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.

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.

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.

La Paz

I feel cursed by the things that happen to me, but blessed by the convenience with which they happen.

But first, an update.

After a genuine Canadian breakfast at the B&B in San Ignacio, I rode south along the Sea of Cortez to Santa Rosalia. I spent a few hours lunching with an American traveller before continuing south to Mulege. While exploring the small, colonial-style town, a transplanted Californian retiree invited me to a friend's backyard barbecue. I struggled to communicate in Spanish, but capably did my part to remove the roasted swordfish and ample spirits.

The following day, I rode a beautiful 130km seaside stretch of road to Loreto, a European inspired town of about 3,000 people. In the only campground, I met a resident British Columbian guitarist, Marc and his visiting friend, Brad. Marc was one of the hundreds employed by a developer attempting to turn Loreto Bay into the next big Mexican tourist destination. He graciously invited me to a lasagna dinner at his brother's house, not far from my tent.

Spending two days in Loreto afforded me the opportunity to write that clever first sentence. Enroute, one of my gear shifters started misbehaving. Having rebuilt it before, I thought I'd have a look inside to see what I could do. Long story short, I ended up doing more harm than good. By blessed coincidence, Loreto was the first town since Ensenada with a bike shop. By even greater blessed coincidence, Manny, the mechanic, had a 20 year old shifter that worked flawlessly in replacing mine. He didn't even charge me a penny. Muchas gracias, Manny.

Rolling once again, I spent two days riding the dregs of the desert and the Sierras Gigantes(Sierras means mountains) into the southern capital of La Paz, pop. 400,000. After exploring the downtown, I scouted a $16 hotel and resolved to forgo the immediate mainland ferry for the Monday afternoon trip. I spent Friday evening at The Dock restaurant with another displaced Canadian friend, Stefen. Thereafter I spent a few hours at a popular night club, La Casa de la Villa, being serenaded by a really adept Spanish rock band blasting hits by CCR, The Who and Guns n' Roses.

Stefen drove me to the beautiful Telacote Beach where I spent most of Saturday afternoon before returning to town to see an amazing late night performance of Mexican Banda music. Afterwards, until 1am, I sat on a bench on the seaside Malecon, marvelling at the similarities between La Paz's main drag & Richmond St. West in Toronto.

Tomorrow, I'll embark on an 18 hour overnight ferry ride to the mainland town of Mazatlan. Soon thereafter, Guadalajara, Mexico City, who knows what else?

Santa Rosalia

The Deserts of Baja have now taken the place as the most intriguing settings across which I´ve ever ridden. It´s amazing to look to one´s left and see a field of shrub and cacti extending beyond the horizon. It´s amazing to look to one´s right and see the same. It´s breathtaking to look ahead and see a yellow line down the middle of the road with no visible end. It´s frustrating, sometimes infuriating to ride that yellow line for hours at a time without seeing even the slightest deviation in scenery or trajectory. In fact, the only thing that ever changes while riding in the desert is the position of your shadow - not very rewarding.

Baja´s scenery changes almost as rapidly as the minutes of the day (until you arrive in the desert, that is.) In one day, I saw forested mountains, sand dunes, seas of cacti, fields of boulders the size of houses and dehydrated river canyons much deeper than I´d like to fall into.

I spent a night on a Pacific beach near San Quintin before heading inland for a few days. Following the only paved road on the peninsula, I rode to the town of Cataviña where I camped amidst a huge boulder field with an American motorcyclist. Derric eagerly shared his double rations after his weekender partner bailed out on him. I carried on to Chapala and from there, hitched a ride with a hydro worker down a 60km detour to Bahia de Los Angeles, a charming tourist mecca nestled in a huge rocky cove on the overwhelmingly blue Sea of Cortez. Bearing a few days of desert I couped up at a Canadian owned, eco-friendly bed & breakfast in San Ignacio, on the shore of a natural spring lake by the same name.

Weekends here have been a little hectic with the infamous Baja 1000 offroad race approaching. There are a lot of dirt bikes and dune buggies cruising about in the sand in an effort to master their respective sections of the 1600 mile relay. I´m still being granted lots of space on the road from the many trucks and cars that pass my way.

While it seems I´ve parted ways with my new found cycling team, I´ve heard rumours of more on the horizon. With only a few more days until my arrival at La Paz, I´ll soon be finished with the Baja and on to the marvel that will be mainland Mexico.

Adios, amigos!

Ensenada

San Diego is an interesting place. It's the last establishment of American civilization as the Mexican border approaches. That said, there doesn't really seem to be a clear border. The city officially ends with one of America's largest naval bases, but suburbia continues beyond that for another 25km. Those 25km represent an interesting gradient from English speaking Americans to Spanish speaking Americans & Mexicans. Within the last 3km of the border, you'd be hard pressed to find a sign in English.

In any case, my last night in the good old U.S. of A. was spent between an R.V. packed K.O.A. campground and ironically, a Mexican restaurant. I'd have more symbolically preferred McDonald's, but my group had other ideas.

Crossing the border the following day was a bit of a surprise. Despite my best efforts, I could not find anyone who cared to look at my passport. Cars were flowing south by the hundreds and not a single one was being stopped. To my left was parked a line of cars at least 1km in length, waiting to head north.

Tijuana only received about an hour of my time; enough to see some peculiar, but very touristy sites. This included a donkey, painted like a Zebra. I thereafter headed east and inland to the smaller, understated town of Tecate; home of the world famous Tecate brewery. I spent the night in an $18 motel - it was worth every penny.

I continued east the following day through a sizable range of mountains. My hopes of of seeing the nearby national park were quickly dashed when my well-paved and popular corridor turned into an impassable patch of sand. I did an about face and after 80km of mountainous riding, returned to the every charming Motel Paraiso in Tecate.

Yesterday, I rode southeast down an Alternate route to the coast and the town of Ensenada. The road brought forth 3 incredibly challenging climbs atop desert mountains, all of which revealed stunning vistas. On the more thrilling side, there were four converse descents into beautiful valleys, the last of which brought me into the Valle de Guadalupe - one of Mexico's winery regions. Faced with the opportunity, I spend the equivalent of 80 cents to sample 7 varieties of Don Juan wine. The final 30km of my 113km day were a little tipsy, but I made it safe and sound to Ensenada where I requainted with Mike, Kelvin and another tourista, Judith.

Today, I continue South, destination: unknown.

Arrival

After several minutes of intensive trip planning, I gleefully arrived in Los Angeles. Accommodated by dear family friends near Huntington Beach, CA, I was afforded two days of generous rations and lots of time to get my bike in working order.

Itching to hit the road, I made a relatively early start on Friday mid-morning, destined for Oceanside, CA. Enroute, I coordinated with another pair of cyclists, John & Phil. John was on his penultimate travel day from Portland to San Diego and Phil was a single-day freeloader. We spent the night at the Encenidas campground amidst the company of three other cyclists with whom John had been playing cyclo-leap frog for more than a month down the west coast. We were all furthermore blessed by the addition of a surf/cyclist who had ridden with surfboard in tow from Santa Barbara. His colourful personality and unique ability to rapidly consume alcohol proved quite the source of irritation & amusement.

Headstrong into the first day of rain that Southern California had seen in 9 months, the five of us played leapfrog all the way to San Diego where from I type this entry. The group will be disbanding tomorrow with the exception of Mike, who'll be continuing on to the tip of Baja. I expect to see a fair bit more of him.

Onward - to the Chula Vista campground. Tomorrow, the border. *cue doomsday music*