Blowing Over

The Policia, with his stern face, gave away some resemblance of humanity when I looked into his eyes. Perhaps this assisted in a positive final outcome. Out of nowhere, at around 7 pm, red pylons show up on the left hand side of the road, and a Policia is standing there in his dark green fatigues and cap. He proceeds to show me his radar, clocked at 76. Limit on the non-existent sign (or a sign that, like other signs here have been worn down to braille) was 60. Three other plainsclothes were there as well, and the one asked me for my passport to which I responded "why are you wearing regular clothes?" to which he promptly unzipped his nike sweater and pulled out ID. The Policia and I walk together into the square office, thankfully getting away from the crowd of others, and I'm definitely feeling the heat in this place right out of the third world. Wires hanging out of the walls, a small desk with antiquated paperwork and books on top. He opens his book to show the fine for speeding: $50. Okay. I got too close.

1/2 hour before, I almost dropped the bike to stop at a place with xmas lights thinking I could grab a bite, only to find they sold alcohol only. Well, what to do? Have a cuba libre, and try one of the local drinks. 2 total. He smelt it on my breath.

So, he pulls out the breathalyzer, an experience to wreak havoc on any Canadian's state of mind. It takes forever and numerous attempts, as he shows me how to breath properly into it. Finally, he gets the reading he wants, and shows it to me: 8. Whatever that meant, he was soon getting quite agitated; we were now both fully putting on our best acting performances of the year: him, trying to extort as much pain and suffering from me as possible, and I, trying to get some connection with this guy as a last resort. He shows me another number in his book for driving under the influence: $1500, with the last 0 blocked out in blue pen, accompanied with a 350 km trip into Panama City.

I ask him if I can pay him here and now. He says if you don't mind I don't mind. So, I ask if $100 is ok, and he replies "too much". I end up giving him what I had on me, 2 crisp twenties and a fiver. Complicating my escape, I temporarily hide my passport and license somewhere and have the whole group assist me in finally finding it in the front pouch of my bag.

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.

Nicaraguan Night

It was 1 am when I got into the closest town of Somoto, about 20 km away. The town was dead, so I elected to pass through it and found a gas station with trucks and cars parked around. It seemed quiet, until I turned the bike off. The dogs were barking incessantly; was it because of me? I sat on my bike for awhile, reflecting on the day's hardships, and sussing out the area for a nap. A small, fenced in garden seemed a much softer spot than the hard concrete, but the trucker beside me seemed awake, and I didn't want to attract attention, so I quietly climbed over the waist high fence. So many dogs barking all over town, and the roosters were crowing; I knew I wasn't sleeping much. The trucker came out and spoke to me and although I didn't understand him, I knew he was no threat. Within about 10 minutes a creepy guy in a hoodie comes over, leans on the fence and asks me for money. "No dineros," I replied exasperatingly "Yo pagar todo a la fronterra." He stares at me forlornly, and I elect to just ignore him. At that point, I decided it was ok to not talk to someone if I didn't want to.

That was until the security guard comes over with a large gun. He motions for me to get up and out of the garden, and I ask him where I can sleep. He points to the concrete beside my bike, and I instantly lay down. He stands there and stares at me, and I just put my head on my computer bag and act like I'm sleeping, and ignored the invasion of my personal space. Finally he walked away. It ended up being the coldest and moistest night of my life, forcing me to pull out a blanket.

I did sleep some, and dreamt of meeting my old friends Travis and Dave in Mexico. "Funny how we have to come to Mexico to see each other." Probably a result of having Chris's offer of help on Facebook earlier that day, Travis's brother. The morning came soon, with a truck of horn players blasting out a wake up call, and an awakening town. The chill took some time to take it's leave, as the sun slowly crept above the mountain. The painful night dissipated as the schoolchildren came by and smiled at the bike, and the farmers brought their oxen through with loads of firewood. A woman carried a gargantuan bundle of neatly cut, long and straight wicker on her head, and another man wobbily takes it from her and carries it up to the top of the bus. Everyone has to work.

The security guard ended up being a friendly sort after he took his black hoody off. I was vulnerable that morning and only cared for the sun to come up. He asked me for the catholic charm hung on my handle bar sparkling in the morning sun and in a off moment, I gave it to him to shut him up.

I had to get back into town to pickup cash. A nice fellow starts talking to me in english as I go into the atm, and he tells me he was a geology teacher, but had to quit after 6 surgeries on his neck. He was a paratrooper and trained in the US for the Somoza government, a regime that caused years of discontent for the people. He said he was going to Cuba where the medical system was better. They were lined up at the bank that morning, and chatting up a storm.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=addyr6qQ3Lc

When I returned to the gas station I explained to the guard it was a good luck charm that I had given him, and a friend had given it to me. With an exchange of $5, I had it and my good luck back. The morning ride was luxurious, and a welcome stop at a diner for breakfast. Two wonderful experiences: one, a young man showing his skill with a top (such a simple pleasure)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CTs7wGnL1K4

and two, another young man with a broken dolly wheel. I asked him how much it would cost for a new one, and he said about $20 but he was saving up until January. I asked him to promise to send me a picture of the new one after I gave him the $400 cordoba to speed up the process. He happily pulled that thing clunk clunk clunk down the road. Business without borders: helping people and small business with an influx of cash to get them going more efficiently and with an aim to grow and build over the years. Like that new wheel, they may be more able to compete locally, and ultimately globally.

Earthquake

I missed Los Mochis/ La Paz's earthquake by about 3 weeks.

http://www.cnn.com/2010/WORLD/americas/10/21/mexico.earthquake/?hpt=Sbin

Kenya

My grey and white fluffy cat had been missing for several days from Bonnie's house. I wasn't worried; she's very independent and seems to stay close to home. I received an email last night from a person who was taking care of Kenya temporarily, who was sleeping on their patio chair and basically hanging around their house. As she was worried about coyotes and cars, she decided to keep Kenya until she could find her home. She called the SPCA, found my name, and consequently found my blog about trying to find a home for her and Sudan before I left. Another 6 degrees of separation, someone at the shelter I believe did some searching of her own after receiving the first person's call, and ended up getting in contact with my friend Amanda. All of this work brought Kenya back home, and Bonnie bought a couple collars for them with her phone number on them. It's flea season, so their necks are pretty full these days. Bonnie will be keeping the cat indoors, against her wishes, for a while, at least until the coyotes cool down a bit. It made me realize how little I knew the neighbors when I lived there, as Kenya ended up about 4 doors down from Bonnie's house.

Pedro held-up twice, luis once, luis's dad express kidnap, pedro's friend express kidnap, marivy's house broken into twice and her dad's watch collection, and mom's jewellery gone. Laura's brother express kidnap. Everyone has a story in this city of extortion or violence, and a sad reminder that the residents of Mexico City are afraid to live in their own city. It is a tall order to walk through this city, knowing what can happen, and not feel fear, but one must. Mexico City is alive and vibrant, and with some common sense you can enjoy a wonderful life here. In case of a banking machine hi-jack, my sister tells me you can put your pin in backwards to alert the bank of your situation. Don't count your money in public.

Thoughts on Personality

Two people had replied to me on my first attempt at couch surfing. The first one was suspicious, judgemental and all together negative. I felt bad. The second guy was so friendly, positive, open, and accepting without any doubts. I felt great. Neither people had ever seen me before, and could only guess my disposition from a profile I had only posted less than 24 hours prior. What if I looked different? What if my ability to communicate was different? It got me to thinking: If enough people that surround you help you into believing you are a bad person, especially as a child, your chance of being one will be that much higher. That's it. If you get it into your little human brain that you are not enough exactly the way you are, then you will do all kinds of anti-social things to prove it: stealing, lying, cheating, killing, all so you can be better than the victim. Take something from them. It's easier to do when you think the other person has no connection to you, not in your circle. I had very low self-esteem growing up, and I didn't give a shit about other people when I was lonely, scared, or feeling not good enough. Here's where the problem comes: the victim then begins to lose all trust in humanity, and starts protecting, defending, and closing off. Now, magnify this from an immediate family, to the extended family, to a community, to a city, country and world. You have now got an entire world consisting of people that are scared of each other, and they don't even know each other. There is so much needless pain and suffering. It is our responsibility to create a better world for everyone on this earth. How?

A respected educator in my hometown made a speech years ago that my parents had relayed to me, basically saying that if a kid is bad, it is no fault but their own. I will never forget that, because I feel the statement requires so much more interpretation before it can be considered true. I wonder if he knew how much affect his statement had on me, and I wasn't even there?

All the more reason in my mind to be 100% sure about what comes out of my mouth, especially if I were in a position of authority. Let's take fault out of the equation. It is the parents, community and world's responsibility how a child is brought up, and each person's responsibility to make appropriate decisions as an adult. Yes, agreed, actions, behaviours, words, it all comes from you, but if the people around you are not capable of dialect with you as a child to make sure the message you're getting is positive you could very well end up a 'bad' person, and a bad person I mean someone who screws with other people in someway.

Am I nieve? Reckless? Stupid? A little daft in the head? Preachy? Consider this attitude is one of survival. I am riding a big black and shiny chrome motorcycle through arguably some of the most dangerous areas in the world. People can sense my fear, or lack thereof. It is my responsibility to be aware of my surroundings, but I make it clear every single person I meet gets the benefit of the doubt: you are a good person. If I show fear, or contempt, or judgement, they will sense that, and their behaviour changes instantly. Every single one of us wants to be loved and accepted exactly the way we are. I ain't no evangelical love hippy, it is a declaration of what this human world really needs. I see it not so much as a survival, but as a means to enjoy existence, and to share it. Our civilizations all had a time when there was no need for bars on windows, and cages around our hearts. We will always have a human desire to defend ourselves, but we must find a way to counterract our natural mechanisms and find a different way. The world is getting smaller and smaller and more and more complicated. Open up. Take a chance, change someone's life simply with your attitude towards them.

Recovering People Pleaser

Like a smoke from that cigarette, or that next fix, saying or doing what I think people want to hear can be such an easy way to keep anxiety at bay. I may be going the opposite direction now by isolating myself a bit, and keeping to myself. Either way, the Puerto Vallarta experience comes to an end, and a truly worthy respite from the road. It has been a time of thoughts, about the past present and future. The time with Bonnie was nice. The opportunity to stay at the beautiful Casa del Puente on her suggestion was out of this world - for $40 a night. The sound of the river rushing by was so relaxing, and I felt like a king living in a 1200 square foot hacienda all to myself. I've been exploring opportunities to write about mines in Mexico considering all the hype from the 33 miners saved in the Chilean desert. I have struggled with my own confidence about writing, and realized it is indeed a matter, simply of persistence. As Ron Joyce of Tim Horton's fame once said, it is the only thing that matters. Reading lots of Vanity Articles from a 2000 issue, and in stories about Tom Cruise, and Jack Kerouac, it really told me a lot about not only the importance of believing in oneself no matter what, but also the idiots out there who will try to bring you down, as a result of their own fear. Jack and I shared a few difficult personality traits, not the least being the incessant need to be liked by everyone. Impossible to survive a life in public with this type of idea. Must create a new way of thinking, or perish.

I had setup an account with couch surfing last night, and my first attempt to find a couch was unsuccessful. The gentleman with the couch said I had obviously run out of money and wanted a free room for the night. He surmised this because I had copy and pasted my request, as I had sent a request to a few people. I thanked him for his feedback over a couple emails, and moved on, despite feeling a bit hurt by the accusation.

Off to Guadalajara!

I love you all very much, and hope you are well.

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.

Lee

At the onset of that long stretch of Southern Baja California desert, I decided to stop to take some photos of the magnificent vegetation. Within a couple of minutes a large white Dodge Dually pickup stops by, and a mean-looking white haired man exits. For some reason I'm feeling fear, and decide to face it head on. "Ola! Como estas!" I offer. No response. "Where you headed to?" he asks, and by now I'm thinking he's some landowner, or someone looking over these parts. I explain what I'm doing, and he softens. He mentions he's from Canada, not knowing where I was from. Turns out he's from Red Deer, about 45 minutes west of my home town.
Lee has been living in La Paz for awhile now, and holds citizenship in 3 countries. I gathered he was a pilot, and certainly fit the bill, with his clean crew-cut, and aviator glasses. He was heading to San Diego to see his daughter, and was forced to drive with only 4 gears, as he had just recently lost his 5th. Our conversation was interesting, and he enlightened me on several topics including flying in Mexico City (high elevation, very difficult), circumventing foreign ownership laws (the bank holds title to your property only as a national representative), and drug cartel business dealings (plata o plomo, which, literally translated means 'silver or lead', or do business with us, or die from a bullet).


He left me saying he had simply stopped to water a plant. "Which one?" I asked, thinking "What a nice man! He must be making a memorial for a fallen friend or something." "Oh, I just go out in the bush, and find one, probably that big one with the apples on it" Finally, I realize I've been away from Albertan humour in a while, and abashedly mention I wouldn't be eating any of those apples. We part ways with a giggle, and he comes over to the bike to offer some more advice on the upcoming windy road.

Nervioso

I had a feeling I was going to run into some troubles eventually with my passport, considering I had travelled over 700 km into Mexico without ever showing it.  I had moments of panic, with thoughts of a surrendered passport, be forced to return al the way to Tijuana, or some serious talking to; oh, that desert took it's toll on my state of mind.  I was already running against the wind, with the sun now officially down, and darkness the word of the day.  I pull up to the 'Oficina de Migracion', as noone seemed to be outside.  I was doubly confused after driving through a military zone, and unsure of whether I'd be met with policia, militaria, or a customs officer.  Sooner than expected, a man comes out, and in Spanish says that the office is closed, and that it wouldn't be open until 8:30 am.  I'm crushed.  I could see the lights of Guererro Negro in the distance, and there didn't seem to be any affordable accomodations within sight.  I turn around dejectedly and more than a little nervous about my upcoming sleep outside on the side of the road.  Back through the military installation, I spot some cars on the right hand side of the road, and assume they are people in the same predicament.  I start feeling somewhat better, and considerably less alone.  A restaurant further up seems open with it's 'Abierto' sign in the window, but it's awfully dark.  I ask the young man who pops his head out of the small, yellow &blue framed Corona-coloured kitchen window wall if it is indeed open, and he says it is.  Besides myself the restaurant was empty, save for a couple finishing up their meal.

The gentleman pipes in fairly quickly.  "You from Canada?"  in perfect English.  I tell them all about my trip, and the recent goings-on.  He offers to accompany me to the border after our meals, so I can at least get into town.  He tells me about his $1/2 million place in Cabo San Lucas, and how he's been unable to visit Canada due to some problems with U.S. immigration.  I didn't want to know, but I started getting a bit suspicious although I felt I was in no place to be picky about my associates.  I order a massive plate of shrimp with garlic & butter, which was accompanied with a big wicker basket of Mexican nacho chips and HOT HOT HOT salsa.  My 2nd beer staved off the heat below uncomfortable.  I buy a beer for my new friend's partner, who declines my offer of a Corona but offers her preference for Pacifico.  I was just so relieved to feel ok again I would have bought her a new car at that point.  As we're leaving, the young kitchen worker starts whispering to his female counterpart something, and I'm hoping it's about helping me somehow.  Neither of them spoke any English, so it was a hard go.  I pull out my dictionary, and we come to an understanding:  there is a campground somewhere near, and I'm welcome to stay there.   I follow him out of the restaurant over to the store, which is open as well.  A nice-looking older woman with jet-black hair tied back and glasses is behind the counter.  The young kitchen worker asks something to her in Spanish, and she answers to me in English.  "Yes, you can camp here.  It's $3 a night."  That was Lupita.  Since our lives have so haphazardly joined for a moment, things have been full of promise.  

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

Mexican Nightmares

Joel had teased me years ago when he was staying with me. His son was over from Ontario for the weekend. One night, I was having some kind of crazy nightmare, and was yelling like a frantic Mexican "Ya ya yayaya". I don't recollect what I was dreaming about, but I scared the hell out of him and Isaac. This morning, in San Diego, I couldn't fall asleep for the longest time, but when I did, I was dreaming of all sorts of people in my room, stealing things and extorting me for money. It was a relief to be in a hotel and realize the door was locked, but the bedroom was separated by a doorway from the living room and kitchen.
I was expecting to camp, and found the KOA in Metro San Diego. The city had literally engulfed it. There was a queazy feeling in my stomach about the cost of this place, yet I was fascinated by the idea of campgrounds in the middle of the city. I postulated about what I would say if someone asked me where they could camp in Vancouver. Stanley Park? Langley? I was at a loss. The young, exuberant man who drove up on his golf cart jumped off and had his clipboard in his hand within seconds. He told me the price: $49. That's right. $49 to pitch my tent. I said "Forget it". A 10 minute drive away, and I had a $44 hotel room with a kitchenette, and especially warm shower. This journey is turning out to be long stretches broken up by warm showers. I'm ok with that for now.
The Mexican border came and went. It was so fast, I ended up getting a bit lost in Tijuana trying to find it. I ask a police officer on a motorbike, and he tells me to turn right. I end up at the back of a several mile long wait to get back into the states. I get hassled by a man on the side of the road in a wheelchair, and I give him a buck for some really bad advice. I elect to ignore him, and back my way up. A woman with a few blemishes on her face, but excellent English, directs me backwards, and over a cement barrier to get going the right way. Now that's help I don't mind shelling out for.
Soon, two white police vans in the opposing lanes put on their sirens, and I thought "shit, I've illegally entered the country and they're going to put me in a Tijuana jail." I put on the gas. The first of 3 toll booths come up, and I ask the guy "habla ingles?" "A little," he sheepishly replies. "Where is the border? Why didn't I have to give up my passport?" He told me that until you enter another Mexican state, you do not have to show your passport at Tijuana. I couldn't believe the months of worry over the state of the Mexican border at Tijuana ended up to be so easy. There were two armed guards with massive guns at one point, but they simply waved me through, and nodded their heads when I gave them a big smile.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVpKCfot6xc

So, here I am, in Ensenada, Baja California, Mexico and my back is starting to really hurt. A cup of every piece of seafood known to man, bathed in a briney liquid set me back $5. Is this really 80 pesos? Well, it's definitely healthier than a McDonald's burger although my stomach is acting up a bit. I will be trying for Mulege, a town on the eastern side of the Peninsula, on Joel's suggestion.

Where in the world is Carmen San Ysidro

Damn, I'm hilarious. I have to be patient with my brain, it will work when and only when it wants to. I never played the game Carmen Sandiego, wasn't even sure exactly what it was about, but as soon as I'm in San Diego (or the southerly suburb of San Ysidro) my brain comes up with a reference to an 80's computer game.
The Mexican border has been a psychological blockade for several months and now, I am 1 mile away from it. The emails from Eddy about drug wars, worried parents and girlfriend, and of course several people's looks along the way after hearing I'm going through Mexico. It's a surprisingly chilly night; I'm back into the tent tonight for one last night before the behemoth is vanquished tomorrow. Me and the Mexican border. Somewhere between 0800 and 0900 hours. Must continue to put out positive vibes, especially in the face of fear and doubt.
Many religious references in San Diego, with a trailer sporting big, bold lettering "JESUS CHRIST IS THE LORD. IT IS NOT A SWEAR WORD." A bone-china white church with two parapets jutted out of the side of the 405 highway heading south. Oh yes, there are Christian extremists too, we only hear about them when they're burning the Qur-an in Florida.

Burning Man Exhibit D

The time had come to get lost. I wasn't sure if the rumours of deaths at Burning Man were really true, but I still felt as if I was embarking on a final journey. Perhaps it was merely a symbolic one. Perhaps the well-stocked backpack was cheating, in a way. Regardless of the infinite possibilities I set off with a pirate's constitution looking for his hidden chest of treasures. The goal: find the trash fence. Lacking in romanticism, but heavy in meaning, I set off past the centre of the camp, or the Man, past the Temple, and onward, splitting the clock due north, or 12 o'clock. Actually 11:11 was the approximate destination, a venture quested only because someone told me to check it out. All I found was endless desert. Imagine absolutely nothing. A void, filled only with sand on the ground, and darkening skies above. Now, you've walked for about 1/2 hour, and still nothing. Now, you're getting it. You're completely alone. There is noone to save you, noone to talk to, noone to feed and clothe you. A subtle change occurs in one's mind and heart, and a choice is inevitably made: stay with it, or run back to safety.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sDI7vdGuLoo

Moments later, an oasis, of sorts. 4 table settings, replete with white linens, dusty wine glasses, and china plates, reminiscent of a dinner party gone awry in the belly of the Titanic on the bottom of the Atlantic ocean. That desolate, that isolating, yet still eerily human. A few more moments of trudging through the desert, and 4 big, comfy couches accompanied by numerous plastic palm trees, umbrellas and table, and inhabited by a sleeping couple obviously planted there to scare the shit out of me. By now, I'm wondering how people can seem so comfortable, and unassuming in such a hostile environment, and at the same time questioning my own personal boundaries. Turns out I had very little tolerance, but this realization came late, as I still had to make it somehow back to camp. My overconfidence in my natural male ability to know exactly where I'm at directionally was further tested with a sudden white-out dust storm. My sunglasses were ill-suited to the intense wind that somehow squeezed sand granules between the impossibly small, microscopic space between glass frames and face. Looking down to somehow escape the torture of glass shards on eyeballs, I try to maintain my composure, and continue on towards camp, around 7 o'clock in respect to the camp layout. The wind delays for a moment to open up a massive construction set of ladders, ropes, and poles. "Hmmm..... I don't recognize this playset, but what the hell. Oh, they have a bar too." Turns out it is the Nexus Camp, situated on the very edge of 10 o'clock. A few steps to the right, and I would have missed a 50,000 strong human outpost right out.
Instead, I'm greeted by a bartender who says I can have a drink if I tell him a joke. Forever and eternity passes, and I cautiously come up with one. A white guy comes up to a urinal, and a black guy is beside him. The white guy looks at the black guy, and notices he has 'Wendy' tattooed on his willy. "That's crazy! I have the EXACT same tattoo on MY willy. It is a reminder of the love of my life, Wendy. Is your girlfriend's name Wendy, too?" The black guy hesitates for a moment, looks over, stretches his willy out, and says "No, man. It say 'WElcome to jamaica have a Nice DaY.' That was literally the only joke I could come up with on the spot. Classy guy that Jason. Luckily the next bartender said it was opposite day, which only translated to a vodka orange juice instead of a rum and coke. Diva's Garden was the true oasis, and felt like home upon my return.

Burning Man

Radical Self-Reliance is a term used at the Annual Burning Man Festival in Northwest Nevada to remind the over 50,000 participants to keep their own physical, mental and emotional needs in good stead. With blazing heat, sudden and surprising dust storms and white-outs, and bone-chilling cold evenings, one must come prepared. Regardless of whether you simply showed up with a tent and some water, or have been working steadily for the entire year, the Burning Man Experience will still find something to surprise you with.

The city is designed in a clock-like fashion, with camps starting at the 2 o'clock position, and going down to 6, and all the way over to 10 o'clock. Streets are then overlayed onto this clock, denoted alphabetically from 'A' all the way through to 'K' and beyond if necessary. The system works, and despite some initial acclimatizing, keeps people organized and able to find their camps. That is, if the address your camp gives you is where they are at. So, what if you can't find your camp? You can either fruitlessly continue searching for them, or ask if you can join someone else. You will soon learn about 'letting go', as the effort it would take to get what you want is trumped by the need to stop moving.

'The Man', affably named, stands perched on top of 4 pillars, at the centre of the clock. Not only is he a symbol of humanity, but also a beacon, and landmark for people to orient themselves. In spectacular fashion, 'The Man' is lit from within, and with a flurry of explosions, fireworks, and cheers from the crowd, he begins to burn, and eventually topples in a mass of flames. Destructive, beautiful, symbolic - everyone gets something different from the experience. A secondary structure, deemed 'The Temple' is traditionally a more subdued locale, and generally attracts that part of us that is in pain, and searching for a way to release it. The following night, it too is alight with flames, symbolically destroying the troubled past for some, or a grudge held too long for others.

In a frantic mix of inhospitable weather, surreal sights, creative self-expression, and brotherly love, participants of The Burning Man Festival are treated to personal experiences they may never hold in the 'real world'. People seem to come to their senses out there in the desert, both in spite of and because of the unique characteristics of the environment. It is a brief, if intoxicating vision, of what is truly possible when a small group of people come together to create something new for us all to enjoy, and to transcend ourselves for a grander purpose: one that is much, much larger than ourselves as an individual.

Tough

Last evening was one of the most trying yet, mentally, emotionally and physically. I had just finished my Golden Feet acupressure, got picked up by Eddy so we could deliver a present to Ben for helping me with the bike. I had ordered some pizza from Gigi's, and we proceeded to pig out before heading out to the west end. By the time we got to his house, he wasn't home, so I took the jack out of the trunk, and brought it to his garage anyways. Meanwhile, hydraulic oil had been dripping on to my leg, as my forgetfulness as to how to dismantle the handle of this jack caused the entire oil nipple to pop out. I'm trying to fix this damn thing for 1/2 hour and Ben and Christina show up. I felt embarrassed and uncomfortable, being in their backyard, giving them a present that didn't work, and having my 82 year old friend with me. Just social anxiety stuff, but it discouraged me so much; talking to good friends I trust and love, and feeling so distant, so unloved and unwanted. I knew I was creating all this hardship in my own head, but it was hard to shake it. It took a long conversation with Bonnie to sort it out. Woke up this morning with a whole new attitude, but if I hadn't taken the time, or had been given the time, to settle down, who knows. What I learned from it was the ability to 'settle in' to the pains, not to panic, and to calm the thoughts down. Give it some emotional salve. When the body, mind and spirit are in disarray, it can be excruciately difficult sometimes to pull oneself together - but it is the only option. The precipice leads to a deep and scary well of negativity and sorrow.

Selective Fear

The thought of riding a motorcycle through some of the most dangerous countries in the world is scary for some people; for me, not really. What was scary to me was the thought of swimming in Cold Lake, or amicably known as Buttermilk Slough. None of us had ever even considered going into this thing, but when Bonnie asked if you could swim in it, I realized how afraid I was of it. My dad then proceeded to tell us how Davey Lovell almost lost a big horse in the quicksand there years ago, and how, when he walked across it one exceptionally dry summer, the floor moved as if techtonic plates. Very unnerving! So, what exactly is this fear? It seems to be the fear of the unknown, if one were to generalize. What kind of bugs are there in there? How much goose poop and seaweed cover the bottom? My imagination simply get the best of me, and make it abundantly clear that we are all scared of something.
I am scared of people in authority, or decision makers in business. I am scared that they are going to say something not nice, or I'm going to feel uncomfortable, so I do everything possible to avoid being rejected: talk a lot, be very nice and don't ask for anything.