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Old 01-11-2014, 06:24 PM   #91
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This RR is killer. Your photography is especially good.
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Old 01-12-2014, 06:29 PM   #92
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Thanks mate!
The photography will actually get better once I start posting pics taken with a decent camera (starting in Panama... but we've got a ways to go don't we ;) )

Thanks for reading!
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Old 01-13-2014, 06:41 AM   #93
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Calm in Guanajuato

Calm in Gunanajuato

Upon first glance, Guanajuato (the state) is not very impressive. The rolling hills are pleasant, but are not as breathtaking as other parts of Mexico. The food is good, but not exceptional and does not rank among the best in the country (though I had the best steak quesadilla ever in a no-name shack along the highway). The towns are pretty, in a typical colonial way, but at first glance do not stand out. The people are calm which helps Guanajuato have the least amount of violence of any place in Mexico. The weather does not swing wildly, and mostly stays around a comfortable medium in the 70’s and 80’s. It sounds like the perfect place for retired expats to come – and they do! San Miguel de Allende, a town in Guanajuato, is more than 30% expat, and is accordingly 30% more expensive than the rest of the country.



Upon closer inspection Guanajuato (the city), is quite a feat of engineering, with lovely, bright colored buildings, a good University, café’s, bars, clubs, theaters and museums. It seems unprepossessing, but in the end it is a beautiful town build on, in and around mountains. It was also the place of one of my warmest memories from Mexico:

I was walking by one of the churches when an old woman called to me from the front seat of a pickup. She asked me whether I could help her out of the truck. There was a man in the driver’s seat, but for some reason he did not want to get out. After I helped her down to the curb I proceeded to walk down the street, but as I turned to look at the church I saw the woman was still standing where I left her. I came back to her and asked whether she wanted to go to the church (which meant some steep steps, crossing the street in traffic, then more steps). She said yes, and so we slowly made our way down, across, down, and into the church. She kept thanking me profusely, but I kept saying that it was nothing. But that was a lie. The little time and trouble to help her was nothing indeed, but the effect it had on me was priceless. There are few things I enjoy more, or which make me feel as good, as helping an elderly woman. Every time I feel like it is my grandmother (long since passed) – that by helping the stranger I am somehow helping her, spending a few more moments with her. And inevitably I am drawn to tears (though I shed none). I wrote a poem the other day called “Abuelas”. It is about almost every old woman I know – particularly Russians, and what I have seen so far of those from non first-world countries. It is about my grandmother, and the woman I saw in the street selling nuts, about the woman in the market who clutched at her cane with a gnarled hand, the one less gnarled than the other, but walked on, and worked her day somehow. It is about the women I see with bent back carrying loads that few men would undertake to carry, with baskets as big as themselves resting atop their heads. Women who do not give up, survive the impossible, who work until their dying day – not only because they have to, but also because they would never allow themselves to earn money by beginning. They inspired me to write, and I hope for many more opportunities to do what I can to them.



Before heading for Mexico City I decided to stop by San Miguel de Allende. I normally avoid tourist towns like the plague, particularly the thought of being in a place with so many ex-pats where prices are significantly higher, usually makes me go the other way. But I heard so many great things about the place I could not just skip over it – excellent decision! The town was incredibly beautiful – a perfect picture of colonialism. Though typical in many way, it was excellent in each of those ways: the streets were clean; trees, flowers and bougainvillea everywhere; the houses freshly painted; stone fountains and sculptures everywhere; the churches small but surprisingly beautiful. The town just did everything right – it got better around every corner I turned. A magical place indeed.

My host welcomed me into her beautiful home overlooking the whole town, and to the most comfortable bed and hottest shower I’ve had since leaving California. It was Thanksgiving, and instead of tortillas, tacos, quesadillas and the like, I had a traditional Thanksgiving meal – replete with turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberries, and pie! The 7 bottles of wine helped bring that old, familiar feeling of coziness and satisfaction.

The seven bottles were an avenue to yet another situation in which I found myself at the threshold of an encounter with an older woman. Had I pursued it I would have found myself knee deep in a Daniele Steele novel: the exotic, Mediterranean looking, setting; a young lover come to quell the passions of a woman who never stopped being consumed by the fire of carnal passion; fine foods and excellent wines to lure him in, dancing provocatively to Latin rhythms… The presence of her young nephews helped me make the right decision though.

It was a place I where I could have easily stayed to write for a while. But the more perfect it was, the more I felt the itch to keep moving. I was slowly starting to see the fallacy of my decision to travel in order to have the time to write.


Abuelas
The column slowly returns to the earth from which it came.
Curves and plump lips, a deep copper hue,
Stand in relief of the life and roads traveled.
Strength of one side supporting the weakened other.
Well-worn and oiled wood helps keep the column from
Sinking to its eternal rest.

Lenses of knowledge, only shimmer, only reflect,
And yet spark to glow every so often.
What will! What undying flame!
Try the winds as they may to extinguish,
Try the rains to drown and the dust to bury,
But the column only grows stronger as it curves –
Like an arch to support the greatness and vastness of creation.
The fire only burns more fierce in its little flame.

They came and went, and will come and go,
But she sings with the time, and only sighs
At the hubris of the burning needle without an ember
To give it substance and perseverance.
There comes no heat from the quick brightness of the needle,
It catches fire easily and burns bright for it is hollow -
It took no time to grow and see and become,
And so every spark sets it ablaze.

But that column of the ages stands, though catch fire it might,
Though it may burn from the inside and be left hollow and charred,
It still stands and sees and will not fall.
Only with time will it return to feed again the countless who will come after,
Just as she did those who came from her.

She has earned her name and her place –
Abuela.
And though we may pass her by with barely a glance,
she remains.
But when we do pause and heat ourselves for a moment
On her ember, we do not forget,
And are forever transformed -
Forever loved if we receive her gift of
Deepened valleys around burning lenses,
And a gust from her oracle’s chamber.
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Old 01-16-2014, 09:37 PM   #94
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Climbing Pico de Orizaba

Climbing Pico de Orizaba

Part I: Getting There

The climb to the 3rd highest peak in North America, began in Orizaba, Veracruz (1200m).



The morning I was set to leave I went to rent an ice-axe to the only place for such equipment. It turns out they only rent at 2 day intervals, at 150 pesos per rental, and I needed 4 days. I have never heard of such a thing – a 2 day rental for climbing equipment! Even when I’ve taken a 3 day rental, and brought it back on the 4th , I was never charged over. It is just not how the community works. I lost 2 hours finding this out and decided not to rent. The southern slope has no snow anyway.

After buying food for the mountain I went to Miguel’s (my host) house where his mother fed us an enormous and delicious breakfast of Eggs, beans, chilaquiles and coffee. Then, as I was packing Georgia a neighbor came up and asked where I was traveling. He had a pretty heavy gringo accent, so I switched to English. It turns out Dave came here 14 years ago, found a girl, married her, and has been here ever since. He is now the father of 2 beautiful daughters. The ice-axe incident at the store came up and he offered me his! The playa provides – even when far from it. He then invited me for a beer upon my return.

All of this delayed my departure more than it should have so I decided to see if Google had a more direct route than the one normally taken – which it found. However, what looked like a large road turned out to be a farmer’s road – made for horses, trucks and tractors – full of sand, rocks, ruts and holes. I ended up off-roading for almost 3 hours! I can’t believe this road was even on Google.

After a few hours, and yet another dump of poor Georgia, I arrived at the park. The first thing I did upon arrival was go the wrong way – I took a horrific road which lead nowhere. I spent an hour navigating the most off-road and difficult riding in my life. It alternated sand, deep sand, boulders, rocks, mud, ruts and gravel. At one point I had to stop and clear boulders from 200ft. of road – which in itself is not the most difficult thing to do, except at 3900m, where it is hard to breathe for lack of oxygen, the activity takes on a whole other light. I can’t count how many times I almost dumped the bike as the wheels slipped on stones, stuck between boulders or in the sand, or simply due to my in-experience with off-roading. But miraculously I didn’t drop Georgia once. I eventually came to an impassible part and heard a whistle from behind. I stopped and saw some people on the slope to my left. I wasn’t sure if they were hikers and I had found the path, or if they were workers. It turned out to be the latter and they proceeded to inform me that I had made the wrong turn at Albuquerque. All I just went through I had to do again, and I had to do it without thinking or groaning because the sun was setting. So I rode back, almost crashing the bike and smashing my head against boulders yet again. By the time I made it to the workers hut at the actual start of the trail, the sun was below the mountains, and Georgia had officially reached 3905m!



As I was unpacking I realized the ice-axe had fallen out! I quickly dumped my gear and started to ride back again! It was not my ice axe to lose. About a quarter mile down the road, before the tough parts began, I saw the workers walking toward me. One of them had my ice-axe in hand!

I rode back to the workers hut where I had left my gear. I asked the two older guys if they would not be bothered by me pitching my tent next to their hut. Instead of consenting, they invited me to sleep inside the hut. I hesitated at first, not wishing to cramp anyone’s sleep, but it turned out that there was room for at least two more. The night was getting bitter cold, and only promised to turn to freezing, so I gladly agreed. Shortly, the workers I had met on the trail arrived, and we all crowded around the fire. They put on a couple of kettles to make a punch from dried fruit and we talked and joked – huddling very close to the dancing flames. They offered me some punch and bread, and later when they heated a pot of meat and potatoes with some hand-made tortillas, they offered that to me as. It never fails that those with the least are always willing to share what they have. We then had a smoke and played cards. They taught me Hispaniola (a game similar to hearts or spades), to which I caught on, but still lost. By 8:30, as it was pitch dark and freezing, we retired to the hut where a fire was desperately trying to heat up the unsealed and un-insulated hut.



As usual I had a hard time sleeping and only managed a few uninterrupted hours. The rest of the time I spent going from sweat to cold, tossing and turning and going out to take a piss at midnight – always an adventure in the mountains. Never the less we all got up at sunrise – they went to work, I heated a cup of tea on the remnants of the fire, and wrote, before packing up and heading for the Albergue hut (my high camp before the summit bid the following day).





To be continued…
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Old 01-21-2014, 09:24 AM   #95
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Climbing Pico de Orizaba: Part II

Climbing Pico de Orizaba: Part - II

The Climb


5pm:

Climbing Pico de Orizaba (Citlaltepetl) began at the workers hut at 3900m, from which it took me 6 hours to reach the Albergue hut (my high camp) at 4633. I can’t count the amount of times I stopped, removed my overweight pack and just sat there starring off into the misty valleys below. At around 3000m breathing becomes a chore. This effect grows exponentially with every passing 100m. Sometimes I would even stop after taking only 3 steps. By the time I reached the hut I had only the strength to collapse and stare up at the 45 degree slopes of Citlaltepetl.



The path, hut and surrounding area were littered with people’s trash. Like so many other parts of Mexico, the mountain suffers from Mexican’s disregard for nature. People don’t think twice about tossing their soda cans and chip bags out of car windows, or on what could be a pristine path in the mountains – the concept of “leave no trace” has yet to make it south of the border.



11:30pm:

The wind, which brought a deadly chill to the evening had vanished, leaving a starry sky and a rare calm. For a mountain it didn’t even feel particularly cold.

After lying in the sleeping bag for hours I managed a mere 20 minutes of sleep. Add to that the broken hours of the previous night, and I could count on one hand the amount I have slept going on 3 days. At least the headache, which kept me from sleeping, had gone. Even my breathing felt a little less difficult. But still, I couldn’t sleep.



A group of 5 Mexican climbers came up around midnight. Within minutes they built a fire, and threw some tortillas and potatoes thrown on the first embers. We chatted for a while, talked about the mountain, climbing, Mexico, the filth of the hut… they offered me food and to summit with them later that night. This is just what I wanted – to not climb alone! But they needed to rest first and I couldn’t sleep. I figured I was a slower climber anyway, so I would depart at 1:30am with the hopes they would soon catch up.



1:30am:

It was just light enough that I opted against using my headlamp, and set off to an occasional gentle breeze and the helpful spotlight of the almost full moon which lit up the mountain.

Pale silvery glow of the rocks; hard shadows thrown from every minuscule pebble; shadows from larger boulders leaving in obscurity great swaths of path.



3:00am:

Based on my observations from 4600m, I determined what looked like to be the right path: a quick north-westerly traverse of a small boulder field to a rocky ridge leading up to the summit pyramid. The south side was nothing but a giant sand/dust and scree field – impossible to climb. The only options were the ridges and their relatively more stable ground, so I chose the one to the west – the closest to camp. The final approach on the south is entirely a scree field, but I would deal with that later. There was no snow or ice anywhere to help me. Whatever accumulation from a 3 day dump the previous week, was all gone.

As usual my going was slow, but it was not only the lack of oxygen which made me stop often to look around.



Directly south of Pico de Orizaba is another volcano, with an observatory at the top. To each side the valley is revealed and framed by two southern ridges of Pico. The stars in a cloudless sky, and the lights of the tiny pueblos, sparkled above and below. Hills to the far side of the valley retreated gradually into the ever-present mist. At that moment the whole world felt tranquil. I wanted less to go to the peak, than to remain in that contemplative calm.

Every step higher, as I rose above the ridge lines, revealed more and more of the valley. With every new twinkling pueblo I felt the warmth of a hearth and the comfort of a home. That it was 3a.m and I was alone on a vast and cold mountain, made no difference. Lights were on in the tiny clusters of civilization, which, by some miracle, remained in the fertile valley of Mexico’s section of the Pacific Ring of Fire. Conquest and disease, corruption and drug wars, French and American invaders, a dozen active volcanoes… all failed in displacing and snuffing out the lights below.

Sadly, what mountains are best for – contemplation, is not something they allow. No matter how fine the weather, more than 5 minutes of inactivity is the catalyst for a state of cold which is hard to get rid of.

I remember the views from every peak on which I have stood in the last 16 years. I also remember that every time I wanted to remain, to contemplate the great vastness, the insignificance of our hubris, the glorious testament to time and patience before me, I was always run off by the setting sun, 80mph winds, impeding frost bite, threatening cold or rain. As a matter of fact, in the last 16 years I have never spent more than 20 minutes at the summit of a mountain.

But only today did I realize that no matter the splendor of that view from the roof of the world – above clouds and pettiness – it is the presence in the mountains, whether in a valley or on a ridge, which is most gratifying. It is there, around, as opposed to on top the mountain, which lends one more time to observe and contemplate and listen to the great secrets which long ago every person knew.

And though I realized this, and with ever growing weakness from hunger, sleep deprivation, lack of oxygen and thirst, I still kept moving forward and higher.

But with every step my head grew more faint, my stomach more uneasy (more info here). As the water in my camel pack froze and wind began to pick up, every step became harder, and every time I would stop I nearly fell asleep on my feet. With the dehydration and increased altitude the headache returned to add to my joy. I began to feel dizzy and to stumble on the uneven and constantly changing path. What I thought would be a steadier climb turned out to be an alternating field of sand, scree and boulder. But in the moonlight I could not have known that traversing along the east side of the ridge would have allowed for a more constant, and therefore easier, assent.

Why, oh why did I not go to the north side where there is snow and ice and climbing makes more sense? The problem with sand and scree is that so often you need to take 2-3 steps in order to move forward 1. The constant sliding back and near rock slides which are avoided by draining spurts of energy, are the inglorious end to many a summit bid. For every 10 second burst of energy I needed a 4 minute rest. My fingers and toes grew more numb, and because I was not moving fast or continually enough, my body temperature kept falling.



5:30a.m:

I have now stopped and urged myself to turn around a hundred times. But after shacking myself from sleep and looking up to see how close the summit seemed to be, I would again venture a few steps. A few steps closer, a few steps higher, and the cycle repeats. I wished the sun would rise already and chase away the ominous shadows, but it remained bleak and dark and cold.

An agonizing hour later the grayness of the east began to take on a reddish hue. Finally the light is come! I stood gazing at the peak above and at the valley below. What splendor am I about to witness with the rising sun! I turned again toward the peak, took two steps, and in a moment realized I am still alone – the other climbers had not even started yet. My vision blurry, my head swimming, my water inaccessible; if I collapse and hit my head on a rock… I am alone. Even if the sun lights for me a golden path, that path would still take me through unstable ground at 30-45 degree angles. And if now I barely take 3 steps before almost falling from weakness…

With the summit so close I could taste it, I took out my GPS, marked my elevation at 5200m (my personal record), turned around and headed back to the hut.

Either as a consolation, or mocking, the sun rise was resplendent. I did not waste the opportunity to stop and gaze for as long as the wind would allow me.

As I approached the hut at 7:30a.m, the 5 Mexican climbers met me on the trail a few hundred paces from the hut. I told them about the trail, wished them luck, stumbled into the hut, made a cup of instant soup and passed out.

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Old 01-22-2014, 04:20 AM   #96
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live status update

It's not a good day when the camera and GPS, on which you spent your last pennies, break!!
The camera took a fall from Georgia and off Canelo (the actual horse I rode in the plains), and the GPS was destroyed by batteries leaking from the excessive humidity.
Already got lost in the mountains due to heavy fog, and found half of my pictures out of focus.
No bueno.

Off to cross the entirety of Venezuela in pursuit of the last drops from Angel Falls.

Cheers!
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Old 01-29-2014, 08:58 PM   #97
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Live Location Update

Just got back from Angel Falls!!
Now going to Mount Roraima!
Back in 8 days, and then 10 days of fishing in the jungle.
I will try to post before going fishing, otherwise, see you in a few weeks!
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Old 02-08-2014, 02:24 PM   #98
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Live Status Update

Two and a Half years on the road today!
47,000km. 12 Countries. 2 Continents. 2 Motorcycles. 1 New Language...

Back in Ciudad Bolivar, Venezuela. Next stop fishing in the jungle!
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Old 02-10-2014, 04:31 AM   #99
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Mexico City

Mexico City

Mexico City is everything one would expect from one of the biggest and most populated cities in the world. No matter how much I love and long for nature, there is an undeniable pulse, which only a big city has, toward which I am drawn – like a drug addict seeking his next high. The saturation of culture, the abundance and excess, the variety, the opportunity, the food, the women… a big city seems to have everything, and when you are deep within its cage it is easy to forget, for long periods of time, that you have not taken a deep breath in months. This is particularly true in this sprawling bowl of exhaust which we call Mexico City, where carpets of gray crawl ever higher upon the surrounding hills. Greens and Golds and Browns, all turn to gray with the continuous onslaught of a population which refuses to curb its reproduction for outdated Catholic bans on birth control. Every now and then a bright spot of pink, orange or red, but they are mere blips in the countless miles of gray concrete buildings.



Jorge, a brother of a friend from Ensenada, welcomed me into the frenzy on the very first night, and there we stayed until I left 3 weeks later. Most nights someone was over at his apartment, or we at one of his friends’, and with every gathering came drinking, smoking, singing, dancing and guitar playing. For countless nights we stayed up until the sun came up singing and laughing our hearts out. I have never been so reminded of Russians!



I have noticed this parallel between Russians and Mexicans before, but in Mexico City it was truly solidified. The large presence of communists, past and present, serves to further accentuate the parallel. During the height of Mexican art, in the 20’s, two of its foremost artists – Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo – were staunch supporters of communism (and even sheltered Trotsky in his exile). This means that so much of Mexico’s public art works, particularly murals, are of the Socialist Realism kind. Frida even decorated her corsets with hammers and sickles.


No matter the style, art in general stands at a very high level in Mexico – less for its collection of world masterpieces, and more for what it produces. Few Mexican artists have made it to worldwide fame, even of the 4 great muralists only one is truly known outside his country. But that says nothing of the quality of art found here. From little Ensenada, all the way to Oaxaca, I was constantly impressed by what I saw. Even modern artists in Mexico produce phenomenal work. There was, however, a strange dichotomy: as excellent as the art was, the curation and organization of the museums was generally quite poor. The organization of the pieces often made little sense; the lighting, with few exceptions, was horrible; and the amount of mislabeled and un-labeled pieces, or mistranslated labels, was astounding. This, however, did not stop me going to dozens of museums – all of which were treasure-troves of expression, color, evidence and history.

Some excellent examples of museums which are an absolute must, and not to be missed: Museum of Anthropology, Museum of Modern Art, Frida Kahlo House, Dolores Olmedo Museum, Templo Major, and Teotihuacan.

The enormous pyramids of Teotihuacan are an incredible sight. To walk down the ancient streets is to experience, in part, the grandeur of a society which flourished even before the Mexica (Aztecs). The site museum has excellent artifacts, and they are constantly revealing new buildings. Plaza Major, to the side of the cathedral, is the original center of the Mexica empire, from which pyramids the stones were taken to build the cathedral and plaza. You can literally look through layers of pyramids and see how the culture slowly grew and expanded in magnificence. The museum of Anthropology contains artifacts from the earliest settlers of the country all the way to the conquista. It’s breadth is overwhelming, as it covers every native group to have occupied the territory over the last 10,000 years, and therefore requires at least 2 days. The Dolores Olmedo museum is a treasure of Rivera’s and Kahlo’s smaller works, as well as a plethora of ancient artifacts. The grounds alone are worth a visit as they are beautifully groomed, and teeming with peacocks, geese, ducks, birds, hairless Mexican dogs… and other free roaming animals. The Frida Kahlo museum speaks for itself, and sometimes has special exhibitions of the family’s personal effects which give some insight into this spirited and revolutionary woman.



There was little else I could do besides go to museums as the city is quite expensive (for me). The wide range of fine food was as out of my range as it is for the average Mexican family. Luckily the markets serve delicious meals, and fresh squeezed juices, for around a dollar. The one thing I did splurge on – I could not help myself – was a concert at Bellas Artes – a theater worthy of its position in the capital of New Spain. I knew that it would be a very long time before I heard classical music again, so I had to go – another excellent decision!



For a person so rooted in European culture, big cities are a very real need. Most smaller towns in Central America do not have ballet or opera or art exhibitions or jazz. No matter how much I rather stay in the mountains, I’m inevitably drawn back to cities. I was also curious about one of the biggest Jewish communities in Latin America and decided to make my annual, random, trip to a synagogue. In a rare moment, I was unwelcomed somewhere, and of all places it was a synagogue. You can find the detail here.


I normally do not stay anywhere for too long, but in this case it was fate that I should. Jorge’s aunt was fighting breast cancer, and because I have experience with my mother’s two year battle, I readily offered to help. We spent most of a few days running from store to store looking for all the things she would need to follow the diet that in part cured my mother, and in part allowed her to withstand 2 years of chemo! I translated the diet into English, set her up with the food, and brought her a great book on how to help the fight with your mind (as most cancer is stress related). The whole family got together in the valiant effort to save her. This was all around Christmas – a perfect time to have everyone together, to feel the positive energy from those who care most about you. (For more information on how my mother beat her stage 4, spread throughout her breast, lungs, bones and lungs, cancer, please email me directly)

Christmas in Mexico City was a beautiful, if a little strange, time. The family kept most of the traditions, like the procession, call and response prayer of Mary asking to come into the home, the piñata, the traditional dishes like Bacalao, and of course singing and dancing. What gave it a kick was Jorge’s uncle, a chef who likes to make an occasional foray into producing gay porn films, who decided to stuff the piñata with little penis straws, condoms, lube, a ball-gag… you know, the traditional Christmas piñata stuffing. But the whole family had a blast – surely it was not his first time doing that. His greatest contribution was his artisanal Mezcal. Made from agave that can only grow wild on mountain slopes (all efforts to cultivate it have failed), it was the earthiest, most delicious Mezcal I have ever tasted – and I spent 3 weeks in Oaxaca (where Mezcal comes from) proving it. It was another night which lasted well into the morning, and was full of deliciousness of many kinds. I was truly beginning to feel that I had found another brother in Jorge.

But, inevitably, I was torn away with my need to continue. It is always hard to leave good people, but every once in a while it feels like a tearing apart. I’ve been fortunate enough to have made friends for life on my journey, and unfortunate enough to have had to leave every single one. I only pray the road, or the world, will bring us together again.

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Old 02-19-2014, 06:06 PM   #100
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Hello friends.
My mom just passed away.
I'm flying back to Minnesota from Venezuela tomorrow, so the book, the journey... all is put on hold for now.
I will get back to updating, as I am still only in Mexico according to the RR, as soon as I find reason to live again.
Thanks for following me so far...

Alexander
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Old 02-20-2014, 02:23 AM   #101
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Originally Posted by steelhorsenyc View Post
Hello friends.
My mom just passed away.
I'm flying back to Minnesota from Venezuela tomorrow, so the book, the journey... all is put on hold for now.
I will get back to updating, as I am still only in Mexico according to the RR, as soon as I find reason to live again.
Thanks for following me so far...

Alexander
hey dude, i'm sorry to hear that, it is always a very sad moment, i feel for your loss.

Now, i do know that you have a reason to live, you are traveling the world, meeting interesting people all around and helping many of us to know places that possible otherwise we would not be able to see, so take as long as you need, but do get back, we all appreciate it.

I know words always fall short on these occasions, but they are with the best intentions.
Keep on riding!

take care
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Old 02-20-2014, 04:33 AM   #102
legasea
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Location: Hanging on in a garden by the sea
Oddometer: 155
Potholes in the road of live we always come across.
The way goes on.
My condolences.
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Old 03-03-2014, 10:49 AM   #103
achesley
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Location: Jennings, Louisiana
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Quote:
Originally Posted by steelhorsenyc View Post
So I know it's not part of a normal ride report, but since I do dabble in poetry, being a writer and all, I thought I might share this with you manly men out there - just some things that the road, the steed, and the mountains inspire...
I will start with one, and if you guys don't want to see more, let me know, and I will stick to the roads, grub and women.

Our Road

The road forgives
Our use and wear,
She grips us tight
When death we dare.

She listens closely
To our wail,
She bears with patience
Our angry stare.

When we are lost
She helps us find the way,
She may be tough
But with her we will stay.

Though sometimes barely there,
And often filled with ruts,
We seek her still,
And take the wisdom of her bumps.

When on her,
The going may be slow,
But when she’s gone,
There’s no where left for us to go.

And if we sit
Too long in place,
We lose our selves
And are like holes in time and space

So always forward we will ride,
And throw the throttle back a nigh.
And let the wind make clear our head,
And let the road our suff’ring mend.



Dedicated to J.L and D.H of Seattle

Love it! Don't quite!
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Old 04-08-2014, 11:13 AM   #104
steelhorsenyc OP
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Location: Circumnavigating the world
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The Return

Greetings Friends and Riders!

The world is slowly returning to order after my mom's passing, and I am ready to post again, if not get back on the road. It will be a few months yet before i feel the leather of Georgia vibrating beneath me, but I will continue my ride report from the great state of Minnesota in the great north of the USA.

... and now that the snow has melted here I am so badly itching to ride - but Georgia is in Venezuela :(

Maybe I will even get to meet some of you scalawags while i'm here!

Stay tuned...
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Old 04-09-2014, 02:56 AM   #105
nameless
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Location: Portugal, Europe
Oddometer: 127
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Quote:
Originally Posted by steelhorsenyc View Post
Greetings Friends and Riders!

The world is slowly returning to order after my mom's passing, and I am ready to post again, if not get back on the road. It will be a few months yet before i feel the leather of Georgia vibrating beneath me, but I will continue my ride report from the great state of Minnesota in the great north of the USA.

... and now that the snow has melted here I am so badly itching to ride - but Georgia is in Venezuela :(

Maybe I will even get to meet some of you scalawags while i'm here!

Stay tuned...
Great to hear that :) we'll be here
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