Monday, July 26, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
New Year's Eve 2009
For reasons still unknown, I decided to leave the detail of travel to New York until the last minute. Coming up upon 36 hours until departure from Newark, I bit the bullet and purchased a flight from Continental.com; a serious assault on my conscience and Visa card. Not more than 15 minutes later, I received a hastily written email offering me a seat in an overnight ride to New York City. Like a fish out of water, I sprung to my keyboard and within minutes had all but eradicated the traces of my flight reservation.
Loudly preceded by their jovial ora, Amanda and Jenny pulled up into the driveway as I stood talking travels-past with the night watchman. We eagerly made friends as I tossed my guitar atop their bags in the brimming trunk and put my worldly possessions into the back seat beside me. Off we hurried, pausing only briefly to unearth my seatbelt from its hiding spot in the mechanical abiss that was the backseat.
We hurtled forward talking of school, work, travels, music and life – anything and everything plus everything in between. Midnight flapped in our windy wake like a tired flag while the kilometres fought and failed to keep up our determined pace. Not even the clutches of the border could detain us longer than it took Jenny (bless her German heart) to acquire what ended up being a mildly disappointing stamp to commemorate her innaugural voyage onto Uncle Sam’s mythical turf.
Full we steamed into and across the land of metric-no-more, eagerly racking up miles and counting down the minutes to our destination. An anonymous rest stop came and went, desolate in the thick of the night; our gas-pumping night-owl conscious of little more than the bite-sized virgin snow flakes dancing Newton’s ballet towards our heads.
Clouds blanketing the stars, we were suddenly surrounded by deep blue. Then purple, then red, then orange. And then the night bid us good-morning just as abruptly as the sun had bid us farewell the dusk prior. Then in all its glory, New Jersey appeared as if out of a dream; its marvelous, countless rivers of cars inching along the highway, barely covering a mile in an hour. Then finally the bottleneck, the rubberneck, the man who chanced that he and his truck were no match for winter weather. Alackaday.
The Lincoln Tunnel: long, skinny, underwater – just like Abe would have wanted it. Then Manhattan. Ceaseless, endless, careless Manhattan. The place practically screamed with life and the energy of its constituents. People filled the streets and danced about in an almost choreographed frenzy. It must have been New Years’ Eve.
Logistics a nightmare always, I found a safe place to stow my bag then began my aimlessly charged wander. Not on the prowl for 20 minutes, I happened into the presence of a young Italian, determined also to see what IT was all about. We queued futily for a tour of the UN then resolved to a subway trip and a bipedal wander of Little Italy (there’s something inherently comical about a thickly accented Italian proper asking directions to this place). We enjoyed wraps and espresso at Cha Cha’s Italian café, charmed little dive, walls adorned with photos of the countless celebrities that may once have considered coming inside.
As dusk took hold, Matteo and I strolled up Broadway and into Washington Square before spending an hour looking around Greenwich Village. We settled upon a previously recommended bar called Arturo’s. To my thrill, a hard-swinging unplugged piano trio filled the air with a sonic flavour so rich you could taste it. There at the bar we sat while a tuxedo-clad Antonio (Tony) served us no small number of generously poured glasses of red wine. An ever-evolving clan of delightfully cliché New Yorkers made for the most excellent bemusements two stray travelers could ever hope to absorb. A truly sensational, thin-on-the-crust, heavy-on-the-cheese margharita pizza made all the more excellent our arrangement.
Logistics again the backstabber, I left Arturo’s alone about an hour before the ball was to drop. With only a bit of hassle, I retrieved me belongings from the 42nd street station and stood intersect with 9th Ave., amidst an unexcited crowd of hundreds a half mile from, but within sight of Times Square. The bus was easy to find and the trio of overtime-embracing drivers gladly stowed my accoutrements onboard while we stood half a block away, waiting for the count down.
10... 9... 8... 7... 6... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... "Heck yeah. It's 2010!"
"So it is," said one of the drivers, "happy fuckin' new year's." A shot from his flask.
The few hundred people walking around at 9th & 42nd made a handful of similar mumbles while one or two anonymous woooooos barely cut through the sound of traffic. Within less than two minutes, I found myself back on board the bus with a driver and one other passenger who was investing the vast majority of his energy into a cell phone conversation, the language of which I failed to identify.
All in a day's work. I slept continentally on a bench in Liberty International's first terminal.
Loudly preceded by their jovial ora, Amanda and Jenny pulled up into the driveway as I stood talking travels-past with the night watchman. We eagerly made friends as I tossed my guitar atop their bags in the brimming trunk and put my worldly possessions into the back seat beside me. Off we hurried, pausing only briefly to unearth my seatbelt from its hiding spot in the mechanical abiss that was the backseat.
We hurtled forward talking of school, work, travels, music and life – anything and everything plus everything in between. Midnight flapped in our windy wake like a tired flag while the kilometres fought and failed to keep up our determined pace. Not even the clutches of the border could detain us longer than it took Jenny (bless her German heart) to acquire what ended up being a mildly disappointing stamp to commemorate her innaugural voyage onto Uncle Sam’s mythical turf.
Full we steamed into and across the land of metric-no-more, eagerly racking up miles and counting down the minutes to our destination. An anonymous rest stop came and went, desolate in the thick of the night; our gas-pumping night-owl conscious of little more than the bite-sized virgin snow flakes dancing Newton’s ballet towards our heads.
Clouds blanketing the stars, we were suddenly surrounded by deep blue. Then purple, then red, then orange. And then the night bid us good-morning just as abruptly as the sun had bid us farewell the dusk prior. Then in all its glory, New Jersey appeared as if out of a dream; its marvelous, countless rivers of cars inching along the highway, barely covering a mile in an hour. Then finally the bottleneck, the rubberneck, the man who chanced that he and his truck were no match for winter weather. Alackaday.
The Lincoln Tunnel: long, skinny, underwater – just like Abe would have wanted it. Then Manhattan. Ceaseless, endless, careless Manhattan. The place practically screamed with life and the energy of its constituents. People filled the streets and danced about in an almost choreographed frenzy. It must have been New Years’ Eve.
Logistics a nightmare always, I found a safe place to stow my bag then began my aimlessly charged wander. Not on the prowl for 20 minutes, I happened into the presence of a young Italian, determined also to see what IT was all about. We queued futily for a tour of the UN then resolved to a subway trip and a bipedal wander of Little Italy (there’s something inherently comical about a thickly accented Italian proper asking directions to this place). We enjoyed wraps and espresso at Cha Cha’s Italian café, charmed little dive, walls adorned with photos of the countless celebrities that may once have considered coming inside.
As dusk took hold, Matteo and I strolled up Broadway and into Washington Square before spending an hour looking around Greenwich Village. We settled upon a previously recommended bar called Arturo’s. To my thrill, a hard-swinging unplugged piano trio filled the air with a sonic flavour so rich you could taste it. There at the bar we sat while a tuxedo-clad Antonio (Tony) served us no small number of generously poured glasses of red wine. An ever-evolving clan of delightfully cliché New Yorkers made for the most excellent bemusements two stray travelers could ever hope to absorb. A truly sensational, thin-on-the-crust, heavy-on-the-cheese margharita pizza made all the more excellent our arrangement.
Logistics again the backstabber, I left Arturo’s alone about an hour before the ball was to drop. With only a bit of hassle, I retrieved me belongings from the 42nd street station and stood intersect with 9th Ave., amidst an unexcited crowd of hundreds a half mile from, but within sight of Times Square. The bus was easy to find and the trio of overtime-embracing drivers gladly stowed my accoutrements onboard while we stood half a block away, waiting for the count down.
10... 9... 8... 7... 6... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... "Heck yeah. It's 2010!"
"So it is," said one of the drivers, "happy fuckin' new year's." A shot from his flask.
The few hundred people walking around at 9th & 42nd made a handful of similar mumbles while one or two anonymous woooooos barely cut through the sound of traffic. Within less than two minutes, I found myself back on board the bus with a driver and one other passenger who was investing the vast majority of his energy into a cell phone conversation, the language of which I failed to identify.
All in a day's work. I slept continentally on a bench in Liberty International's first terminal.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Fine day for a ride
I started cycling pretty seriously in 2005. I've had a few bike computers in the past five years, but none for long enough to confirm my estimate of having ridden about 35,000km in that time. Within all that riding, there's a number of specific single-day rides that I can vividly recall as being so enjoyable that I'd call them favourites. In fact, I have a top ten list. For now, just one.
Quite shortly after graduating from Humber College in '07, I made my first solo venture abroad. Whereto? Cuba. Naturally, by bicycle. With a bit of assistance from an Argentinian living in Toronto, I crated up my bike and flew off to a distant, enigmatic island; my backup plan no more thorough than a fistful of currency. With the possible exception of my final exam in tenth grade science, never in my life had I been so grossly unprepared for anything. The Cuban husband of my Argentinian friend picked me up at the Havana airport and after a fairly hysterical public viewing of me assembling my bike, set me aboard a bus bound for the town of Baracoa. Small, isolated, third-world, coastal towns don't come much more charming than Baracoa. I savoured every moment in time and every shot of rum I could in that town, but this is about a ride, not cocktails.
Preceding the ride, there were three major factors that gave me cause for concern. I had had past experience with mountains, but (1) the roads over which we traveled on the inbound bus were dramatically more treacherous than any I'd ever seen before. (2) The novel-to-me, oppressive, tropical heat promised to provide a truly punishing day of riding. I had told some locals in Baracoa of my intentions to ride for two weeks back to Havana. (3) "Eres loco, amigo," they would say. "Well, yes. I [am] a little crazy, but your allegations duly concern me."
Mildly deterred, I braved on for my first day's ride abroad; destination: irrelevant. The coastal nature of Baracoa allowed me about one kilometer of level road on which to warm up. From there, up into the Moa-Sagua-Baracoa mountains we (my bicycle and I) rode. At first, the heat did not disappoint. Quite quickly; however, we pulled into an eerie mountain morning fog, fairly thick in nature. Encouragingly, my fears of heat exhaustion were dispelled. The blessed fog acted as a gently refreshing blanket of mist, subduing the would-be need for sweat for the full breadth of the mountain range. The climbs were winding, steep, unprotected and, to an unacclimatized foreigner [insert:my smiling face], positively terrifying. This is something I've since come to appreciate in a way that few can imagine.
The fog thinned to reveal an overcast sky and despite the seemingness of inevitability, the mist never condensed into rain. The newfound visibility was most welcome at some of the outside turns as it revealed splendid views of vast jungle valleys. Classic cars were few and far between and each one more reassuringly than the last gave us, dear young boy and bike, more than comfortable space on the road.
The road bumped and wound its way through the junglous mountains (mountainous jungle?) for most of our day, bringing about some interesting charms of a novel culture; roadside tree-ripe banana vendors not excluded. We rolled alongside crashing rivers, tantalizing cliffs, tree-climbing coconut farmers and even, much to the hollering amusement of rural chiquitos, rode right on through the infield of more than one asphalt baseball game. Untrained for mountains and fairly depleted nearing the end of a long day, we made our way up what would be the final significant ascent of the range.
Here and now, we pause for a double side note.
(1) Cuba is a strange land; one where the old and the new collide with unpredictable outcomes. In Havana, for instance, abound modern luxury cars, cosmopolitan youngsters and all other signs and symptoms of progress. Meanwhile, the further you travel from Havana (note Baracoa's position on the map), the further back in time you'll seem to slip. This can inspire confusion, hilarity, pity, enchantment, wonder and a myriad of other emotions to each individual granted the opportunity to witness it.
(2) To a truly passionate cyclist, there is something inexplicably joyous about seeing other people riding their bikes. I think most commuters, racers, couriers, Saturday-in-the-parkers likely don't understand that it gives me great pleasure to see you all out on your bikes. Without attempting to explain how one can too be a passionate hill-climber (a demented sub-caste of the truly passionate cyclist), even more joyous is two truly passionate cyclists crossing paths en ride.
The last climb dragged on like that final exam in tenth grade science. Struggle, we did. To persevere, we swore. And just as it felt as though we could take no more, just as we rolled atop that final crest, just as we started wondering whose stupid idea this whole thing was, we saw the light. Into focus came another young cyclist. A Cuban, entirely clad in vintage (presumably not for the sake of style) racing apparel, riding a vintage roadster, leaving his equally vintage-looking friends in his vintage-looking racer dust. He looked to be 20, but as though he'd just slipped into 2007 for a brief training vacation from 1975. His strength, his speed, his skill were clear. But clearest of all was his passion. Our eyes met and with a chuckle, we traded "hola"s as he promptly began his descent down the climb that consumed the previous hour of my life. His small peloton in tail gave me marvelous stares; the type one might come to expect as a ghastly untanned foreigner in a tight blue outfit riding a high-end, fully loaded bicycle through rural Cuba. "Allez, allez," I shouted, not knowing how to encourage their pursuit in Spanish. A truly magical moment, it was for me.
Refreshed and inspired (and finished climbing for the day), I gleefully began my 600m descent from the mountains. Miraculously, the sun came out to keep me warm for the otherwise chilly, high-speed plummet towards the Caribbean Sea. The final 15kms were pancake-flat along a beautiful stretch of coastline, adorned with dramatic bluffs to the right and a brilliant blue sea opposed. My legs screaming for mercy, we settled for the night at a beach near Imias, dreaming of rides to come.
Wow! Let's go for a ride!
Quite shortly after graduating from Humber College in '07, I made my first solo venture abroad. Whereto? Cuba. Naturally, by bicycle. With a bit of assistance from an Argentinian living in Toronto, I crated up my bike and flew off to a distant, enigmatic island; my backup plan no more thorough than a fistful of currency. With the possible exception of my final exam in tenth grade science, never in my life had I been so grossly unprepared for anything. The Cuban husband of my Argentinian friend picked me up at the Havana airport and after a fairly hysterical public viewing of me assembling my bike, set me aboard a bus bound for the town of Baracoa. Small, isolated, third-world, coastal towns don't come much more charming than Baracoa. I savoured every moment in time and every shot of rum I could in that town, but this is about a ride, not cocktails.
Preceding the ride, there were three major factors that gave me cause for concern. I had had past experience with mountains, but (1) the roads over which we traveled on the inbound bus were dramatically more treacherous than any I'd ever seen before. (2) The novel-to-me, oppressive, tropical heat promised to provide a truly punishing day of riding. I had told some locals in Baracoa of my intentions to ride for two weeks back to Havana. (3) "Eres loco, amigo," they would say. "Well, yes. I [am] a little crazy, but your allegations duly concern me."
Mildly deterred, I braved on for my first day's ride abroad; destination: irrelevant. The coastal nature of Baracoa allowed me about one kilometer of level road on which to warm up. From there, up into the Moa-Sagua-Baracoa mountains we (my bicycle and I) rode. At first, the heat did not disappoint. Quite quickly; however, we pulled into an eerie mountain morning fog, fairly thick in nature. Encouragingly, my fears of heat exhaustion were dispelled. The blessed fog acted as a gently refreshing blanket of mist, subduing the would-be need for sweat for the full breadth of the mountain range. The climbs were winding, steep, unprotected and, to an unacclimatized foreigner [insert:my smiling face], positively terrifying. This is something I've since come to appreciate in a way that few can imagine.
The fog thinned to reveal an overcast sky and despite the seemingness of inevitability, the mist never condensed into rain. The newfound visibility was most welcome at some of the outside turns as it revealed splendid views of vast jungle valleys. Classic cars were few and far between and each one more reassuringly than the last gave us, dear young boy and bike, more than comfortable space on the road.
The road bumped and wound its way through the junglous mountains (mountainous jungle?) for most of our day, bringing about some interesting charms of a novel culture; roadside tree-ripe banana vendors not excluded. We rolled alongside crashing rivers, tantalizing cliffs, tree-climbing coconut farmers and even, much to the hollering amusement of rural chiquitos, rode right on through the infield of more than one asphalt baseball game. Untrained for mountains and fairly depleted nearing the end of a long day, we made our way up what would be the final significant ascent of the range.
Here and now, we pause for a double side note.
(1) Cuba is a strange land; one where the old and the new collide with unpredictable outcomes. In Havana, for instance, abound modern luxury cars, cosmopolitan youngsters and all other signs and symptoms of progress. Meanwhile, the further you travel from Havana (note Baracoa's position on the map), the further back in time you'll seem to slip. This can inspire confusion, hilarity, pity, enchantment, wonder and a myriad of other emotions to each individual granted the opportunity to witness it.
(2) To a truly passionate cyclist, there is something inexplicably joyous about seeing other people riding their bikes. I think most commuters, racers, couriers, Saturday-in-the-parkers likely don't understand that it gives me great pleasure to see you all out on your bikes. Without attempting to explain how one can too be a passionate hill-climber (a demented sub-caste of the truly passionate cyclist), even more joyous is two truly passionate cyclists crossing paths en ride.
The last climb dragged on like that final exam in tenth grade science. Struggle, we did. To persevere, we swore. And just as it felt as though we could take no more, just as we rolled atop that final crest, just as we started wondering whose stupid idea this whole thing was, we saw the light. Into focus came another young cyclist. A Cuban, entirely clad in vintage (presumably not for the sake of style) racing apparel, riding a vintage roadster, leaving his equally vintage-looking friends in his vintage-looking racer dust. He looked to be 20, but as though he'd just slipped into 2007 for a brief training vacation from 1975. His strength, his speed, his skill were clear. But clearest of all was his passion. Our eyes met and with a chuckle, we traded "hola"s as he promptly began his descent down the climb that consumed the previous hour of my life. His small peloton in tail gave me marvelous stares; the type one might come to expect as a ghastly untanned foreigner in a tight blue outfit riding a high-end, fully loaded bicycle through rural Cuba. "Allez, allez," I shouted, not knowing how to encourage their pursuit in Spanish. A truly magical moment, it was for me.
Refreshed and inspired (and finished climbing for the day), I gleefully began my 600m descent from the mountains. Miraculously, the sun came out to keep me warm for the otherwise chilly, high-speed plummet towards the Caribbean Sea. The final 15kms were pancake-flat along a beautiful stretch of coastline, adorned with dramatic bluffs to the right and a brilliant blue sea opposed. My legs screaming for mercy, we settled for the night at a beach near Imias, dreaming of rides to come.
Wow! Let's go for a ride!
Thursday, January 28, 2010
San Pedro La Laguna
San Pedro La Laguna is a fascinating place. A thriving small town on the south shore of the beautiful Lake Atitlan in Guatemala, it's a real magnet for tourists. The functional centre of the town is at the crest of an aggressive hill, 8 minutes' walk from the waterfront pedestrian village (affectionately known to locals as Gringolandia) where the majority of hotels, bars and restaurants can be found.
The town's centre is almost exclusively the domain of locals speaking one of four Mayan descended languages. Surrounding the civic square cum basketball court are numerous well-stocked shops and a characteristic produce/meat market staffed by half a dozen aging Mayan women who amicably endure my efforts to speak Spanish, ever attempting to upsell me from just onions to chiles, cilantro, cocoa and beyond. Somewhat disappointingly, this part of town is much lesser visited by the throngs of visitors to Gringolandia just down the road.
Gringolandia is certainly not without its charms. Its network of narrow alleys and dirt trails is suitably navigated only on foot excepting the occasional bicyclist. The at first confusing network leads one past a dozen bars & restaurants, a handful of internet cafes, several places of paid lodging, and six (give or take) competing Spanish schools (not forgetting the predominant languages here). In addition to the scores of wayward travelers who oftentimes find themselves quite resistant to departure, there is a semi-permanent population of ex-patriots from several countries who, evidently, have elected not to leave. Salis si puedes (leave if you can) is another affectionate moniker for this wee pedestrian village. It should also be noted that despite prolific signage condemning the sale of drugs, difficulty has no strong ties to acquisition here.
In recent weeks, there's been a bit of an uprising in San Pedro. Members of the local evangelical church who, incidentally, seem to hold great sway over the police force, have been embarking upon nightly parades of Gringolandia, evicting clients en mass from each and every bar. The alleged violation is a cliché noise complaint, but I believe the reasons are rooted in a perception that bar-goers are pledging allegiance to the rosy old man with horns and a trident. Resident foreigners argue that this practice of early closure (around 11pm) is illegal in a country where bars almost universally close at 1am. I too found myself dismayed at repeated early termini and (objectively, of course) questioning the validity of the complaint.
On my last day in San Pedro, clarity swelled. Around four in the afternoon the sounds of a musical ensemble commonly associated with the image of Che Guevera came a-thundering down from a hillside hotel room. To each his own, but when a gathering of inebriated tourists (4pm on a Sunday) can be heard from 500m away hollering, “motherfucker” chorus after chorus, I find myself siding with the evangelicals. Just like a pendulum, suggests my friend K., San Pedro is upswinging from a period of bold bingeing and now it's time to purge. Para mi, Gringolandia is about due for a long stint in detox.
The town's centre is almost exclusively the domain of locals speaking one of four Mayan descended languages. Surrounding the civic square cum basketball court are numerous well-stocked shops and a characteristic produce/meat market staffed by half a dozen aging Mayan women who amicably endure my efforts to speak Spanish, ever attempting to upsell me from just onions to chiles, cilantro, cocoa and beyond. Somewhat disappointingly, this part of town is much lesser visited by the throngs of visitors to Gringolandia just down the road.
Gringolandia is certainly not without its charms. Its network of narrow alleys and dirt trails is suitably navigated only on foot excepting the occasional bicyclist. The at first confusing network leads one past a dozen bars & restaurants, a handful of internet cafes, several places of paid lodging, and six (give or take) competing Spanish schools (not forgetting the predominant languages here). In addition to the scores of wayward travelers who oftentimes find themselves quite resistant to departure, there is a semi-permanent population of ex-patriots from several countries who, evidently, have elected not to leave. Salis si puedes (leave if you can) is another affectionate moniker for this wee pedestrian village. It should also be noted that despite prolific signage condemning the sale of drugs, difficulty has no strong ties to acquisition here.
In recent weeks, there's been a bit of an uprising in San Pedro. Members of the local evangelical church who, incidentally, seem to hold great sway over the police force, have been embarking upon nightly parades of Gringolandia, evicting clients en mass from each and every bar. The alleged violation is a cliché noise complaint, but I believe the reasons are rooted in a perception that bar-goers are pledging allegiance to the rosy old man with horns and a trident. Resident foreigners argue that this practice of early closure (around 11pm) is illegal in a country where bars almost universally close at 1am. I too found myself dismayed at repeated early termini and (objectively, of course) questioning the validity of the complaint.
On my last day in San Pedro, clarity swelled. Around four in the afternoon the sounds of a musical ensemble commonly associated with the image of Che Guevera came a-thundering down from a hillside hotel room. To each his own, but when a gathering of inebriated tourists (4pm on a Sunday) can be heard from 500m away hollering, “motherfucker” chorus after chorus, I find myself siding with the evangelicals. Just like a pendulum, suggests my friend K., San Pedro is upswinging from a period of bold bingeing and now it's time to purge. Para mi, Gringolandia is about due for a long stint in detox.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Paradise
At some lesser-visited corner of the earth, a convergence of land and sea has created a natural wonder of true magnificence. Quite simply put: it's a beach.
A winding, narrow road through a jungle of the densest and most tropical nature finds its end amidst a handful of bamboo huts; their proprietors selling samosas and coconuts, straws protruding. Your rickshaw having come to rest, you're instantly allured beyond by the soft roar of the breaking waves just a stone's throw from where you stand. Into the clearing, the beach reveals itself stretching in a wide arc to left and to the right. In either direction, it extends much further than you'd really care to walk.
You step on to the sand. It delicately caresses your feet and beckons you to take another step. So soft, it could very well have been the earthly inspiration for velvet. The beach slopes gently downward as you take twenty paces to the edge of the pristine waters leaving a solitary trail of inverted bare feet in your wake. The pillow-like saturated sand continues uninterrupted out to a depth much taller than you. Only after two minutes' swim do you notice the sandy bottom has morphed into a lush and lively coral forest teeming with fish most colourful in all their tropical charm.
Pushed back ashore by the gentle surf, the hot sun helps to quickly dry you of the (relatively) cool sea water. Intolerant of a sunny afternoon at the equator, you string up your hammock from a low-hanging branch of an ancient and truly curious-looking tree to bask in its generous shade. There on the threshold of beach and jungle you swing with the refreshing sea breeze, your palette cleansed by a periodic sip from your coconut.
An elephant's bellow cuts through the ever-present choir of birds from somewhere deep in the woods. Having bathed the entire island in two lifetimes' worth of vitamin D, the sun begins its slow slide into the horizon. Five kilometers of beach are now 'crowded' by some fifty people, here to bid the sun goodnight and watch the sky's rosy dusk glow blacken and fill to its brim with stars. The impossibly dark jungle tells all through an unthinkably loud chorus of crickets and other creatures nocturnal.
You make your way back along the beach, minding the risen tide. With each carefully timed crashing wave, the beach subtly whispers, "I'm absolutely perfect; thanks for visiting."
Perfect. But for one problem:
You're not actually here. :)
A winding, narrow road through a jungle of the densest and most tropical nature finds its end amidst a handful of bamboo huts; their proprietors selling samosas and coconuts, straws protruding. Your rickshaw having come to rest, you're instantly allured beyond by the soft roar of the breaking waves just a stone's throw from where you stand. Into the clearing, the beach reveals itself stretching in a wide arc to left and to the right. In either direction, it extends much further than you'd really care to walk.
You step on to the sand. It delicately caresses your feet and beckons you to take another step. So soft, it could very well have been the earthly inspiration for velvet. The beach slopes gently downward as you take twenty paces to the edge of the pristine waters leaving a solitary trail of inverted bare feet in your wake. The pillow-like saturated sand continues uninterrupted out to a depth much taller than you. Only after two minutes' swim do you notice the sandy bottom has morphed into a lush and lively coral forest teeming with fish most colourful in all their tropical charm.
Pushed back ashore by the gentle surf, the hot sun helps to quickly dry you of the (relatively) cool sea water. Intolerant of a sunny afternoon at the equator, you string up your hammock from a low-hanging branch of an ancient and truly curious-looking tree to bask in its generous shade. There on the threshold of beach and jungle you swing with the refreshing sea breeze, your palette cleansed by a periodic sip from your coconut.
An elephant's bellow cuts through the ever-present choir of birds from somewhere deep in the woods. Having bathed the entire island in two lifetimes' worth of vitamin D, the sun begins its slow slide into the horizon. Five kilometers of beach are now 'crowded' by some fifty people, here to bid the sun goodnight and watch the sky's rosy dusk glow blacken and fill to its brim with stars. The impossibly dark jungle tells all through an unthinkably loud chorus of crickets and other creatures nocturnal.
You make your way back along the beach, minding the risen tide. With each carefully timed crashing wave, the beach subtly whispers, "I'm absolutely perfect; thanks for visiting."
Perfect. But for one problem:
You're not actually here. :)
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Italian Opera
Not lingering over Mike's departure, mom and I made haste on an afternoon train to Agra. We toured the be all and end of all Mahals, the Taj, as the sun struggled to cast its red rising glow through a hazy morning. Undeterred, the building and its environs emanated a glow all their own. The town of Agra, sparing a few very high end craft emporia, was much akin to a garbage dump in my eyes.
By the rails, Mike and I had been travelling in sleeper class. In short: persistent noise, astonishing filth and bodies numbering sufficiently for one to be rid of his memory of personal space. Mom and I, disappointed by 3AC (one class up from sleeper) booked a 2AC ticket to Agra. Over our 24 hour journey, the floors were swept and mopped (with disinfectant) no less than 4 times. Food and snack services from the stewards were almost as frequent as their visits to pick up our trash. The bathrooms (don't ask about sleeper class) were spotless AND stocked with toilet paper. Ready for our settlement, each independently illuminated bunk was boasting a stack of clean sheets, a blanket and a clean slipped pillow. Finally and most favourably, each sleeping quarter of four people (instead of 6, 8, 12 or some otherwise numbered bent capacity) was enclosed by a set of curtains offering to me a yet unseen standard of personal space and placidity.
Apart from a trip to the Taj Hotel bar, Mumbai came and went uneventfully. We backtracked by train to visit Nashik. My dear friend Nilesh (turns out Carnival Cruises is good for something) offered a bed and endless hospitality to mom and me for our three day visit to this lesser visited town of 1.6 million. Escaping the hotel/tourist arena for a genuine Indian family stay proved one of the most enjoyable parts of my trip.
I've come up with a simple sum equation. Here goes: Miami Beach + India = Goa. It's just that simple! Equipped with no certain expectations, our visit to India's beach bum mecca was surprising and yet totally familiar at the same time. America's urban oceanside grace has taken up roots quite flawlessly at India's west coast.
Just 16 hours to the south by train, Kerala sings an aria with little semblance to Goa's rebel yell. Kerala's endless aqua pura highways were nearly as serene as a paddly meander through the lakes of Algonquin Park (my home and native land).
A lot can happen in two weeks. Mom, probably well sick of the Hindu hustle, made her way back to Canada after a night's stay in Fort Kochin where Portugal seemed to be not so far away as I'd thought. I'm now inland, frolicking about the tea-green hills of Munnar, Kerala. Big things are coming...
By the rails, Mike and I had been travelling in sleeper class. In short: persistent noise, astonishing filth and bodies numbering sufficiently for one to be rid of his memory of personal space. Mom and I, disappointed by 3AC (one class up from sleeper) booked a 2AC ticket to Agra. Over our 24 hour journey, the floors were swept and mopped (with disinfectant) no less than 4 times. Food and snack services from the stewards were almost as frequent as their visits to pick up our trash. The bathrooms (don't ask about sleeper class) were spotless AND stocked with toilet paper. Ready for our settlement, each independently illuminated bunk was boasting a stack of clean sheets, a blanket and a clean slipped pillow. Finally and most favourably, each sleeping quarter of four people (instead of 6, 8, 12 or some otherwise numbered bent capacity) was enclosed by a set of curtains offering to me a yet unseen standard of personal space and placidity.
Apart from a trip to the Taj Hotel bar, Mumbai came and went uneventfully. We backtracked by train to visit Nashik. My dear friend Nilesh (turns out Carnival Cruises is good for something) offered a bed and endless hospitality to mom and me for our three day visit to this lesser visited town of 1.6 million. Escaping the hotel/tourist arena for a genuine Indian family stay proved one of the most enjoyable parts of my trip.
I've come up with a simple sum equation. Here goes: Miami Beach + India = Goa. It's just that simple! Equipped with no certain expectations, our visit to India's beach bum mecca was surprising and yet totally familiar at the same time. America's urban oceanside grace has taken up roots quite flawlessly at India's west coast.
Just 16 hours to the south by train, Kerala sings an aria with little semblance to Goa's rebel yell. Kerala's endless aqua pura highways were nearly as serene as a paddly meander through the lakes of Algonquin Park (my home and native land).
A lot can happen in two weeks. Mom, probably well sick of the Hindu hustle, made her way back to Canada after a night's stay in Fort Kochin where Portugal seemed to be not so far away as I'd thought. I'm now inland, frolicking about the tea-green hills of Munnar, Kerala. Big things are coming...
Sunday, November 8, 2009
And then there were teen
Chitwan National Park in the south of Nepal was once a prime destination for nearly all touring visitors to the country. Crippled by political strife in recent years, the regional tourism industry is left with a number of beds that well exceeds the number of visitors. I felt quite fortunate to spend a few nights in our yet most luxurious accommodations for a price at par with the cheapest. Despite the rural location, our cottage evenings were sones from silent thanks to the raucous chorus of crickets and birds.
In spite of a truly debilitating stowaway in my stomach, my visit to the park was fairly enjoyable. A guided tour by dugout canoe and return by hike through the jungle gave us some close-ups of menacing amphibians and throngs of tropical birds, insects and trees. Seeing rhinos, wild hogs and deer from the back of an elephant was a novel experience. In reality, the most compelling sight was the posse of fifteen other elephants each diligently schlepping around four passengers and a jockey.
From the thick of the jungle, we bussed to Kathmandu. Ranked in the top ten least livable cities worldwide by the Economist magazine; it did not disappoint. We spent a few days in Thamel amidst an unnavigable maze of pirated DVDs, counterfeit climbing gear, and yes, more German bakeries. We took to the "trail" (loosest definition applies) by mountain bikes. We ascended 500m to overlook to Kathmandu valley and gaze upon a surreal backdrop of some of the tallest peaks in the world; Everest not excluded. Eluded us, did a Himalayan sunrise as we biked through mountain morning fog down unquestionably the worst road I've ever seen in my life (forget Nicaragua). After a day more akin to demolition than exercise, we returned to Thamel for a night before taking to the skies with Buddha Air in a country with one of the world's patchiest aviation safety records.
Not yet ready for shorts and t-shirts, Mike, Poppy and I soaked up the fog in Darjeeling. Surrounded by endless tea plantations strewn about sub-Himalayan topography, Darjeeling brandished yet another interesting component of the Indian populous smorgasbord. Local crafts, snacks and music hybridising Nepali and Bhutanese cultures was rampant in the stone town of steep roads and staircases. The cultural highlite was almost certainly our trip the the sticky-floored Inox cinema for a screening of Michael Jackson's 'This Is It'.
Missing a train was no problem for three high profile western tourists such as ourselves. We subtly hopped aboard the next oversold rickety convoy and slept soundly without interuption for the full overnight to Kolkata. Quite curiously, no bribe was necessary. Kolkata was a veritable festival of absurdity, boisterousness, chaos, and deluxe tourism smashed together into a cultural fruit smoothie. Endless markets of all descriptions of goods (and bads), the finest and filthiest tastes of Bengal, and even a really good rock n roll cover band - there was something remarkable about hearing Zepellin's homage to India's far North as performed by Indians.
With much less white-knuckling, Mike and I made flight aboard India's SpiceJet for an astonishing bargain of a flight to Delhi just in time for his departure to Australia and my mom's arrival from Canada - baggage excluded. The journey continues...
In spite of a truly debilitating stowaway in my stomach, my visit to the park was fairly enjoyable. A guided tour by dugout canoe and return by hike through the jungle gave us some close-ups of menacing amphibians and throngs of tropical birds, insects and trees. Seeing rhinos, wild hogs and deer from the back of an elephant was a novel experience. In reality, the most compelling sight was the posse of fifteen other elephants each diligently schlepping around four passengers and a jockey.
From the thick of the jungle, we bussed to Kathmandu. Ranked in the top ten least livable cities worldwide by the Economist magazine; it did not disappoint. We spent a few days in Thamel amidst an unnavigable maze of pirated DVDs, counterfeit climbing gear, and yes, more German bakeries. We took to the "trail" (loosest definition applies) by mountain bikes. We ascended 500m to overlook to Kathmandu valley and gaze upon a surreal backdrop of some of the tallest peaks in the world; Everest not excluded. Eluded us, did a Himalayan sunrise as we biked through mountain morning fog down unquestionably the worst road I've ever seen in my life (forget Nicaragua). After a day more akin to demolition than exercise, we returned to Thamel for a night before taking to the skies with Buddha Air in a country with one of the world's patchiest aviation safety records.
Not yet ready for shorts and t-shirts, Mike, Poppy and I soaked up the fog in Darjeeling. Surrounded by endless tea plantations strewn about sub-Himalayan topography, Darjeeling brandished yet another interesting component of the Indian populous smorgasbord. Local crafts, snacks and music hybridising Nepali and Bhutanese cultures was rampant in the stone town of steep roads and staircases. The cultural highlite was almost certainly our trip the the sticky-floored Inox cinema for a screening of Michael Jackson's 'This Is It'.
Missing a train was no problem for three high profile western tourists such as ourselves. We subtly hopped aboard the next oversold rickety convoy and slept soundly without interuption for the full overnight to Kolkata. Quite curiously, no bribe was necessary. Kolkata was a veritable festival of absurdity, boisterousness, chaos, and deluxe tourism smashed together into a cultural fruit smoothie. Endless markets of all descriptions of goods (and bads), the finest and filthiest tastes of Bengal, and even a really good rock n roll cover band - there was something remarkable about hearing Zepellin's homage to India's far North as performed by Indians.
With much less white-knuckling, Mike and I made flight aboard India's SpiceJet for an astonishing bargain of a flight to Delhi just in time for his departure to Australia and my mom's arrival from Canada - baggage excluded. The journey continues...
Thursday, October 22, 2009
The only prescription? More cowbell.
"For your kind attention please," echoed the soothing and rather lady-like British voice, "train number 5016 to Bharatpur is reported as being late by 3 hours 30 minutes. The inconvenience is deeply regretted." Not so bad, I suppose, were it not that our train finally departed at 2:30am. Our journeys by rail have otherwise been quite tolerable; seldom arriving more than 30 minutes late. Many-a-nights we've slept cruising across vast distances overnight in seedy sleepers in the company of cheery middle class Indians.
In August past, I was privileged to meet a yoga master while on visit to Freewheeling in Nova Scotia. Upon discovering that I was India-bound, he gleefully extended an invitation to me for to visit his Ashram in Rishikesh. Famous for once having drawn the Beatles into the realm of Indian music, Rishikesh has evolved into just the type of place you'd expect to find fans of the White Album. Mike and I stayed for three days of Yoga, Hindu ceremonies, a dubious rafting adventure on the Ganges and even a bit of post-Delhi/Amritsar R&R. The town was a bit more westernized than I'd have fancied, but treats from any of the thirteen or so German bakeries were much enjoyed.
Mike and I parted for two days; he to the Taj Mahal in Agra and I to Lucknow. Noticeably lesser visited by Westerners, I daresay I felt a bit out of place at times. I was put at ease by several friendly English speaking locals who proudly touted the many gems of their city. A massive mosque and temple complex, the oldest classical music school in India and a celebrity magnet restaurant serving the finest mutton kebab known to... well... citizens of Lucknow.
Our quest for genuine filth led us to the shores of the Ganges in Varanasi. Quite timely our arrival, we celebrated Diwali with lakhs (hundreds of thousands) of locals and foreigners; everyone filling the sky with fireworks from the sun's down until its rise. More somberly during daylight, we visited the burning ghat to see a genuine, exposed, campfire crematorium. Ashes of the recently combusted were siphoned for valuables then tossed into the river only 100m upstream from a well attended holy bathing site.
I now find myself feverish, bedridden and exhausted from fighting off an aggressive Nepali stomach bug. I can only hope for a speedy recover. Tomorrow, 7 hours by bus to Kathmandu.
Here's to staying hydrated!
Please see some photos:
http://www.dancorbett.ca
In August past, I was privileged to meet a yoga master while on visit to Freewheeling in Nova Scotia. Upon discovering that I was India-bound, he gleefully extended an invitation to me for to visit his Ashram in Rishikesh. Famous for once having drawn the Beatles into the realm of Indian music, Rishikesh has evolved into just the type of place you'd expect to find fans of the White Album. Mike and I stayed for three days of Yoga, Hindu ceremonies, a dubious rafting adventure on the Ganges and even a bit of post-Delhi/Amritsar R&R. The town was a bit more westernized than I'd have fancied, but treats from any of the thirteen or so German bakeries were much enjoyed.
Mike and I parted for two days; he to the Taj Mahal in Agra and I to Lucknow. Noticeably lesser visited by Westerners, I daresay I felt a bit out of place at times. I was put at ease by several friendly English speaking locals who proudly touted the many gems of their city. A massive mosque and temple complex, the oldest classical music school in India and a celebrity magnet restaurant serving the finest mutton kebab known to... well... citizens of Lucknow.
Our quest for genuine filth led us to the shores of the Ganges in Varanasi. Quite timely our arrival, we celebrated Diwali with lakhs (hundreds of thousands) of locals and foreigners; everyone filling the sky with fireworks from the sun's down until its rise. More somberly during daylight, we visited the burning ghat to see a genuine, exposed, campfire crematorium. Ashes of the recently combusted were siphoned for valuables then tossed into the river only 100m upstream from a well attended holy bathing site.
I now find myself feverish, bedridden and exhausted from fighting off an aggressive Nepali stomach bug. I can only hope for a speedy recover. Tomorrow, 7 hours by bus to Kathmandu.
Here's to staying hydrated!
Please see some photos:
http://www.dancorbett.ca
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Arrival
Admittedly, I was rather nervous about my arrival. I'd heard dozens of stories on the utter craziness that is New Delhi and had been questioning my ability to handle it. Touchdown came as it must always and I suddenly found myself in the New Delhi Airport, the last fragment of calm I'd see for some time. As it turns out, the stories I'd heard were as close to truth as one could expect. The evening taxi ride to my neighbourhood kept my heart pounding and the 200m walk to the hotel was no less exciting. I decided to save the thrill of Delhi until Mike arrived.
On my first morning, I boarded a flight to Srinagar in Kashmir to spend a few days in the far north. The town, 900,000 strong, was comprised of 95% Muslims and was largely built on the surface of Dal Lake. It was an interesting treat to wake up each morning at 5:30 to the call to prayer echoing eerily around the lake to the houseboat at which I slept.
I traveled 15 hours by jeep along the 400km single lane mountain road to the remote town of Leh, Ladakh. On the cusp of the Himalayas, I found myself surrounded by Tibetan Buddhists and adventurous trekkers, drawn by the incredible scenery and provincial atmosphere. I toured a number of palaces and temples over two days before returning by jeep to Srinagar.
A 7-hour jeep ride and an overnight train from Jammu brought me back to New Delhi and an extra 15° centrigrade along with it. I met Mike the following morning, sweating in anticipatio nof the 38° daily high. We toured some of the big attractions in the city, but we mostly just embraced the unfathomable numbers of people who could mob with remarkable density just about everwhere we went.
On my first morning, I boarded a flight to Srinagar in Kashmir to spend a few days in the far north. The town, 900,000 strong, was comprised of 95% Muslims and was largely built on the surface of Dal Lake. It was an interesting treat to wake up each morning at 5:30 to the call to prayer echoing eerily around the lake to the houseboat at which I slept.
I traveled 15 hours by jeep along the 400km single lane mountain road to the remote town of Leh, Ladakh. On the cusp of the Himalayas, I found myself surrounded by Tibetan Buddhists and adventurous trekkers, drawn by the incredible scenery and provincial atmosphere. I toured a number of palaces and temples over two days before returning by jeep to Srinagar.
A 7-hour jeep ride and an overnight train from Jammu brought me back to New Delhi and an extra 15° centrigrade along with it. I met Mike the following morning, sweating in anticipatio nof the 38° daily high. We toured some of the big attractions in the city, but we mostly just embraced the unfathomable numbers of people who could mob with remarkable density just about everwhere we went.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
A day in the life
Historical fiction?
07:00 Get up. Put away the tent (wet, naturally.) Shake some coherence into your face, maybe go for a quick swim in order to give the impression that you've showered. Fill up on gas and make sure the fruit, granola bars & water jug are all well stocked. Also clean the van interior, it's really stinky. Head to the hotel and start getting the bikes ready.
08:00 Finish up the bikes while the guests eat breakfast. Have a granola bar. Make like you're not totally displeased about being conscious as the guests emerge from breakfast. They're probably equally displeased so work extra hard on your smile. Show the guests where they're going today, telling them where/when you'll be seeing them and bid them farewell on their ride. Panic face. Now run. Get all the luggage into the van (no small feat). Pay the hotel bill (often complicated, time-consuming and really frustrating.)
09:00 Think, "shit, they've been riding 30 minutes already." Drive pretty fast. Go to the first support stop (probably around 15km out.) Park the van and whip out the snacks, water & positive attitude. Wait for the riders. R1 (that speedy mo-fo) shows up at 9:25 and isn't in need so he keeps going. R2&3 arrive 4 minutes later and have a banana each and a quick chat, departing at 9:34. R4 rolls in a minute later and thankfully doesn't want anything. R5 & 6? Who knows where they are? At 9:45 they show up sweating out the half bottle of gin they devoured last night. Keep smiling, but hurry them up. The group is already fragmented enough. 5 & 6 leave at 9:55.
10:00 Get to the grocery store to stock up for lunch. You should probably travel the aisles at a light jog since R1 has covered some serious ground by now. Tidy up the cooler and load up the food. Drive the 20-30km to the second rest stop. R1 shows up right after you and is ready for some water. Keep him lingering in order to diminish the gap (which is surely 45 minutes by now). He's ready to go by by 10:40. Tell him to kick around at the lunch spot, you'll be there by 11:30 (not true). Looks like you've got a few minutes to spare! Maybe fill out some expense sheets, confirm dinner reservations, or just jam on your mandolin/read a book for a bit.
11:00 R2 & 3 show up. 3's brakes are squeaking. Fix them. Top up the water bottles and tell them about our noonish lunch. You'll probably beat them there, but who knows? See them off at 11:10 and wait some more. Wait. Wait. Where are they? 5 & 6 show up 10:20. Amazingly, they've closed the gap a little. Who knows what happened to 4. Neither 5 nor 6 have seen him. Oh well. He'll call sooner or later. Pack up all the stuff and boogie to the lunch spot. Make it by 11:40. Start throwing together a picnic under the watchful eyes of R1. Give him some nachos with salsa to tide him over.
12:00 2 & 3 show up and join 1 in the appetizing. The picnic is starting to take shape, but they must wait until everyone (5 & 6 since there's still no word from 4) arrives to start eating. After 20 minutes of fighting back the decidely famished R1, 5 & 6 show up and it's time to open the floodgates. Minutes later the phone rings. It's 4.
I think I'm lost.
Well, what do you see?
I'm at a road crossing, there's a barn and this long white fence.
Hmmmm... anything more specific? How did you get there?
Well, I went over a wooden bridge about a mile ago.
When you got to [town] did you go left or right at the fork?
uhhh... I don't remember a fork.
I'm suspecting you went right instead of left (which means he's both 20km sidetracked AND illiterate).
I guess that's possible.
I'll come get you. Backtrack to the bridge.
Beeline to where you think 4 is. Put him and his bike in the van and bring him to the picnic. Sit 4 down to lunch just as all the others are standing up from it. Without being too frank, tell him to hurry up and eat.
13:00 Tidy up the lunch spot and put away all the food while 4 stuffs his face. Eat scraps while you do this; it's the best choice for lunch. See the five functional riders off and 20 minutes later, R4. Finish the cleanup, stock up the fruit basket, load the van then hit the road. The next rest stop will be halfway decent since the group has been defragmented (5 & 6 are probably moving at a normal pace and 4 will catch up pretty easily so long as he doesn't get lost.) Get to the rest stop and chill out for 10 minutes.
14:00 R1 arrives and stays for a bit of chit chat. 2 & 3 arrive within 5 minutes and leave with 1 at ten past the hour. Sure enough, 4, 5 and 6 all show up together 10 minutes later. and leave in a matter of minutes. This gives you a perfect 40 minute window to beeline to tonight's accomodation. Start running. Say hi to the innkeeper (who you're sure is wonderful, but you're in a hurry), grab the room keys and attempt to ascertain the ownership of each bags (since, obviously, nobody bothered attaching the luggage tags you gave them on the first day.) Get all the bags into the rooms and return the keys. Rather sweaty, get back in the car to go set up the next support stop.
15:00 Ready the support stop (drinks, snacks, fruit basket and some fresh grapes/cherries or those fancy desert squares that you didn't have the time to spread out at the picnic.) R2 & 3 show up. Evidently R1 picked up the pace and you missed him. They top up the water, have a cherry then leave. To your relief, 4 shows up a minute later, then 5 and 6 not far behind. All three stay for a while and hit the road by half past. Sweet! 20 minutes to kill! Read a chapter.
16:00 Pull into the inn and talk to R1, the first and only to arrive thusfar. Chat with the others as they arrive within 40 minutes. Make sure everybody is comfortably settled and inform them of our 19:30 dinner reservation for which we'll have to depart 20 minutes early.
17:00 Talk to the innkeeper for a while, then excuse yourself to go find a campsite (since you're opposed to commericial campgrounds). This is a special treat since usually you don't have this opportunity before dinner. Pitch the tent and lay out your swag. Go back to the inn; they'll let you use their kitchen to clean the picnic dishes.
18:00 Finish up the dishes and discover that you've got 40 minutes to spare before departure for dinner. Plow through another chapter or two.
19:00 (12 hours moving now) Rally the troops and get driving by ten past the hour. Get seated at the really fancy restaurant by 19:35 and have drinks on the table by :50 (that's water for you, guide). Try the Lobster or the mussels; they're good here. Actually, you're sick of rich foods. Get a salad instead.
20:00 Try to keep from yawning while you wait for entrees. Talk about how great the riding was today. Laugh about R4 getting lost. Try to subtly cool R1's resentment towards his inferiors. Start eating, keeping an eye on everyone else's plate so as to finish right in the middle.
21:00 Order desserts. They're fantastic, like, over-the-top ridiculously awesome. But they take a bloody long time. Pay the bill and get everybody back in the vehicle.
22:00 Return everybody to their rooms at the inn. Try your best to conceal your exhaustion. Be happy that you were able to set up your tent before dinner. Summon some deeply stowed energy to get through another chapter of the book, but don't worry if you give up. In bed by 22:45, not bad. It's a shame you didn't get to ride today. Think about getting up at 6 for a quick spin.
Tomorrow, do it again. :)
Yeah. This is the best job I've ever had and I love 90 percent of the minutes. And that's a damned lot of minutes. Until next spring....
07:00 Get up. Put away the tent (wet, naturally.) Shake some coherence into your face, maybe go for a quick swim in order to give the impression that you've showered. Fill up on gas and make sure the fruit, granola bars & water jug are all well stocked. Also clean the van interior, it's really stinky. Head to the hotel and start getting the bikes ready.
08:00 Finish up the bikes while the guests eat breakfast. Have a granola bar. Make like you're not totally displeased about being conscious as the guests emerge from breakfast. They're probably equally displeased so work extra hard on your smile. Show the guests where they're going today, telling them where/when you'll be seeing them and bid them farewell on their ride. Panic face. Now run. Get all the luggage into the van (no small feat). Pay the hotel bill (often complicated, time-consuming and really frustrating.)
09:00 Think, "shit, they've been riding 30 minutes already." Drive pretty fast. Go to the first support stop (probably around 15km out.) Park the van and whip out the snacks, water & positive attitude. Wait for the riders. R1 (that speedy mo-fo) shows up at 9:25 and isn't in need so he keeps going. R2&3 arrive 4 minutes later and have a banana each and a quick chat, departing at 9:34. R4 rolls in a minute later and thankfully doesn't want anything. R5 & 6? Who knows where they are? At 9:45 they show up sweating out the half bottle of gin they devoured last night. Keep smiling, but hurry them up. The group is already fragmented enough. 5 & 6 leave at 9:55.
10:00 Get to the grocery store to stock up for lunch. You should probably travel the aisles at a light jog since R1 has covered some serious ground by now. Tidy up the cooler and load up the food. Drive the 20-30km to the second rest stop. R1 shows up right after you and is ready for some water. Keep him lingering in order to diminish the gap (which is surely 45 minutes by now). He's ready to go by by 10:40. Tell him to kick around at the lunch spot, you'll be there by 11:30 (not true). Looks like you've got a few minutes to spare! Maybe fill out some expense sheets, confirm dinner reservations, or just jam on your mandolin/read a book for a bit.
11:00 R2 & 3 show up. 3's brakes are squeaking. Fix them. Top up the water bottles and tell them about our noonish lunch. You'll probably beat them there, but who knows? See them off at 11:10 and wait some more. Wait. Wait. Where are they? 5 & 6 show up 10:20. Amazingly, they've closed the gap a little. Who knows what happened to 4. Neither 5 nor 6 have seen him. Oh well. He'll call sooner or later. Pack up all the stuff and boogie to the lunch spot. Make it by 11:40. Start throwing together a picnic under the watchful eyes of R1. Give him some nachos with salsa to tide him over.
12:00 2 & 3 show up and join 1 in the appetizing. The picnic is starting to take shape, but they must wait until everyone (5 & 6 since there's still no word from 4) arrives to start eating. After 20 minutes of fighting back the decidely famished R1, 5 & 6 show up and it's time to open the floodgates. Minutes later the phone rings. It's 4.
I think I'm lost.
Well, what do you see?
I'm at a road crossing, there's a barn and this long white fence.
Hmmmm... anything more specific? How did you get there?
Well, I went over a wooden bridge about a mile ago.
When you got to [town] did you go left or right at the fork?
uhhh... I don't remember a fork.
I'm suspecting you went right instead of left (which means he's both 20km sidetracked AND illiterate).
I guess that's possible.
I'll come get you. Backtrack to the bridge.
Beeline to where you think 4 is. Put him and his bike in the van and bring him to the picnic. Sit 4 down to lunch just as all the others are standing up from it. Without being too frank, tell him to hurry up and eat.
13:00 Tidy up the lunch spot and put away all the food while 4 stuffs his face. Eat scraps while you do this; it's the best choice for lunch. See the five functional riders off and 20 minutes later, R4. Finish the cleanup, stock up the fruit basket, load the van then hit the road. The next rest stop will be halfway decent since the group has been defragmented (5 & 6 are probably moving at a normal pace and 4 will catch up pretty easily so long as he doesn't get lost.) Get to the rest stop and chill out for 10 minutes.
14:00 R1 arrives and stays for a bit of chit chat. 2 & 3 arrive within 5 minutes and leave with 1 at ten past the hour. Sure enough, 4, 5 and 6 all show up together 10 minutes later. and leave in a matter of minutes. This gives you a perfect 40 minute window to beeline to tonight's accomodation. Start running. Say hi to the innkeeper (who you're sure is wonderful, but you're in a hurry), grab the room keys and attempt to ascertain the ownership of each bags (since, obviously, nobody bothered attaching the luggage tags you gave them on the first day.) Get all the bags into the rooms and return the keys. Rather sweaty, get back in the car to go set up the next support stop.
15:00 Ready the support stop (drinks, snacks, fruit basket and some fresh grapes/cherries or those fancy desert squares that you didn't have the time to spread out at the picnic.) R2 & 3 show up. Evidently R1 picked up the pace and you missed him. They top up the water, have a cherry then leave. To your relief, 4 shows up a minute later, then 5 and 6 not far behind. All three stay for a while and hit the road by half past. Sweet! 20 minutes to kill! Read a chapter.
16:00 Pull into the inn and talk to R1, the first and only to arrive thusfar. Chat with the others as they arrive within 40 minutes. Make sure everybody is comfortably settled and inform them of our 19:30 dinner reservation for which we'll have to depart 20 minutes early.
17:00 Talk to the innkeeper for a while, then excuse yourself to go find a campsite (since you're opposed to commericial campgrounds). This is a special treat since usually you don't have this opportunity before dinner. Pitch the tent and lay out your swag. Go back to the inn; they'll let you use their kitchen to clean the picnic dishes.
18:00 Finish up the dishes and discover that you've got 40 minutes to spare before departure for dinner. Plow through another chapter or two.
19:00 (12 hours moving now) Rally the troops and get driving by ten past the hour. Get seated at the really fancy restaurant by 19:35 and have drinks on the table by :50 (that's water for you, guide). Try the Lobster or the mussels; they're good here. Actually, you're sick of rich foods. Get a salad instead.
20:00 Try to keep from yawning while you wait for entrees. Talk about how great the riding was today. Laugh about R4 getting lost. Try to subtly cool R1's resentment towards his inferiors. Start eating, keeping an eye on everyone else's plate so as to finish right in the middle.
21:00 Order desserts. They're fantastic, like, over-the-top ridiculously awesome. But they take a bloody long time. Pay the bill and get everybody back in the vehicle.
22:00 Return everybody to their rooms at the inn. Try your best to conceal your exhaustion. Be happy that you were able to set up your tent before dinner. Summon some deeply stowed energy to get through another chapter of the book, but don't worry if you give up. In bed by 22:45, not bad. It's a shame you didn't get to ride today. Think about getting up at 6 for a quick spin.
Tomorrow, do it again. :)
Yeah. This is the best job I've ever had and I love 90 percent of the minutes. And that's a damned lot of minutes. Until next spring....
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Goals
I've just had a conversation with a man named Steve. Steve has just arrived in Charlottetown by bike, 9 weeks into his Vancouver - St. John's ride. I think if one were so inclined, one could find a blog of mine detailing a very similar ride I went on a few years ago.
In talking to Steve, I was unexpectedly reminded of a lesser discussed component of that bike ride of mine. I've told a lot of stories about the great things that happened to me while traveling: the beautiful days, the wonderful people, the nationalism I felt. I've seldom talked about just how much I struggled to actually complete that trip. On at least 6 occasions, I might have been heard screaming to no-one at the top of my lungs. On as many occasions, I could have been seen sobbing at the side of the road, completely overcome by a feeling of hopelessness. If the solitude-induced emotional roller coaster ride wasn't debilitating enough, by the end of the trip, I was in so much physical pain that I could not tolerate riding my bike for a month afterward. Thinking back, not for for one day beyond Banff was I in any way eager to get out of my sleeping bag and ride. I'm pretty sure I considered quitting multiple times every single day.
But upon arriving at Cape Spear, suddenly all of that was replaced in my mind. What took over was the overwhelming feeling of accomplishment. Hell yeah! I biked across Canada! I don't think I ever forgot about the details, I just chose to ignore them. Questions like, "What was biking across Canada like?" would provoke vague answers like, "amazing" or "incredible" or "life-changing." But what was it actually like? Well... it was hell. It was largely the most unpleasant thing I've ever done. It was so damned physically and emotionally challenging that I had to cry to somebody on the phone most every night.
Since then, crossing Canada has been a critical personal benchmark for me (what could I possibly be incapable of?) I don't think that's unreasonable. The problem is that I think about how I biked across Canada [period], not how I suffered persistently and willfully for weeks to attain some ridiculous goal. I'm not too sure what the conclusion of this is. Perhaps I should adjust my goal-setting practices. I guess I'm just not that into suffering anymore.
In talking to Steve, I was unexpectedly reminded of a lesser discussed component of that bike ride of mine. I've told a lot of stories about the great things that happened to me while traveling: the beautiful days, the wonderful people, the nationalism I felt. I've seldom talked about just how much I struggled to actually complete that trip. On at least 6 occasions, I might have been heard screaming to no-one at the top of my lungs. On as many occasions, I could have been seen sobbing at the side of the road, completely overcome by a feeling of hopelessness. If the solitude-induced emotional roller coaster ride wasn't debilitating enough, by the end of the trip, I was in so much physical pain that I could not tolerate riding my bike for a month afterward. Thinking back, not for for one day beyond Banff was I in any way eager to get out of my sleeping bag and ride. I'm pretty sure I considered quitting multiple times every single day.
But upon arriving at Cape Spear, suddenly all of that was replaced in my mind. What took over was the overwhelming feeling of accomplishment. Hell yeah! I biked across Canada! I don't think I ever forgot about the details, I just chose to ignore them. Questions like, "What was biking across Canada like?" would provoke vague answers like, "amazing" or "incredible" or "life-changing." But what was it actually like? Well... it was hell. It was largely the most unpleasant thing I've ever done. It was so damned physically and emotionally challenging that I had to cry to somebody on the phone most every night.
Since then, crossing Canada has been a critical personal benchmark for me (what could I possibly be incapable of?) I don't think that's unreasonable. The problem is that I think about how I biked across Canada [period], not how I suffered persistently and willfully for weeks to attain some ridiculous goal. I'm not too sure what the conclusion of this is. Perhaps I should adjust my goal-setting practices. I guess I'm just not that into suffering anymore.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Jazz
Presently, the Atlantic Canada Jazz Festival is underway. I'm amazed at the quality of local music and the responsiveness of the audiences. I'm weaseling my way into as many shows as possible as a festival volunteer photographer.
More critically now: I recently spent 7 months working aboard a cruise ship as a trombone player. Thinking back, my rationale for taking the job was that having devoted four years of my college-aged life to studying music, I might as well be a professional musician for a while. This conflicted with my better judgment at the time.
I found life on the ship pretty depressing. I assumed and have preached that my depression was linked to ship-life: confinement, monotony, bad food, etc. After leaving the ship and arriving in Halifax, life was great! Great job, great friends, great environment. And then one day, at my request, a friend visiting from Toronto brought to me my trombone.
I started practicing, met some other musicians, felt some excitement about jazz. I went to a jam session. I just played one song. And I hated it passionately. I hated being on stage, I hated the atmosphere, I hated what I played and I hated how I played it. I even hated hearing three people say, "Man, you were awesome." I wanted to tell them they were full of shit, but all that came out was, "thanks." I went home with a cloud over my head, a cloud whose shadow has not been cast over me since my last few weeks on the ship.
Could it be? I've always had a self-confidence issue with my trombone playing, but to think playing trombone could cause me to become depressed. Perhaps I should wait for a spike in the price of brass and have the old 3B melted down for some cash.
More critically now: I recently spent 7 months working aboard a cruise ship as a trombone player. Thinking back, my rationale for taking the job was that having devoted four years of my college-aged life to studying music, I might as well be a professional musician for a while. This conflicted with my better judgment at the time.
I found life on the ship pretty depressing. I assumed and have preached that my depression was linked to ship-life: confinement, monotony, bad food, etc. After leaving the ship and arriving in Halifax, life was great! Great job, great friends, great environment. And then one day, at my request, a friend visiting from Toronto brought to me my trombone.
I started practicing, met some other musicians, felt some excitement about jazz. I went to a jam session. I just played one song. And I hated it passionately. I hated being on stage, I hated the atmosphere, I hated what I played and I hated how I played it. I even hated hearing three people say, "Man, you were awesome." I wanted to tell them they were full of shit, but all that came out was, "thanks." I went home with a cloud over my head, a cloud whose shadow has not been cast over me since my last few weeks on the ship.
Could it be? I've always had a self-confidence issue with my trombone playing, but to think playing trombone could cause me to become depressed. Perhaps I should wait for a spike in the price of brass and have the old 3B melted down for some cash.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Nicaragua
On my last of five nights in El Salvador, I solicited a shopkeep for ideas about a good place to camp. Marvelously, he was able to understand what I was saying and I think I managed to properly translate his charasmatic hand gestures. He insisted that I camp on his lawn, protected by a sizeable fence and a dog that could easily fit into a pony costume. The man's family of 12 soon arrived and their hospitality was exceptional. To close off the evening, I stood back and watched the dozen people practice an Evangelical Christian ceremony; one that involved a fair bit of screaming.
Crossing into Honduras was reasonably straightforward just as was crossing into Nicaragua the following day. Much to my dismay, however, I had myself swindled out of an estimated $60 through currency transactions. To turn a gray day colourful, I was assisted in changing a flat tire by the 2001 Central American road cycling champion, who proudly took me into his home to show me his collection of trophies.
I spent a night in Leon, Nicaragua, albeit a quite one, having had cycled nearly 180km in the day. Despite the roads being undoubedtly the worst "paved" roads I'd ever ridden, I braved on to the capital, Managua. The city seemed to lack the charm of any of the big cities I'd previously visited. Most of its buildings (plus 10,000 residents) were destroyed in a 1972 earthquake and reconstruction wasn't really a big priority. Structures of more than 5 stories were pretty hard to come by in this city of 1.6 million people.
Naturally, with Christmas (my deadline) drawing near, I resolved to spend at least two days at a beach. I boxed up my bike for shipment, stored it at a hotel, then caught the first bus to San Juan Del Sur (given the road conditions, this was a brilliant idea.) I spent yesterday coasting up and down the surf on a rented board I'd taken to a sparsely occupied beach about 15km from the town. After a night of youthful comraderie and ambitious indulgence into spirits, I now draw myself away from the waves to compose this message.
Crossing into Honduras was reasonably straightforward just as was crossing into Nicaragua the following day. Much to my dismay, however, I had myself swindled out of an estimated $60 through currency transactions. To turn a gray day colourful, I was assisted in changing a flat tire by the 2001 Central American road cycling champion, who proudly took me into his home to show me his collection of trophies.
I spent a night in Leon, Nicaragua, albeit a quite one, having had cycled nearly 180km in the day. Despite the roads being undoubedtly the worst "paved" roads I'd ever ridden, I braved on to the capital, Managua. The city seemed to lack the charm of any of the big cities I'd previously visited. Most of its buildings (plus 10,000 residents) were destroyed in a 1972 earthquake and reconstruction wasn't really a big priority. Structures of more than 5 stories were pretty hard to come by in this city of 1.6 million people.
Naturally, with Christmas (my deadline) drawing near, I resolved to spend at least two days at a beach. I boxed up my bike for shipment, stored it at a hotel, then caught the first bus to San Juan Del Sur (given the road conditions, this was a brilliant idea.) I spent yesterday coasting up and down the surf on a rented board I'd taken to a sparsely occupied beach about 15km from the town. After a night of youthful comraderie and ambitious indulgence into spirits, I now draw myself away from the waves to compose this message.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Zaca
Towards the end of my stay in Guatemala, I was feeling optimistic about my Spanish speaking. I could capably ask for and interpret directions, I could carry on rudimentary conversations, I could even vividly express my frustrations with ignorant motorists! Enter El Salvador. In two days, my egospañol has been decapitated and now lies in ruins somewhere near the Guatemalan border. I can't understand a thing and only one person in five seems to understand what I'm trying to say. Alas, soon enough I'll be back in English speaking North America.
Lago Atitlan, as I had previously mentioned, was absolutely stunning. Surrounded by volcanoes, the crystal clear lake would morph through a myriad of colours throughout the day as the sun arched over top of it. While incomparable to the sunset from atop Volcan Santa Maria, there was nonetheless quite a sight to behold as the sun bid farewell for the evening.
I stayed in the small town of San Pedro on the south shore of the lake. Interestingly, a significant portion of the town was accessible solely to pedestrians via a nightmarish network of foot trails. I spent my day off, jumping from the 15m cliffs on the opposite side of the lake, accessed by boat
A six man posse of M16-clutching police officers escorted me along the thief-ridden backroad to Panajachel, from where I rode solo on to Antigua. A bit of a tourist mecca, Antigua boasted a selection of high end restaurants & hotels, most of which were well out of financial reach. I sat down for two hours at a performance of Cuban music in a hotel bar and after one drink, I managed to triple my costs for the day
I made a hasty, early morning departure to the Capital, spending an afternoon wandering the chaotic streets and a night in a hostel where once stayed Che Guevara. Not in the mood for a full day of urbanity, I took to the road again. I detoured to ride a lap of Lake Amatitlan (not Atitlan,) climbed another 500m, then barrelled downhill for 50km to the town of Barberena. After I asked for directions, my contestant, Thomas, promptly offered me a spot on his lawn and some complementary Dominoes pizza - family owned
I left early the next day, El Salvador bound. The ride to the border was comfortably downhill and beyond the frontier, a predictable inverse. I climbed to the town of Santa Ana where I spent a calm night in my hotel's lush courtyard. I left only hours ago, riding to and through San Salvador - the capital to end all capitals. I proceeded to throw away all of that accumulated potential energy by riding straight for the coast. With each meter descended, I could feel the temperature rising. As I write from Zaca, only 10km from the Pacific, I sweat. A lot.
I'm off to a riverside campground for the evening. Until Nicaragua, stay cool.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Quetzeltenango
After 25 hours of active Spanish instruction, not to mention the countless after-hours of intensive self-study to supplement, I feel like I have a pretty solid grasp of the necessities of the Spanish language. To my surprised delight, I've been understanding more and more of what I previously interpreted as utter nonsense streaming out of local mouths.
On the Sunday of my first weekend in Xela, I joined a group, guided by the non-profit Quetzaltrekkers, for a few hours of rock climbing atop a volcanic peak followed by an hour's basking in some natural steam saunas. All in a day's work, I was rightfully exhausted and slept well prior to my first day of school.
I enrolled at the Celas Maya Spanish School, principally for its high regard, but also because it was attached to the guest house at which I was staying. I was taught privately by a local and native Spanish speaker who had clearly developed boundless patience for the kind of Spanish unique to people like me. (Bad, bad Spanish.) Amidst 2 evenings of libations with a few other students and a Calgary native that lived in the room next to mine, I spent most evenings studying and practicing the language.
By Friday, I was ready for some excitement. I packed up the warmest of my clothing into a borrowed backpack, rode a bus for ten minutes, then spent two hours hiking up the monstrous Santa Maria Volcano. I spent the night at the frosty peak with a small clan of locals. The sunrise was undoubtedly the finest I'd ever seen. Watching the shadows of mountains slowly slide off of the town of Xela was nothing short of breathtaking.
A glutton for punishment, I took my already tired legs just outside of town on Saturday afternoon to join 30 Guatemalans in an aficionado bike race. I was quite pleased with my 26th place, but by Sunday morning, I was unable to stand. I spent the better part of the day at the enchanting natural hot springs called Fuentes Georginas.
I write now from Lago Atitlan, nearly 100km east. This lake is so stunning I could easily write a post about it's surface alone. For another day...
Monday, November 26, 2007
Chiapas/Xela
Historically, the regions to the east of Mexico city have received little federal attention. Predominantly populated by persons of indigenous descent, the area, until recently, has never been of great interest to the Spanish. The roads through the states of Tabasco and Chiapas are spotted with tiny villages, most of which speak one of the hundreds of Mayan derived languages. Since I wasn't having enough difficulty understanding native Spanish speakers, I jumped at the opportunity to interpret the most thickly accented Spanish ever I've heard in my life. Yes, thicker than Cuban.
I rode a bus for some distance through the partially flooded lowlands of Veracruz and Tabasco, disembarking at the town of Villahermosa, Tabasco. The town, still littered with sandbags, was in full-throttle disaster recovery mode. The streets were covered in dirt and garbage as a result of the dividing river overtaking its banks the preceding week. I spent only enough time in town to take some photos. I then rode east, stopping after my third flat tire of the day to camp with a flock of turkeys in a farmer's front yard.
Re-entering the Sierra Madres, I climbed up to 1500m from sea level to the town of Palenque, not far from the marvelous Mayan ruins by the same name. The road carved through the mountains in a southerly direction, peaking at around 2000m. I spent two nights in the subtle, provincial town of Ocosingo and my final night in Mexico in the splendid colonial city of Comitan. On route, I visited another site of remarkable ruins as well as two enormous and bountiful waterfalls sited on rivers draining from the mountain highlands. The altitude made for some steaming hot days, brisk nights and frosty mornings. It was a challenge more particular to Canada, to draw myself out of bed in the freezing cold.
From Comitan, I cruised down a steep, twenty-five kilometer hill to an expansive valley and one of the largest corn-producing regions in the country. Only a three kilometer climb into the opposite range of mountains, I suddenly found myself reaching for my passport at the Guatemalan border. I spent a night Guatemala's border town, La Mesilla. I made good friends with the owner of the Hotel Eben Ezer and his 12 year old son Osman, an aspiring world champion cyclist.
As foretold by a northbound pair of cyclists the previous day, I ascended steadily for nearly 65km to the 1900m town of Huehuetenango. Too tired to breathe, I broke the bank on a $2 hotel and slept like I'd just lost 22 years. I rode Friday to Quetzeltenango, called Xela (Shay-la) in Mayan, but not before descending 1000m, climbing back up, and descending back down again.
Xela is bordered on three sides by mountains, one of which is a 4200m sleeping volcano. It's a daring mix of indigenous and Spanish cultures and is quite proximate to numerous sites of natural magnificence. I've resolved to spend a week here, absorbing some of the natural beauty and spending five hours daily at one the the numerous Spanish schools for travellers. This may end up resulting in a truncation of my journey, but I suspect it will be worth it.
I rode a bus for some distance through the partially flooded lowlands of Veracruz and Tabasco, disembarking at the town of Villahermosa, Tabasco. The town, still littered with sandbags, was in full-throttle disaster recovery mode. The streets were covered in dirt and garbage as a result of the dividing river overtaking its banks the preceding week. I spent only enough time in town to take some photos. I then rode east, stopping after my third flat tire of the day to camp with a flock of turkeys in a farmer's front yard.
Re-entering the Sierra Madres, I climbed up to 1500m from sea level to the town of Palenque, not far from the marvelous Mayan ruins by the same name. The road carved through the mountains in a southerly direction, peaking at around 2000m. I spent two nights in the subtle, provincial town of Ocosingo and my final night in Mexico in the splendid colonial city of Comitan. On route, I visited another site of remarkable ruins as well as two enormous and bountiful waterfalls sited on rivers draining from the mountain highlands. The altitude made for some steaming hot days, brisk nights and frosty mornings. It was a challenge more particular to Canada, to draw myself out of bed in the freezing cold.
From Comitan, I cruised down a steep, twenty-five kilometer hill to an expansive valley and one of the largest corn-producing regions in the country. Only a three kilometer climb into the opposite range of mountains, I suddenly found myself reaching for my passport at the Guatemalan border. I spent a night Guatemala's border town, La Mesilla. I made good friends with the owner of the Hotel Eben Ezer and his 12 year old son Osman, an aspiring world champion cyclist.
As foretold by a northbound pair of cyclists the previous day, I ascended steadily for nearly 65km to the 1900m town of Huehuetenango. Too tired to breathe, I broke the bank on a $2 hotel and slept like I'd just lost 22 years. I rode Friday to Quetzeltenango, called Xela (Shay-la) in Mayan, but not before descending 1000m, climbing back up, and descending back down again.
Xela is bordered on three sides by mountains, one of which is a 4200m sleeping volcano. It's a daring mix of indigenous and Spanish cultures and is quite proximate to numerous sites of natural magnificence. I've resolved to spend a week here, absorbing some of the natural beauty and spending five hours daily at one the the numerous Spanish schools for travellers. This may end up resulting in a truncation of my journey, but I suspect it will be worth it.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Mexico City
Not unlike Los Angeles, Mexico has an air about it that can be seen for quite a distance in advance. I've been told that ideas, such as a giant exhaust system, have been thrown around to curb the smog problem. For now, the many will have to survive walking around with surgical masks.
The blow of my arrival into the city (something I had been fearing) was softened largely by Jon, who drove some distance into the outskirts to pick me up on a Sunday morning. He then graciously housed me in his condominium in Cuajimalpa (a peripheral borough) for three nights while I toured the city daily by bus and on foot.
Out of necessity, I visited an incredible suburban shopping mall; one that capably dwarfed Toronto's Eaton Centre. I felt rather uncomfortable in a facility that elsewhere I'd have felt entirely natural. The following day, prior to a visit to the National Anthropological Museum, I bussed an hour North of the city to the magnificent, ancient ruins of Teotihuacan. I marvelled at its vastness, trying to picture the site inhabiting up to 250,000 citizens.
After another day of markets, galleries and Metro train rides from point to point in the chaotic capital, I decided to spend my final night in the heart of downtown. Navigationally, my bike ride in was a success. A well concealed pot-hole, however, managed to claim the lives of two of my spokes. Once again, I was blessed by the presence of a highly skilled mechanic who, free of charge, solved my problems and then some.
I proceeded to the Hostel Moneda; a 3 minute walk from the Zocalo, Mexico's enormous civic square. I was contented for a full day just to wander aimlessly through the hoards of pedestrians filling the streets. I elevated to the top of the 42 story Torre Latinoamericana (once the tallest building south of Miami) from where I witnessed the sun doze off behind a mountain and the city evolve into a sea of incandescent lights - disgusting, but marvelous. After a complementary and surprisingly tasty hostel dinner, I was joined by an Italiana and an Americano in attending the Orchestra Camará performance at the brilliantly designed theatre at Bella Artes. Our threesome then indulged in a healthy dose of youth hostel atmosphere on the residence's rooftop terrace/servery.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Michoacan
The past week was a little rocky to say the least. I fell quite ill, lost a camera lens, and suffered a major mechanical meltdown which threatened to bring my trip to a halt. Thankfully, with some sweet tele-coercion from my Toronto mechanical team and some TLC from one pretty impressive bike retailer in Uruapan, I found myself back on the road.
Aside from my bike-near-tragedy, Uruapan was a world of excitement unto itself. Surrounded by the Parque Nacional Eduardo Ruiz, I visited the crystal clear Rio Cupatitzio that aggressively flowed from out of nowhere - a small pond sourced by a natural spring called the Devil's Knee (where allegedly the Devil knelt down in submission to Christianity.) I wandered for hours through the maze of stone pathways and man-made cascades & channels that relocated water for no purpose other than to amuse visitors. I entertained the idea of following a local who dove from a platform some 12 meters above the river, but opted out when he told me that the water was only 2 meters deep. Later that night, a candidate for the Presidenté Municipal held a support rally in the town square. An hour's worth of speeches was bookended with 6 hours of singers, dancers, and an truly spectacular display of fireworks. This managed to earn television broadcast, but I was more reminded of an 8th grade student election than a modern society's political campaign.
Through an estimated total of 70 uphill kilometers, I rode to and through my first experiences with pre-Columbian ruins at the town of Tzintzuntzan and settled at a hostel in the provincial capital, Morelia. Reconvening with my P.E.I. friends, I toured the town and soaked up a bit of the excitement at the launch of the two week international music festival. The town itself, however, was a little disappointing. Unlike all others I'd been to, Morelia's large civic square was bordered with upscale hotels, fine dining, and pricey night clubs. I found myself longing for the shady street vendors and greasy meals costing less than $2.
In discussing my departure from Morelia, I quote a local as saying "it's all uphill from here." A three day climb to Toluca (elev. 2700m) was one of the most physically challenging endeavours of my life thus far. While most would shudder at the idea, I have found that it has merely emboldened my passion for cycling. The stunning vistas, winding roads and small villages pocketed in between mountains kept me with the attitude that there was nowhere I'd rather be than crawling up a mountain for 2.5 hours straight - the most memorable of the hills so far. Toluca itself, a utilitarian town at its finest, wasn't a whole lot of fun. On the bright side, the $20, 7th floor hotel room (the most expensive yet) proved to be a good place to relax and wait for a ride (yes, in a car) into Mexico City.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Bullfight
Check out the accomanying photos here.
Around 2:30pm on a hot, dry Guadalajara afternoon, I made my way by city bus to the plaza Plaza del Toros. 2 hours early, the mostly unpaved parking area was largely empty, but a large queue of inbound cars extending well onto the avenue suggested that was soon to change. Snack and paraphernalia vendors lined the perimeter of the 300m wide stadium, accompanied by a few crowded temporary restaurants shaded under canvas tents. I easily found the ticket vendor and selected a moderately priced seat, crossing my fingers for a good view. My first attempt at entry into the stadium was rejected, citing a need to transfer the contents of my water bottle into a plastic bag. I did so, despite feeling a bit foolish carrying around a clear plastic sac of water. I clambered up to my section of the second level. The area was general seating, boasting 10 rows of seats covering 300 degrees of the round venue. The other 60 degrees were a fenced of section of pricier seats, already in the shade at 3pm. There I sat for 90 minutes, soaking up the sun and watching the stadium slowly fill to near capacity.
As the 4:30 start approached, a concert band of some 20 members claimed a small section of the upper deck to my left and began enriching the atmosphere with a selection of robust Spanish marches. Into the band's second selection, a group of some 50 people, all costumed, some horse-mounted, proceeded on a tour the arena, much to the delight of the spectators. Three banderillos took to their respective barriers at three of the quarters of the circle and everyone else left the arena floor. Moments later, the most furious looking animal I'd ever seen I my life came charging into the arena.
The first banderillo stepped out of his hiding spot, waving a shiny golden & pink cape at the bull. As if overwhelmed with rage, the bull charged full speed towards the cape-bearing man. The man swiftly resumed to his sanctuary behind a shoulder high board, taking the cape with him. The bull continued without hesitation in a counter-clockwise gallop towards the next awaiting banderillo and his fiery golden cape. Twice around the arena ran the bull, further enraged with the swift disappearance of each banderillo that he failed to impale.
Sufficiently aggravated, the bull was then put to the bidding of the event's three guest matadors. On horseback came the first, swiftly dodging and evading the bull's desperate attempts to wound the horse & rider. At times, it looked as though the horse was trotting sideways in a small circle around the bull - a truly magnificent display of horsemanship. After his brief horseback dance with the bull, the matador took two small spears and planted them into the mound on the bull's back. A job well done, the first matador was soon relieved by the second. His charge was just the same as his predecessor's. It's my feeling, however, that he executed it with much greater style & grace. The third and final matador took to the arena to finish the job, rendering the bull unable to stand. Soon thereafter, the head banderillo took to the field and executed the bull with a dagger, provoking the paralyzed animal to release the dregs of its energy through a slew a spasms. Amidst trumpet fanfare, uproarious cheers and another stately Spanish march, the groundskeepers returned. Assisted by two horses, the bull's corpse was dragged out of the arena.
The groundskeepers swiftly raked the ring and tidied up a few of the blemishes on the two large circles of chalk. As if right on cue, out charged the second bull - a fine toro of nearly 500kg. After another two laps of Banderillo madness, out marched a picador - a well-armoured horse carrying an equally well-armoured rider. The bull charged at this less than agile vessel, forcing it sideways into the perimeter wall. The rider then repeatedly stabbed the bull with his 2m long spear until it relented its attack. The injured horse limped out of the arena as the dumbfounded bull stumbled towards the center. It then became evident that the bull, accidentally or otherwise, had been stabbed in the left eye. (In a future query, I was told this to be an accident.) The banderillos made an effort to further aggravate the bull with hand lances, but the animal's new found disorientation proved to be a mark of unworthiness. It was resolved that the bull be removed from the arena. This task may sound simple, but it proved to be quite complicated - perhaps, I dare suggest, this was because the bull was blind in one eye. The banderillos futilely strove to draw the bull towards the exit. After nearly 15 minutes, out jogged a posse of five other bulls, held previously on reserve for moments of this nature. The bulls circled the toro and led him towards the exit only to see him disband as the five escorts made their departure. This scene went on for nearly 45 minutes and for quite nearly all of it, the entire arena was in hysterics. The bull was finally allured by the banderillos to an alternate exit from where he bid his farewell.
After another quick cleanup, the third bull came running out into the arena. He was subjected to his due two laps of banderillo teasing then once again, a little one-on-one with a picador. The bull pinned the armoured horse to the wall as the rider speared him several times at the hump of his back. One at a time, the banderillos danced around the bull, each planting two feather-toting daggers into the animal's back. Soaked in his own blood, still bestowing 6 embedded daggers, the debilitated bull was now at the mercy of the pedestrian matador. Even as a bit of a skeptic, I couldn't help but find this man to be amazing. He elegantly floated around the bull, bestowing a cape and cutlass. The toro would charge furiously towards the cape, hanging from the outstretched arm and cutlass of the matador. Not a moment too soon, the man would pull the cape away, leaving the bull diving at thin air. With each leap of the bull, the fans would cheer in unison, "Olé!" For ten minutes, the matador would invigorate the bull, sometimes standing backwards, sideways, even apparently looking the other direction. As the bull grew weary (from loss of blood?), he took two more passes at the matador where instead of thin air, he found the sharp end of a sword. Quite quickly, the bull's energy tapered and soon enough, he was dead on the ground and being subjected to the same execution as that of the first victim of the evening.
The fourth of six bulls (however, the last that I stayed for) put on a show not unlike the third. This time, the matador found himself just a little too close for comfort. Mid way through his equally graceful dance, he found the pointy end of a bull's horn somewhere around his elbow. The bull charged passed as the matador clutched his arm with an expression of irritable panic on his face. He quickly retired to the periphery and the banderillos swiftly executed the already wounded and bloody animal. Through another musical interlude, the bull's corpse was dragged out of sight. The matador ambled on a tour of the arena perimeter as fans by the hundreds waved white handkerchiefs paying respects to the injured. Dozens of fans even threw forth their hats as the matador walked by. He'd pick up the hat, nod obligingly, then throw it right back.
Partly motivated by a bus schedule, it was around this time that I decided I'd seen enough. I made my way out of the arena and back to the ground floor. The girl guarding the exit gate looked a bit astonished to see someone leaving early, but soon concluded that I was just another gringo who hadn't realized what he'd gotten himself into. Content with an evenings discoveries, I cut back across the deserted makeshift restaurants and through the small sea of cars to my awaiting, downtown-bound public bus.
Around 2:30pm on a hot, dry Guadalajara afternoon, I made my way by city bus to the plaza Plaza del Toros. 2 hours early, the mostly unpaved parking area was largely empty, but a large queue of inbound cars extending well onto the avenue suggested that was soon to change. Snack and paraphernalia vendors lined the perimeter of the 300m wide stadium, accompanied by a few crowded temporary restaurants shaded under canvas tents. I easily found the ticket vendor and selected a moderately priced seat, crossing my fingers for a good view. My first attempt at entry into the stadium was rejected, citing a need to transfer the contents of my water bottle into a plastic bag. I did so, despite feeling a bit foolish carrying around a clear plastic sac of water. I clambered up to my section of the second level. The area was general seating, boasting 10 rows of seats covering 300 degrees of the round venue. The other 60 degrees were a fenced of section of pricier seats, already in the shade at 3pm. There I sat for 90 minutes, soaking up the sun and watching the stadium slowly fill to near capacity.
As the 4:30 start approached, a concert band of some 20 members claimed a small section of the upper deck to my left and began enriching the atmosphere with a selection of robust Spanish marches. Into the band's second selection, a group of some 50 people, all costumed, some horse-mounted, proceeded on a tour the arena, much to the delight of the spectators. Three banderillos took to their respective barriers at three of the quarters of the circle and everyone else left the arena floor. Moments later, the most furious looking animal I'd ever seen I my life came charging into the arena.
The first banderillo stepped out of his hiding spot, waving a shiny golden & pink cape at the bull. As if overwhelmed with rage, the bull charged full speed towards the cape-bearing man. The man swiftly resumed to his sanctuary behind a shoulder high board, taking the cape with him. The bull continued without hesitation in a counter-clockwise gallop towards the next awaiting banderillo and his fiery golden cape. Twice around the arena ran the bull, further enraged with the swift disappearance of each banderillo that he failed to impale.
Sufficiently aggravated, the bull was then put to the bidding of the event's three guest matadors. On horseback came the first, swiftly dodging and evading the bull's desperate attempts to wound the horse & rider. At times, it looked as though the horse was trotting sideways in a small circle around the bull - a truly magnificent display of horsemanship. After his brief horseback dance with the bull, the matador took two small spears and planted them into the mound on the bull's back. A job well done, the first matador was soon relieved by the second. His charge was just the same as his predecessor's. It's my feeling, however, that he executed it with much greater style & grace. The third and final matador took to the arena to finish the job, rendering the bull unable to stand. Soon thereafter, the head banderillo took to the field and executed the bull with a dagger, provoking the paralyzed animal to release the dregs of its energy through a slew a spasms. Amidst trumpet fanfare, uproarious cheers and another stately Spanish march, the groundskeepers returned. Assisted by two horses, the bull's corpse was dragged out of the arena.
The groundskeepers swiftly raked the ring and tidied up a few of the blemishes on the two large circles of chalk. As if right on cue, out charged the second bull - a fine toro of nearly 500kg. After another two laps of Banderillo madness, out marched a picador - a well-armoured horse carrying an equally well-armoured rider. The bull charged at this less than agile vessel, forcing it sideways into the perimeter wall. The rider then repeatedly stabbed the bull with his 2m long spear until it relented its attack. The injured horse limped out of the arena as the dumbfounded bull stumbled towards the center. It then became evident that the bull, accidentally or otherwise, had been stabbed in the left eye. (In a future query, I was told this to be an accident.) The banderillos made an effort to further aggravate the bull with hand lances, but the animal's new found disorientation proved to be a mark of unworthiness. It was resolved that the bull be removed from the arena. This task may sound simple, but it proved to be quite complicated - perhaps, I dare suggest, this was because the bull was blind in one eye. The banderillos futilely strove to draw the bull towards the exit. After nearly 15 minutes, out jogged a posse of five other bulls, held previously on reserve for moments of this nature. The bulls circled the toro and led him towards the exit only to see him disband as the five escorts made their departure. This scene went on for nearly 45 minutes and for quite nearly all of it, the entire arena was in hysterics. The bull was finally allured by the banderillos to an alternate exit from where he bid his farewell.
After another quick cleanup, the third bull came running out into the arena. He was subjected to his due two laps of banderillo teasing then once again, a little one-on-one with a picador. The bull pinned the armoured horse to the wall as the rider speared him several times at the hump of his back. One at a time, the banderillos danced around the bull, each planting two feather-toting daggers into the animal's back. Soaked in his own blood, still bestowing 6 embedded daggers, the debilitated bull was now at the mercy of the pedestrian matador. Even as a bit of a skeptic, I couldn't help but find this man to be amazing. He elegantly floated around the bull, bestowing a cape and cutlass. The toro would charge furiously towards the cape, hanging from the outstretched arm and cutlass of the matador. Not a moment too soon, the man would pull the cape away, leaving the bull diving at thin air. With each leap of the bull, the fans would cheer in unison, "Olé!" For ten minutes, the matador would invigorate the bull, sometimes standing backwards, sideways, even apparently looking the other direction. As the bull grew weary (from loss of blood?), he took two more passes at the matador where instead of thin air, he found the sharp end of a sword. Quite quickly, the bull's energy tapered and soon enough, he was dead on the ground and being subjected to the same execution as that of the first victim of the evening.
The fourth of six bulls (however, the last that I stayed for) put on a show not unlike the third. This time, the matador found himself just a little too close for comfort. Mid way through his equally graceful dance, he found the pointy end of a bull's horn somewhere around his elbow. The bull charged passed as the matador clutched his arm with an expression of irritable panic on his face. He quickly retired to the periphery and the banderillos swiftly executed the already wounded and bloody animal. Through another musical interlude, the bull's corpse was dragged out of sight. The matador ambled on a tour of the arena perimeter as fans by the hundreds waved white handkerchiefs paying respects to the injured. Dozens of fans even threw forth their hats as the matador walked by. He'd pick up the hat, nod obligingly, then throw it right back.
Partly motivated by a bus schedule, it was around this time that I decided I'd seen enough. I made my way out of the arena and back to the ground floor. The girl guarding the exit gate looked a bit astonished to see someone leaving early, but soon concluded that I was just another gringo who hadn't realized what he'd gotten himself into. Content with an evenings discoveries, I cut back across the deserted makeshift restaurants and through the small sea of cars to my awaiting, downtown-bound public bus.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Guadalajara
There's something a bit mystifying about Bruce Willis movies. In particular, Tears of the Sun. This film was being aired in Spanish without subtitles on the ferry ride across the Sea of Cortez. Somehow, despite my inability to comprehend about 90% of the dialogue, I can confidently say that I did not miss a thing in that movie.
The ferry from La Paz travelled southeast towards the mainland city of Mazatlan. In doing so, it crossed the Tropic of Cancer. Granted, there was a significant geographic change as well, but with that crossing came a radical change in climate. Days have regressed to a comfortable average temperature of 23 to 26 degrees Celsius and nights have brought forth assured sweater weather. The landscape has revealed endless, green, rolling hills. I've been told, however, that it has been browning since the terminus of the rainy season three weeks ago. I've also received my first taste of the Sierra Madres mountain range and it's been a true test of endurance.
Three days ago, I arrived at the house of my ex-pat Torontonian friend, Alex. I spent two days exploring the 4 small towns lining the north shore of Laguna Chapala, about 50km south of Guadalajara. This included a pretty unique celebration of Mexico's Dias de los Muertes (day of the dead.) Late Friday afternoon, I joined about 200 other people in a casual meander of the Ajijic cemetery where there was live music and ample free food to celebrate the re-acquaintance with dead relatives.
Yesterday, I made my way into Guadalajara, the second largest city in the nation. I toured the historic downtown with a pair of P.E.I. natives I met at the Hostel Guadalajara, my residence for the night. Guad is home to numerous historic buildings, several massive pedestrian plazas, astonishing markets unlike anything I've ever seen and even a stunning 16th century cathedral. Despite all of the amazing architecture, I most enjoyed just sitting in the plazas, watching the thousands of Guadalajarians go about their usual Saturday business. The city was so very full of life and energy, I found it impossible to keep the smile from my face.
Occupying the second floor of a building well over one hundred years old, the hostel boasted ceilings some 10 meters above my head, supported by massive stone arches. Each room (including the one I shared with 7 others) opened up to a walk-out terrace where more than once I stood, overlooking the bustling street below. Saturday night brought numerous travellers out of the woodwork to an aprez Day of the Dead costume party. Not having my Lance Armstrong outfit, I opted to wear my sleeping bag, dubbing myself Jabba the Hut. It was a lot of fun to struggle through Spanish dialogue with a handful of people from around the world, very few of which spoke any English (even fewer had seen Star Wars.) Furthermore, the ridiculous costumes (Kill Bill, Greek goddess, giant cassette tape) and the readily flowing alcohol made for an hilarious night.
Today, I linger around Guadalajara for another afternoon. Tonight, I return by bus to Ajijic for an early ride towards Mexico City - ETA: six days.
Until the smog capital of the world, I hope this bronchitis goes away.
The ferry from La Paz travelled southeast towards the mainland city of Mazatlan. In doing so, it crossed the Tropic of Cancer. Granted, there was a significant geographic change as well, but with that crossing came a radical change in climate. Days have regressed to a comfortable average temperature of 23 to 26 degrees Celsius and nights have brought forth assured sweater weather. The landscape has revealed endless, green, rolling hills. I've been told, however, that it has been browning since the terminus of the rainy season three weeks ago. I've also received my first taste of the Sierra Madres mountain range and it's been a true test of endurance.
Three days ago, I arrived at the house of my ex-pat Torontonian friend, Alex. I spent two days exploring the 4 small towns lining the north shore of Laguna Chapala, about 50km south of Guadalajara. This included a pretty unique celebration of Mexico's Dias de los Muertes (day of the dead.) Late Friday afternoon, I joined about 200 other people in a casual meander of the Ajijic cemetery where there was live music and ample free food to celebrate the re-acquaintance with dead relatives.
Yesterday, I made my way into Guadalajara, the second largest city in the nation. I toured the historic downtown with a pair of P.E.I. natives I met at the Hostel Guadalajara, my residence for the night. Guad is home to numerous historic buildings, several massive pedestrian plazas, astonishing markets unlike anything I've ever seen and even a stunning 16th century cathedral. Despite all of the amazing architecture, I most enjoyed just sitting in the plazas, watching the thousands of Guadalajarians go about their usual Saturday business. The city was so very full of life and energy, I found it impossible to keep the smile from my face.
Occupying the second floor of a building well over one hundred years old, the hostel boasted ceilings some 10 meters above my head, supported by massive stone arches. Each room (including the one I shared with 7 others) opened up to a walk-out terrace where more than once I stood, overlooking the bustling street below. Saturday night brought numerous travellers out of the woodwork to an aprez Day of the Dead costume party. Not having my Lance Armstrong outfit, I opted to wear my sleeping bag, dubbing myself Jabba the Hut. It was a lot of fun to struggle through Spanish dialogue with a handful of people from around the world, very few of which spoke any English (even fewer had seen Star Wars.) Furthermore, the ridiculous costumes (Kill Bill, Greek goddess, giant cassette tape) and the readily flowing alcohol made for an hilarious night.
Today, I linger around Guadalajara for another afternoon. Tonight, I return by bus to Ajijic for an early ride towards Mexico City - ETA: six days.
Until the smog capital of the world, I hope this bronchitis goes away.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
