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Old 12-04-2013, 10:27 AM   #136
El Explorador OP
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Joined: Apr 2011
Location: Guatemala City, Guatemala, and going down!
Oddometer: 273
the soft side of the ragged edge

Cold droplets on my face wake me instantly. It is drizzling and the mosquito net is jewelled with water.

The pines are grey under cloudy morning; light seeps in from beyond the horizon where the sun has already risen. I pack quickly in the early chill, breaking my fast with single-serving peanut butter packets before setting off to lower altitudes where the pines give way to cacti.

I make it out of the wild hills and gulleys of the desert after a 4x4 points me in the right direction – the GPS track is long lost, and each time I take a path that looks like it should head to the city it veers away, leaving me staring at a labyrinth of dirt tracks that would be a blast to ride if I didn’t have a destination.

Arriving in Phoenix it’s Couchsurfing to the rescue again – Rogelio tells me to stop by to “see what he can do for me”. He sizes me up and decides I’m alright. I don’t yet know how lucky I am.

We bond over lust for adventure and I am impressed by his drive; at his age not many people have their own place and a nice jeep. He’s deceptively mature, and that seems to be the only thing keeping him in place; he loves what I’m doing but the total irresponsibility of leaping before you look keeps him building a solid life step by step instead. I can respect that. Still, his eye gleams with adventure as I share stories and before long we’ve planned to cross the border together to party in Juarez after celebrating his sister’s birthday in El Paso next week. So much for just changing tires and heading to Mexico. It’s a chill time eating massive amounts of grilled chicken, going to sleep by his otherworldly axolotls, and saving the occasional damsel in distress.

I purchase a big blocky TKC80 that should eat up any paths the road ahead can throw at me, and look for ways to kill time until it arrives. Phoenix is sprawling and uninspiring, low slung cookie cutter neighbourhoods and strip malls box inhabitants together and apart. I decide to take an alternative sightseeing trip, an Italian designed architectural oddity left fallow in the name of capitalism.



Stan Bergstein elaborates: “Phoenix Trotting Park ... was originally supposed to be built for $3 million, but [cost almost] $10 million, essentially bankrupting its builder, James Dunnigan... It was built of reinforced concrete, and could have withstood a direct hit by a hydrogen bomb... it went belly up and was bought by Sportservice, to make sure no reincarnation took place and its greyhound operation in Phoenix was protected. It is still standing, and some future travelers from space probably will regard it in the same way Stonehenge in Britain is regarded today……a monument built in the desert by sun worshipers.” Sounds worth checking out while I’m here.

Normally the most fun part of urban exploration is devising stratagems and puzzling over points of entry. The building stands alone a straight shot from the highway across a good half mile of dried mud and low scrub in any direction; subtle entry isn’t an option at midday. I gun it from the nearest road and stash Lost out of view while I poke around.



The strangely angled structure looms over me as I slide under a twisted gate and inspect this oasis of solitude, alone in plain view. It is a strange contrast to at once feel so isolated and so exposed. My feet crunch past graffiti and up frozen escalators. Highway sounds wash in; the only indication of life on this planet. I finish reading The Tiger’s Wife by the stairwell windows, and then use it as a pillow for a nap. No denizens lurk here to bother me; too far removed from the necessities of life, too exposed to be a decent hobo nest. Satisfied I’ve poked at the mysteries whispering in all hidden corners, I make my escape under the bold sun, none to challenge my exit anymore than my entry.





Fellow adventure rider Julio invites me to work on my steering head column bearings in his garage. I’m eager to follow the advice of more experienced riders; in short order he has me changing the fork oil and stiffening the shocks, lubricating axles, cleaning the filter. He invites me to stay for a delicious home cooked dinner and crash the night – why not.

I learn how he came from Puerto Rico to study architecture, living ten years in the Bronx for the cheap rent. A practical man after my own heart. Like Rogelio, I can see he’s excited for me, his own wanderlust ignited – but he’s got family. Lucky kid, between the bikes in the garage and the omnivorous library collection, he’s got the makings of a childhood to be envious of. Julio can’t ride with me, but he sends me off with a spare camelback that I immediately fall in love with.

Lost gets her new shoe and Rogelio is flying to El Paso so it's time to go. An hour into the 700 km ride rain starts. I pull over to put on the rain gear.

It isn’t anywhere. Somewhere far behind me, someone is opening a bag they found on the road and saying, "My, what a lovely set of rain gear!". This is going to suck.

Riding through the rain I remind myself I’ve weathered worse. I come from the land of regular -40 degree winters. Still I try to race out of the storm. The new rear tire has brutal highway handling – pinning the throttle the tire screams bloody murder and the whole bike wobbles in the rain. I stop at a gas station to warm up at some point and some Johnny down-on-his-luck tells me how he’s stuck here because he ran out of gas and has no more money. Suspiciously convenient place to end up, but what the hell, I’ve gotta spread the love I’ve been receiving.

I make it to Rogelio’s soaked to my bones, but after a hot shower I am happy to meet the family and they have beer and food at the ready. And most importantly, a bed – that was a long ride in the rain. Apart from the rainy arrival everything about El Paso turns out aces - I have the good fortune to find a rainsuit for twenty bucks on Kijiji, and Rog’s family are all great people, his dad even takes us out to see my first motocross show. I get a gleam in my eye during the races, but that’s a dream for another day.

Two days and too many beers later, I awake in the gazebo to clean up the feathers and fish my keys out of the pool while Rog dries his cell phone and cleans up glass shards. Despite my prizewinning hangover I am gloriously happy with my life. A parting kiss from a delicately beautiful lady doesn’t hurt either. I’ve met a brother in arms, and I mean it when I tell him we must meet again down the road. I say goodbye to his family, a bit abashed that we probably kept them up with our adolescent revelry last night.

Life has been good in the U.S.A. and I don’t regret extending my time, but the day has come.

Mexico is calling. Let’s go see what kind of real trouble I can get into.

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Old 12-04-2013, 09:54 PM   #137
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Quote:
Originally Posted by El Explorador View Post
Mexico is calling. Let’s go see what kind of real trouble I can get into.
This.
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Old 12-05-2013, 09:01 AM   #138
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Lol... I poked around the horse track five years ago while in Goodyear... Still following in my tracks haha... Ride on.
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Old 12-05-2013, 11:01 AM   #139
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Fucking subscribed. Amazing stuff man. I really need to do something about this damn job thing. 9-5 just doesn't sound as good as monkeying around old roller coasters and crashing Hotel buffets. Buena suerte en el sur de la frontera!
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Old 02-18-2014, 10:16 AM   #140
Juice_Pope
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Joined: Aug 2013
Location: Somewhere between Argentina and Texas
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Update on our beloved El Explorador

I happened to run in to everyone's favorite Canadian-Guatemalan motorcycling explorer in an undisclosed city in South America, but I will just say all is well and he is MUCH further along than this ride report lets on.

Lost is sporting some serious battle scars but she's still galloping on!
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Old 02-18-2014, 11:20 AM   #141
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awesome to hear.
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Old 02-19-2014, 12:02 AM   #142
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Old 02-28-2014, 11:18 AM   #143
Northstar Beemer
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Location: Frozen Prairies USA
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Continues to be a world class ride report -

You have a way with pictures, words... and evidently women!
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Old 03-10-2014, 11:21 AM   #144
Blader54
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Hoping for an update soon!
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Old 04-14-2014, 07:32 PM   #145
El Explorador OP
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Joined: Apr 2011
Location: Guatemala City, Guatemala, and going down!
Oddometer: 273
Did somebody say updates?

Remember me all? I'm back online, and writing like its my job! Great to see people keeping the thread alive whilst I keep making more adventures to write about. If I keep this pace up though, the end is going to have to be published posthumously!

(preferably later than sooner)
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Old 04-14-2014, 07:42 PM   #146
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Location: Guatemala City, Guatemala, and going down!
Oddometer: 273
The way of the guey

How to cross the border into Mexico:

Go towards Mexico. Pass the US Border. There, you’re done!

The Mexican frontier has no customs or immigration from the U.S. side, though they are hardly so lax with their neighbours to the South. Borders seem to be a one-way economic valve around here.



Crossing into Juarez is immediately interesting, not in the least because in my hungover fugue I both mislay my handwritten directions to the vehicle import office and forget to change money. I spin around in circles in Juarez till I’m pointed in the right direction and have seen enough to feel confident this place is not Mexico as most Mexicans know it. Trucks with gun turrets and armoured soldiers with heavy weaponry roam the streets, massive office buildings and hotels are betrayed as Mexican only by their low-slung and crammed together counterparts.

Customs takes a $400 deposit on the bike and an hour of my life, most of which is spent waiting for Jesus the copy guy to show up. A long desert road later I make it to Chihuahua for the night; Hostel San Juan turns out to not be the backpacker paradise the internet claims. I’m the only foreigner there, and the local ladies of the night add colour with their moaning through the paper thin walls. A drunk motions for help with his door in the dim and claustrophobic hall - he can’t get his room key to work – turning it works for me. Seedy, would be the word to describe the joint.

Looks great from the courtyard, though – I even ran into some architecture students the next day taking photos of the centuries old building.



I’m glad to connect with a couchsurfer the next day, and even moreso when Pepe turns out to be the most interesting Mexican I’ve met. A fellow shoestring traveller, we compare notes and talk about bar food vs. actually going out and purchasing nutrition. Lotta protein in peanuts. He is currently nursing several projects while interning as a doctor in a village South of Chihuahua. I’m fascinated by his RFID blood donor scheme, in which he proposes to insert RFID tags into the Mexican populace to track their participation in blood donations to know what is available and where for emergencies, as well as to encourage participation by prioritizing based on donations.

Apparently he nearly managed to secure an $800,000.00 grant for it and when it went through the ministry of Health the department head met with him to tell him she would only release half of the funds for the project, and tried to get him to sign off on the move. He refused to sign, good man, working with the next president to get the ball rolling, in the meantime occupied with his work and directing truckloads of medical supplies to remote villages.

We go on a tour of the city together where they point out the Angel of Liberty statue complete with laser-shooting sword in front of the palace or palacio as they call their city halls. There is an interesting series of murals supposedly depicting the history of Chihuahua inside, and on the other side of the walls a punk rock show protest is going on for unsolved murders of women in Chihuahua.





We go out to a rooftop cafe view of the city where I try cheese mixed with huitlacoche, a sort of fungus that grows on corn. Delicious, the first but certainly not last in a series of tasty latinamerican weirdnesses.



The next day we ride to the village where he practices – in Mexico all doctors must work a year in rural areas to graduate. I’m warned to stay inside the clinic but of course I go explore. On inquiring about the bullet holes riddling the town I learn there was a firefight. A long time ago, right? No, last weekend! The clinic is located by a roundabout that connects four towns, which apparently makes it the site of most conflicts. Chihuahua is a state in which mucho marijuana is grown, leading to much drug-related violence.

We check out a desert museum which is pretty cool for a museum, and on a whim head out an hour West for the world-renowned caves of Naica.

Turns out he has an uncle who heads security there, but at the moment it is closed to all, so we ride North an hour or so to a lake for fresh fish soup. Not having expected these impromptu detours, I’m in flip flops. Riding through the gravel roads we end up on is an interesting experience.

His friends put us up for the night, I play Kinect with their kid, and they feed us delicious homecooked dinner and breakfast. Three spinsters bring me savoury filled tortillas for lunch and interrogate me about my journey; two of them look at me as if I have a second head but the third is aglow with enthusiasm and excitement at the idea. This introduction to Mexico has been very interesting, I have been impressed by how open and friendly the people have been, I’m looking forward to whatever is to come.

For a long time now I’ve been contemplating via satellite image the Copper Canyon of Mexico. Perhaps this is the only way to do so, for in person its scale is completely overwhelming – six times larger than the so called Grand canyon of the U.S.A., twice as deep; I have set no time limit on this part of my journey. Who knows, I may never leave.

Next stop, Creel, gateway to the Canyon.

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Old 04-15-2014, 08:52 AM   #147
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Joined: Apr 2011
Location: Guatemala City, Guatemala, and going down!
Oddometer: 273
A desert rises ahead and falls behind on the journey to Creel. I can’t stop and see everything, to my chagrin. What I would give for another hundred years on this earth...

The route, though quickly deteriorating to remote gravel roads, is surprisingly well signed. Gotta get that infrastructure taken care of to shuttle beer in and precious metals out.

The cheap dorms I’d read about are full and I settle on another place with a Romanian couple I meet wandering the streets in motorcycle gear.

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Alex (Alejandro, here) and Andreea are an absolute pleasure. We talk about the journey, walk around town, I learn that in the same time frame as myself they left from Montreal two hours away from my own departure point, and went to Alaska before heading this way on Gunnar, their trusty V-Strom. They also stopped at Julio’s place on the way down, but coincidences have stopped surprising me by now.

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We head together to the famous divisadero through some delightful curves that temper our speeds with gravel-filled potholes. It feels good to take a ride without all the power ranger gear.



The vista is magnificent as we approach the canyon. Locals point out a rock jutting over the edge that teeters precariously, so naturally we head over to tempt fate.

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I talk the manager of the canyon’s cable car into giving us a free ride by introducing my new friends as Famous Romanian Documentarians. Alejandro is really earnest about making the interview we film with the manager into a quality product to repay him. It’s a truly impressive experience, soaring over the vastness of what is only a tiny corner of the canyon. The cables fall away into the distance, so far you can’t even follow them to the end with your eyes, as if the trolley could at some point just reach the end and slip off into thin air.

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After climbing around and playing on the edge of the void, we grab some of the delicious gorditas that everyone has been telling us to try. Alejandro, ever the optimist, uses the hand sanitizer as if that one tiny concession to hygiene could save him.



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Andreea wants us to get a move on.

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Creel is not quiet this night. The same notes are repeated over and over on a rustic sounding violin, punctuated occasionally by a group of voices yelling “woo!” well into the morning. Around 5AM I give in and go for a run up the Cristo Rey, as obligatory a town structure in Latin America as a greasy spoon in the USA. A middle aged paunchy fellow puts me to shame as he jogs up the steps past me, then points out the Tarajumara Indian party that had been causing the hubbub all night. They were right behind the hostel, no wonder it was so loud.

Further investigation quickly leads to me being accosted by a fellow who is well into his cups, and dragged into the brilliant Technicolor crowd where I am proffered tesguiño to my halfhearted dismay. On the one hand, drinking fermented maize being scooped out of a garbage pail in communal gourd-cups is something mom wouldn’t endorse. But my philosophy of never turning down an invitation forces my other hand. I try to ignore the echo of Pepe's advice in Chihuahua - "Don't try the tesguiño. They ferment it with spit".
I drink, and silently toast to shared immunities.

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The sludge at the bottom of the plastic garbage pail is pretty bad even before taking into account the flavour though – what was a liquidy potent potable at the top of the barrel seems more like regurgitated corn at the bottom. Still, I can’t get away with half finishing my generous bowl, they insist I finish up and with a smile I choke it down.

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The Tarajumara culture is very interesting in regard to these parties – wealth is displayed by holding them, and there is strong religious significance. The violins and group cries go on all night while dancers in religious garb circle a makeshift shrine to what I suspect is the Virgin of Guadalupe. According to their beliefs, alcoholic intoxication is a religious experience. As the night goes on, everyone keeps on chugging tesguiño and getting “closer to God”. Definitely beats “we broke up again” as far as reasons to hit the sauce go.
Fortunately I am rescued from my enthusiastic new companion by some other Tarajumaras who warn me to watch out for him.

Things seem to get a little tense and I make my way out of there to bid goodbye to Alejandro and Andreea. Their philosophy resonates with me in my untethered idealistic state – when they return, their priorities are to make a good life where they land, and to help build the community around themselves. Building a community, when I’d never considered another option apart from finding a community and adopting it. But then, I’m a nomad, a madman or nebunul as my new Romanian friends put it. My community is perforce scattered among the places I have known. But it lightens my heart to collect them as part of my disparate clan, members of which I have already encountered on the road, lost in a sea of complacent fellows or staking their claims for their own communities to flourish.

I enjoy the opportunity to allow these thoughts to percolate on the ride out; on my own again. In the unpredictable map of my plans, reaching the bottom of the Urique canyon is the only one that has constantly remained among the shifting futurescape of my possibilities. Arrival means traversing increasingly rural terrain until I’m on gravel and dirt with nothing but the occasional subsistence farmstead in sight, the landscape serenely shifting as I make it farther and farther from civilization as I knew it.

The canyon itself arrives gradually, and the impact grows and reverberates as I stop more and longer to drink in the unexpectedly gorgeous view. Not that I didn’t expect it to be, generically, beautiful... but this, no I didn’t expect this. Until you’ve seen some things with your own eyes, you can never quite imagine them no matter how much time you spend watching the world through a glowing screen.


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Everything the light touches

I stop to check out the Mexican Pre-fab home.

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At the bottom I stop, elated, and survey the impressive cliffs that surround me, hardly believing I actually came down such a slope on my motorcycle. My elation is interrupted by the improbably expensive looking white pickup that rolls up beside me, overflowing with shotguns and automatic rifles. The faces look friendly and they ask me where I am heading as if they don’t expect people to lie about where they’re sleeping to heavily armed strangers. Seemingly satisfied I have no business with them, they head off saying, “anything you need, come to us.”
Now I know who to talk to about filling something with bullets or guerrilla horticulture.

Should be an interesting time here in Urique
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Old 04-15-2014, 08:54 AM   #148
El Explorador OP
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Joined: Apr 2011
Location: Guatemala City, Guatemala, and going down!
Oddometer: 273
This episode brought to you by Micadu.ro

Thanks to Andreea for the shots of me!
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Old 04-15-2014, 09:59 AM   #149
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It was crazy that you all found each other down there.

I'm so glad to see you posting again.
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Old 04-15-2014, 11:00 AM   #150
El Explorador OP
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Location: Guatemala City, Guatemala, and going down!
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Hehe yeah, especially considering that in the same length of time they had travelled from the same starting point (more or less) to Alaska and _then_ down!
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