, I settled into a cheap, depressing little room at a cool hotel and headed to the zócalo for some Oaxaqueño cuisine. Read more...

February 21, 2006 – Partied out in Puerto

2006-03-31T10:44:00.001-08:00

PUERTO ESCONDIDO, OAXACA, MEXICO. These last four days in Puerto have been fun: I’ve watched Carlos’ band play almost every night; sampled the local specialty, mezcal de café; spent a day at Barra de Navidad, where the river meets the sea; and another at Mazunte (which included a jam with me on the drums). But after two and a half months in Zihua and four days in Puerto I am officially partied out. So tonight, my last night in Puerto, I opted out of the Swill Stop Pig Roast, complete with Chicken Shit Bingo, to have a quiet sushi dinner on the beach. Read more...

February 18, 2006 - Zihua on my Mind

2006-02-18T15:26:00.001-08:00

Puerto Escondido, Oaxaca, Mexico. Well, I finally (and reluctantly) left Zihuatanejo. I am now in Puerto Escondido, a nice little surfer town with a great beach about 10hrs away in the state of Oaxaca. The road from Zihua was not scary like everyone had me believe...it's just like any other road in Mexico, though there was a heavy police and military presence. Soon I will be leaving the luxury of the Mexican beaches to head northeast into the mountains of Oaxaca and Chiapas for a couple weeks before venturing into Guatemala. More later...

February 13, 2006 – What the hell I have been doing in Zihua for two months…and why I’m still here.

2006-02-18T15:21:00.004-08:00

ZIHUATANEJO, GUERRERO, MEXICO – NAHUA TERRITORY. Yes it’s February and I am still in Zihuatanejo. Held captive by enamorada and worn brakes, I missed the Zapatista delegation in Oaxaca. Instead, I’ve been patiently waiting for new front brake pads to arrive from Mexico City and fighting the urge to linger even longer in Mexico by heading north the delegation’s next destination.

Since becoming aware of my brakes situation, I have been considering my options. Option 1: Continue straight south to Argentina. Option 2: Head north and find the Zapatista delegation; continue south before my visa runs out on March 2nd. Option 3: Continue south; spend six weeks in Guatemala learning some more Spanish; renew my Mexican visa; meet up with the Zapatistas back here in Guerrero; join the “Zapatour” for the remaining 2½ months of the tour, returning to Chiapas with them in June; continue south to Argentina. Option 4: Stay in Zihua and veg until I run out of money, which is just what most people here expect me to do. No surprise really…my nickname is Lana Mañana after all.

What can I say? Zihuatanejo is captivating and it’s easy to stay in this town “just one more day”; particularly when I think about heading into the cold mountains of Chiapas and Guatemala. It’s also a very laid back little town with not a whole lot to do except go to the beach during the day and visit with new friends and fellow travelers in the many restaurants and bars in the centro at night. Laundry day is my busiest day of the week and I don’t even do my own laundry…I just drop it off and try and remember to pick it up. Geez. You’d think I’d be bored by now. I guess I would be if it weren’t for the whole enamorada thing.

I remember sitting alone in a coffee shop in Jasper, Alberta early in this journey, watching all the RVs go by. The sky was looming, threatening rain, which always adds a little melancholy to my pensive moods. I was looking out the window at a row of RVs parked on the side of the road and writing about how they can only experience the world as “scenery”. Because they bring all the comfort and safety of home, the world outside will always be terra incognita for them—they will never even begin know the places through which they travel:

Jasper is full of ‘scenery’. It’s built for scenery, but the thousands of people who visit this place don’t know this land. They name it. They claim it. They ‘do’ this hike, ski that mountain, but they don’t know this land and as a result they don’t know the people of this land—the Stoneys.

Love and beauty are all around them and they will never really experience it because they are afraid. They may see it; the beauty may even touch them enough to make them cry. But the love will always be out of reach. To them, it will always just be scenery. Why? Because they are too scared to leave their world to enter another’s.

What does this have to do with Zihua? Until I got here, I was convinced that I was like the RVers; though love and beauty are all around me, it’s all just scenery; it touches me. It even makes me cry sometimes. But I can’t feel it. Like scenery, love is terra incognita—something that is all around me that I observe but do not experience or know.

So now here I am in Zihuatanejo and I’m venturing into terra incognita. It’s scary. It’s foreign and it’s intoxicating. Yeah, it’s safer to observe and never venture out into the unknown—to never take risks—but I guess that’s not what this journey is about. Since leaving everything behind and embarking on this journey—a journey of independence, freedom and discovery—I’ve had moments when I feel that I am finally living my life. Really living my life. It’s in these moments that I realize how close to dying I really was.

I realize that I’ve lived most of my life in a state of self-preservation and survival. I was afraid to risk anything—there’s no room for risks when you’re living on the edge, when you know that just one more blow will send you spiraling. So fragile, I learned to take the safest path and searched for security and comfort above all. Afraid to dream. Afraid to love. Afraid to live.

However, this journey so far has taught me that the more risks I take, the further I get from the edge. I’m no longer so fragile or afraid and I’m pleased to find that it hasn’t killed me to give a little bit of myself as I enter into others’ worlds. On the contrary, the more I risk and the more I give, the more I grow and the more alive I feel. So that’s what I’ve been up to in Zihua, and it’s been pretty cool.

Though most of my days in Zihua are chill and it feels like I don’t do a whole lot, I have found some cool things to do and places to go during my two-month stay:

1. Making the 40-minute trek to from town to Rossy’s at the end of Playa La Ropa. The least expensive place on La Ropa, Rossy’s has good seafood and the lunch prices are reasonable (be warned: dinner is too expensive for what you get). They also have comfy beach chairs where I settle in, eat tiritas and read a book, walking back to town as the sun sets.

2. Going to La Barrita with the two Maos. About an hour south of Zihuatanejo, La Barrita is a tranquil and secluded beach where we chilled all day in hammocks, ate big-ass prawns, did some beachcombing and played in the waves. The bus ride was an adventure in itself, the warm, clear water glittered like gold and the sunset was beautiful. The best place to just sit and relax.

3. Taking a boat to Playa Las Gatas for awesome tuna sashimi. Across the bay from Zihua, Las Gatas is a short boat ride from the municipal pier. Once there, I snorkelled the remains of a rock wall that, according to local stories, was built by an Aztec noble to provide a protected shore for the women and children of the area. Next to the snorkel rental hut is a small restaurant that serves the best melt-in-your-mouth tuna sashimi ever. Yum.

4. Visiting Siri, Marina and the children at Netzah school.

5. Playing drums with Rodrigo, Alfonso, Kenny and Jason on Jam Night at the Blue Mamou. Terribly expensive and a little out of the way, the Blue Mamou is Zihua’s only blues club. The guys in the house band are great musicians whose music and groove have inspired me to start playing drums again (and modify my top ten list).

They are also great guys to hang out with and it was while hanging out with them at Mao’s place, Barracruda II, that I revealed I had played drums when I was younger, even moving to Hollywood to study percussion at the Musician’s Institute (MI). From there, they were committed to helping me ‘get my groove back’, and after a few days of coaxing, 45 minutes of practice to get the rust out, and two glasses of wine, I was onstage—in front of a full audience for the first time ever.

Despite many, many opportunities to jam, one of the main reasons I never became a good drummer or completed my coursework at MI was because I suffered horrible stage fright. I even went to a hypnotist to try and get rid of it, lol…geez, I almost forgot about that, lol. Even in class at MI, I was mortified when it was my turn to play. There were times when I just couldn’t get the nerve to play in front of the class and I would sit on the drum stool, in front of the class, silent and ashamed. After a few years of playing alone in my room, too frightened to even find other musicians to play with, I quit and sold my drums. I was all talk, no action. That was then.

But not now. Though I was frightened, I looked myself in the mirror and told myself that I can do this…I know how to play drums, I can carry a beat…it’s all about the groove, not the fancy stuff. I can do this. I defended a Masters’ thesis in front of friends, bosses, colleagues, co-workers and mentors. I rode to southern Mexico on a motorcycle; I can play a simple blues beat in front of a bunch of people I probably will never see again. And whatever happens, I told myself, don’t stop playing. Still, when they announced me as the next drummer, my stomach turned. And just when I thought I still had a chance to run away, Kenny took my hand and led me to the stage. The applause and whistles were more than a little unnerving.

When I got behind that kit, in front of all those people, I took a deep breath, looked at Kenny and Rodrigo, who reassured me with their smiles, and we started to play. It was awesome. After a few minutes, I had forgotten about the audience and focused on the groove. I even managed to do some small fills and cymbal crashes in the right place :) Still really rusty, with knees like jelly, I know I wasn’t the best drummer, but my friend, Eli, who was at the back of the room, said my smile lit up the whole club.

That smile emanated from the joy of playing drums again and the feeling of finally letting go of one of my greatest fears. Though I know the turning stomach and desire to run away may never go away, I know that in facing my fear of playing in front of people, not only am I one huge step closer to fulfilling a long-held desire to play drums in a groovy band…but I am a little closer to letting go of the root fears: fear of failure and public humiliation. And that feeling is powerful enough to light a 1000-watt smile.

6. Watching the sunrise and eating the tortas at the pier. The ladies start serving the best tortas ever down at the government pier. The tortas are best when the bread is hot and the ingredients are the freshest and they start serving at 6:00am so you either have to get up really early or stay up really late. Guess which we did?

7. Watching Mexican rodeo videos (hardcore!) and dancing Ranchero til dawn at Jaguar/Harradura. We have to do something while we wait for tortas!

8. Riding my bike up the steep and winding road behind Playa La Ropa and watching the sunset. Sometimes if it’s clear out, I ride up there at night and watch for falling stars…that was until some guy approached me in the dark (and it’s dark up there) and asked me to join him in his truck for some ‘conversation’. Needless to say I sped away as fast as I my weak little u-turns would allow, lol, never to return at night again.

9. Dining at Don Memo’s. Good food, great prices…$50 pesos for a delicious thin crust veggie pizza; $40 pesos for a plate of pasta. Unfortunately a glass of wine costs almost the same.

My two favourite nights at Memo's so far are one with the pedalnutz…we dined on queso fundido, red wine and pasta until midnight. Great guys, and I will never forget Dave telling me, “Just move like Spanish spaghetti” (and demonstrating) when I lamented my inability to dance like Mexican women do. The other was with Mao, Benon and Andreé Anne: more good food, a couple bottles of wine and good conversation with my favourite people in town. Not to mention a muy romantica Mariachi serenade (cliché and corny until it happens to you).

10. My favourite restaurant is ¿De donde Eres? on Calle Adelita behind Playa La Madera. A small restaurant recently opened by a young couple, Sabrina and Shunik, the food is awesome and the service is great, as a result there’s usually a line up at the door. Specializing in ‘World Food’, Shunik cooks a mean stir fry and my craving for Thai food was satisfied by his red curry prawns…though a little too spicy for my delicate stomach…I had to switch to the more mild chicken stirfry, lol. The best dinner in town.

So that’s pretty much all I’ve been doing in Zihuatanejo. As I write this, mi moto is in the shop getting some new brake pads and fluid and a chain adjustment, so I will be ready to leave soon…as ready as I’ll ever be to leave Zihua, anyways. It’s been a great ‘vacation’ here and I’ve met so many good people it will be very hard to leave. Next stop: Acapulco, Guerrero.

February 3, 2006 - Will I Ever Get Out of Zihua!?

2006-02-03T14:22:00.000-08:00

Unable to update my website and realizing that my last lowerider.ca entry may cause some concern if I don't follow up soon, I'm writing a quick entry to let you all know that I'm still safe and sound in Zihua.

On my pre-trip check I noticed that my front brake pads are worn and when I brought it into the local Kawasaki shop, the mechanic confirmed that it would be unsafe for me to ride to Oaxaca before getting them replaced. They are on the case and searching Guadalajara for some new pads for me...hopefully the pads will be here tomorrow and installed on Monday. So best case scenario is that I have three days to get to Oaxaca City for the arrival of the Zapatistas :(

Better news is that I have received a few emails assuring me that the road to Oaxaca is not really that bad and it's just as safe as the rest of Mexico as long as I stick to my number one road rule: never ride at night. So now it's just bad brakes, not fear, keeping me from the road. I learned another road rule: Do pre-trip check at least two days before planned departure.

Soon I will update lowerider.ca with some dirt (and photos) on what I've been up to in Zihuatanejo...hint: I'm thismuchcloser to fulfilling one of the top ten things to do with my life (http://www.lowerider.ca/december_25,_2005.htm).

January 31, 2006 - Lana Mañana

2006-02-01T19:24:00.001-08:00

ZIHUATANEJO, GUERRERO, MEXICO. Well my laptop is toast and now I have to rely on Internet cafes for the rest of the journey...I found one here in Zihua that has FrontPage so I have an opportunity to update you all on what I'm up to. If things go as planned, I will be in Acapulco tonight...however I am having a little trouble getting going today and it looks like I'm living up to my new nickname, Lana Mañana, and will probably leave for Acapulco in the morning. Read More...

January 11, 2006 - Waitin' on Indian Rebels in Mexico

2006-01-11T15:14:00.001-08:00

ZIHUATANEJO, GUERRERO, MEXICO. Right now I'm chillin in Zihua (again) waiting for the Zapatista delegation to hit Oaxaca at the beginning of February. For those who don't know, the Zapatistas have embarked on a 6 month tour of Mexico (with Subcommandante Marcos, aka Delgado Zero, on a black motorcycle...swoon, lol) to promote the Other Campaign to counter the 2006 Presidential Campaign and build a "new left".

Like Canada, in Mexico every election year brings more money and false promises to indigenous communities as candidates vie for the Indian vote. The Zapatistas have no faith in the mainstream political process and are taking this opportunity to go on a "listening tour" to imagine and build a new way of doing politics. It's the first time in four years since they have left their liberated zones in the mountains of Chiapas and I can't leave Mexico without trying to find them.

In other news, my computer is a piece of basura and I cannot edit or update lowerider.ca at all. I am working with some techies here to try and figure something out. Until then, I will be updating here on this blog and resisting the temptation to hurl my computer off a cliff and into the sea below.

Thank you everyone for your kind emails and wishes! I'll be in touch soon.

December 30, 2005: Off the shit List and into the Pool

2006-01-02T20:19:00.001-08:00

PUERTO VALLARTA, JALISCO, MEXICO, NAHUA TERRITORY. Well, Fausto, the Service Manager of Plaza Pelicanos came through for us. After the air conditioner broke and flooded Wendy and Bonnie's room, Bonnie resumed the "negotiations" that she had begun when they barred me from the hotel. She made it very clear that she was not impressed with this hotel (for several reasons) and demanded that they either honour their promise to allow me to buy a day pass for $35 or she would be contacting SunQuest Vacations and arranging to stay at another hotel. In the end, Fausto honoured the promise, but New Year's Eve in PV is still out for me. Read more...

December 28, 2005: Got the Bum's Rush but it sure is Nice Being a Girl Again

2006-01-02T20:15:00.001-08:00

PUERTO VALLARTA, JALISCO, MEXICO, NAHUA TERRITORY. Wendy and Bonnie have been in town for only two days and we've already made memories that will last a lifetime. I back tracked two days to see them and though I'm barred from their cheezy-ass all-inclusive hotel, Plaza Pelicanos, seeing them again, even if it's only for a couple days makes it totally worth it. Read more...

December 25, 2005: A Very Gringo Christmas

2006-01-02T20:09:00.001-08:00

MELAQUE, JALISCO, MEXICO, NAHUA TERRITORY. My first day in town, I met a Mexican restaurant/bar owner and ended up having to use some quick evasive action to escape his advances. After that, I retreated to the safety and comfort of hanging with gringos. I'm in no mood to deal with that right now. Fortunately for me, this town is full of gringos...mostly from British Columbia. Read more...

December 21, 2005: Leavin' Zihua

2006-01-02T20:06:00.001-08:00

MELAQUE, JALISCO, MEXICO, NAHUA TERRITORY. The Mexican saying, "Lana viene, lana va" (money comes, money goes) has been running through my head all day. Lana comes. Lana goes. It's the essence of travel. It's strange how I can ride into a town that I've never heard of, where I don't speak the language and never know where the hell I am, only to meet and bond with people, then leave. It's all so new, so exciting...and so fleeting. Read more...

December 7, 2005: If it ain't broke, don't fix it

2005-12-14T17:07:00.001-08:00

ZIHUATANEJO, GUERRERO, MEXICO, AMUZCO TERRITORY. I'm staying in Zihuatanejo until Christmas. I've decided to meet my sister-in-law in Puerto Vallarta for Christmas and stop continuing south until after I see her. The decision to take yet another extended break from the road was not easy to make since I worry that lingering too long in Mexico may ensure that I don't make it to Argentina, but I received some sage advice that helped me decide.
The opportunity to see my sister-in-law (one of my best friends and most favourite people in the world) after five months brought on this dilemma of whether to stay in Zihuatanejo for a while or to continue making miles toward Argentina. Not only would I be interrupting the journey south, but I would be back-tracking two days north. But then again, this would be an opportunity to take the coastal road that I had sacrificed to see the colonial cities. But I haven't seen her in so long, and she's going through a rough time at home. Maybe she will bring me some gifts from home. Hmmm.
It wouldn't be bad staying in Zihuatanejo since I've met some good people here and it's already one of my favourite places in Mexico. There are beautiful beaches and I have many opportunities for surfing, sailing and snorkeling if I want to. I guess if I'm going to take a break from the road for a while, this is definitely a nice place to do it. But what about Argentina?
My worries about lingering too long in Mexico and thus not making it to Argentina have been eased by the knowledge that it is best to visit my ultimate destination, the Iguazu Falls, during winter or spring (June to mid-November). Previously, I was under the assumption that I had to be there before summer ended in March--which is the case if I were only trying to get to Tierra del Fuego in Patagonia. Maybe I'll have to skip Tierra del Fuego, but I will still be able to get to the Iguazu Falls.
Besides, this trip has always been about the journey and not the destination. Unlike many other motorcycle travelers, who make a point of starting in Alaska and riding to Tierra del Fuego, I sorta set the tone for my trip when I stopped at Mile 295 of the Alaska Highway and visited my grandparents for two weeks instead of continuing on to Alaska. For me, the visit and the experience are more important than arbitrary start and finish lines. Which means, I guess, that I am willing to sacrifice the destination for the journey itself.
I thought about all of this the day that I struggled to take a decision whether to stay or go. Coincidently, it was also the 4th anniversary of my dad's passing. This day usually brings back all the pain and anguish of losing him and I am pensive and anxious--and I usually drink too much, lol. This year, however, my mind was on the prospect of leaving Zihuatanejo and though this day never passes without me being struck by sadness, this year the anguish and anxiety weren't there. I take this as a sign that I have made some pretty good decisions in shadow of my dad's death that have made me stronger and more able to let him go with peace. So, on this day, I considered what my dad would do. Would he stay or would he go?
As I roamed around Zihuatanejo thinking about the options and implications of a decision, I ran into Fredrick, an old biker guy from Washington State who I had met a few days earlier. With a 1974 SuperGlide and an outlook on life much like my dad's, I told him my dilemma. He responded with a Tedism (an affectionate word my brother and I used for our dad's many one-liners): "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." In that moment, I decided to stay in Zihuatanejo until Christmas.

December 1, 2005: Back in the saddle and now my ass hurts

2005-12-13T15:54:00.001-08:00

ZIHUATANEJO, GUERRERO, MEXICO, AMUZCO TERRITORY. "So how long are you planning on staying here in Zihau?" asked Tom, ex-pat and owner of Cocodrilo's bar. I met Tom within minutes of reaching Zihautanejo and was having a complimentary Corona in his bar after a grueling 11-hour ride in. When I told him maybe one or two days, he said, "You'll be here longer. This place has magic." That was almost a week ago.
Getting to Zihuatanejo was not easy, even though according to my map, it's only about 400 kilometres from Angangueo to Zihuatanejo on what looked like main highways--Mex51 and Mex134. When I left the cold of Angangueo early in the morning, preparing for a long day of riding, I had no idea just how long it would be.
Mex51 wasn't so bad, for a desolate, steep and winding mountain road with topes every ten kilometres. By the time I descended 3000 feet and 95 kilometres to Tiquicheo, it had taken almost three hours. It was still early in the day, but I started to worry about racing the sunset. I hoped the road would get better as I moved south and decided I would only stop for gas and an occasional drink of water.
Two hours later, I hit Mex134 and was pleased to find that it was new blacktop. With only 200 kilometres to go and about 4 hours of daylight, I figured for sure I would make it to the coast before sunset. Then suddenly, about 20 kilometres in, the blacktop ended and the road construction began.
For the next three hours I rode down the Sierra Madres on thick sand and gravel laid down in preparation for road repair. Where there was no sand or gravel there were potholes that spanned the whole road--sometimes entire chunks of the road had collapsed down the side of the mountain. Often, a tope would be thrown in, apparently to make a bad road worse. For a while, as if some sort of cruel joke, the road would smooth out and I'd think that it was all over, only to turn the next corner into gravel again. After a few disappointments, I settled in for a long, gravelly ride down the mountain.
During this part of the ride I had to keep telling myself that I am not alone. That despite its apparent desolation, this land is not "nowhere" and that there are good and kind people everywhere in these mountains who would help me if I needed it. This road sucks. I am not alone. I am not alone.
I am not alone. I didn't know how true this was until I rounded a corner right smack into a mountain fiesta. Suddenly, "in the middle of nowhere" (proving yet again that there is no such thing), after three hours of riding a lonely mountain road, I found myself slowly navigating my way through a crowd of about 500 people who were partying on the highway. On my left, was a concert size stage, food vendors and a crowd of people of all ages. On my right, taking up most of the lane, was a row of pick-up trucks loaded with children, dogs, chickens, food, beer and pop. The crowd parted as I made my way through. If I hadn't been in a hurry I might have stopped to shake hands and see what the party was all about. If I hadn't felt like an alien I would have taken a picture.
Once I passed the construction zone and the mountain fiesta, the road was a little easier to navigate. I only had to skirt the big ass potholes, some rockslides, herds of surprised burros, skittish goats, a few loping pigs, some dumb-ass chickens, lazy horses and defiant cows. I even managed to stop for a photo. But the sun was setting fast and I burned down the mountain, thinking its better to race over the potholes while I can still see them. Another two hours and I would be in the dark on a road that I had been warned is a main drug route that I don't want to be on at night.
This was confirmed by the military police who I was sorta relieved to see until they insisted on wasting precious daylight by checking me and my bike out for drugs. I made my urgency to reach Zihautanejo before dark known and they eased up, giving only a cursory glance in my bags...still I spent at least 15 minutes there. They let me go, assuring me that the road gets better ahead and that I was only two hours away from the coast. It took me three and I arrived in Zihuatanejo about an hour after sunset. I was tense, exhausted and my ass hurt.
But I made it and here I found a 'magical' place to warm up and chill out. Zihuatanejo is a small town nestled between the Sierra Madres del Sur and the Pacific Ocean. Verdant mountains and lush palm trees line the white sand beaches that spill into the azul waters of the Pacific. The verdant foliage is awash with the pinks, purples, reds and yellows of hibiscus and bougainvilleas that sweeten the air with their delicate scent. Amid all of this I've seen breathtaking sunsets, crocodiles lurking in the lagoon and sea turtle hatchlings making a desperate sprint for the ocean. Tom's right; it is magic.
Zihautanejo is also romantic town. Its soft sand beaches, crashing waves and pink sunsets bring out couples who stroll hand in hand or hang out on the beaches for hours. Divers sell fresh oysters along the malecón while candlelit tables line the beaches in front of the luxury hotels. In town, the soft, sensual rhythms of reggae from the many bars and restaurants fill the streets, while laughter and conversation fills the air. I think Zihautanejo would be a good place to fall in love--and judging by the many sunset weddings I've seen on the beaches here, I'm not the only one.
The magic is also in the people. The locals and the ex-pats from Canada and the United States intermingle and are very welcoming and generous. It's a small town and everyone knows everybody, so it's easy to meet people and become folded into the daily goings on...which I'm discovering is a lot of just chillin', surfing and fishing. I have been invited to do all three while I'm here, so I've decided to stay awhile. Tom was right, this town has magic

November 25, 2005: Angangueo, Michoacan

2005-12-13T15:36:00.001-08:00

ANGANGUEO, MICHOACAN, MEXICO, TARASCAN TERRITORY. As I make my way south, I decided to go to Sierra Chincua, a Monarch Butterfly bioreserve near Angangueo, Michoacan, a small town that sits at about 10,000 feet altitude in the eastern Sierra Madres. Since my room had no central heating or hot water, I joined my bike in its resistance getting started in the morning. But I according to Lets Go Mexico...this is a must-see in Mexico...so here I am for two [freezing] nights. Read more...

The Work of El Machete :(

2005-11-27T09:38:00.001-08:00

In the meantime, for everyone who asked:

Before El Machete

After El Machete

November 23, 2005: San Miguel de Allende

2005-11-27T09:37:00.001-08:00

SAN MIGUEL DE ALLENDE, GUANAJUATO, MEXICO, OTOMI TERRITORY. Well my first impressions were correct; San Miguel de Allende is a nice place to chill out for a couple days. There are a lot of public gardens and plazas here, the streets are picturesque and the evenings are tranquile. It's a great town to walk around in day or night, though there was one time (well, twice) when I felt that I was being followed, and I was right. Read more...

November 20, 2005: Guanajuato to San Miguel de Allende

2005-11-27T09:35:00.001-08:00

SAN MIGUEL DE ALLENDE, GUANAJUATO, MEXICO, OTOMI TERRITORY. I got up early so I could leave Guanajuato early. Though I don't really know why since I was only planning to drive about and hour and a half down the road to San Miguel de Allende. It didn't matter anyway since during the night my motorcycle had gotten boxed in. Fortunately, the offending car had an alarm system and after about an hour of trying to find out who owned the car, the hotel staff shook it hard enough to set off the alarm. The owner of the car was not impressed but he moved his car without complaint. Read more...

November 19, 2005: Guanajuato, Guanajuato

2005-11-27T09:34:00.001-08:00

GUANAJUATO, MEXICO, GUACHICHIL TERRITORY. Two days is either too long or not long enough in Guanajuato. Too long if you do what I did and stick to the main tourist zone, and not long enough if you hope to get to know the people and places outside of el centro historica, which I suspect are as complex as the centro's colonial architecture and narrow, winding streets. This is afterall a university town that is rich in art, history and architecture. Read more...

November 16, 2005: Durango, Durango - Zacatecas, Zacatecas

2005-11-27T09:33:00.002-08:00

ZACATECAS, MEXICO, HUICHOL TERRITORY. I left Durango after a two-night stay, crossing both the Tropic of Cancer and the Continental Divide to get to Zacatecas. Life here in the western Sierra Madres is not like the Baja. For one, it's damn cold (or maybe I'm used to the desert heat after two months). And two, it feels old; unlike La Paz which is over 300 years old, but it doesn't look or feel like it. Lacking the beauty and allure of the sea, here in the Sierra Madres del Norte, antiquity is big business.

Durango is a neat town; an odd mixture of rough and tumble cowboy and prissy, pampered colonial. The result is an architecture that is alluring yet unwelcoming. It's a strange combination; and I guess a result of the prissies trying to keep the ruffians out. Northern Mexico was after all, the domain of Pancho Villa and his Dorados, whose revolutionary actions included occupying and looting the homes of the rich.

I was walking around el centro at siesta when I first noticed that the Spanish colonial buildings are like fortresses. For these two hours, all of the heavy wooden doors are closed and locked, giving a feeling that the town is on lock-down. The large windows, though wide open with their gauzy white curtains floating in the breeze, are covered by ornate bars. The brick and plaster walls painted in bright, warm and welcoming colours, stand tall and foreboding over the narrow sidewalks. From what I can tell, most of these buildings have an inner courtyard, which is tiled, furnished and usually quite verdant with a fountain and some birds flapping around. Here, in this sanctuary is where living takes place. The rustic beauty and mystique of these buildings is intriguing.

I spent an afternoon in the Museo Regional de Durango, which begins with the same story as most: a tale of us primitive Indians conquered, yet protected, by benevolent, 'civilized' Europeans. As I walked through the exhibits of life in Durango since the Europeans arrived, I wondered, "How does a continent decolonize after 500 years?"
Now in Zacatecas after a four-hour ride through the plains that were once the domain and refuge of Pancho Villa and his revolutionaries, I find myself in a grand colonial city in the Mexican Sierras.

Established in 1546, the narrow, winding streets of Zacatecas are mercilessly snarled and steep. Often, the names change block to block--follow some and you will end up taunted by a steep and narrow stairway. Fortunately, the people of Zacatecas are merciful.

Twice, I got hopelessly lost. When I asked for directions, both offered to take me where I need to go, "Sigueme!" (follow me), much to my relief, since I still can't understand when people give me directions...hell, I'm still working on how to ask for directions.

Eventually, I found a room at a hostal, which turned out to be more of a hotel than a hostel, with private rooms and bath (yay). More importantly, they allowed me to park my bike in the lobby for the night. I paid $30 for the room; I suspect that I may be able to find rooms cheaper around here. My problem is that I tend to take the first room I see that is clean and has safe parking for my bike because I don't like riding around in a strange city all encumbered with my stuff, while the other drivers speed past me as I search for landmarks and scan my little tourist map trying to get oriented.

Once unloaded, I set out to cruise the centro on my bike. It seems the traffic doesn't end. Even at night the street is packed with buses, taxis, trucks and cars, while small motorcycles and scooters weave in and out making their way through the snarls. With the touratech panniers on, I am not so agile, so I sit in traffic like everyone else. I don't mind; it gives me a chance to look around instead of ahead.

Zacatecas is a romantic town with soft pink buildings and narrow lanterned streets. The many ornate churches glowing in a multitude of spotlights add drama and grandeur to the night sky.
It's also a young town, with a University and a Technology school. At night, students stroll the streets arm in arm or cruise the callejones (alleys). Reggaeton blares from their cars and mixes with the music pouring into the streets from various restaurants and bars. On the weekends, the party really gets going as the tradition of the callejoneada is kept alive.

Though it was not the weekend, I had a chance to partake in this festive tradition. It seems the Department of Water was holding a callejoneada for their staff. Though it was a private function, the callejoneada is an inherently public event, since it consists of crowds of people dancing through the narrow callejones drinking mescal from tiny cups strung around their necks. At the head of this procession is a man and a burro doling out the mescal and a group of musicians setting the pace with the festive rhythms of Banda.

I joined up with them when I noticed a group of people dancing at the fountain near my hotel, though they didn't have a little cup for me, they didn't mind that I came along. It's a fine tradition that would get you arrested several times over in Canada.

While walking these streets admiring the architecture and its "old world" feel, I can't help but think about the Indian land and labour that created this town. The wealth displayed here is taken from the veins of the mountains and people of this land: Indian miners, labourers and artists created these buildings. It is all so colonial.

This city thrives on its colonial past yet, there is no weepy-eyed nostalgia. They don't celebrate the "glory" days of the past; the reality of colonization here is too brutal. Too shameful. Instead, the spoils are celebrated and the past lamented, while the colonial tradition continues. Here there is a blend of antigua and cosmopolita, that keeps an ever-watchful gaze toward Europe and North America. The historic buildings and winding streets provide a dramatic backdrop for 21st Century city-living in the mountains of central Mexico, the mountains of the Huichol people.

The Huicholes are known world-wide, thanks to National Geographic, as "the peyote eaters": indigenous people who use peyote in their sacred ceremonies. At the Museo Zacatecano, I was delighted to find a museum that did not relegate the local indigenous people to the past. Here, the guide was Huichol and the exhibit showcased the Huichol life, past and present.

In 1550, four years after the Spanish discovered silver and established the town of Zacatecas, the Huicholes joined with their brothers and sisters to protect their land, this became known as the "Chichimeca War" (Chichimeca being a derogatory word used by the Aztecs to describe the indigenous peoples of this area). For the next 40 years, they fought the Spaniards and their Indian allies, refusing to move off of the land and into the mines.

The war ended with the signing of a treaty that promised the people that they would be exempt from "forced service" in the mines and from paying tribute. They would also receive food, agricultural implements and clothing in exchange for peace. Once peace reigned, the missionaries were sent in under the auspices of bringing the promised food, clothing and tools. They immediately set up a language school and began the long process of conversion.

The Huicholes survived with their language and worldview intact, despite concerted attacks from the Spaniards, their descendents and their Indian allies throughout the generations.

Today, Huichol territory covers 40,000 hectares of the states of Jalisco, Nayarit, Zacatecas and Durango. And every couple years, the Huichol people embark on the Huircuta, a 500km journey through their territory, following the footsteps of their ancestors to the place of the Sun God. The city of Zacatecas is the mid-point of this journey.

The Huichol hunt peyote with bows and arrows along the way and collect sacred water from the desert. They climb mountains and canyons and barbed wire fences. They paint their faces and visit many gods, offering gifts and receiving blessings. When they reach the place of the Sun God, they drink the sacred water and eat peyote. They dance all night and all day, then they return home to tell the others what they saw. When they return home, bringing sacred water and peyote, a bull is sacrificed and they hold ceremony in the Sun temple. They dance all night and sing about their journey. Then they return to the bottom of the canyon for a final ceremony where it all began. Each Huircuta is remembered throughout the year with the peyote and water received along the journey. The people dance all night and record what they see in paint, beads and embroidery. The Huichol must do the Huircuta to fulfill their commitment to honour those who give them life.

The Huichol overcome many obstacles to continue this journey. The biggest obstacles are not the mountains they climb, but the others who now live in their land. The Huichol have been persecuted for the use of peyote and for 'trespassing'. The Huircuta can no longer be done solely by foot since the construction of Boulevard Mateos between Zacatecas and Guanajuato. A public works project was built on Cerra de la Bufa, overlooking Zacatecas and destroyed this sacred place by, "beating back the god that lived [here]."

La Bufa is now a hot tourist attraction that offers a great view of the city, and for motorcyclists, a nice winding road to the top. In addition to the public works project, there is yet another church and a museum. Despite my bleeding heart, I was thrilled to see a statue of Pancho Villa commemorating the Taking of Zacatecas in 1914, during which Villa and his troops seized the city after a day-long battle with the Federales (booo federales).

In the face of all this history, tragedy, valour and bloodshed, I lost myself. I wandered. I thought. I sat looking up at Villa and his horse. I pondered the blue sky. I breathed in the sprawling city below. In my reverie, I left the camera case that my grandmother had made for me on La Bufa.

My cousin had killed the moose. My grandmother skinned it, stretched, tanned and smoked its hide. Then she cut it into form for my camera. She added some beadwork: Dogwoods, my favourite. Then she sewed it together. It fit beautifully. It was my anchor. The smell of smoked moosehide always brings me home--no matter how many miles or years I travel--and I left it on La Bufa.

Despite all the history and tragedy I discovered in this place, I will always remember La Bufa as the place I lost the camera case my Et-soo made for me. I was very sad to lose it, but I made myself feel a little better knowing that had I lost it at a once-sacred place.

November 14, 2005: Espinazo del Diablo

2005-11-27T09:32:00.001-08:00

DURANGO, DURANGO, MEXICO, TEPEHUAN TERRITORY. Today's ride was pretty dramatic, beginning with the heavy heat, traffic and smog of Mazatlán; peaking with the winding roads and crisp mountain air along the Devil's Backbone; and culminating in the sprawling cowboy town of Durango. Read more...

November 13, 2005: MAZATLÁN

2005-11-27T09:31:00.001-08:00

MAZATLÁN, SINALOA, MEXICO, TOTORAMES TERRITORY. After two months and an 18-hour ferry ride, I'm in Mazatlán. My arrival here was not as stressful as usual. I guess those two months in La Paz really helped me adjust and chill out. Besides, I wasn't racing the sunset since the ferry arrived around 10am so I had lots of time to get lost and find a place to stay. I also met a fellow rider just as we were disembarking, so I had company as I rode into the city. Read more...

November 12, 2005: Back in the Saddle

2005-11-27T09:30:00.001-08:00

LA PAZ, MEXICO, GUAYCURA TERRITORY. Today, I am heading to Mazatlán on the three o'clock sailing aboard Baja Ferries. Thinking that I would take advantage of the 50% dicount that is offered to women on Fridays, I planned to leave yesterday, but the ferry only goes to Mazatlán on Wednesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. So today is the big day. Read more...

November 8, 2005: El machete

2005-11-13T16:31:00.001-08:00

LA PAZ, MEXICO, GUAYCURA TERRITORY. There's the courage it takes to get on a motorbike and travel. Then there's the courage it takes to get a haircut in Mexico. It took me ten years and many bad haircuts to find a good hairdresser in Canada. Now that I've found her, I will not let anyone else cut my hair. Even when I moved to Vancouver, I went back to Victoria to get my haircut. But now with Nicole so far away, I decided to let Alphonso cut my hair. I like to call him El Machete. Read more...

October 28, 2005: of Beggars, Vampires and the "New Relationship"

2005-10-29T21:09:00.001-07:00

LA PAZ, MEXICO, GUAYCURA TERRITORY. One of the first people I met when I first got to La Paz was Hector. In his early 50s, dishevelled and weathered, Hector appeared in Mareiros to see if there were any gringos around with a spare peso to help him get a bus ticket back to Guadalajara. I’d already decided that I would give him a few pesos so I saved him the trouble of the pitch and instead engaged him in conversation. His faded “La Paz, BCS” t-shirt suggested that he’d been in La Paz for a while. I asked him how long. Read more...

October 25, 2005: Good News

2005-10-29T21:08:00.001-07:00

LA PAZ, MEXICO, GUAYCURA TERRITORY. I think my luck may be changing. Yesterday, I had a simple task to perform: call my bank and authorize a credit card purchase. A simple task until you combine the Mexican phone system with a Canadian bank's automated answering system. After wasting almost an entire calling card and getting absolutely nothing accomplished, I was left feeling pretty gloomy: my bike's hurtin, I can't get the part I need, my bank sucks, I'm never going to get to Argentina and I can't even get through to my mom to cry on her shoulder. That was before I got pulled over by the cops. Read more...

October 24, 2005: Siempre Esperando en La Paz

2005-10-29T21:06:00.002-07:00

LA PAZ, MEXICO, GUAYCURA TERRITORY. A new guest arrived at Gloria's last night. When he asked where I'm from, Javier laughed and quipped, "La Paz". Funny. He thinks I'm never going to leave La Paz, and I'm feeling it, too.

I'm still trying to get a new fan motor from San Diego, which is about as simple as getting a cell phone from Canada. In the meantime, I've taken my old one to a machinist here in town to get the coils rewound. He wanted $50 but since it's just a temporary fix until a new one arrives, I refused to pay more than $30. So now he's taking his time and it will be ready "mañana". In the meantime, I'm trying to ride only in the mornings and at night.

I hope I will be able to sort everything out soon. I want to be on the road November 10 or 17, since it's half-price Fridays for women on the ferry (and hurricane season will have finally come to an end). I think I may have just jinxed myself by writing that.

October 21, 2005 – Fear and Loathing in La Paz

2005-10-29T21:05:00.001-07:00

LA PAZ, MEXICO, GUAYCURA TERRITORY. I’ve been feeling a little low since deciding to stay in La Paz for another month. The decision, though a good financial decision and one that pleases my family, brings a sense of failure and fear. Why? I am not as far into the Americas as I’d like to be and I’m afraid that I’m taking too long and will run out of money before I get to see the Iguazu Falls. Based on this fear, I am tempted to hit the road and take my chances in the south—washed out roads and bridges be damned. But I’ve made a few costly decisions lately and I’ve learned that decisions based on fear are very rarely wise decisions. Read more...

October 18, 2005: A wake up call at el Rancho Yorigiobe

2005-10-29T21:04:00.001-07:00

EL RANCHO LAS DELICIAS, BAJA CALIFORNIA SUR, GUAYCURA TERRITORY. I lost my focus lately. This weekend, I was jolted back into reality with the simple words uttered by a Guaycura ranchera, “Está en mi sangre, pero no está en mi corazón” (It’s in my blood, but it’s not in my heart). I blinked back the tears and I felt a deep sorrow for her, or was it for me? It’s the same familiar sorrow that engulfs me every time I visit my grandparents and I see everyone around me forgetting who we are. Read more...

OCTOBER 17, 2005: THE LA PAZ EDDY

2005-10-29T21:03:00.001-07:00

LA PAZ, MEXICO, GUAYCURA TERRITORY. Apparently, there is a mariner's tale about the La Paz eddy; a strong vortex that holds one captive in the crystal blue waters surrounding Baja's capital. It is easy to get caught in and very difficult to escape. And now that I've decided to stay in La Paz until mid-November, I'm beginning to think that it's not just a marine phenomenon.

Much to the relief of my mom and my et-soo, I have decided to wait until the people of Chiapas, Guatemala, El Salvador and Honduras have a chance to recover somewhat from the devastation of Hurricane Stan before I attempt to ride through their lands (not to mention that I won't get very far with all the roads and bridges washed out). In the meantime, I will be moving into one of the casitas behind Gloria's, getting my bike fixed and taking Spanish classes at the Universidad Autonoma de Baja California Sur.

OCTOBER 12, 2005: TO CABO AND BACK

2005-10-29T21:02:00.001-07:00

CABO SAN LUCAS, MEXICO, GUAYCURA TERRITORY. Cabo. The party town of Baja. Wildly popular with the Harley guys I used to serve when I was a waitress back in the day, "Cabo" conjures images of shirtless, beer-bellied, red-faced white men lolling in swimming pools, scratching and belching, pausing just long enough to throw a fist in the air and yell "Tequila!" when the song warrants. Still, I hear it has beautiful beaches and t's an easy drive from La Paz. For me right now, its new BMW shop is the big attraction. Read more...

October 8, 2005: Espero, Espero, Espero

2005-10-29T20:59:00.001-07:00

LA PAZ, MEXICO, GUAYCURA TERRITORY. I am still waiting for the package. I have run out of things to do here in La Paz. I am tired of the cybercafes. I have shopped, I have walked the malecón and beaches many, many times. I saw Wedding Crashers in español. Fortunately, I've met several other motorcyclists in the past week so I have people to hang out with now. Read more...

October 7, 2005: Flooding in the South

2005-10-29T19:34:00.001-07:00

LA PAZ, MEXICO, GUAYCURA TERRITORY. Hola friends, family y compañeros, sitting in a hotel restaurant the other day, I saw footage of flooding in southern Mexico and Central America. While I am relieved that I am not 'on schedule' and therefore not in Guatemala (or Mala Mala as my Et-soo says--the closest she gets with her Slavey accent and always with a hearty laugh), I am concerned for the people and communities struck by the hurricane. Read more...

October 2, 2005: Still Getting Ready to Leave La Paz

2005-10-02T12:38:00.000-07:00

LA PAZ, MEXICO, GUAYCURA TERRITORY. I have been waiting for a package to arrive from Canada for almost three weeks now. I can’t leave until it arrives. And since I finished at Se Habla early this week, I have been just hanging around, passing the time, trying not to spend too much money in La Paz. Read more...

October 1, 2005: I don't even know what I don't know

2005-10-01T13:35:00.000-07:00

LA PAZ, MEXICO, GUAYCURA TERRITORY. I'm in the midst of a conversation with Armando at Madiero's and it turns out I don't really understand the difference between Mestizo and Indigenous. From the sounds of it, Mestizo is more like being Metis than Aboriginal. But then, Gloria tells me that the key to learning is to stop trying to translate everything...

September 30: I was going to spend the weekend in Cabo San Lucas, but Otis beat me to it...

2005-10-01T13:32:00.000-07:00

LA PAZ, MEXICO, GUAYCURA TERRITORY. Don't worry, Hurricane Otis is passing by the other side of the peninsula, it's just cloudy over here in La Paz. I'm still chillin in LaPaz, waiting for a cell phone from Canada to arrive. Seems when a courier company in Canada says a package will arrive in 2-3 days, they really mean 2-3 weeks. They say it's in Guadalajara right now and should be here on Monday, then I am free to go to Creel!

CNN Special Report: http://www.cnn.com/2005/WEATHER/09/30/otis.ap/index.html.

September 27, 2005: Getting ready to Leave La Paz

2005-10-01T13:29:00.000-07:00

LA PAZ, MEXICO, GUAYCURA TERRITORY. I've been in La Paz for over two weeks now, sweltering in the heat, soaking up thundershowers and snorkeling with sea lions. Since I've been here, I've met some really great people and seen some beautiful places, but it's time to hit the road once again. There's been a change of plans since my lonely ride through the desert; rather than head south to Mazatlan, I've decided to go north. Read more...

September 16, 2005: dia de independencia, La Paz, Mexico

2005-10-01T13:28:00.000-07:00

LA PAZ, MEXICO, GUAYCURA TERRITORY. Today is día de independencia in Mexico. And until today, I didn't really understand the difference between Indigenous and Mestizo. Until today I thought Mestizo was simply a cool word for people like me; those of mixed European and Indian blood. It certainly it has a nicer ring to it than "half-breed," the term that I grew up with. But today, I discovered the difference. The difference is as wide as the gap between being Dene and being Aboriginal. Read more...

September 13, 2005: Yo aprendiendo Español en La Paz, Mexico

2005-10-01T13:27:00.000-07:00

LA PAZ, MEXICO, GUAYCURA TERRITORY. Last night, I floated around the hotel pool next to my bike and thought about my trip so far. San Francisco--Los Angeles for that matter--seems so long ago. Victoria: a dream. Almost two months in and I'm officially homesick. It could be the heat, it could be the fact that I dropped my bike again. It could be that I can't talk to anyone. Since I really can't do anything about the first two, I decided to take some Spanish lessons before I leave La Paz. Read more...

September 12, 2005: Loreto to La Paz, Baja California, Mexico

2005-10-01T13:22:00.000-07:00

LA PAZ, MEXICO, GUAYCURA TERRITORY. My arrival in La Paz was pretty rough--even though I gave myself enough time to arrive and get settled before sunset, had the address of a place to stay and a contact through the Marcers from San Ignacio. Unable to find the place or get directions, I drove around downtown La Paz for over an hour in the blistering heat. Hot, tired and frustrated, I gave up searching when an engine light came on warning me that my bike was overheating. Read more...

September 11, 2005: San Ignacio to Loreto, Baja California, Mexico

2005-09-27T13:25:00.000-07:00

LORETO, MEXICO, COCHIMI TERRITORY. I made it to Loreto with a couple hours to go before sunset, which still wasn't enough time to find a place to stay, unload and have dinner before dark. It took me a while to get oriented so I didn't get settled in until sundown. Once settled in, for whatever reason I was very careless in Loreto. Fortunately, Loreto is a mellow little fishing town with good people. Read more...

September 10, 2005: San Ignacio, Baja California, Mexico

2005-09-18T20:14:00.000-07:00

KADAKAAMÁN (SAN IGNACIO, MEXICO), COCHIMI TERRITORY. Angry with myself for leaving so late the day before, I got up at 7am, showered, packed and had a leisurely breakfast (I'm learning that most sit-down meals in Mexico are leisurely). Then I loaded my bike and left Cataviña around 10am, which gave me plenty of time to get to San Ignacio, a pretty little town about 380 km south and one of my favourite places in Baja.

I relaxed and enjoyed the ride, knowing I had enough gas and enough time to get to San Ignacio before sunset. The road took me through the centre of the peninsula, far from the coast and its cool breezes. More desert. The beauty of the desert started to wear thin and the land appeared desolate and bleak. It was hot and dry and the road seemed to go on forever. Then suddenly, after about 5 hours of desert riding, an oasis appeared.

After miles and miles of desert, a sharp right turn brought me to a paved road winding through a palm grove to San Ignacio; a small pueblo nestled between the hillside and an old mission. A large underground spring feeds the lushness of the area, known by the Cochimi people as Kadakaaman, "stream of reeds".

Today, the spring is used to create a small reservoir for irrigation, swimming and fishing. The place I stayed at, Ignacio Springs Bed and Breakfast, is right on the shore of this reservoir.

Ignacio Springs is not a typical bed and breakfast. It is a compound that houses luxurious yurts (the look like stubby tepees) and palapas (cabins made out of palm fronds) with hot showers in an incredible setting. Right on the shore of the reservoir, it is peaceful and the hospitality is first rate.

When I pulled up, I was surprised to see British Columbia license plates and even more so to discover that the vehicles didn't belong to fellow travelers, but to the owners, Gary and Terry Marcer, a couple from Hudson Hope. Gary used to be a Guide-Outfitter in northeast BC, near my grandparents' place and knows a lot of people in the area, including some from our Reserve. Terry and Gary offered me a good rate that included a palapa with a private bathroom, dinner and breakfast.

I rode my bike down a path of crushed shells to my palapa. Since I was the only guest, I got a choice palapa set on the shore of the reservoir amid the date palms. With a couple hours to kill before dinner, I unpacked my bike and headed down the road to check out the town. I rode for about one minute before I hit a traffic jam--a traffic jam here is about six cars. I sat and waited in the sun for about five minutes thinking I should have walked, but I rarely miss an opportunity to ride my bike unencumbered by luggage. Once the machinery that had been blocking the road moved, traffic rolled down the winding road into town.

Immediately the road opens up, to the east is the zócalo (town square), to the west is the Mission of San Ignacio, looming over the pueblo. I followed the road around the zócalo, past ancient one-story stone buildings before branching off down the narrow dirt roads to check out the rest of the town. I attracted a lot of attention and felt like I was imposing by 'cruising their hood' so I went back to the zócalo, where I had seen an Internet cafe, besides it would be dark soon and I didn't want to be late for dinner.

Terry and Gary's daughter, Tony, cooked an amazing meal of stuffed chicken and avocado salad, which we ate al fresco. With balmy temperatures and very little rainfall, there is no other way to dine at Ignacio Springs--in fact the kitchen itself is outside. We ate and chatted about our lives in Canada and in Baja. The food was so good. After weeks of tacos, burritos and cerveza, it was nice to sit down to some fresh salad, chicken and cold white wine.

After dinner we played a game of dice, I'm not sure what it's called, but it was fun and easy to learn. I'm definitely going to pick up some dice before I embark on the 17-hour ferry ride from La Paz to Mazatlan.

In the morning, Terry, Gary and I had a delicious breakfast of fresh fruit, eggs, bacon, toast and potatoes. Then I headed back to town to wander around a bit more and take some pictures.

The town was packed! Most of the parking spots around the zócalo were full and people were filing into the mission for the Sunday morning service. For me, this meant that the stores, markets and museum were all closed. No matter, I wandered the empty streets, snapping photos and greeting everyone as they made their way to church.

I went back to Ignacio Springs to pack my bike and hit the road to Loreto. As I packed, I felt that I was leaving too soon. Aside from the peace and splendour of the landscape, the hospitality and kindness shown by the Marcers provided a true oasis--a cool, calm respite from the harsh landscape and loneliness of the road.

September 9, 2005 - Catavina, Baja California, Mexico

2005-09-10T18:11:00.000-07:00

CATAVINA, BC, MEXICO. I left El Rosario too late. Seduced by the 1pm check out time, I allowed myself to sleep in until nine. I foolishly believed that I could pack and load my bike, eat breakfast and update my website in less than two hours. Big mistake. By the time I gave up on my website, realizing it would take at least a couple hours just to publish it over dial up, it was 3:30. I left El Rosario and headed into the Catavina desert with less than four hours of daylight left.

The next foolish mistake I made was thinking that I could make it to Bahia de Los Angeles, about 230 kilometres away, in less than three hours. I had planned to camp on the beach at Dagget's Campground. However, an hour out of El Rosario, after riding the narrow twists and turns through the desert at about 60 km/h, I realized that there was no way I would make it to Bahia de Los Angeles, today or ever.

Since Bahia de Los Angeles is an hour detour off Highway 1, I had allowed myself this day to take the little side trip and spend the night on the beach before continuing south down Highway 1 to La Paz. I'd like to cross over to the mainland before September 16, Mexican Independence Day, this gives me a week to get down the peninsula which means I blew my chance to get to Bahia de Los Angeles on this trip.

On top of that, I did not stop and get water before I left town, thinking that I didn't have enough time and that the half litre I had left would do. Dumb. When I'm tired or dehydrated, my right knee cramps up to the point where I can't use it to brake and I have to straighten it very slowly (which means sudden stops are sketchy). I remedy this by taking lots of breaks and drinking lots of water. If it persists, I take ibuprofen. Today, I did none of that because I was in a hurry. Lucky for me there were no goats, cows, dogs, or 18-wheelers in my path.

With an hour left of sunlight and 10 kilometres to the next town, I finally resigned myself to not making it to Bahia de Los Angeles. I pulled over and took in the sights and smells of the desert. Big cactus, big boulders and big sky surrounded me while flat-topped mesas lingered in the background. The air was fresh and warm, alive with the buzz of insects. I could hear a distant vehicle coming down the road. Having grown up on Bugs Bunny & Roadrunner cartoons, I could not help but think of Wile E. Coyote. It was too hot to stay still for too long, already sweating inside my motorcycle jacket, I got back on and rode into Catavina to get some gas and a room for the night.

I pulled into the Pemex to find that there was no gas. And it looked as though there hadn't been gas there in a long time. Good thing I wasn't in too big of a hurry to fill up my tank before I left (I'm foolish but not crazy). I still have enough gas to get to Guererro Negro.

I pulled up to La Pinta, the only hotel in town. When constructing the Transpeninsular Highway, the Mexican government also installed a chain of hotels approximately a day's drive apart to encourage tourists to use of the highway. La Pinta Catavina looked expensive and it was. They wanted $84 USD for a single room! I asked the clerk if I would be able to make it to the next town by sundown. He responded by offering me the room for $50USD. I took it.

As I unloaded my bike, I noticed that I seemed to be the only guest. The pool, bar, restaurant and patios were all empty, except for a short dog with big ears that cautiously followed me to my room. The clerk confirmed that I was the only one here. Seems that I'm the only person in Baja silly enough to think I could make it through the desert in three hours.

September 8, 2005 - El Rosario, Baja California, Mexico

2005-09-10T18:08:00.000-07:00

EL ROSARIO, BC, MEXICO. I stayed in Ensenada for two nights; I needed to adjust to my surroundings a bit before I attempted to ride Baja. Thankfully, I found Internet access and Kevin, Kurt and Tom had given me a good map of Baja so I could better plan my trip. Next, I got a phone card and figured out how to call home, then I lightened my load by sending some more stuff home, finally parting with my hairdryer; a milestone I must say. By the time I left Ensenada, I was ready to ride.

I chose El Rosario as my first stopover. Only 3 or 4 hours down Highway 1 with a nice motel next to the Pemex, I decided that though it was a small town, I would take a chance that the motel was indeed open, operating and had a room available. I was not disappointed.

The ride to El Rosario was easy, though hot and a little tense at the end, since (yet again) I was racing the sunset. Reading others' tales, describing the road as "heart-fluttering" and "dangerous" and warning of suspension-destroying topes (speed bumps) and military checkpoints, I was prepared for much worse. Maybe it gets worse further south. Nonetheless, I heeded their advice, taking it easy and stopping at nearly every Pemex along the way to make sure I was always riding with a full tank. This gave me several opportunities to practice Spanish and take lots of breaks.

The landscape is barren and rocky. The air hot and dry. Only 12 miles from the coast, the temperature rose a good 10 degrees. It was hot. As I rode along, I noticed some birds with deep, iridescent blue plumage and smiled when I saw a roadrunner. Later, I ran over a gopher and felt sick about it as I watched it tumble off the side of the road. I also counted six dead dogs along the way. It's a shock to see them just lying there on the side of the road like roadkill. In Canada, it's raccoons, here in Mexico it's dogs. And I thought rez dogs had it rough.

The towns that line the highway are small and dusty. Huge signs for Tecate, Corona and Dos Equis are the most prominent feature in most of these towns. I'm reminded again of Indian reserves. In between the towns are military checkpoints.

I was stopped at two military checkpoints on my way to El Rosario. The soldiers reminded me of some of our warriors back home--they were young, mostly late teens-early twenties in full combat attire, manning a roadside checkpoint. The fact that these guys had submachine guns reminded me that this is not an Indian roadblock. The checkpoints have been installed sometime over the last ten years or so and are Mexico's contribution to the US war on drugs. You have to stop and the soldiers have the authority to search your vehicle. Both times, I was waved through with a smile.

When I pulled into El Rosario, I headed straight for the Baja Cactus, the motel next to the Pemex. When I saw the room I was so relieved I almost cried. For what I had paid for the roach motel in Ensenada, I was treated to a room with a king size bed, 12 foot ceilings, tile floor and rustic wood furniture. I immediately decided to stay two nights.

For dinner and breakfast and dinner, I headed next door to Mama Espinoza's restaurant, a Baja institution and soon to be pit stop for the Baja 1000. One night, sitting down for dinner with Carlos, another hotel guest and a ranch owner, I had the opportunity to visit with him and Mama Espinoza in her home behind the restaurant. Fortunately for me, English is one of the four languages she speaks.

Of Italian-Pima descent, 97-year-old Mama Espinoza is one of the first settlers in the area and has a long history here with lots of stories to tell about the pueblo and the people she has met over the years. Settlers' history here is Mama Espinoza's history. We sat and talked for over an hour, and she told us stories about her family and her life here in El Rosario before, during and after the Mexican Revolution, two World Wars and the most disruptive of all; the construction of the Transpeninsular Highway in 1973. Today, Mama Espinoza is raising money to build and operate an orphanage here in El Rosario. I was very honoured to be in her presence.

Carlos and I bid Mama Espinoza good night, then returned to the restaurant for a meal of crab legs, crab soup, crab burritos and tortillas, closing down the restaurant as Carlos helped me with Spanish and told me tales of his own Baja travels. After dinner I returned to my room and slept soundly, remembering my dreams for the first time in weeks.

September 6, 2005 - Ensenada, Baja California, Mexico

2005-09-10T18:05:00.000-07:00

ENSENADA, BC, MEXICO, KUMEYAAY TERRITORY. I cried in the laundromat yesterday. Frustrated and alone, I wanted to turn around and go home for the first time since northern Alberta. Caxo and I parted ways yesterday morning so this was my first day on my own in Mexico and all I had to do was get gas, drive an hour and a half down the road, find a place to stay, do some laundry and call my mom. Had I been 2 hours north in San Diego, all of this would have been easy. But I'm in Mexico now.

My first task--getting gas--was easy, all I had to do was find the Pemex that we had stopped at the night before in Tio Julio's van on our way to the hospital. I pulled up at the pump and in my best Spanish asked the attendant how to say "fill'er up" in Spanish. "Lleno," he laughed and filled it up. Even though he counted out my change for me, I still couldn't figure out exactly what I had paid for the gas. I realized then that I'd better learn Mexican currency and exchange rates before I go spending any more money.

Next I drove down the toll road to Ensenada, a nice ride on good pavement with more beautiful Pacific Coast vistas. Since locals take the free road that runs parallel to the toll road, there was very little traffic and I could take it easy and enjoy the view. Though the ride took just over an hour, I had to pay toll ($2.25 USD) twice. No wonder everyone takes the free road.

Pulling into Ensenada was a surprise. For some reason I thought it would be a quaint little pueblo with all the amenities a gringo could ask for. Nope. It is the third largest city in Northern Baja with a population of approximately 350,000 and I had pulled in during rush hour.

Rush hour in Mexico is not like rush hour in Canada where there is stop and go traffic. Here it is just "go". If you don't go, the person behind you will. This means that stop signs and speed limits are ignored, though stop lights (rare, but they do exist) are generally heeded. I noticed in Tijuana that there is a certain flow to traffic despite its apparent lawlessness. All you have to do is pay attention to all those around you (especially the ones behind, since there is always someone trying to pass, usually on the right). I noticed that drivers here communicate with each other with honks, hand signals and eye contact to indicate their intentions. Rarely do they use blinkers and I've yet to see the deliberately oblivious "I don't see you" attitude that drivers have in Canada, or the whole eating-drinking-smoking-telephoning-while-driving phenomenon. When people here are driving, they drive.

A little rattled and lost, I stopped in at the Tourist Info centre and asked for hotel recommendations. I followed up on the suggestions only to find all three recommendations were too expensive ($50-70 USD) for what was being offered. I'd parked my bike and walked to all three places, lugging my helmet, tank bag and jacket up and down the main tourist drag, Lopez Mateos. Hot, sweaty and discouraged, I pulled out my Let's Go guide to Mexico and sat on the curb next to my bike to find a place to stay.

Within minutes, an American approached me with a cheerful "hi". I laughed and looked across the street to where his two friends were sitting at a restaurant patio (I had noticed out of the corner of my eye earlier that they were watching me when I pulled up). I realized how pitiful I must have looked sitting on the curb with my little gringo guide in my lap. He asked me what I was looking for, being a Baja 1000 enthusiast, he assured me that he was quite familiar with Ensenada. After he recommended an affordable place with secure parking, which also happened to be in the guide, I figured he knew what he was talking about. He introduced himself (Kevin) and invited me to join them for some beer and tacos (groan). Hungry, tired and grateful to meet people who speak English and know the area, I sat down for yet another meal of Dos Equis and carne asada tacos.

Kevin and his friends, Kurt and Tom, were friendly and interested in my trip, being avid motorcyclists themselves. These guys are hard core, doing the Baja 1000, a world class off-road competition that takes the rider/driver along a 1000 mile route down the peninsula. They also take every opportunity to do off-road trips that often culminate in bikes being broken in half, scrounging for gas in the middle of the night and camping in the most remote and beautiful places in Baja. They gave me much needed suggestions for safe and affordable places to stay in Baja and bought me lunch before offering any assistance I may need while in Mexico, including a ride back to the US for me and my bike if something should happen. Again, the generosity of people I meet on the road astounds me.

After lunch, I headed to the Motel Colon, repeating, "Quisiera una habitacion, por favor," inside my helmet as I rode. I rang the bell and asked for a room in my best Spanish. The manager corrected my pronunciation before proceeding to talk to me in English. The motel has seen better days, but the price was right (only three dollars more than the frat house I stayed at in San Diego) considering I'd have the room all to myself and could park my bike right outside my door. The manager was nice, chastising me for traveling alone and advising me not to go out at night by myself, "Even in Ensenada."

Tired from the weekend, I took a nap before venturing out to find a laundro mat. When I woke, I had about an hour and a half before sundown. I gathered my stuff and headed out. My trusty gringo guide pointed me to a laundromat near Revolucion Park outside of the tourist zone (i.e. no hablan ingles). Here, I struggled with gestures, Spanish and English to buy tokens for the washer and some soap. I felt dumb. I chastised myself for not knowing Spanish before I got to Mexico. I should have studied harder. I should have practiced more. Why am I so damn shy? I sat and listened to the conversations around me, frustrated that I couldn't engage in even the most basic conversation. What's the point of traveling if I can't even engage with the people around me?

As I waited for my laundry, I thought about calling my mom. I had tried the day before using my cell phone, but it didn't work. I should've made sure I had international long distance before I left San Diego, dammit. I examined the sign explaining how to use the phone and could not figure it out. I asked someone next to me if they spoke English. Nope. I checked out my Hostelling International calling card that I bought before I left. Apparently there is a list of country access codes somewhere. I don't know where. I sat there in the laundromat, with the sun setting, in the middle of Ensenada Mexico, 2500 miles from home and I couldn't even figure out how to use the goddamn phone. I felt helpless and alone.

As I cried I thought, "What the hell was I thinking? "I can't do this." "This is a really bad idea." "I want to go home." Then I wiped away the tears, folded my laundry and jumped on my bike. Immediately, I felt a little better. At least I have my bike; something familiar and reliable that could take me home right now if I really wanted to go.

Instead, I made my way back to my room. After a brief encounter with a small cockroach, a reminder of a conversation with one of Caxo's cousins who assured me that the scorpions in Baja are "just little," I put up my mosquito net and covered my boots with books so I wouldn't have to shake the cockroaches and scorpions out in the morning. I fell asleep with the lamp and TV on, watching Legally Blonde, the only English speaking program on. I slept soundly, strangely comforted by the protective layer of white mesh and the cheesy comedy of Reese Witherspoon.

September 4, 2005 - Tijuana to Rosarito, Baja California, Mexico

2005-09-10T17:57:00.000-07:00

ROSARITO, BC, MEXICO, KUMEYAAY TERRITORY. On Saturday I crossed the US-Mexico border with Caxo, his brother Sonny, and his dad, Ignacio. Besieged by tales of corruption and rampant abuse of authority, I was prepared for the worst. But crossing the border into Mexico is as uneventful as boarding a BC Ferry. The real adventure began once we made it to the other side and hit the streets of Tijuana.

Dirty, smelly and hot, Tijuana is the largest city in Baja, with a population of approximately 2 million and over 30 million visitors a year. This Saturday was Labour Day weekend and Tijuana was packed solid with Americans eager to party for the weekend. Swept up in the chaos, having no choice but to go with the flow of traffic past the colourful street vendors, performers and beggars, I thought, "I'm definitely not in Canada anymore."

Taxis and buses stop and turn suddenly with no warning, while everyone drives wherever they can to get ahead, often overriding stop signs and speed limits. All you can do is be alert, go with the flow and try not to hit the vendors and children as they run into traffic to solicit tourists.

Once outside Tijuana, the road smoothes out and traffic thins. Here, the Transpeninsula Highway becomes a toll road that winds along the Pacific Coast of the Baja Peninsula. The air was warm, the road was good and I smiled as I took in the view of the white sand beaches and sparkling ocean, "I'm in Mexico!"

We were heading to Caxo's uncle Juan's new place. Tio Juan had recently sold everything he owned in Los Angeles and moved back to Mexico, buying a four bedroom, three bathroom house-in-progress near Rosarito. Since the streets aren't named, there are no street signs and all directions are centred around landmarks such as the "the last gas station on the right". Needless to say, we got lost and drove almost to Ensenada before turning around. Once back in Rosarito, we missed another turn and I got to test my newly acquired off-roading skills.

As soon as we turned off the main highway, the road turned to gravel and dirt with huge potholes and ruts. Thanks to Bonnie and Gary of MotoVentures, I took the road on without hesitation. Having only done the training a couple days before, I knew exactly how to ride the gravel, inclines and ruts. I was very proud of myself when I reached the top of a particularly steep and rocky hill, so proud I forgot to check the stability of the ground when I stopped and dropped my bike right in front an oncoming pickup truck. The driver stopped, asked me in Spanish if I needed help. I laughed, "Si, por favor," as he bent over to help me pick up my bike.

When we finally arrived at Caxo's uncle's place, it was like arriving at the rez. The roads are all dirt and so are the front yards. There were kids of all ages everywhere and timid dogs lurking in the periphery. While the kids lit firecrackers and raced ATVs in the middle of the road, dodging trucks, taxis and beat-up cars, the dads watched and drank beer. Inside, the women listened to the big screen TV while chatting and cooking, shouting once in a while to the older kids to keep an eye on the younger ones.

Me? I jumped on an ATV, eager to try my 3-wheelin' skills (which are almost the complete opposite of motorcycling and caused me to lose almost every race, taking the corners like a grandma). After a couple races, I turned the machine back over to the cousins. Shortly after, we heard a big crash up the street. One of the cousins had been hit by a taxi.

Hit dead on, the ATV flipped, he was sent flying emerging with a badly injured shoulder. The impact blew out the taxi's front tire and smashed out one of its headlights. We all ran up to see if everyone was ok and I watched as the drama unfolded.

I didn't really understand what had happened, since everyone was talking Spanish, but from what I gathered, the taxi driver (who looked stoned) said it wasn't his fault and Caxo's cousin (who had a few beers) said it wasn't his fault. Within minutes, four taxi's had pulled up behind the scene of the accident and were talking with their compadre. As the family and the taxi drivers gathered, they argued about who was at fault, each one shaking their heads. Then the police showed up.

Tio Juan reached the scene and approached the lone officer, shook his hand and said a few words. Then the police officer said a few words to the taxi driver. The taxi driver, shaking his head, immediately went to the trunk to get a jack to fix the flat. He suddenly seemed to be in a hurry to get moving. Tio Juan told us all to go back to the house and as we walked away, three federales showed up and surrounded the taxi driver. The other four taxi drivers left their colleague to deal with the cops.

Caxo informed me that it didn't matter who caused the accident, the fact that a taxi was involved provided an opportunity for the federales to get some serious "taco money." Hence the appearance of so many police for a minor accident in a poor neighbourhood. The moral of this story: if you're in an accident in Mexico, pick yourself up, settle up and drive away before the federales get involved.

Once all the excitement died down, Caxo, Sonny, Julio Jr. and I all headed to Rosarito. Though only 10:00pm, the whole town was packed: it's sidewalks, streets, bars, restaurants and beaches were full of young, drunk Americans. It was like Spring Break in Cancun. We strolled around checking everything out, though I really wasn't in the mood to be surrounded by drunk almost-twenties, particularly those armed with fireworks and too much tequila. We stopped for a shot of Don Julio and then some tacos and beer (I swear, I've had tacos and beer almost every day for the last two weeks :p) before heading back to tio Juan's to crash for the night.

Before falling asleep, I pulled out my trusty gringo guide to Mexico. As I read along, it occurred to me that when we crossed the border at Tijuana we just drove straight through, other than getting Mexican insurance for my bike in San Ysidro, I didn't do any of the other border stuff that I thought I had to do before they would let me in--stuff like getting a tourist permit for me and my bike. Though they let me in the country, without these two items I would not be allowed to travel past Ensenada. Rats.

In the morning we headed back to the border so I could get the paperwork that I needed to travel Mexico. The process was quick, cheap and the officials were friendly and somewhat amused by my Spanish. Due to the intense fearmongering and doomsaying that I had endured while planning this trip, I was prepared to be bribed, robbed, groped and detained in my attempt to cross into Mexico. None of this happened and yet another of my fears turned out to be totally exaggerated.

We hung out in Tijuana for about an hour before heading back to Rosarito to meet up with tio Beto and his family at the Rosarito Baja Sand Dunes. But first, we had to go to Puerto Nuevo for some lobster.

In the 1950s, local fishermen began taking tourists lobster fishing, bringing the catch home to their wives who would cut the lobster lengthwise, fry it and serve it with rice, beans and tortillas. Since then, the industry has developed into about 30 lobster restaurants in a two-block radius with mariachis and an adjacent market. It's a good thing that there are so many restaurants--traffic was backed up all the way to Rosarito as people made there way in for lunch. Despite the crowds, it's a nice little town and the lobster was delicious!

After lunch we headed to the sand dunes. Even before we could see the dunes, we heard the roar of engines and saw dust rising high in the air. The spectacle was amazing: absolute chaos and disorder. A sea of vehicles crammed onto a narrow road that leads from the highway to the beach. On either side of the road were sand dunes where hundreds of dirt bikes, ATVs and 4x4s raced at top speed up and down the steep inclines, narrowly missing each other as they navigated the deep sands. I have never seen anything like it. As much as I liked dirt biking, I would never go out to these dunes; too many people, too much beer and associated machismo and recklessness. Though it was fun to watch...definitely not my scene.

We left shortly after we got there since Julio Jr. had been taken to the hospital after a crash with another ATV out on the dunes. Before we could go visit him, we had to get tio Julio's van, which was stuck in the sand nearby. A quick call to his brother, and the van was out within an hour. Unfortunately, in that hour sundown had neared and the dunes began to clear, which meant about 2 hours in traffic. By the time we got to Rosarito, Julio Jr had been bandaged up and released. We made it back to tio Juan's around 10pm and I was exhausted. I went to bed trying not to think about the morning when I would be heading south on my own.

September 2, 2005 - San Diego, California, USA

2005-09-02T23:23:00.000-07:00

SAN DIEGO, CA, KUMEYAAY TERRITORY. I finally tore myself away from East LA a couple days ago. I met so many good people it was hard to leave. I can't believe that two weeks ago I didn't even know them...and that I was scared to make contact in the first place. Road lesson learned. Right now I'm now at the Banana Bungalow Hostel in San Diego writing in the middle of a kegger. Tomorrow night there will be a "Pimps and Hos Party--$5 all you can drink". Fortunately I'm going to Mexico with Caxo's family in the morning.

The two weeks I spent with Caxo really helped prepare me for the next leg of my journey. I learned a lot about Mexico and now I know a little bit of what to expect. I also have a sense of my limitations and am not going to go further than Guadalajara without taking some serious Spanish training. Caxo, Laura and Jesus have all given me contacts in Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador and Ecuador (including people who were involved in the Peace and Dignity Journeys) and I am not afraid to call them.

Since I left LA, I've been preparing my bike and myself for Mexico. First, I did some off-road training with MotoVentures near Temecula, about an hour and a half down the freeway from Los Angeles. It's hot and windy there--a weird combination that I'm not used to--like standing under a hairdryer during the hottest day of summer. I've never been so hot in my life as these last couple weeks and wearing all that protective gear in Temecula was the hottest yet.

The training was fun and I only crashed once. Gary and Bonnie of MotoVentures gave me was exactly what I was looking for. The mixture of one-on-one and group training and exercises with trail riding gave me skills and confidence to ride rough terrain, up and down hills, on sand and rutted roads--things I never thought I could do. A little shaky at first, once I stood up and got a feel for the bike and learned how to counterbalance and brake in the dirt, I was riding like I never thought I would ever have the guts or skills to do. It was cool. I'm sore today but way more confident on my bike and looking for ways to reduce the weight so I can handle it better.

Today, I took my bike into Brattin Motors in San Diego for an oil change, general check up and some new tires. The groovy knobby tires I got put on in Victoria in preparation for Baja was a really bad idea. Not only did I have a rough ride all the way down, but the front tire never even saw the dirt, wearing down on the thousands of miles of pavement between Canada and Baja. What the hell was I thinking.

The guys at Brattin are awesome. Gary, the Service Manager, took time from his lunch to give me some pointers and recommend some spare parts that I will need while south. Because I know nothing about motorcycle mechanics, I run the risk of getting totally ripped off whenever I go to a shop. I go in with nothing but faith in the people I'm dealing with, so it's nice to deal with people who are willing to take the time to explain things to me. A bonus: if I need any parts sent to me down south, all I have to do is give Gary a call.

Tomorrow morning I'm traveling with Caxo and his family for the trip to Rosarito for the long weekend. After that, I'm on my own and heading down Baja then over to my first "turn around point" (a long time ago, when everyone was telling me that I was going to die if I did this trip, I promised myself that I would at least try and make it to Mazatlan and no matter how bad things were, I could not turn around until I did). In the morning I'm getting some Mexican insurance--then I'm totally ready to ride Mexico.

See the latest photos at: http://www.lowerider.ca/Latest%20Photos.htm

Mural or Graffiti? City Draws Line

2005-08-27T00:01:00.001-07:00

L.A. is cracking down on wall art, ordering businesses to redo or remove works.

By Daniel Hernandez

Times Staff Writer

August 25, 2005

Los Angeles is often called the mural capital of the world — and no place is this truer than on the streets of Boyle Heights, where hundreds of walls at pharmacies, general stores, guitar shops and even churches have been transformed into urban artwork.

The murals depict Mexican American history, advertise businesses and take the form of abstract art at the hands of graffiti taggers.

But now some residents complain that they cannot tell some of the murals from the illegal graffiti that have long plagued the area. So the city is cracking down.

Using a little-known ordinance that allows the city to regulate murals that abut public property— including sidewalks — officials have notified some property owners that they must either modify or remove their murals.

Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa began the pilot program to enforce the ordinance while he was still a councilman representing the Eastside. But the effort, which targets murals that lack city permits, has divided residents, reflecting a divergence in views about graffiti and art that is playing out in cities across the nation.

Though some consider the graffiti look a legitimate — even hip — form of art, others, including city leaders and police, remain convinced it is a symbol of blight and crime. The debate has also roiled New York, where Mayor Michael Bloomberg recently tried to revoke a block party permit for fashion designer Marc Ecko featuring taggers spray-painting graffiti on replicas of subway car panels. Ecko insists tagging is art, but Bloomberg argued the party would encourage vandalism. A judge this week sided with Ecko, and the party occurred Wednesday.

In Boyle Heights, inspectors arrived at Joe Escobedo's Rosemead Radiator Shop on Wabash Avenue a few weeks ago to tell him to remove the spray-painted mural he had commissioned for the west-facing brick wall of his business.

A tagger who called himself Keo had approached him about five years ago saying, " 'You got a nice wall there. Want a mural?' " Escobedo recalled.

"I told him, 'Do something nice, something I'm going to like,' " Escobedo said Wednesday, his face and work clothes a little oil-stained. "You've got to get close to figure it out, but it does have something to do with radiators.

"The mural shows the name of the shop in bold graffiti-like letters next to a pair of cartoonish radiators. Keo received $300 for the job and periodically returns to touch up the mural when taggers or gang members vandalize it, Escobedo said.

But the city recently issued an order saying Escobedo must whitewash the wall and that a nonprofit art group would come to paint a new mural for him.

The inspector "said they considered [the mural] graffiti," Escobedo said. "That's graffiti right there," he said, pointing across the street to a white wall sliced by crude gang tagging.

Under the city program, the Cultural Affairs Department will find artists to create new murals and set up a system to maintain the artwork. Joseph Montalvo, a graffiti muralist participating in the program, says he supports the idea of engaging young taggers. But he worries that the city will put limits on what artists can and cannot do.

"For the last 15 years, the relationship between the store owner and the writer [muralist] has been there and there hasn't been a need for government participation," said Montalvo, 35, also known as Nuke. "What I'm afraid is they may want to suppress or oppress any content that in their eyes they think is inappropriate."

One of the murals the city has targeted for removal or modification was a spray-painted piece created by Montalvo in 2001. The mural, on a wall of the crumbling Mazatlan theater on Eastern Avenue in El Sereno, depicts Charlie Chaplin and Mexican comedic icon Cantinflas with the phrase "Comin' to da Barrio."

He said he painted it with the theater owner's permission and with help from female graffiti tagger Mellow. Like other graffiti muralists, Montalvo said he did illegal tagging as a teenager. But as he grew older, he said, he started going to business owners asking if he could practice his mural art on their walls by creating signage in the graffiti style.

Montalvo moved on to making murals with city and nonprofit funding, such as "Undiscovered America" on 4th Street in downtown, a large spray-painted mural he helped create with other graffiti writers in 1992.

He takes pride in his work, and regularly touches up his murals when they are hit by gang graffiti. He said he once hunted down a group of taggers who defaced "Undiscovered America" and demanded they pay for paint to fix it after the Cultural Affairs Department had told him budgets were too tight to clean up the mural."

If you have any integrity for your mural, for what you did, you have do to what's necessary, and I had to do that."

Pat Gomez, a public art manager for the Los Angeles Cultural Affairs Department, said the goal is not to censor artists but to give the community a greater voice in determining what kind of art is displayed on city streets."

It really was a community concern that has been voiced very strongly about these murals not going through the process," she said, adding that the city government is "responding to a community."

The genre of mural art, because of its public nature, has never been far from controversy. Los Angeles is no exception. More than 70 years after it was painted, "America Tropical," a 1932 mural at Olvera Street by Mexican muralist David Alfaro Siqueiros — one of few the artist painted in the U.S. — is not visible to the public. Whitewashed soon after its unveiling because of its political content, it's now hidden behind a wooden structure, undergoing a conservation effort that has dragged on for nearly two decades. Murals began popping up across Los Angeles in large numbers in the early 1960s and soon became a worldwide symbol of the city's emerging multicultural population. Many of the most famous in L.A. celebrate Mexican American culture, including the multi-paneled "Chicano Time Trip" in Lincoln Heights and "Bridges of East L.A." in Boyle Heights.

But city officials acknowledge that hundreds, perhaps thousands, of murals lack approval from the Cultural Affairs Commission — a permit required for all murals facing public streets, sidewalks and alleys.Authorities estimate there are more than 2,500 murals in the city but the actual number may be much higher if unregistered works on the sides of small businesses are included.

Graffiti-inspired murals began emerging in the early 1990s, as taggers who for years defaced public and private property began seeking legitimacy. Some merchants favor these types of murals because they discourage gangs from hitting their buildings with unwanted tagging.

The growing popularity of the murals has met with concern from some residents and city officials. Los Angeles Police Chief William J. Bratton, at an event last Tuesday touting the success of an anti-graffiti video surveillance campaign near downtown, made his feeling about tagging clear: "This is not art. It's desecration," Bratton said.

Boyle Heights resident Armando Herman said he drives around his neighborhood and is upset by what he sees. He views the graffiti-style murals as a blight. "The whole idea is to get these taggers to understand that there's nothing wrong with the way they want to tag their art," said Herman, 38, a special education teacher's aide. "But it has to be done in the most appropriate way so that it doesn't interfere with other people."

David Keim, chief of the city's Building and Safety Code Enforcement Bureau, said that according to city rules, no property owner can have any kind of graffiti on walls visible to the public. Keim said some property owners allow graffiti to remain on their walls out of fear of retribution from taggers if they paint it over.

City ordinances do not differentiate between gang tagging and graffiti murals. "What is a graffiti mural? I've never heard of that," Keim said.

Jesse Hernandez, 60, sees a very definite difference. Hernandez owns property in Boyle Heights and has commissioned graffiti-style murals on his walls. The blank walls of the converted clothing factory where he and his wife live had attracted gang graffiti for years.

Then, a local graffiti muralist crew approached him and offered to paint a mural on his wall for no cost. The muralists have updated the wall periodically, never without first requesting permission, Hernandez said. The gang graffiti dropped off considerably.

But under the pilot program, the city is telling him the mural must be changed. City officials gave him three options: Whitewash the walls, modify the mural as approved by the Cultural Affairs Commission, or allow a nonprofit group, the Center for the Arts, to create a new mural.Hernandez said he opted for a modified mural, but did so grudgingly. He's still not sure what city inspectors object to or how they plan to fix it."

They say it's graffiti; that's not graffiti," Hernandez said. He held up an old photograph showing the blank mural wall scrawled with gang tags."I told them," he said, " 'You'd prefer this?' "

mayor@lacity.org

August 25, 2005 - Los Angeles, California, USA

2005-08-26T16:31:00.000-07:00

LOS ANGELES, CA, TONGVA TERRITORY. I've been staying in East LA for over a week now and am reluctant to leave. My hosts, Caxo, his friends and family, are warm and welcoming, folding me into daily life here as I learn about this part of the world. Every morning Caxo's mom treats me to fresh fruit: papayas, mangoes, watermelon and cantaloupe and aqua de melon, patiently allowing me to practice my Spanish as I watch and learn how to make dishes such as tortitos de papa and guacamole.

Right now, I'm at Laura's place in City Terrace, watching Canoa, a Mexican movie about a group of young men mistaken for communist radicals by a local priest who incites a riot resulting in the brutal murders of several of the young men. Lucky for me there are English subtitles. The evening is warm and we've just finished a meal of ceviche, cocktel del camarones, tostadas and Tecate. Meanwhile, the helicopters are swarming and the cholos cruise the neighbourhood with Latino hip hop blaring from their boom boxes.

A few days ago, Caxo took me downtown where we searched the shops of the old theatre district for some new shoes with his niece, Raquel. The next day, his family invited me to help celebrate Raquel's 14th birthday, a raucous family celebration with food, gifts, singing and a re-enactment of a scene from Scary Movie 2 courtesy of Caxo's nieces, Raquel, Melody and Alexandria. At night, Caxo and I walk the neighbourhood in search of beer and fish tacos, stopping to check out the murals and dodge cucarachas before going back to the garage to talk politics and music.

Caxo also introduced me to the LA punk scene at an Anarchist Fest in nearby Corona where his band, Aztlan Underground, was playing. Since I don't really like punk music, I've never been to a punk show and didn't know what to expect. I hung outside with the band; Joe, Yaotl, Alonso and Caxo and Joe's wife, Mari Sol for a while before we made our way into the small, steamy club.

Once inside, I was struck by the political consciousness and positive energy in the room. Trained by the media to believe that punks are angry, white, male supremacists, I was surprised by the banners that lined the room with messages like "Never another Battered Woman" and "No Justice on Stolen Land." As the night progressed, I saw that the words, music and dress all defiantly reject mainstream American values and allow the performers and audience to express anger and outrage in an aggressive but nonviolent manner.

In between bands, someone pulled a guy with a White Pride tattoo up on stage and as the crowd booed, asked whether he should be allowed to stay. The general consensus was yes, he's entitled to express himself. The young man was embarrassed and retreated to the back of the room where he stayed and listened to Aztlan Underground's performance, with lyrics like "we didn't cross the borders, the borders crossed us." A few people approached him and challenged his beliefs, but everyone pretty much left him alone and he took in Aztlan's music without any visible anger or hatred. He just stood and listened and dismissed those who approached him with the retort that if it's ok to have Brown Pride, why not White. The overall message and spirit of the show encouraged dialogue and freedom of expression. I left with a new appreciation for the whole scene.

Yesterday, I took a night ride to Hollywood, since one of the things I wanted to do on this trip is cruise Sunset strip on my bike. I followed Cesar Chavez Boulevard from East LA to Sunset Boulevard through Hollywood and finally to Beverly Hills.

In Beverly Hills, the homes are huge and the streets are wide and empty. The only other vehicles I saw on the road were an LAPD cruiser and the poor guy he had pulled over. I got the feeling that it is not a good idea to cruise this neighbourhood at night. I did a big u-turn on the luxuriously wide street and headed back to Hollywood where I tried to go up the Laurel Canyon for a view of the city, but the road was dark and curvy with bad pavement and heavy local traffic, so I turned around. As I pulled over to do so, one of the locals who had been held up behind my slow ass yelled, "Go home!" as he roared by. Asshole.

Later, I stopped for a late dinner at Toscadero's on Sunset, an overpriced bar/restaurant that was overrun by twenty-something girls on vacation. I've never heard the word "like" so many times in one meal. Since there was a sidewalk patio with parking out front and I could keep an eye on my bike, I stayed for dinner and watched all the fabulous people with their fabulous accessories go by.

All around me everyone was young and beautiful and totally self-absorbed. I marveled at their ability to carry on conversations while keeping a keen eye on the room and putting their best pose forward. It's very interesting to watch two people have a conversation each talking about themselves...it's like badminton. After I freaked myself out with the thought that I was in Bizarro world, where a little Indian girl from the north was doing anthropology on white folk, I turned my attention to my meal.

As I was getting ready to leave, a young guy in a "Fuck Yeah" t-shirt and a bright red Indian Scout motorcycle pulled up. He figured I was a Ewan McGregor wannabe and dismissed me as a little crazy. Outside of his knowledge of the Jedi Master's "round the world," he could not compute what I was doing. I took Sunset out of Lost Angeles back to East LA where things began to feel normal again.

I'll be in East LA for a few more days before heading south for some off-road training near San Diego. From there, I am heading across to Mexico. I've met a lot of people here in East LA who have friends and families throughout Mexico, so it is likely that I will have places to stay as I travel the country. Being here has given me a glimpse of what I'm in for across the border and I'm a little concerned about my limited Spanish skills, so I'll be spending about 3 weeks studying Spanish before I go too far into the country. I've also decided to avoid Mexico City until I'm on my way back, it's just too big and scary for me right now.

August 19, 2005 East Los Angeles, CA

2005-08-19T15:03:00.000-07:00

BOYLE HEIGHTS, EAST LA, CA, TONGVA TERRITORY. Looking out over the city, I see a smattering of palm trees towering over a sea of red-tiled roofs. My hair feels dirty from the air. Hot, sticky and brown, the smog conceals the skyscrapers of downtown from my view. The heat is dry and so are the cement canals that once were rivers flowing throughout the Los Angeles basin. The roar of low-flying police helicopters drowns out the incessant hum of the freeway, while sirens wail in the distance.

This is LA.

Still, East LA is "the bomb." One of the largest Mexican-American communities in the United States, East LA has a vitality and strength that fills me with hope and reassurance. Here, in the belly of the beast, there are acts of resistance everywhere. From community gardens to mentoring programs to public art and graffiti, there are people here who refuse to forget who they are.

A town that grew up out the San Gabriel Mission, one of California's 21 Spanish missions, Los Angeles was claimed first by Spain, then Mexico (1810), and now the United States (1848). In signing the Treaty of Guadalupe, the United States claimed the resource-rich north of Mexico, leaving the population-rich south to the Mexican state. Claiming the land for themselves, the founding fathers vanquished the largely Mexican population and distanced themselves from their neighbours to the south by fuelling anti-Mexican racism that remains to this day.

In the 1960s, the civil rights movment and a resurgence of Mexican pride in the United States gave rise to the nationalist Chicana/o movement. In 1994, the Zapatistas took on the Mexican state and fueled a growing sense of indigenous identity within the Chicano/a movement. Today, the blending of Mexican nationalism and indigenous identity is projected through a condemnation of neo-liberalism and its effects in the Americas, particularly Mexico.

Throughout East LA, this movement is reflected in colourful murals that juxtapose images of Aztec history alongside those of Mexican revolutionaries and local activists. These murals fill the urban landscape with a beauty and pride that is grounded in indigenous histories. Seeing these murals filled me with hope--despite over 500 years of brutal colonization, first by the Spanish and their descendents, then by the Americans, there are people here who refuse to forget and still draw strength from their indigenous roots.

My first couple of days here, I stayed with Laura, a young woman who mentors teen-age girls while working tirelessly to organize and agitate against neo-liberalism here and in Mexico. Community-focused, Laura works with local families, artists and activists to combat imperialism through popular education, anti-corporate initiatives that stretch from here to Chiapas and grassroots organizing that refuses to enter into the realm of non-profits or NGOs. She is one of many people I've met here that inspire and guide my thinking to another way of doing things.

I was immediately struck by the fact that around here people do not expect the government to take care of them. Despite their poverty, they do not use lack of funding or legal constraints as reasons for not taking action. They offer no excuses and do what needs to be done to take care of themselves and their children.

Here in East LA, amid the McDonald's and Del Tacos, people grow their own nopales and fruits and make their own tortillas. I hear roosters when I wake up in the morning. Community-based businesses like Homegirl Cafe offer affordable, healthy Mexican food as an alternative to fast food while implementing the 'jobs not jails' philosophy by providing training and jobs for girls who have been involved in gangs. Musicians and muralists remind people of their history and point towards a revolutionary future. It is a poor community, but it is strong and I am inspired by what I see.

August 16, 2005: Venice Beach to East LA

2005-08-18T23:00:00.000-07:00

LOS ANGELES, CA, TONGVA TERRITORY. I had to go to Venice Beach. I wanted to get my cards read by the same guy that Neil Peart described in his book, Ghost Rider. Since I'd missed the turn to Highway One on my way in to Los Angeles, I made the 45 minute trip down the Santa Monica Freeway back to Venice and checked into the Venice Beach Cotel, a hostel right on the beach.

The Venice Beach Cotel is by far the best hostel I've stayed at so far, with an ocean view, private bathrooms, small dorms and helpful staff. At $30 USD per night, it is also the most expensive. Since it is right next to the boardwalk, I was introduced immediately to Venice Beach and its character(s). As I was unloading my bike in front of the hostel, I was approached several times by men interested in me and/or my trip. The creepiest ones I just ignored, though a couple were pretty persistent. Once I'd finished unpacking my bike and found a rare parking spot in front of the hostel (with the help of a Miguel Pandolfo, a tour guide and one of the men who approached me while I was unloading), I headed down the boardwalk to find that card reader.

Venice Beach is a beautiful beach with a concrete boardwalk where street vendors hawk t-shirts, dope paraphernalia, mysticism and "your name on a grain of rice." The pictures I took don't really capture the spectacle of the place, since the spectacle comes from all the wackjobs hanging around and they charge you for taking their picture. The street vending attracts hundreds of weirdos, hustlers and bums who prey off the tourists (and by "bums" I mean the young, white men who will "work for weed" or yell at people to give them a smoke). I don't like weirdos. The flaky ones piss me off and the dangerous ones scare me, so I prefer to not to be around them.

Still, I made my way through it all to find the tarot guy (who, Neil Peart assures, is not a weirdo). As I walked along, I was constantly harassed: "Hey, what's yer name. Can I walk witchoo?" "Hey cutie, buy a shirt!" "Nice sway, put it in one of these skirts." "Excuse me, this may be a dumb question, but...does your back hurt?" ("You're right, it is a dumb question"). I just kept on walking past the idiots, hustlers, bikinied girls on roller blades, palm readers, musicians and rows of t-shirts emblazoned with such wisdom as, "Shut up stupid bitch," and "Don't make me open a can of whoop ass." The absurdity of it all made me laugh out loud when Zoltare the Magnificent, a glass encased mechanical fortune-teller, suddenly sprang into action and yelled, "Zoltare knows all!" Crazy.

I never did find that guy. Guess there's no such thing as a normal tarot reader, especially in Venice Beach. Instead I sat down and had my palm read by a lady who specialized in Chambala, "ancient Jewish mysticism". I asked her what Chambala is, she didn't really answer me. She told me a bunch of stuff about career, romance and money...all those things that Americans are concerned about. Told me I need to eat more white meat then gave me a little blue stone and a dollar refund. Well that was fun. I headed back to find safe parking for my bike.

After about an hour of asking parking attendants, cops and hotel staff, I still hadn't found a parking spot, though the consensus was that my bike would not be safe parked overnight on the street. In desperation, I asked the hostel staff (I've been conditioned to believe hostel staff are generally unhelpful and do not appreciate being harassed by guests). This hostel is different. They were friendly and went out of their way to find me a safe parking spot at an apartment building a few blocks away. I happily moved my bike, locked it up and headed back to the hostel before sunset. In the morning I would be heading to East LA.

August 14-15, 2005: Santa Barbara to East LA

2005-08-16T01:05:00.000-07:00

LOS ANGELES, CA, CHUMASH-TONGVA TERRITORY. I can't believe how positively people respond to me and what I'm doing everywhere I go. I can't believe that I inspire people so. I think I've become pretty cynical in the last few years, I suppose so many years working in bars wore me down, but as I ride along I meet people everyday who show kindness, generosity, and openness. They share their time, their stories and their dreams with me. It's really amazing and it really kind of shakes up my view of the world in a very good way.

Before leaving San Luis Obispo, a small, peaceful college town, I stopped in at San Luis Obispo de Tolosa Mission. In the early days of colonization, various European states competed and warred with each other as they attempted to assert sovereignty and claim the Americas for themselves. Often, they employed their Church to advance their goals. Throughout the Americas, the Catholic Church established Indian missions to convert indigenous people to Christianity, hoping to subjugate our people while at the same time establishing permanent European presence in the claimed territories.

In this part of the world, Spain and Britain battled it out. While the Americans were separating from Britain, the Spaniards were attempting to claim the west coast. Franciscan friars, employing Indian labour, built 21 missions along the California coast from Sonoma to San Diego. Each mission was connected by El Camino Real ("The Royal Highway"), portions of which I rode from San Francisco to Los Angeles.

While at the San Luis Obispo mission, I met a wonderful lady, Judit Camancho, and her family. A former Outreach officer at the National Cancer Institute, she has taken the brave step to full-time mother of two. She lives in Santa Maria and has family all down the coast and into Mexico. She was very impressed with my journey and told me to give her a call if I ever need anything. As I rode away, I wished I'd taken a picture of her and her beautiful family. I resolved to stop being shy and start taking pictures of the people I meet. I mean how great would it be to have a picture of Gennaro & Co.?

Speaking of shy, I have great difficulty calling people I don't know and asking for a place to stay or for a visit. Crazy. I've met so many kind and supportive people, at home and on the road, who give me contacts of people they know I should visit. And what do I do? I stay in crappy hostels because "I don't want to impose." hahaha. It looks so stupid on the page. If I really think about it, traveling is all about imposition. I've left my place to go to another's. In doing so, I impose all of my curiosities, expectations, dreams and imaginings on all the places I go--and I don't engage the humanity of these places because I'm afraid to ask for a person-to-person visit. Sigh.

I thought about all of this while I was riding the freeway into Los Angeles (yet another fear conquered) debating whether I should stay at the Venice Beach hostel rather than imposing on a friend of a friend of a friend. My new revelation along with memories of the previous night in the Santa Barbara hostel gave me the resolve to call the friend, Laura.

As I rolled into Los Angeles, I headed for familiar territory: Hollywood. Remember my semi-serious attempt at being a rock-star in my early 20s? Well, this involved moving to Hollywood and enrolling in the Musicians' Institute--Percussion Institute of Technology to be exact. I lived in Hollywood for four months, rarely venturing out of the five block radius that became my neighbourhood: school, home, Ralph's grocery, the liquor store where they sold Canadian cigarettes and never ID'ed me, and the cheap pizza-by-the slice counters along Hollywood Boulevard. There was enough going on in this small area to keep me interested for the entire summer. I even saw Gene Simmons and his buddy there...the other front guy from Kiss...at a movie premier once.

I parked in front of the school and went inside to talk to the security guard to figure out how to get to East LA from Hollywood. After some discussion, Tony, the security guard, agreed to keep an eye on my bike while I went to get a road map of LA. I locked up all my stuff, carried what couldn't be locked up and headed down memory boulevard.

When I went to Musicians' Institute, one of the security guards was a Diné guy, Joey Piqueño. Joey told me that it was important to get in touch with my roots. I was 20, he was probably 30 or so and I remember thinking that he could see right through me--and he was worried by what he saw. Then there was Adam, the boyfriend from Philly who lied about his age and turned out to be 17, the cool roommates from New York and Maine who liked to hang out and do impromptu acoustic jams in the living room. The no-so-cool rich kid roommate, Oakley, who had more money than talent, couldn't cut it and went home leaving all us poor kids having to pay his share of the rent and a huge phone bill. And the stripper, Monica, from downstairs. First time I ever saw a pierced bellybutton. Geez, that was a long time ago.

While strolling on the boulevard I met Diego from Córdoba, Argentina who lived in Mexico for 15 years and now works as a Sly look-alike in Hollywood. We chatted about his home while we stood in the open-air lobby of the wax museum amid milling tourists and pre-teen boys shouting, "Rambo! Mom look it's Rambo!" It must be a classic if kids that age have seen it. Diego seemed sad, but his face lit up when I mentioned Argentina. I got another tourist (who was strangely reluctant, maybe he thought we were trying to scam him somehow) to take our picture, shook Diego's hand and headed back to my bike.

I decided to head to East LA so I'd be in the neighbourhood when Laura got off work. After two hours rush hour traffic and sweltering heat on the LA freeway, I pulled off into East LA to first find a bathroom, then figure out where I was. I pulled into McDonald's and hoped they wouldn't charge me 25 cents to use the facilities like they do in Hollywood. Not even locked, cool. When I came out, an LA cop greeted me with a big smile, "Hey how're you doing today?" Shit.

Cops Carlos and Debes had seen me pull in and followed me into McDonalds. My mind raced back to all those u-turns I'd been doing trying to get un-lost before giving up. All I know about the LAPD aside from the brutish and racist behaviour of the LAPD involved in the Rodney King and other similar incidents is what I see on prime time TV. And unlike TV, these guys are actually nice and intelligent. They had noticed my Canadian license plate and were intrigued. We chatted a little in line, they bought me a cheeseburger, chocolate shake and a cookie and we sat and talked for over an hour.

As sunset drew near, I started to worry since I hadn't heard back from Laura yet. I didn't want to drive around Los Angeles lost at night. So I headed east to Rosemead to find a Motel 6. Which I saw, but could not find since it was on the other side of the freeway. I ended up at the Holiday Inn Express. Though it cost $100 USD, totally worth it. I swam, I hot tubbed, showered and dried off with fluffy white towels, did laundry, used the free wireless internet, slept in a king size bed with 3 pillows and ate a complimentary breakfast in the morning, all in blissful peace and privacy.

August 13-14, San Francisco - San Luis Obispo, California

2005-08-14T13:03:00.000-07:00

SAN LUIS OBISPO, CA, STISHNI CHUMASH TERRITORY. I was in San Francisco (and that hostel situation) for too long. By the last day, all I wanted to do was find a quiet, private place to sit and read and talk to no one. I walked around the Marina and Fort Mason and settled down and watched the swimmers in the Bay. The cold forced me to seek solitude inside. The best place I could find was a nearby tourist-oriented bistro that was busy enough so I wouldn't really be noticed. I stayed there for over an hour before reluctantly heading back to the hostel.

I was greeted by the sounds of the bright laughter, excited conversation and screams of teenage girls. About 40 girls had checked in the night before and suddenly everywhere I went--the bathroom, the kitchen, the cafe, the laundry room, the common room-- there was at least three of them. I hoped that I wasn't going to be put in a room with them. While at the hostel I've had to change beds every night, so I never really knew what my sleeping situation would be. This last night, I'd hoped for a small, quiet room void of teenagers, snoring and the smell of sweaty men. The guy at the desk assigned me a bed, gave me some sheets and a towel.

I was delighted to find that the room was small and the smell of sweat was faint--and it was empty. I was not delighted to find that I had been given a top bunk (I'm afraid of heights). Geez, they've had my money and my reservation for a week now, you'd think they'd manage to give me a bottom bunk. Hoping to take advantage of the peace and quiet, I made my bed and lied down to read my book--and since I've only slept about 3 hours a night since I arrived, maybe have a little nap. About 5 minutes later, two of my new roomates came in and began unpacking, repacking and setting up their bunks. After about 45 minutes, it appeared they weren't going to be done any time soon. I got up and went for a ride.

Before I got to San Francisco, I had worried about riding my bike there. I'd only been there once before and I remembered how hilly and busy its road were. As it turns out, my mind exaggerates these things and not only was crossing the Golden Gate Bridge not as cold, foggy and windy, but the city's hills aren't nearly as steep as I feared; some of them are kind of fun. I did a small loop, got some groceries and some gas since I'd be on the road again in the morning.

When I got back to the hostel about an hour later, my roommates were sleeping. 9:00pm. Lights out. Fuck. Resisting the temptation to make as much noise as they had earlier, I grabbed my computer and my Mp3 player and headed out to the common room. By 2:00am, the last group had turned in--I'd found the peace and quiet I'd been looking for all day. Then the bars in town closed.

Jarod, a chatty guy from Indiana, has been checking out San Francisco's club scene everynight. We met when we arrived back at the hostel around the same time after my night at Jazz at Pearls. Since then, he's taken to hanging out and chatting with me when he rolls in from the club. This night, however, I was not really in the mood for chit chat when he called to me, "Dr. Loo Loo! How you doing?" Sigh. Jarod has a good sense of humour and is very personable, so he wore down my prickles fast. We chatted for about an hour while I tried to finish updating my website. Finally, he went to bed and I was alone again for a whole hour! I crawled into bed around 4:30, berating myself for staying up so late when I have to leave in the morning.

I woke late, left late and arrived in San Luis Obispo late--just after sunset. I had to do the last half hour at about 130km/h to make it to the city limits before dark. Craving solitude, I planned to find a campsite at Big Sur. Full. Then I thought I'd find a room at San Simeon and maybe check out the Hearst Castle (the house that greed built on the Chumash villages of Stejawayo, Tissimasu, and Zaho Saltanel). Full. Good thing I suppose, seeing that castle would have just pissed me off. Then I headed to San Luis Obispo to see if I could stay at the hostel. Full. A half hour later I found what appeared to be the last cheap motel room in town. Whew.

Today I have a short riding day since I'm going to try and find a place to camp somewhere between here and Los Angeles. I made some minor adjustments in San Francisco that seems to make my ride and I get along much better. First, I lightened my load by sending about 5lbs of stuff home. Then I adjusted my load by moving what I could forward. And, having scraped the edges while leaning into those California curves, I got Jorg to cut my 30" PVC footrest/tool holder down to about 10". All of this, and perhaps some increased confidence, made for a smooth and enjoyable ride along the Monterey Coast. The clouds have lifted and the sun is out, so I'm going to hit the road now. Hasta luego, mi amigos.

See the photos: http://www.lowerider.ca/Latest%20Photos.htm

August 10 - 11, 2005: Berkeley or Bust

2005-08-13T02:56:00.005-07:00

"Westward the course of empire takes its way." -George Berkeley, 1756.

SAN FRANCISCO, CA, COAST MIWOK TERRITORY. On Wednesday I decided to head out to Berkeley to check out the campus since I'm considering doing a PhD in Geography there. Unfortunately, I was almost out of gas and decided to find a gas station before I crossed the Bay Bridge. This decision took me about 45 minutes in the other direction, on the other side of downtown. Having been lost for over an hour, I decided to stay downtown and see what I could see, but first I had to find a parking spot.

Parking my motorcycle is somewhat difficult for me. Since I'm short, when I back up I'm on my tip-toes, wobbling backwards, inch by inch. This must engender pity in people because someone usually offers to give me a push. Today, however, a guy actually tried to pick up the back end of my bike and lift me into the parking space. Obviously, he couldn't lift it. Nice of him to try I suppose.

I started my downtown experience with a Maori exhibit at the Yerba Buena Cultural Centre, which was hosted by Tourism New Zealand and painted a rosy picture of Pakeha-Maori relations. Stifled by all the hot air and crowds, I didn't stick around long.

From there, I wandered around Market Street, Union Square and Mission Street, not really looking for anything in particular, just checking out the area and noting some of the old buildings and landmarks. During my wanderings, I came across John's Grill, an historic restaurant that promised live jazz. I didn't really expect live jazz since it was still the afternoon, but I did like the way it looked so I went in for lunch.

I ordered a salad and coffee since that was all I could afford. I enjoyed the dim, musty atmosphere and Billie Holliday's, My Man, which made me think of brilliant yet troubled men, sitting alone at the bar sipping contraband whiskey and filling the place with thick cigarette smoke. I wonder where I got that imagery from. As I ate, my attention shifted from my book, to the photos on the wall, to the actions and conversation of other customers. I was really taken by my surroundings, so I took my time. After I asked for my bill, the waiter reappeared and placed a Crème Brûlée with fresh berries in front of me, gave me a shy smile and walked away. Mmmm. Free dessert. It was delicious. I paid my bill, thanked him for the dessert and continued exploring downtown San Francisco.

The next day, I resolved to make it to Berkeley. My perspective of San Francisco and Berkeley has changed since reading Imperial San Francisco, by Gray Brechin. The author reveals the scandalous origins of San Francisco that is highly obscured and romanticized today.

In 1843, the American consul to Mexico informed Washington DC of the vast mineral wealth of northern Mexico (which includes present-day California, USA). Nine days later, the United States declared war on Mexico over a border dispute in Texas. Five years later, the United States invaded Mexico City and Mexico ceded land, including California to the USA.

Shortly after the signing of this 1848 treaty, free miner James Marshall 'discovered' gold in the Sierra Nevadas and the rush was on. Over 10,000 free miners made their way to the former Mexican village of Yerba Buena, which had been rechristened San Francisco. San Francisco was targeted by a group of enterprising men, who had made fortunes on mines in Mexico, Peru and Chile, to become the "Mistress of the Pacific," a city rivaling Rome and New York, that would open the "Golden Gate" of westward expansion to the Pacific and beyond.

Those who 'got in on the ground floor' worked diligently and deliberately to raise the value of land they had gotten for next to nothing, while at the same time gleaning as much mineral wealth as they could. They upheld the romantic image of the free miner and the promise of sudden wealth to encourage immigration, settlement and investment. In reality, within two years of James Marshall's discovery, the mining moguls had already taken over the industry with their capital and infrastructure--the free miner was no longer free. Gold panning and placer mining were displaced by industrial scale hydraulic mining, which required thousands of miles of wooden flumes that drained, filled and diverted river beds. To build these flumes, they cleared the redwood forest far to the north and as far east as Lake Tahoe.

As their fortunes grew they continued to encourage investment in their companies by building elaborate, confidence-inspiring Banks, a Stock Exchange and major newspapers, the San Francisco Chronicle (Michael de Young) and the Examiner (William Hearst), which they used to control the flow of information, enabling them to raise and quell market hysteria, make and break political careers, inflate property values and encourage people to invest in companies that didn't exist. Blackmail and bribery of local, state and national officials was commonplace while the propaganda pumped out images of freedom, independence and wealth for the common man.

They secured an interlocking network of military defense designed to protect the Golden Gate (and their landholdings) while advocating military takeovers of Mexico and the Philippines, drawing on racism and fear to drum up public support for annexation. Meanwhile, the women of these dynasties occupied their time in intense competition creating the better university with the most elaborate facilities designed to pump out the best geographers and engineers to assess and exploit the world's resources.

The legacies of empire permeate this land and this city. The fact that San Francisco has the highest property values in North America (the Americas?) is not a mere happenstance, nor is it good fortune or destiny. It has been carefully crafted by a small group of men who cared only for the advancement of their own personal dynasties.

Knowing this took a little of the shine off of my visit to Berkeley, it's hard to be awestruck by the legacy of such megalomania and greed. But to Berkeley I went. There I met Stella Moore, a woman from a small village in Alaska who is the Administrative Assistant for Native Studies in the Ethnic Studies department. A lively and talkative woman, she welcomed me into her office where we chatted for almost an hour. Curiously, the Ethnic Studies department is divided into Native American Studies, Chicano Studies and Asian American Studies and the primary goal of the department is to train "visible minority students" to be professors. Yet another imperial legacy.

August 9, 2005 - Jazz at Pearls

2005-08-13T02:50:00.000-07:00

SAN FRANCISCO, CA, COAST MIWOK TERRITORY. My day in North Beach ended with some great jazz with the fine Mr. Allen Smith on trumpet. Jazz at Pearls is a small supper club with an old-school feel and live west coast jazz. The dress code requires ladies to wear cocktail dress so put on my cleanest jeans, nicest t-shirt and disguised my helmet hair with a long, thin scarf before I walked into the dimly lit club.

I was greeted gingerly by the hostess, herself reminiscent of Billie Holliday with a short, kinked bob and a pink flower tucked behind her ear that picked up the small pink blossoms in her otherwise black gown. I informed her of my reservation and she insisted on putting my bulky motorcycle jacket and helmet behind the hostess station before showing me to my table.

The intimate room consisted of a relatively large stage hemmed in by small cocktail tables dressed in crisp, white floor length tablecloths and small crystal-encased tealights. I ordered a martini and watched the musicians noodle on their instruments as they prepared for their first set. For some reason the waiter didn’t ask me if I would like to order dinner. By the time I realized that I had been overlooked, they had stopped taking orders so the music wouldn’t be interrupted by ‘dining noise.’ I wasn’t that hungry anyway.

Soon the band, The Kim Nalley Quintet with Allen Smith, started up. I was immediately caught up in the music and enraptured by Mr. Allen Smith’s smooth, buttery notes. When Mr. Smith played one of my favourite ballads, A Portrait of Jenny, he played with such melancholy and wistfulness it was heartbreaking. I was moved to tears and suddenly self-conscience, I blinked the tears away and peeked around. The crowd was a fairly refined bunch of white people...a few bluehairs, some suits, but mostly people a little older than me. One young woman in a taupe shift dress and pearls looked particularly bored. I wondered why she was there. I tuned back into the music and quickly forgot about them.

As I watched Mr. Smith play, I realized why I had never been a very good drummer (I had made a semi-serious effort in my late teens-early 20s to be a rock star). I was not willing to give myself to the instrument, and therefore the audience, so completely.

At the end of the show, I felt compelled to shake Mr. Smith’s hand and thank him for sharing his songs. I almost chickened out, but he was an Elder and I remembered that my grandma tells me to “Shake he’s hand,” whenever I am around someone special. So I introduced myself, told him where I was from and thanked him for the songs with one of the cedar braids that I had been given at the feast in Ahousaht. He was quite surprised and moved. As I got ready to leave, he thanked me and wished me well on my journey. I’m glad I let him know how honoured I was to hear him play, I felt like I had done the right thing.

I approached the Maitre D’ to retrieve my motorcycle gear, telling him, “I’m just going to grab my stuff.” He glanced at me and said, “Fine. Grab your stuff.” I was buoyed and empowered by my exchange with Mr. Smith, so I was not indignant (which I probably would have been) or even hurt, I just felt sorry for him because he didn't know that there are other ways of being and connecting with people. It was the first time I felt the power of living our ways. As I left, I overheard Mr. Smith telling one of his bandmates about the cedar braid.