Swimming with Gentle Giants

Sea monsters do exist. Far off the coast, where you can no longer see the white ribbon beaches or the highrise hotels of Cancun, in open water as clear as any pool back home. They congregate here, for the summer at least; and given the right conditions-- sunny, calm water-- congregate is too mild a word. They show up in droves, by the hundreds. Whale sharks. Propelled through the water by the gentle swish of a tail taller than most people, the great gaping mouth sucking in the plankton rich water. Swimming abreast one of these beasts, keeping pace, looking into its unblinking eye, watching the gills discharge and the attendant fish that follow like an entourage of groupies-- is like living a National Geographic episode. Time slows down. Stirring, majestic music springs to mind. You become the creature´s equal for a moment, and will carry that magic forever. It´s a fine way to end a trip; awed again at what this monsterous world has to offer. Yes, sea monsters do exist.

Stunning Sunning

Central America has a lot of beaches. A lot of beaches-- but while the Pacific side has great surf and the Atlantic has great diving-- there isn´t much in the way of traditional white sand beauty. Enter Mexico: stepping onto the beach in Tulum is like stepping into a Corona commercial. Postcard perfect sand, palms, sun and crystal clear water. Sit down under a thatch umbrella with a cold drink and you are a Corona commercial. The heat is a lazy enchantment, and under its spell you fully appreciate the ideal of doing nothing for nothing´s sake.

Mayan Cave Archaeology

San Ignacio in Belize offers a plethora of well known cave tours, giving the opportunity to explore Mayan history through remains hidden from the light of day for a thousand years. But if you know the right people and stumble into town on the right day, you can get a different kind of tour; ours was led by a dissertation student who has been studying Belizean caves for more than a decade. A bit more cavalier than most tour operators-- talking about psychotropics, strip clubs in New Orleans, and how he was ¨going to party [his] balls off tonight¨ between eagerly pointing out cave art and eroded architecture-- but no less passionate or knowledgeable about the caves we were exploring.

And what caves! There was no squeezing between boulders; some of the rooms were a hearty stone´s throw across and football fields long. There were intricate carvings, indicating the life that went on in the caves, and there were bones, skulls and teeth, to indicate the death. An altar of sorts that lit on the equinox, the sun´s rays illuminating droplets falling from the cave roof, and faces carved into stalagtites only visible by torchlight. And always the allure of more, deeper into the abyss: bat guano quicksand, pure azure lakes, caverns magnitudes of size larger, with no end found yet. ¨Real National Geographic stuff ¨our guide intoned appreciatively. I couldn´t have said it better.

Under the Sea

Sometimes pride gets the best of us. Almost as an afterthought the snorkeling guide asked if we were all good swimmers and had used the gear before; I've gone snorkeling a few times and figured it was no big deal. Think is-- I'm not a good swimmer. And that can become apparently obvious at the worst times. In my case, the snorkel wasn't set up properly, and the tube kept falling into the water; so instead of swimming, I was more doggy paddling after the group, in search of Caribbean manatees. The wind was fierce that morning, and the waves piled up in a frenzied rush towards me. At some point, salt water swelling my throat, I looked around and couldn't see the boat or any other snorkelers. It is a most surreal feeling to be suspended over a stinging coral reef, in open water. I remembered the episode of Magnum, P.I. where Magnum had to tread water all night until he was rescued by a helicopter. I figured I was in no real danger, but I wondered how long I'd paddle if I had to-- probably not the 40 minutes we'd spend at this site.

So moments later when I caught up with the group (only a few waves over) admiring the gentle beauty of a manatee, I did what I had been telling myself all along not to do: I quietly panicked. I tried to slow my breathing enough to use the snorkel, but couldn't. I tried to float calmly instead of scaring off the timid creature with my thrashing legs, and couldn't. The fleeing manatee sent the group scurrying off again, with me limping behind. This time however, the guide noticed my struggles and brought me a life jacket to float on. I discarded any pretense of pride and floated gloomily back to the boat. But I'd glimpsed a manatee, and later I'd float serenely with sharks, sting rays, eels and sea turtles. The clouds lifted, so to speak, to leave me pleasantly sunburned.

You say hello, I say adios

Today marks a special occasion. We reached Belize, the first day in a month we've been in an English speaking country. Being around your native tongue, you drop your guard, release a tension you didn't know you were holding. You see and understand things clearly, instead of half translating/ half guessing. The automated Spanish you pick up in your travels, which gets you around with no real expression, gives way to something real. Even with the simplest of replies, the inflection gives a range of meaning beyond my comprehension of Spanish. That must be what fluency is about-- more than the vocabulary or conjugations, its the ability to manipulate your sentence to transcend the meaning of its individual words.

Speaking of transcendence, we celebrated (or mourned?) Michael Jackson's passing at a nice restaurant on the beach tonight. Lobster in a succulent habanero garlic butter, caught fresh that day. Actually they were pulling one out of the water when we walked by the restaurant. They played only the King of Pop, and served free jello shots made from overproof Belizean rum. Kids danced outside, while we slipped home for an early bedtime.

Four Countries in 24 Hours

Gorgeous green mountains sqeeze in from the distance, waiting patiently in line, six or seven deep. That´s how I hope I remember Honduras: green mountains, red terra cotta roofs and smoky cooking fires. Not as the country that overthrew its government only days before we were due to arrive. Last time in Honduras I met great hospitality-- this time I interacted only with the military, at two borders and a checkpoint.

And so we head to Belize the long way. Managua through southern Honduras to avoid the capitol and its massive civil demonstrations, to San Salvador for a seven hour night and onto Guatemala City and Flores. Twenty-five hours of bus in 2 days, but we´re eager to get closer to Cancun and our ride home. Eager to put long bus rides and borders behind us.

O Granada

Where else can you stay in an ex-president´s house (ex as in exiled, unwelcome like so many Latin American leaders make themselves) for six bucks a night, take a horse carriage around the central square and then be hugged by street kids wanting your money? Okay, probably anywhere. But Granada may be the only place in all Central or South America with Mountain Dew.

I mention this as an allusion to its assimilation of Gringo culture. Not entirely, of course. At least not yet. About three blocks behind the Cathedral have been bought up by foreigners and turned into boutique hotels and fancy restaurants. If it sounds like I´m put off by this, I´m not; I´ll gladly pay through my nose for a cold Mountain Dew to fend off the indefatigable Nicaraguan sun. At the heart of it, is that nobody captures the feeling of home like a foreigner. You may have come to experience local flavor, but how many plates of rice and beans can you stomach before you give in a grovel for waffles and granola and unlimited refills of coffee made without powdered milk? You pay more, sure; but at least butter is included with the toast, as opposed to being an additional charge. Sometimes it seems as if every corner is cut to lower expenses-- at the expense of the consumer. That might sound like the American way, but it takes a lot of getting used to; we expect free bathrooms, free refills, free condiments, we hope for free breakfast and internet.

The down side is that we follow this trail of freebies to a cheap hostel where we´re seduced by the hammocks and soft music, and the allure of fellow travelers. And then we don´t leave. We stay isolated in our little domicile, self contained, shut away from the country and culture at large. It´s a balancing act, and you´ll meet people from both extremes: those who go to any length to avoid meeting other tourists, and those who go from the airport to the Hilton and back with the windows up and A/C on. Travel should bridge these worlds; to accept the changes we affect, instead of ignoring them always.

Conception

Blood pounding in your temples, sweat drenching your brow, the jungle reverberating with howler monkey cries. Sometimes it all seems too much; like you´re reading an adventure novel, instead of traveling. But as my shredded shoes and sore legs will attest, climbing an active volcano is a very real experience. At the top the rocky trail is too hot to touch, and the sulphur fumes too potent to breathe for long. But the view-- well, hazy and cloudy. And such is travel. You don´t know what you´ll see from the top, but it´ll be a long, hard (worthwhile) journey.

Who Needs a Hotel?

I wasn´t there, so I can´t be sure, but I think it happened like this. They showed up to the Hotel Castillo´s outside bar around nine, before the rain. At some point they must have felt pinned in by the downpour, and only one option presented itself: continue drinking cheap Nicaraguan rum until the rain stopped.

What I do know for sure, is that they were still there at five in the morning-- slumped over their glasses asleep.

Miscellaneous Memories

Hammocks on the beach, bonfire and Bob Marley; lightning on the horizon, silver streaks backlighting Christ on the hill. Tiny kitten, perched on a palm stump. Sixteen years old Finn, studying abroad in Costa Rica; shock of red hair, the only gringo in his village. Vultures eating a dead dog on the highway. Vultures sitting on the picket fence, every picket. Seeing Isla de Ometepe suddenly, after crossing the border-- the frustration melting away as the twin volcanoes rose from the beautiful lake at sunset. Being pulled onto a moving bus through the emergency exit. Relearning how to use the camera. Finding a crab in my bed-- in the mountains. Laughing while gasping for breath in the raft. Coconut rum and coke. Hearing about swine flu in Mexico. Hearing about robbery in Guatemala. Hearing about robbery in Nicaragua. Seeing Honduras fall to Anarchy on the news. Meredith being robbed in Costa Rica. Is this a cursed continent? US blowing a 2-1 lead over Brazil, to lose in the last 15 minutes. Being told the shower will work later; that the internet will work later; that the bus leaves every half hour; that the bus leaves every hour; that this bus leaves in three hours, no this bus leaves in a quarter hour. The dancing flower photograph. Running trampoline style across a suspension bridge. Looking for iconic photos; sometimes finding them, sometimes finding something better. Malinche flowers strewn like rose pedals. The fattest pig ever. Orchids on the path, the relentlessly steep path up Conception. A whole plate of french fries, and never a drop of mustard.

Repent and Expatriate

What is the new American Dream? I think I've found it.

The white house and picket fence of old-- idyll, but too idle for today's generation-- has been replaced with something more active, though just as quaint and innocent: the coffee shop. Not Starbucks, but something at once new and nostalgic; the homey, earth friendly, indigenous art on the walls kind of place, where people gather in the dim natural light and listen to sounds of the rainforest (or use the free wi/fi-- whatever).

Here at the coffee shop in Nicaragua where I'm writing this, the owner roasts his organic homegrown beans daily. He talks about the ecological consequences of Nicaragua's proposed canal, and the socioethical consequences of gringos taking over political control of a tropical paradise such as this. It's as wholesome as whole wheat bread; but before all this the owner was an oil company executive. It makes me think of Global Village back in Raleigh, with its organic shadegrown yada yada; the owner there was a marketing exec for Slim Jim before being reborn into environmentalist coffee. (I generally wouldn't compare Slim Jim to Shell Oil, but the factory that exploded several weeks ago and left a toxic cloud over North Carolina makes me wonder).

Neither shops fills a real need-- Hillsborough Street averages about one coffee shop per block, and here in Nicaragua the appeal is more about being around other gringos and escaping the need to speak spanish than anything else. So why coffee? I think it represents some kind of repenting. How could the warm, smiling face serving up delicious iced mochas from fair trade coffee possibly be associated with assassinations in Nigeria (Shell finally settled last month for $15 million) or stolen indigenous lands in Ecuador (the Cofan are still fighting this, both in court and in the rainforest)?

Or maybe, cynically, it's just the pursuit of profit in our new "green" economy.

Riding the Bull

Whitewater rafting is a chaotic first time experience. Whereas most tourist adventures are pretty straightforward-- zipline over this canyon, rapel down this waterfall-- whitewater introduces a dizzying number of varials. The river changes day to day, especially here in Costa Rica where a majority of the rivers are dammed for hydroelectric purposes, and flow is controlled not just by daily torrential rain, but by some guy sitting in an office at the dam upriver. Factor in the earthquakes that move around the river´s rocks, and that passengers are relied upon to help propel the boat-- and you´ve got quite a situation.

While commands are simple (paddle forward or back, stop paddling and throw yourself into the boat), following them while being smacked in the face with waves isn´t. If you can hear the commands over all the screaming. And sometimes you go to paddle and find the water just dropped out from under you-- or else the raft just bounced several feet off a rock. So its disconcerting to hear the guide talk about the ¨other¨ river in the region, the one that families and newbies start on. That river is definitely not Rio Toro, Bull River. But then, who doesn´t want to say they rode the bull?

Arenal, you´re just a--nother...

Dark, winding mountain roads at night, in the fog, in a volcanic countryside. High speeds. Red reflectors lining the road, lit up by the headlights, beckoning like a runway airstrip-- the illusion of flying melding with its metaphor. An accident on the other lane, and the driver wipes the inside of the windshield with a rag; as if he too just realized the potential consequence of manic latin american motoring. Turn onto a gravel road, the sole interior light flickering from a shorted circuit, in tune with the road. Each jarring pothole giving you a flickering chance to see this night´s companions: three germans, three americans. No names. And it strikes you as odd, for just a moment, that all this seems normal.

The driver pulls onto a bridge and stops, cuts the lights. To your left-- lava, spilling down a distant slope, like hot ashes dancing on the highway from a dropped cigarette.

From L.A. with Pepper Spray

Met a german girl tonight who is bringing pepper spray back as a souvenir and gift, because it is illegal in Europe and quote: ¨yeah, pepper spray is awesome.¨

The Forest at Night

The white faced Capuchin monkeys climb high into the trees to settle in for the night. After a long day of leaping from limb to limb--the longest day of the year, today-- they seek safety from the predators awaking below. Actually, a majority of the forest's creatures are becoming active as the cover of night closes in; sloths begin their slow migration, armadillos shuffle blindly from their dens, tarantulas stalk prey from the mouth of their caves, pit vipers unravel and slip to the forest floor to wait for rodents. The cicada's deafening drone gives way to the rhythmic chirps of crickets. Never quiet and never dark-- fireflies flash at regular intervals, while bioluminescent inchworms are seen sporadically. Lightning on the coast adds to the display, illuminating orange and purple clouds in the distance. The greens of the day, ubiquitous in Costa Rica, fade to rich hues of blue and deep, impenetrable black. Hidden somewhere in this blackness lurk the jaguars that grace the covers of books and countless postcards in Costa Rica's gift shops.

The star of this night, however, is neither rare or creepy, nor cuddly or colorful. The leafcutter ant-- or several million of them-- steal the show with their prodigous work ethic; laboring without stop through the night to serve queen and colony. The smaller ants clean the leaves of parasites and fungal disease, the larger soldier ants guard the colony entrance and protect the workers travelling a hundred feet or more to reach that entrance. The average sized workers, which give the species its name, cut and carry leaves many times their size over huge distances, for the several months they are alive. Deep in the colony (this one was about 18 feet deep and probably the same in diameter) the leaves will incubate a special fungus found only in leafcutter colonies, and its sole source of food.

The fungus cannot exist without the ants, the ants cannot live without this fungus; a whole society is formed around this beautiful relationship. But within a decade, the queen dies and the colony disappears, like so many rays of sunlight beneath the canopy.

Green Coast Mystique

Less obvious than the banana and palm oil plantations that line the coastal highways are government subsidized teak farms. These expensive hardwoods are planted close together, forcing the saplings to compete for light by growing straighter and taller than they would naturally. This allows longer boards to be cut with less effort, and results in fewer knots and weak spots.

It also allows the teak farms to undercut wild harvested teak prices, lumbered illegally from rainforest clearcuts. (The growing expense is offset by not having to slash roads into the wilderness, and also because many of the the trees clearcut are softwoods with low prices.) If the numbers are to be believed, this practice has cut illegal deforestation by 80%. Wheras its' neighbors are finding themselves with increasingly smaller rainforests, Costa Rica actually has more now than twenty years ago. Which means hopefully the green coast's mystique will last for years to come.

A Life Aquatic

Pluck a starfish from the living ocean, and hold it like a rock in your hand; waves lap the boat and ripples blink at you in procession, but the starfish-- neither fish nor star-- is still and silent like the night sky. Return him and the ocean´s clear eye twinkles to you: a subtle reminder that, we too, once called the ocean home.

The sun broke up the grey sky just as we arrived for snorkeling, illuminating the cystal clear water and giving its inhabitants a graceful shimmer. And so of course the first fish you see, so obviously large and uncrowded between docks behind the restaurant, would be a barricuda. Honestly, the name evokes more than the image, because I would have called him a sturgeon or needlefish and jumped in right there for a closer look.

Thankfully, other passengers on the boat were suitably impressed to point him out before I made a meal of myself. Later, the barricuda would leave his sunning spot, the only piece of ocean in sight empty of fish, and come to the front of the dock where a school of some typical carib fish was ripping meat off a drowned crab. Staring intently through the magnifying snorkel mask, I heard children screaming above water on the restaurant platform. ¨Cuidado! Cuidado! Barricuda!¨

No fight or flight--a puzzled look towards the children then a long look underwater. Nothing. More screams, another puzzled look, step closer, look again under water: barricuda fills up your whole field of vision. Quietly panic so as not to embarass yourself and step behind another snorkeller. No need to get away, just get further away than someone else. The barricuda, apparently bored or untempted by gringo sushi, returns to his sunspot. Leaving us free to explore the reef, marvel at the brain coral, herd schools of fish, and pass under the shadowy docks unhindered, driven by a nervous curiosity.

Zissou would be proud.

La Frontera: Another Day, Another Dollar

Ecologically, borders are notoriously rich in terms of biodiversity. Where a forest meets a swamp, or freshwater mingles with its salty cousin, opportunities abound for life to exploit a niche environment. Econonically, borders are notoriously poor, violent and exploited themselves; think of Tijuana or the Malquiladora zones on the Mexican border.

But political borders offer niche environments to their citizens as well. Take the border crossing from Costa Rica to Panama: after being escorted across a rickety bridge by a local looking for a tip, paying for a visa, and being hustled into buying a ride on a crowded mini-bus because a) there is no regular bus, and b) that bus that doesn´t exist costs the same and takes longer, you learn that to get stamped into Panama (nevermind you already paid for a visa) you need to buy a return ticket to Costa Rica. Return tickets, regardless of whether you want to go half an hour across the border or all the way back to the capitol, cost the same. Nevermind that you´ll never use the ticket because you´re travelling elsewhere in Panama. Nevermind that the border officials know you aren´t going to use the ticket that supposedly prevents you from living indefinitely and illegally in Panama. Nevermind you´ll probably face the same scam returning to Costa Rica-- then you´ll need a return ticket to Panama, forever bounced back and forth like the ball from Pong.

Arguing does no good, reasoning and pleading do no good. You´re a rich tourist and you´ll pay the bribe rather than turn around and go home. Everyone knows what is going on, but refuses to acknowledge their part. The bus hustler complains with you, the ticket vendor smirks under her breath, the border official plays it by the book. (¨I don´t care if you´re going to China next, you need a return ticket¨). We, as tourists, share the experience, but we take it home in different ways: does this justify our own exploitation of others? Or does it make us empathize that much easier?

Going Bananas

First you see the fields, the endless rows of banana trees, the ditches separating them, the planks laid out haphazardly as bridges from row to row. Next, you see the shipping containers laid up in storage, five or six stories tall; first Dole, then Del Monte and Chiquita. Last you see the warning signs; don´t enter this field because of the dangerous chemicals sprayed. And the worker´s shanties laid out haphazardly in the shade of the broad banana leaves. And the kids playing soccer in sight of the warning sign. You won´t see the resulting health problems from a bus window, but I can see myself only buying organic bananas in the future.

Novelty

Because my plane came in 10 hours late and no restaurants were open, and because I skipped my free breakfast to frantically search for an internet cafe and my separated travelling companions, the first food I had in Costa Rica was a bag of ham pizza flavored chips, bought for a long bus ride. (For the record, yes, they tasted like ham pizza. Or rather like pizza flavored chips with ham added. Which is to say, they tasted like ham pizza flavored chips. A lot of words to say nothing).

It was a novelty purchase. But it made me notice the number of people texting on the bus; these weren´t rich people-- they lived in little tin roof buildings on the side of the road, with clothes hanging out to dry and rusty dead cars in the yard. Cell phones and texting must require some measure of sacrifice. Is it a novelty for the culture, or a legitimate need? Cell phones are being held up as a modernizing force in Africa, one that will liberate people and lift them from poverty. Is that possibly true? Or just slick PR from Sony and AT&T? I´m always amazed at airports by the way businesspeople stay so busy on their Blackberries, organizing and rescheduling and ¨touching base¨. But where there is no business, can cell phones be any more than a lazy way to pass the time?

I don´t think I´ve ever seen a local reading on a bus. I don´t know if books are unavailable, or if reading is not a priority. Maybe the people are semi-illiterate.

My first impression is that cell phones should not be driving social change. Looking at my own life, however, of all the monthly bills I´ve given up-- rent, electricity, water-- the cell phone has stubbornly hung on. Is that desire for communication and connection an innate urge? Or an unhealthy addiction?

A Bicycle and a Bird

Many birds migrate thousands of miles under their own power. How many of us can say that? Is there some value in mimicing that experience? Flying all day in the heat, in need of food and water, across homelands displaced. Looking for a camp, night after night, away from whatever is out there to get them. Somewhere safe and dry and warm. We're not so different, cyclists.

To Climb a Mountain

Cycling can be an emotional experience. Here's what I mean: fatigue; you've gotten up early far too many days in a row, slept in a bed twice in the last 8 weeks, your knees hurt and you're just plain tired. Mind you, this is before the day's riding has even begun. Soreness; knees and legs screaming in unison, brain trying to ignore the fact that you're still on the flats and haven't started climbing the mountain yet. Frustration; to get up the mountain you need to granny gear it, and to do that you need to take all the bags off the bike and manually change the gear. Probably should have had that fixed a while ago. Anger; some at the bike, some at your weak legs, but mainly just to get the job done; like in Dodgeball, "You gotta get angry. You gotta get mean!" Elation; short lived, but hey-- anger is working! Fear; elbows grazing the semis hauling hay up the mountain. That sweet sour smell... what is that? Look down and see a broken animal carcass. That's what happens if your legs give out here; no shoulder and no mercy. Indecision; you've made it up the first grueling six miles, now: take the shorter steeper route? Or the longer, more level route? Follow the wide shoulder up the long and level. Regret; elevation isn't everything. Constant, brutal headwinds try and force you off the road and off the bike. Maybe the other way had no wind? Too late! Resignation; you're going up and over this mountain whether it takes a day or a year. Walk, if you have to, grimace if you must. Fix that flat and move on. Remember the Mountain Goats: "I'm gonna make it/ across this mountain/ if it kills me..." or something to that effect. Besides-- you'll be too busy laughing all the way down the other side to remember any of this.

Slab City

Let's start with Salvation Mountain. The story, or at least how it's told out at the slabs, is that a man in a hot air balloon landed at Salvation Mountain-- at this point a piece of nondescript and hostile looking desert-- and built a painted spectacle with straw bales and lots of free time. Fast forward and Salvation Mountain is designated a National Monument. Fast forward a little more and you have a thousand people wintering at Slab City, what used to be part of an airforce base and now neatly protected by the Mountain's monument status.

Full of hippes (the original, about the expire type) and dropouts, the Slab is "the last free place". Free to camp or park your RV year round, free to be away from cops and society and do whatever freedom means to you. I was lucky enough to be brought into a circle of people known as the Oasis Club; membership lets you use the library and check out videos. Nonmembers can still get the $3 all-you-can-eat Sunday breakfast, something to look forward to after a night at the Range-- an open air talent show that may have been in "Into the Wild." It's an amazing place, but also a sad place. Full of faux intelligence and set-in-their-ways freedomists. Full of people who wouldn't belong anywhere else, and have found a community of each other. A place of quiet desperation-- old men offering you a hit, just to have someone to talk to-- and a place of great inspiration-- sitting around a campfire singing Beatles songs to an acoustic guitar.

A place both obvious and replete with mystery; after breakfast a woman arrived with a skinny well dressed 14 year old-- not her son, but whom she was in the process of adopting-- who could recite the periodic tables and totally upturn the social hierarchy. Mike Bright, the smart guy who rides an electric beer cooler around the Slab, was left dumbfounded and defeated. Who was this kid? Was he kidnapped? His guardian said "We'll just call him Kailin for now"-- an usual name, and also a street across from Slab City-- but in the end it didn't matter. "We don't have to compete," he tells Mike Bright, "we can work cooperatively." Wherever he's from, he's now where he belongs.

Holtville: A parable?

After a long hot detour from the interstate I sat outside a food market an had lunch (tuna for protein, corn chips and soda for calories) and came to a kind of disturbing realization. Everyone driving by seemed normal enough. People driving to the store seemed normal enough. But everyone walking or cycling to, near or around the store seemed to be a cripple or mentally retarded. It was odd at first, though I didn't think too much about it. But as I left, my knees aching, I began to wonder what that said about me-- was I too a cripple? Was I a retard for biking somewhere instead of driving? Why was I doing this?

Almost out of town I passed a man slumped in a wheelchair, in the street, facing traffic. He looked defeated, resigned to his fate. And I thought I should do something, and I thought about all the times off the bike on a lonely roadside, people passing and not acknowledging me. Ceasing to exist. I didn't need help, but I wanted someone to offer. To reassure myself I'd make it through this desert, this oddysey in one piece. But everyone is too busy going somewhere to stop. Now I was the one too busy-- trying to get to a campsite before dark-- so I looked back and grimaced, but didn't stop pedalling. And I see I'm no different than the people in the cars after all.

California Dreamin'

Cross the Colorado on I-8 from Arizona and suddenly you're in California. No visitor center, no free maps, but hey-- you made it. Things will be easy from here on out, right?

The shoulders are less well maintained in the California freeway, which is a moot point since it's illegal to ride them. After being pulled over, frisked, and interrogated about just why I wanted to ride a bicycle to San Diego ("you know how far that is?"), I was escorted back almost to the border and dumped onto a frontage road. These frontage roads look like they haven't been paved in a hundred years. If first impressions mean anything, California looks like a dud.

No, I take that back. California looks nice, with its cute little bomber plane on the "speed checked by radar" signs-- but it feels like flash with no substance. People in RV's everywhere, like Arizona, but camped out free on Reservation land. Rednecks riding dune buggies and drinking beer; more style than southern rednecks, with their clothes and cash-- but the same at heart. I didn't think California would be this way. I guess I expected it to be less like home.

{I've actually met quite a few good people since writing this, so don't think California is all bad.}

Haiku for Matt

Wind/ you rhyme/ with friend

but/ you are/ no friend/ to me

wind/ my enemy.

Day 4: highlights and thoughts

A security guard outside Gila Bend where the frontage road dead ends. At first she cops an attitude with me "Can I help you?" and "You're not planning on camping out here." But when I explain I'm riding just because, she asks me if I'm writing a "blog thing" and how she reads this one guy's blog who bikes around the country-- her friend recommended it to her because she's a "gypsy at heart". She ended by telling me to put Vaseline on my face, so I don't look weathered. Ha!

Seeing Misfits t-shirts on the Indian reservation. The cashier at Bashas thought he had heard of Manowar. Ads for Full Blood, a native american skateboard company. Realizing the reservation is like a third world country; signs at the gas station saying you can't buy energy drinks with food stamps. Perhaps it's like Africa-- give them everything to get by, but not a reason to make things better. Trailer with stove, fridge, and hot water heater for $500. Everyone under 65 looks attractive after being around so many RV's.

Day 1

Didn't expect much sleep on the Greyhound from Flagstaff to Tucson; wasn't disappointed. But all in all things wrapped up well. Aimed for 56 miles and quit at 76. Still daylight, but I want to rest. The highlight of the day was a German family that winters in Phoenix, who happened to be using a rest area at the same time as me. The husband asked me if I was riding to Ajo (126 miles from Tucson, which I thought I'd reach the first night so quickly was I gliding along the miles of flat blacktop leading away from Tucson) and responded with an exuberant "wuunderal!" When asked if I planned to camp in the desert (I was) it was "suuper!" When I told him I was en route to San Diego, it was "incrrredible!" Later they honked rowdily as they passed me in their RV.

Not everyone was so impressed; passing a farm I felt the horses looking at me curiously, while the cows seemed non-plussed. It actually seemed like they were looking down on me for riding a bicycle in the road. But later the bike stirred up a stampede of cattle, less running in fear than cheering me on, keeping pace on the opposite side of the ubiquitous barbed fence.

Hawks' cries cut the air above me. All around me, cactus; some regal , and others comically posed for my amusement. The high tension wire gurgling in some secret language, while the clouds stream by like subtitles. On my back, in the grass, it's all I can do to stay awake.

Space and Time converge

Einstein believed time and space were two aspects of the same reality; clearly different, but fundamentally equivalent. Travelling has a way of making Einstein's observation abundantly clear, in that each day takes you farther from home, both physically and chronologically. And although travel brings up obvious questions about space-- why the West is perceived as more grandiose than the East for example-- it is perhaps the questions of time we should be asking. Several weeks in a car in one direction will bring you to lands far different than home; mountains and dust replace forest, ranches replace farms.

This seems normal. In fact, it would seem abnormal for the land not to change. But several weeks in a car and the landscape of time also changes. It's like being in a foreign place where everyone speaks the same language-- knowing the day of the week intimately, perhaps counting down the days til their weekend-- and you have this sense that you studied these days and weeks in school at some point, but that they've been lost in translation somehow. "Why are people riding ATVs in the woods after dark?" Then a moment of mental triangulation, pinpointing that monument on the horizon of your memory, the last firm connection you had between a place and a day of the week-- followed by some cautious finger counting: did we sleep at that campsite one night or two? Is there a day between Wednesday and Friday? And in a flash you understand. It's Friday night, and most people aren't going to bed when the sun goes down. But it feels so normal. And that is the shock-- that yourself a few weeks ago would ridicule the you now for being in bed by eight. These behaviours aren't ingrained. The bodies' rhythms, if you want to call it that, switch from speed metal to slow dance without missing a beat. So smoothly that it takes a troupe of prepubescent ATV riders to make you realize the music is still playing.

A year and a day

It's been exactly a year and a day since my last post here, and it seems fitting that I'm still writing about the South-- a different south to be sure, but not so different in all the ways we might think. Still on the road, this time exploring the southern parts of America: beginning in Raleigh and heading down to Florida and then out to Tucson by car; followed by a trip from Tucson to San Francisco (and possibly onward to Portland) by bicycle. Writing this here in a library in San Diego, I can't tell you how the story ends-- two months in to this three month odyssey, and I feel things are only beginning. And I apologize in advance; the opportunities to write are few and far between, and the photos will have to wait.