The Power of Words

dI find myself ever-hungry for words. Facts, history, stories, biographies. Anything that is real. I allowed a websearch to flow from the Iranian Revolution of 1978, to Ayatollah Khomeini to Salman Rushdie to his beautiful 4th ex-wife and host of Top Chef Padma Lakshmi. With a physicality lying somewhere between a penguin and a garden troll, Rushdie has reputedly enraptured countless stunning females within moments of speaking.

He endured a 'fatwa', or an Islamic hit on his head since the publication of his book, Satanic Verses, in 1988 without so much as an assassination attempt. Several people were murdered around the world simply for translating his book into their own language. How could these people mastermind crashing two jets into The World Trade Centre, and not be able to follow through on a 'fatwa'? Was it a case of Bin Laden being a better tactician?

Pulling myself back before I get too far, and to the point of my writing. Having an entire religion so enraged with you, and with what you indirectly referred to in a book you wrote, and being able to seduce some of the most beautiful, powerful, successful, and rich women in the world - is there a connection? One must either cultivate, or possess an extraordinary tenacity, and will, to communicate their message in the face of certain death. For an intellect, the fear of failing to communicate must far outweigh the fear of death. For me, I am just now learning to disconnect my fear of disapproval, or fear of not being liked for what I say, or do. I feel the need for perfectionism slowly melting away.

Some would rate public speaking higher than death on a scale of fear-inducing topics. I am a child in the sense of speaking my mind, and they are merely postulations on a world I may never fully understand.

Nicaragua?

Nicaragua? It's probably just another back-water country with an exotic name full of malaria, violence, despotic leaders and poverty. With a little research, one would have discovered the centre of the Iran-Contra affair of the 80s, where the American government were caught selling arms to Iran to fund anti-socialist aims in Central America. A visitor would be wise to throw out any pre-conceived notions, or ignorance of Nicaragua and experience it first hand.

As the jade-green waters curl up and over the toppled surfers, it pulls up a thin layer of tan-coloured sand with it, effectively scrubbing away the small amount of negative publicity Nicaragua has garnered in the last 25 years. Ten dollar lobster grilled to perfection is just one example of how far the tourist dollar can go, and another tempting reason to proclaim the country's coast line the best in the world. Ancient volcanoes filled with azure-blue water, Carribean seas a warm bath-tub temperature with colourful marine life, colonial towns retaining an old-world charm: Nicaragua can offer a lifetime of adventure and relaxation.

It will certainly take much more to wash the memories of the Nicaraguan people clean, as years of corrupt government, brutal warfare, and a devastating earthquake would be enough to put a permanent cloud over the future of the country. A strong, and proud Nica heritage has created an attitude of acceptance, and making the best with what one has. Perhaps the future of Nicaragua will shine brighter as the outside world continues to take note of it's natural wonders, and beautiful, resilient people.

The Crossing Part II

I was tracked down at the gas station just before the Honduran border by some Salvadoreans who seemed to know my name. Not hard since I have it splattered on the back of the orange cooler. Turns out these guys who hang out at the borders know each other, and give the next guy a heads up, to either break the ice, or pass on hints on how to get the most money out of them. Again, so touchy about the borders, I icily told them I wasn't interested, but they persisted. It ended up being good that he was persistent, especially since I told him 3 times to let me take care of it myself throughout the 8 hour experience. As I still didn't have an actual driver's license (just a faxed copy) and my registration document showed expired (of course, I can't get icbc to insure a vehicle in central america) but it was all a lot of red tape to squeeze as much money out of me as possible.

I made the mistake of panicking with the thought of spending the night at the border, unable to go forward, or go back. I put out a facebook plea for help, and sent an email to Eddy and my mom with the cryptic phrase "are you there i need help". Lisa got on the phone to both my insurance company, and ICBC, but neither of them said they were able to send the document I needed. The next step was then to get on the phones myself; the whole time the Salvadorean guy is sitting there waiting for me. He escorted me over to a store with 4 phone stalls and a digital meter on the wall. The lady there was helpful although the first call we made got picked up by a guy in Calgary, as they have the same number as ICBC in Victoria, and the phone system missed the mark.

2nd attempt, I use a 604 number and get ICBC. That was useless.

Finally, I got a hold of Paul and Ina at Cassels Insurance. Ina picks up the phone; a straight shooter and no messing around. "Ina, it's Jason. I'm at the Honduras border and I'm in a situation. I need someone to clearly explain to me about the Owner's Certificate of License and Registration." Feeling better now as I'm talking to someone who knows what they're talking about. "We're not able to insure a vehicle in Honduras." she said matter of factly. "I know that Ina, but how can I get a document that shows a date that's not expired?" I ask with frustration in my voice. "They won't let me into the country without it!" "Just a minute, here's Paul." "Paul here." I repeat the situation to Paul, and he simply suggests to rip the top off the paper, as the registration is only on the bottom. "Ok, that makes perfect sense." I replied with a renewed sense of purpose.

So, they ended up giving me a 7 hour permit for $150. There was another $28 in fees, which normal people would pay only, but i'm special. Either way, i didn't have it, so we jumped in a cab and paid another $25 for that, and by the time 9 pm came around, I had to give $20 to the guy to pay the police officer on the side, then him and each of his helpers, so it was probably $250 just to get through the country, which i did expeditiously with a foul taste in my mouth. I will never forget having to go back into the border office and see the face of the administrator, with seeming disdain at my situation, and frustration with me. He lets me use his computer as I assure him my documents are real. "No se puede", he says. I can't do that.

We go into the administration office, where two young girls are working, one on a computer, and one with a typewriter from the 50's. We get things going anyways. Something clicks for me. I've been mistrustful, stressed and worried the whole afternoon - why not just enjoy it? So, I put my arm around the guy I hated all day, and trusted it would all work out. While we were back at the bank, my helper's brother had taken care of everything

The Nicaraguan border came about 3 hours later, was considerably easier and quicker, and i was out in an hour or so, after paying a tip to the border guard guy, and then yet another 'helper' who asked for $5 which i didn't have. I promised to come back the next morning to pay him, and i did, but it turned out it had actually changed to $10 somehow. I offered to pay in Cordobas, Nicaraguan currency, and his rate now changed to 30-1 instead of 21-1. I just paid him and decided to smile. I was on my way.

Velasquez

An inspiring night compliments of a humble Latino champion who beat Brock Lesnar. I realized a lot of things I didn't like about how my life was going, and it was a fresh start after watching it all unfold. I too am a warrior, and it it time to be who I always knew I could be. One day, one moment at a time. Dedication, devotion, hard work, sacrifice.

Brock Lesnar was only a couple inches taller than most of his opponents, but his extra twenty pounds made him seem just as large as Ivan Drago to Rocky. My fascination with him started two years ago, after his first UFC (real) match coming from WWE (fake). It was against Frank Mir, who became my hero after beating the big silverback with a leg submission. See the first photo at left.

Their rematch did not turn out so tidily for Mir, and he was finished brutally, quickly and violently. Below, against a dwarved Randy Couture, Lesnar won that match and the title belt handily despite his opponent's experience and skill; basically a ground and pound. This was only after his 4th, or 5th match. I wanted him to lose because he was so cocky, and I always love an underdog.

Finally, Shane Carwin, a man with a perfect 12-0 record, someone I could believe in. Although the first round featured Carwin pounding the heck out of Lesnar, the 2nd round ended with a submission choke hold by Lesnar. Tonight, how could Cain Velasquez, and I overcome such a seemingly insurmoutable, immovable mountain?

I ignored the pain in my face, stomach, hips and arms and focussed completely on the fight, and put myself in the place of Cain Velasquez. You just can't let that big 264 pounder get on top of you, but he did and miraculously got back up. It's the same battle with physical pain. Worrying about it coming, or being there is secondary to the task of getting your brain to focus on something else. Pain is registered in the brain, so if you are not focussed on it, it doesn't exist.

I'll never forget a friend who was in a serious car crash when she was younger, went through a wheelchair to play baseball and dance again. We all have this ability to do it, and the pain of exercising daily is necessary as well as the mindful relaxation required to calm the tense muscles. Your body will instinctively react to a pain with tension - it is your job to be the boss, and change your brain pattern from pain, to connection with life. Ever wonder how your pain disappears when you are focussed on something intently? I worked late into the night with this strategy, and realized my 'tiredness' was just a physical communication to my brain. I felt dizzy, but I worked through it, knowing I would feel better soon.

Policia

A run through the red light at 4 in the morning did not go unheeded and $400 pesos later our deal was done. We ended up talking in spanish for an hour but i had to say goodnight.

oregon coyote

marty was out one day in the oregon desert and saw a coyote that had been mortally wounded in the upper neck/chest area. Her teats were full of milk. He looked back to see a trail of blood leading to a den. Suspecting puppies he dug the den up and found a male, and a female, not much more than a few weeks old. His buddy took the male, and he took the female. Now fully grown, this coyote has known no other maternal figure besides Marty. I have never seen a more alpha/sub relationship in my life.

Mulege Maelstrom

This area was devastated by a major hurricane just 2 years ago. I'm relating to a symbol of the hurricane, and how this trip has been about walking into the eye of the storm. Just chatting with my cousin Shelley, and mentioned to her how she is on a journey herself, with children, and grandchildren, and a family. The only difference is that everyday on the road I've endeavoured to listen to the new opportunities that come up in front of me, and to follow them regardless of my fear, or uncertainty. With the rigamarole of daily family life, it is necessary in my opinion to build routine. To resist is to tempt chaos. One does not need to ride a motorcycle from Canada to Brazil to discover one-self, but there are certainly more chances to break that routine. To break the routine, you must shed your skin, and release yourself from the human necessity to stay organized, planned, and safe.

A 3 km ride east of town through a 3 year road construction project was for one simple goal: have the first jump in the ocean since the middle of August. The beach was full of rocks and seashells with some deep sand but I jumped up and down to get the heavy bike up on top of it. Stripped down to my skivvies with not a soul watching, then floated in the salt-laden Sea of Cortes, a comforting 86 degree wash up. The aches in my back were soothed as my body floated effortlessly in the water, and despite the salt wash the wounds on my feet also. Staying longer than my monkey mind would allow, I elect to come back to the bike and find a suitable campsite to beat the sunset. A grey haired fellow on a quad spots me, and I put my head down instinctively to avoid eye contact. I'm thinking he's a local come to tell me to get the hell off the beach. Martine. What a character.

I confront the fear by being unusually open and friendly, my usual defence. He responds in kind, and offers an awesome beach site to camp. I follow him on the road, and lose him a couple times. He comes up behind me out of nowhere and says "you need to get groceries?" "No, I'm fine, no worries" I respond. "Well, you were supposed to turn back there!" he says, with a not so subtle hint of 'why didn't you know that?' "Ok!" We go past his house, and back through a space in the fence, down closer to sea level. The road is rocky; this Yamaha V-star is built for cruising, not 4x4ing. We come down into the flats, and out onto some slick. I'm down, burning my leg with gasoline pouring out of the tank. Marty comes back, meanwhile I'm pulling a thick piece of brush impaled in my right hip. Everything has to come off, as it's too heavy and with no purchase for my bare feet to hold, I'm thinking disaster. Marty offers 'AAA'. I laugh. Fortunately the edge of the road is solid, and I put my back into it with Marty's assistance. We get it up, and Marty profusely apologizes for forgetting about the rainstorms 2 nights ago. It was such a rarity, he didn't even think about it, especially since the quad is much more versatile.

After a preparatory session, I head up a steep, rocky hill sans any baggage generously taken by Marty. A spot is found, and quickly abandoned as he motions me to come further. A trail of gloves meet me, and I'm judging him now; he had been drinking. "No," I think, "I can make this work". Safely on dry ground now, I look over the bike, and myself. Tires caked in mud, blood dripping out of thigh, and mud up to my knees. I'm exhausted. Marty tells me he'll give me time to get set up, while he goes into town to stock up with beer.

I come back into town without much fanfare, and am offered steak shish-kabobs and a warm bed for the night by the neighbours, and despite my wants elect to decline the offer but tell them I'll come over for a visit later. Marty's house is next, and a wild dog looking thing is waving it's tail, with two cute kittens lifting up theirs. Marty's rough and tough exterior is softened with charm and a silver tongue, and he yells at me to get in the house and to not be scared of it. We sit down and chat. Revolutionary Road is on the TV, and I try to tell him it's not really an appropriate movie to watch when you're visiting, but he continues on. After being a sniper in the Vietnam War, he has taken those sharpshooter skills into an entirely different world: seducing young tender women. (Over 21 as per Marty)

He told me of a time he was down at the cock fights some time ago, flirting with the local chiquitas when the head of the local cartel spots him and motions him over with a wave of the hand. Marty had unknowingly assisted him and his partner's broken down Jeep sometime before with a battery problem. The cartel boss' appreciation was soon to reap benefits, as he was on the way that day to make a bank deposit with a million dollars in a couple suitcases. Back to the fights: Marty (Martine) sits on the right hand side of the boss, with the hand of a demi-god blessing his arrival. Everyone is holding up their bets in anticipation of a winner, until 4 police walk in, and the money goes under their butts. The police look over to the boss, who puts his right arm around Marty for a moment, then takes it off. Marty's previous police problems were instantly a memory. Every time since, he's met with warm hellos and greetings whenever the policia are driving by.

The Painter

Although my instincts tell me to be careful around certain people, I take every person at face value, and give them a chance regardless. It was my idea to get the trim painted, as I told Kiko I thought it would spruce up the place a bit. I started late, and when I got on the roof, there was another painter there. He looked at me defensively. The painter guy started on me right away. He was quite aggressively speaking in Spanish about my painting, and I just kept saying "no entiendo" or don't understand, and went back to work. Turns out after I had told Kiko it would be a good idea to paint the trim, a labourer from the south with plans to go to Tijuana was willing to barter goods. He would exchange room, board, and food for painting. By 8 pm it was completely dark, and I decided he needed it more than me, so I left him to it. Besides, I simply wanted the job done, and I didn't need any unneccessary aggression. I asked Kiko later to ask the fellow what the hell his problem was. He came back smiling, saying the guy thought I was painting wrong and that all the wood had to be scraped first. Fine, fair enough. I just wanted to get it done. I was glad to be away from it, as they use these huge brushes in Mexico that are very hard to get used to.

He did an excellent job. I remembered Tom's words about being nice to the labourers and smiling, but everytime I saw him, I just felt like defending, and giving him a scowl, but i didn't. Everytime I saw him I told him Bueno, Bueno. He finished the job yesterday, and Kiko gave him $400 pesos for his work, which was about 3 days. Last night, he got himself into trouble. He got drunk, tried to start a fight with Miguel, the sweet 24 year old kid that introduced me to everyone here. Turns out a Military sargeant from the base was here, and decided to pound the krap out of him. Kiko went over to him this morning to tell him to leave, as he said he didn't want any more problems. The fellow had an awful face I guess, as the military guy was kicking him in the face and body.

It's a sad story. The painter guy is uneducated, and probably had a tough life. Perhaps though, the Mexican justice will teach him a lesson.

Southern B.C.

The sun was going down fast, and clouds had moved in. It was very windy, and a bit chilly too but only 7:30 pm. The weather was mirroring my mood, but I was too far inside myself to even notice the similarities. I was still holding on to some anger about getting ripped off 130 km before.

It was the 280 km stretch of road without any petrol that I had heard about, and I thought I better not take a chance. It was the 2nd day in a row of me saying I was getting to Mulege, and failing. The bike's odometer was at 230 km, and I thought I was getting excellent mileage on my primary tank, until I leant over to turn the fuel lineand noticed I was still on my reserve tank. This meant that I was sucking the gas out of the tank at the bottom having forgotten to turn it back at the last fill-up. I had made this mistake on a quick return road trip from Vancouver, to my home town in Stettler last summer, and paid for it dearly. A fellow stopped by and had to drain the diesel out of the carbs I had inadvertently 'borrowed' from a farm quonset. I thought "Never again!"

A truck with a large white plywood sign saying "GASOLINA" was parked on the side of the dusty road near a store. I thought it was a good enough 'sign' that I should pull over. Even though I had a 5L jerry can full, I justified the move by thinking it would be a good experience to buy gas out of the back of a truck. There was a man, and a woman looking at me from the verandah of the house, or store, I couldn't be sure. Their stares were made all the more intense as I was taking a long time to take off my gloves, helmet, ipod, and sunglasses. "Cuanto Questo por Gasolina?" I query to the man. He turns around, and starts discussing with his wife, who is looking at him with various facial and body gestures to presume she was unsure of the 'gringo price' as well. He comes over to me, without answering, and walks towards the truck. I ask him to hold my helmet, being too lazy to put it back on. He takes it, and motions to throw it away. I'm not liking this guy already, and unsure if he's joking.
The bike won't even start by now it's so low on gas, so I push it over to him. "Cuanto Cuesto?" I ask him again. "Ciento sesenta," he responds quickly, and repeats after noticing my puzzled look. 160 pesos, or about $14 CDN. He points at a fair-sized red metal jerry can in the back , and I'm thinking "How do I say I only need 10L?" It sounded like a lot, either way. I begrudgingly opened the tank, and he came down with the hose and handle to insert it in. We're in close proximity now, us two combatants, forced into cooperation through necessity.
I give him 200 pesos, expecting some change. He gives me a 20 back and walks away, defiantly mixed with a slight sheepishness. It was an uncomfortable mix of unwanted emotions, the inability, or desire to complain or defend myself, and knowing I was out of my element. I was alone.

Drug Wars

I've asked the opinions of a couple Mexican friends of mine here in Guerrero Negro, about their opinion on the drug wars.  First, the government opened their big mouths and said "don't worry about the violence with cartels, they're only killing each other".  When the cartels heard this, they started killing innocent civilians to prove that they were serious about their protest.  In short, the government, police, and army are favouring some cartels, and calling out others.  This angers them obviously as they feel unfairly treated, and retaliate accordingly.  They spend a big chunk of their money on defence, such as serious weapons.  Their weaponry is far superior to the policia and militaria, as they must not only wait for their budgets from the government, but have numerous other concerns to worry about. 
It's ridiculous to worry about the supply, when the demand is so huge.  North American drug usage and consumption is enormous enough to whet the appetite of any Mexican, Central or South American ambitious enough to take a chance.  Mexico is the bottleneck by land, and despite recent improvements with a new President, 2 mayors in Sinaloa were assassinated recently. 
Mi amigo told me this country is a dangerous one for journalists, and I believe him.


 Here's another article, with more information, and other links on the subject:
http://www.zimbio.com/Sinaloa+Cartel/articles/bjm17Mi2l7H/Mayor+Marco+Antonio+Leal+Garcia+Murdered+Victim

Customs Kerfuffle

I intentionally stalled at the duty free shop before getting into the Coutts US Customs lineup to enter the states. I just had a feeling. A cooler full of carrots, water, and other food items could not have fared well. What about the Burning Man Festival? Oh, they probably wouldn't want to hear about that. I wasn't worried about getting into the country, actually. I was more worried about being interrogated. That is exactly what happened. After I explained to the female customs officer that I was riding my motorcycle to Brazil via LA, she asked why I was doing it, and I replied, "Carnaval, business opportunities, a chance to test my skills and have an adventure". "Please park your vehicle in the lot, and enter through the main doors, sir". I walked in, and was immediately ushered into a locked room with a metal cage separating myself and the male officer. "Why are you going to Brazil?" "How much money do you have saved up for this?" "Do you have any firearms in your jacket?" "Do you have any weapons on you?" The questions were coming like a rapid-fire machine gun, and I struggled to stay calm. "Take a look in my pocket, there's a card there." He walked away, and was sitting at the computer for what seemed like an eternity. I thought he was probably checking some interesting video that his coworkers sent him. Meanwhile, still struggling, I filled out the paperwork he requested I go through, and had many moments of thinking time. "What AM I doing? How in the hell do I expect to do this? What other madness will befall me? What if I can't get through the bloody us border???" AFter about 20 minutes, the officer came back and discussed a few things with me. He had obviously read my blog, and I noted a bit of personal connection there. He was intrigued to say the least. "We've never had a situation like this before. I will not be able to authorize you entry in the country. I'll need to speak with my supervisor" he said. I scanned the office for the illicit supervisor. A couple women were jovially laughing at their desks, one other officer needed help to fix the printer, but no 'supervisor'. Finally, the officer came back and said "I've spoken with my supervisor and explained what you are up to, and I believe you are telling the truth that you will not be working illegally in the country." I said, "you have my word. I have no interest in working in your country, and no intention of doing so. In fact, I hope that you are working on the day I come back through so I can show you what I was really up to." "I hope I am working that day" he replied "I'd be interested to see how you did". "Make sure there are no names included in that blog". "Of course," I said "Not a problem. Take care of yourselves."
So, $15,000 is not enough to travel to south america and back, Juarez, Mexico is the most dangerous area on the planet right now, and every country needs to be notified that I'm passing through. Thank you. I'm awake.

War

Definitely a moment of feeling very small, very insignificant, and also marvelling at how easily grown men will fight. Dennis tells me that he had heard a South American leader died, and either Venezuela and Argentina were involved somehow. It was pro and anti American parties. Whether the truth was stranger than fiction, it only momentarily stopped me.