Central America Bi Cycle

At least its flat

marksgone — Tue, 29 Jan 2008 14:56:00 GMT

The ride from the Yucatan had always been earmarked as one of the easier ones. Flat, wide and well habitated, we started out in Campeche. A fair sized town with its colonial history bared thru cobblestone streets, planned functional layout based around a church and square, each home or business freshly painted almost in perfect pastel harmony with not only its neighbour but the whole street. It was our first gaze upon the Gulf of Mexico and while our guide book warned us about expectations, after 2 weeks in the jungle is was great to see the horizon again.

Our path would take us out of the city to the northeast and like any other sprawl, it was a morning divided between exhaust fumes, pot-holed roads and rubbish. Litter in Mexico defies belief. Almost without exception each and every way one looks there is the chance to see the effects of a society thrust into plastic prone consumerism. Disposable diapers the manufacturers wishfully hoped meant the bin, plastic bottles of soft drink, Coke and Pepsi still battling the road sides for supremacy, chip and biscuit wrappers rounding off the illustration of this country's poor dietary habits and environmental understanding. I can’t understand how the locals cannot see or gauge it impact on either nature or visual beauty. But then again these people can sleep through fireworks and brain shattering music at 3 in the morning. Or am I just being soft?

Our first goal was Uxmal, a Mayan ruin, its name meaning thrice built even though its was built 5 times! As the day drew on and the kms rolled off the back wheel it was time to consult the map for a place to nest for the night. A triangular dot in the middle of nowhere indicated a small ruin. Maybe, just maybe I could fulfill my dream of sleeping among the hopes and ghosts of the ancient. Our arrival however heralded a place of soft grass, roadside shelter among ancient carvings and a very helpful yet persistent guide informing us that my desires were not to be met that night.

The riding was great. Meandering back roads, the verges thick with dense green shrubs each one sporting hundreds of bright yellow daffodil-like flowers. To look ahead revealed a passage of yellow, two walls keeping us on the road while also shielding the inevitable plastic strewn ground. Passing vacant fields of corn and the occasional large irrigation project, the towns soon gave way to villages and then to dusty mud and thatched homes all furnished with roaming chickens and occupied hammocks.

Fellow cyclists were in much more attendance now that we had dropped down out of the steep mountains and into a much more self-propelled appropriate flat country. From the Mexican made mountain bike complete with dual suspension to the weightier yet much more appropriate single geared behemoths, peddle power was well and truly alive in this part of the world. And to my cycle-loving heart the rickshaw was back, you could even get your hands on a brand new one at the local supermarket for a low low $187. Be it firewood, the shopping or the missus, anything could be found in the front of these machines.

A night spent in-doors was a surprising luxury after being erroneously told there was no longer any camping in town by a greedy Frenchman. The next night was back to more real environs as we set up camp in one of the thatched huts, our tent enacted in response to our ever supposed threat of scorpions and snakes.

Uxmal was a real treat even after an already growing list of forgotten archaeological sights. The facade of the governors’ palace vast, intact and intricate, the wizard’s castle a post card from any angle. We picnicked on the grass in the shade of a tree watching the passing parade of herded tourists and indifferent iguanas. That night while our accommodations were perfect the peace as not. Firecrackers and bass-heavy tunes thumped all hours as yet another fiesta raged on in honor of some ambiguous cause.

And with my in-built and unchangeable alarm clock un-fazed, not much sleep was had before another big day in the saddle. 90kms later after an exhausting time battling the wind we found a small town. Weary and dreaming of a Best Western we almost took a room for the night in the home of an old lady who ran the small shop on the town square. As the teenager with headphones already on dropped his last coin into the jukebox our decision was made, tonight would be another night in the bush. Our new friend the shopkeeper, brandishing her last few remaining teeth in a smile told us that it would only last until 11 pm. With our daily bed time hovering around the 6:30-7 mark we filled our water bottles and continued on. While our camp that night tucked off the road along a woodcutters forest path didn’t quite inspire our imaginations but it sure beat yet another assault by the indefatigable hordes of Mexican pop.

And so it was we rolled into Piste, a run down tourist town servicing the newest member of the 7 Wonders of the World, Chitchen Itza. Past dilapidated hotels and glitzy plastic looking restaurants advertising all-you-can-eat buffets, as much salmonella and re-fired beans you can shove into an over-portioned American tourist, we were hoping that this town had a much needed place to camp, and even more so, a shower. Both hopes realized we tucked into that ever-reliable travelers back-up, a pizza, that will be a Grande thank you!

The Mayan ruins themselves were another slap in the face for us Australians. Citizen of a country whose documented history reaches all the way back to the late 18^th century, these carved monuments represented an advanced civilization stretching back as far a the birth of Christ. Turbulent, violent yet artistic it is still a mystery why it fell apart in 100 short years. Today the main pyramid stands alone on well manicured and trampled lawn, its stairs now closed to camera toting tourists while the observatory remains an enigma for archeologists and scholars. One phenomenon is undisputed, get there after 11 am and battle the hordes of packaged tourists, their bared fat bellies, too loud voices and fawning souvenirs sellers would make even old King Jaguar Paw himself think about joining the virgins in the sacrificial well.

So far the ride thru the Yucatan may have been on level terrain but the wind had been a constant companion, and not a welcome one. The next 3 days would be no different as the weather continued to hurl dark, low clouds directly at us. Gusts at times strong enough to pull the profanity out of my mouth even before I had the chance to throw it at this malevolent Mexican mother nature. The rain had now been dogging us for the last 2 days, so far our timing had been spot onto avoid the inevitable drenching. As we sat down in the food hall for a cheap feed off the main plaza in Valladolid we congratulated ourselves for outwitting our precocious pursuer yet again. But the riding had lost its edge. No longer winding wistfully thru back roads, it was now time to hug the white line against the traffic and huddle down in a naive attempt to reduce wind resistance. But with bags hanging off everywhere, my next day’s underwear flapping in a vain attempt to dry and a soggy tent leaving a wet trail behind me I was definitely not the picture of a lycra-clad, streamlined road racer.

The town we now found ourselves in was a tourist circus. Stuck in the path of Chitchen Itza bound buses from the even bugger circus of Cancun, it is the obligatory ‘colonial town’ stop for those bored of the beach. Shop after shop compete in an effort to sell the same crap at the same price to what could be clones of the same tourist. Once the last bus rolls out then sanity returns until that is, the warm up of the school musical set up on the now closed main street. Out rolls the street vendors and the crowd gathers in plastic chairs under an ominous sky. Then the PA starts up, not with the expected soothing un-obnoxious background music but full-on, chest thumping techno. Instead of gyrating teenagers, eyes glazed in response to a cocktail of chemicals throwing their arms around in a wild display of attempted human flight, there sit relaxed grandparents treating their young nervous grandkids to ice-cream and pop-corn with no outward display of the assaulting noise as anything unusual. This is simply not right. You put my Nan into an Ibethan nightclub and you better have the defibrillator charged up. Maybe I'm getting old, maybe I value my hearing a bit more these days or maybe the weirdness of the picture was simply too much but I certainly didn’t begrudge the kilometer walk to our cheap hotel way off the town center.

Slowly making our way towards the Caribbean our next stop was Coba, yet another Mayan ruin set in the jungle amid crocodile infested lakes. Once more into an ever increasing head wind it was a unanimous decision, the ruins had stood for 1000 years already, they could wait another day while we enjoyed the Spanish inspired, Mexican perfected siesta. And our decision paid off, we had the place to ourselves the next morning, early enough the beat the usurious charge levied by random Mexicans on bikes, the fee supposedly for road maintenance. Bicycles of course being the reason for the crater sized pot holes and NOT the thousand’s of dilapidated 4WDs driven all over the country side with wanton abandon.

42kms of wide, heavily trafficked road now stood between us and the blue waters of our imagination. The wind continued its assault as a bus passed me closed enough to blow the wax from my ears. A quick stop in town for some lunch and a run-down thatched hut secured for the night and into the warm watery embrace of one of the most well known bodies of water on the planet. We had made it, 2000kms later and finally the dirt and sweat from the road started to feel like it might be loosening its hold on us. We felt positive however that it might just take a few more days in the salty water to make sure.

From the Caribbean (man)

Mark

City Riding - a lesson to take the bus!

marksgone — Thu, 13 Dec 2007 06:34:00 GMT

Look, I’ll still defend the decision. It was logical, planned and made sense, not just because it was mine! Here we were, happily deliberating over the choice of accommodations after riding thru the outskirts and best part of the second largest city in Mexico. Sure, we had hesitated, I had cajoled and it was a zigzagging route we took from the bus station but hey, we made it alive and not only that, had found a decent hotel first-up without the angst or mind-reading normally associated with this assumed simple task. So of course my decision to ride out of town had a sound base, a logical foundation, or had I decided to build on land reclaimed from hope?

The map was OK I guess. Sure it could have been a bit more detailed, it could have shown a route that wasn’t a major arterial road. And yes, I suppose the timing could have been improved to avoid the morning rush hour. But these thoughts were not part of my deliberations as we bumped our way thru the cobblestoned streets of the centro-historico. More intent was I to avoid the sudden lurch forward or braking of passenger busses that seemed to shadow our early progress. Then there were the street signs, carefully memorized no more than 10 minutes earlier, their strange sounding names fleeing my mind like colourful birds through a cage door making it necessary to look at the map another 30 more times.

And then the map was wrong. Who would have thought that my map reading skills while riding a bicycle through foreign, peak-hour city traffic would have uncovered years of cartographic error? To the $5 compass our hopes now rested, the street name may not have matched the map but it was going in the right direction. As chief map holder and fall guy I knew that to lead was to instill confidence. “Hey, its heading south west, lets take it” and “Getting a bit lost is part of the adventure” may not be in the “Guiding For Dummies” book but it seemed to work the trick.

Now however was not the time to be distracted as we tentatively weaved our way between busloads of alighting factory workers, over laden trucks and a traffic system that more closely resembled the video game ´´Frogger´´ from my youth than the sort of orderly process I recalled from my driving exam. Still pretending to know the way I spotted the sign to our destination, its lane a mere 5 away from ours. Without consultation or warning I signaled the change and only one kilometer later realized my folly. For now we were caught in the fast lane of a 4 lane highway out of town. Now bikes are a great way of getting around, environmentally friendly, healthy, you know the rest. But one thing they are not, is found in the fast lane!

A nervous, neck-wrenching 10 minutes followed, my credibility was now not only in question but on the brink of complete collapse. And to think that there was a way out with my navigation skills still well regarded was dealt a mortal blow as we reverted to the pedestrian overpass to regain our rightful place on the road.

And what a place it was. A road side verge so cracked, pot-hold and narrow as to make the white line only a part of our imagination. Our tenuous , wholly-focused existence to stay upright and alive challenged by every truck, car and bus. Exhaust brakes building intensity to its inevitable climax of thunder and noxious fumes as we hugged this imaginary line, hoping the next frustrated Mexican driver would see our over-burdened bicycles.

A quick stop at the gas station and a few tears later, it was time to come clean. This would not rate as one of my better decisions, but, just as shocking, we realized there was no way out, this hellish, noisy and suffocating ride would have to continue.

So what, it didn’t make the top five best rides, heck it might even go down as one of the worst, but I’ll still defend my decision, `cause it made a great story!

The Ups and Downs of Canyons

marksgone — Fri, 7 Dec 2007 10:37:00 GMT

With a new companion in tow it was time to leave the bikes standing idle. Their new surroundings a dust-filled back shed of a hotel, the discarded, part-used paint cans and cracked bathroom basins shoved to the side to make room for tools of a much younger vintage. Locks snapped shut, palms greased; it was time to catch a train.

Our new traveling companion, a young lass with new-age hippee desires but carrying a much older name, Magdalena, joined us from Austria. Strange bedfellows traveling makes. Our first impression was her rather strange embarkation on our bus from Esanada. Middle of nowhere she hops on, barefoot. In all of my experience of traveling I have never found a good nor even remotely justifiable reason for why someone would travel in a third world country barefoot. The people who live there all ware shoes, when you are at home you ware shoes, tucked away deep inside your ergonomically designed backpack are some shoes….. do these people not know that hippees lived in the sixties and made hep shots popular?

A brief encounter became only a footnote to our travels until another meeting on the ferry to the mainland. Somewhere during our chat I had invited her to join our jaunt up on the train to the Copper Canyon. Exactly when or how I performed this act of kindness will forever remain a mystery. However, in accordance with my need to keep life interesting I acquiesced, hell, Dad would find this turn of events amusing if not all part of an adventure he didn’t know he was signing up for.

The train ride up started out slow. A picture of the slums that always seem to spring up next to railway lines greeted out departure proving a point of interest for Dad. With their bottoms laid bare to the tracks their lives unfolded as passengers peeked at real life. Swept yards bordering litter-filled space, pigs, goats, cows, dogs and children all in various stages of activity, construction material the kind you see in hurricane footage on CNN and cooking fires in stark contrast to the cold, grey drab of morning.

Then the main attraction begins, 85 tunnels, 200kms of twisting parallel steel that penetrates a landscape beyond the automobile. Quiet villages that know no sound louder than the twice daily toot of the passing locomotives horn as vegetation morphs from farmland to cacti to alpine, a climb from sea level to 2225m.

Two nights spent in Creel, a cold dot on the railway schematic, proved to be a nice enough experience. Gaily painted, albeit lacking any real atmosphere (and a bakery), we managed a walk around Lake Arareko. And it was a time for firsts, the great one being the decision to hitch-hike to the lake. The idea suggested by the guide book, raised by Magdalene, agreed to by me and the basis of serious concern for Papa Pedro. Never having thrown his hand to the god of traveling chance, I only discovered the discord second-hand. The walk out to the main road would have been a strange gestation; prolonged, worried and involving breathing techniques. Then we were there, the word passed that we would catch the next ride and the thumb appropriately extended. Low-and-behold, passed first then reversed, in we hopped to the back of a pick-up, south-bound. It was possibly the shortest ride around but it certainly qualified as a first!

The walk home was great, a tranquil lake surrounded by pines, the sounds muffled by the soft downy covering of fallen needles, the cold keeping away sight-seers. A few jumped fences later we stood on the lip of a natural basin, home to the Tamaharamu people, a simple time warped life-style that we were allowed to peek into.

But the stop in Creel was not to be the highlight. We were here to see the canyon itself. And so we made our goodbyes to our new companion, her decision not to follow her own, as we shook our heads and got back to a bit of normality.

Not that the ride to Batopilas was anything normal. The ride came in thirds. To begin with we had space and air, the 15-seater hurling itself along well paved tarmac, its screeching tires thru the hairpins almost a pre-requisite backdrop for the music emanating out of the strangely subdued sound-system. We were finding our comfort and straining for the scenery.

The next stage began at the half-way point on the map but only 1/5^th into the allotted time frame. Bells were ringing. Add 4 more passengers to an already capacity vehicle, remove the smooth road and press repeat on the sound-system. The road was under construction as we made our way along a lesson in engineering from tarmac laying, thru bulldozing and bridge building to forest clearing and surveying points.

As the heat inside built, so did the anticipation. We all knew what was coming as we rounded yet another acute bend in the dirt and the sounds of jaws dropping could be heard above the squeak of suspension and the throb of V8. Part three begins with what can only be described as a crack in the earth. A chasm hewn in the earths crust a kilometer deep, its distant side a blue haze of sheer yet stepped cliffs. Winding its way, etched on to its face in an awesome display of engineering was our road. Barely 3 meters wide in parts, switching back time again, liberally sprinkled with evidence of recent rock falls or gaping wedges of erosion our driver excluded an almost bored display of expertise. But make no mistake, it was a performance born of repetition with each flick of the wheel or sudden lurch as the engine responded to a stomped on accelerator a pre-meditation and purposeful action to get us safely to the bottom, the slow way.

And finally we were there, the temperature of the cabin matching that of the brakes. Respite at escaping our cramped over-heated box almost overwhelming our relief at being alive.

Encounters in a Bar

marksgone — Sun, 2 Dec 2007 01:14:00 GMT

The doorway stood open, its rusting yet stout grill not exactly screaming a welcome. A concrete partition set just inside the threshold shielding curious eyes from the internal action. The lack of ear piercing mariachi tones making this bar more appealing to the three gringos searching the shuttered Sunday streets for some afternoon culture.

And into the florescent stage they strode, all eyes darting toward the fresh-faced new-comers, the barmaid, a mass of shaking flesh in vibrant make-up sharply directing the trio to centre stage. The white table revealing its previous occupants revelry in a swath of sticky amber residue. Acknowledging the stares from all corners of the spartan room, a large beer, similar to those decorating the tables of other patrons was ordered in haltingly bad Spanish. The trio sat down, slightly confused as to the addition of toilet paper roughly jammed into the neck of their beer and began to digest their environment.

Painted a nicotine yellow, the roughly rendered walls held few decorations. The interest to be found in this room was not with pictures or posters, but patrons. The women looked like men, the men looked like cowboys ,the barmaid looked like a bouncer and facial hair on all of them. Some wore the smiles of a few-too-many while making gestures to come and join them, their eyes begging the chance to break the monotony of their wives tyranny, others holding poker-faces, unreadable to the outsiders, a knife edge between hostility, unwillingness, and indifference.

In stormed Andres as if word had spread that some gringos had crossed some strange untold boundary into the world of Mexican pubs. Asking for a permission to sit he barely hesitated to wait for he launched into a scathing tirade of his wife. A woman of untold virtue whose very title would spew forth a fountain of profanity, language more amusing from his foreign tongue than insulting. Slapping hands and hanging heads, his grief was as stale as the stains on the table. The gringo show took off into act two as defenders leapt from all corners of the room. The behemoth barmaid a force to be reckoned with sending a kick his direction, a silent yet smiling sombreroed man attempting sober solutions while passive watchers made sympathetic smiles to accompany their crazy gestures towards our new found partner.

But enough was enough, the trio realized that their new-found excitably slurring puppy could not be shaken. Refusing the repeated pleas in his un-focused eyes for another drink the trio beat a hasty retreat, excuses made it was time to return to the streets and seek shelter in solitude.

The Cast and Crew

marksgone — Thu, 22 Nov 2007 07:48:00 GMT

It’s a strange Trio we make:

The Cast:

All narratives demand strong leads, a character that intrigues, beguiles and fascinates; someone you want to live vicariously thru. But here you will not find your alter-ego, rather than the strength of mystery our lead has mundane mortality, familiar failures and suburban scenarios. His name, Mark; codename – Marco!

Then there is the ever-[resent side-kick, mentioned as such only in her absence, his wife Carlie, a.k.a Carlita. Ever-watchful, omni-present during bouts of debauchery and casting a shadow of reality and realism on proceedings, this is her first time out on the bike. Ready for adventure on two wheels, the hills will test but the culinary skills are sure to prevail.

And no story is complete without its protagonist. He comes in the form of a slightly past middle-aged, time sharpened sagest and ever-challengeable fellow. Peter to his friends, Pedro to you. Quick to observe, slow to digest, he’s going to keep the crew sharp, failing that, he’s certain to amuse!