Zona Cafetera, Colombia

I am not a religious man, spiritual yes, but there are few things that I worship. False idol, or just another monkey on my back, the coffee bean happens to be one of those things. I blame it on living in Seattle for 15-years. Yes, I know Seattle sells more milk than coffee, but there are a few passionate artisans in the city roasting and serving Seattleites some excellent coffee (please, don’t even mention Starbucks). Therefore, the thought of a trip to the coffee region of Colombia was like a pilgrimage for me.

I left Bogota on Saturday Aug. 22^nd. I had applied for more time in Colombia, but was denied, so I needed to start making my way towards the exit. It would be a day trip to get to the town of Salento, in the state of Quindio, aka, Zona Cafetera (coffee district). Once there, I would spend three days exploring the area, before making a dash for Ecuador.

Along the way, I wanted to make a stop in the town of Pereria, at the northern entrance of the Cafetera. For one, there was a statue of Simon Bolivar (the liberator of Colombia from Spain). True, you could throw a rock blindfolded in any one direction and hear a “clink” from hitting a bronzed Bolivar, but this particular interpretation was unique, and bold. The artist, Rodrigo Arenas Betancourt, decided to portray the nation’s hero riding bareback into to battle – naked! How he got away with it, I don’t know, but I needed to see it. The other reason for the stop was to see a cathedral I had read about, made out of the local variety of bamboo, Guadua.

While in a coffee shop in Bogota, I came across an article about a Colombian architect who was raised in Colombia’s coffee district, but who now lived and operated out of Bogota. He has spent much of his professional life advocating the use of bamboo in local construction. Interesting enough on it’s own, but Simon Velez also happened to be the architect that designed the pavilion for the, Nomadic Museum, which houses Gregory Colbert’s Ashes and Snow photography exhibit. Together they compose one of the most impactful and beautiful displays of art I have ever experienced. Currently, in Mexico City, I saw it years ago in while it was in Santa Monica.

Because this area of Colombia is prone to earthquakes and tremors, the flexibility of the Guadua bamboo, and it’s regional availability, make the relationship seem ideal. In 1999 an earthquake struck the area and over 1,000 people were killed. Most of the deaths were attributed to the collapse of cement-based structures, while almost all of the structures constructed with bamboo survived. It’s as if Mother Earth is telling man, “Here, use this material, its here for a reason”. However, sadly, Colombia turned a deaf ear to this voice when it adopted many of Los Angles’ seismic regulations and building codes. Bamboo is not ingenious to California, and therefore is not mentioned the building codes. Per the codes, Colombia builders and architects can only use what is listed. It seems as though the regulators chose to ignore the vast differences of the two geographies, and simply took the easiest way out. Colombia could be an international leader in the use of sustainable “timber grass”, but instead chose to follow.

Once in Pereria, I pulled off the street right onto the brick-paved Plaza Bolivar. I flagged over a “Minuto Girl” so I could make a call to the hostel in Salento. I wanted to reserve a private room for the next three nights. In Colombia, if you want to make a call, and you don’t have your own cell phone, you can pay one of these girls, usually wearing a bright colored vest with “MINUTOS” printed across the chest and back. You pay to use one of their several cell phones - like human phone booths really. Meanwhile, a small crowd was starting to form around the bike. (The call didn’t go through.) People were asking the same questions I always get; How fast does it go? How much did it cost? How big is the engine? Where did I come from, and where am I going? Still sitting on the bike, I am having fun with it all, and having some laughs with everyone. I show them the picture of the bamboo cathedral. Several say that it no longer exists. I ask a gentleman who knows a bit of English if he will take my camera over to the Bolivar statue and take a couple of photos for me. There is no way I can leave the bike at this point with the now 20-25 people encircling me. As he walks away I felt some of the others look at me with a, “what kind of idiot are you?” sort of look. It felt like the time at the Nicaraguan border when I gave a young guy a $100 bill (for my border expenses), my passport, and bike title, and told him if he came back within the hour, I would give him a $10 tip. “What kind of idiot am I?”

I kept an eye on my roving camera, and he did come back (just like the kid in Nicaragua did), proud as punch with three pictures of the naked (and emaciated) war hero. Just then, it started to sprinkle and I remembered my Flip video camera was still attached to the light bar – I was shooting the ride that morning along the Autopista del Cafe. I reached over to unscrew it from the mount before it got wet. It wasn’t there. Gone! My mood turned. All of my new found friends were now suspects. I felt betrayed. The camera was shielded from my view by the bike’s handlebars, so I couldn’t see it from where I was sitting. I suspected the Minuto Girl- she had moved to that side of the bike, and now was backing away. I gave her the evil eye, but didn’t verbally accuse her, I couldn’t, I wasn’t completely sure. I wanted out of there. I put my helmet on, zipped up and left. Thinking it over the rest of the day, I should have handled it differently. Next time I will.

I rolled into Salento a bit dejected, but ready to put the camera incident behind me. Six months on the road, and this was my greatest loss to date – not that bad really. The Plantation House hostel was full but I found a small hotel with a large room and private bath for $25 a night. It had a fenced-in lot next door for the bike. Through the hostel, I was able organized a morning tour of a small coffee roasting operation, followed by a hike through the Cocora Valley.

A group of eight of us piled into the old Willy Jeep at 9:00am, two standing on the back bumper, and took the 30-minute drive up to the valley’s entrance. Once on the hiking trail, it meandered up the valley, over log bridges, into rainforest, and finally up into the cloud forest. On the way down, we pasted green fields speckled with Colombia’s national tree, the Wax Palm. Walking into the open valley, the 200-foot tall palms were spectacular, creating a bizarre and prehistoric setting. Equally impressive as the tree’s spindly height, was its random and spacious placement. Like it was purposely landscaped with that intent in mind. Along with my hiking mates: a couple from Dublin, and another from London we saw hummingbirds, an unknown furry critter, and a worm that could give an anaconda a slither for its money.

Back in town, cold beers were passed around before dinnertime. My favorite spot for dinner had become Lucy’s. The “tipico” menu was a three-course styled meal typical of the area, made up of the typical cuisine: A soup starter of usually a chicken broth base with chicken and root vegetables, a choice of fried trout, grilled chicken, or thinly sliced flank steak, beans or fries, a salad, fried plantains, a small dessert and a glass of the fresh juice of the day – all for $3. The food was fresh and comforting – good home cookin’ – sort of. This style of eating has been my favorite since hitting Central America.

Immediately after getting into town I began visiting the different coffees shops, sampling the goods. For the most part, I hadn’t been that impressed. The trendy espresso shop around the corner pulled a shot that was not hot enough and had a bitter finish. The day before hitting the road I stuck my head into a narrow little shop at the edge of town, and instantly got a good vibe. The man behind the counter was humming along to an old jazz standard, and moving his hips ever so slightly. I ordered, “tinto, por favor”. In Colombia, black coffee is called “tinto” (as is red wine, i.e., “vino tinto”,) which stands for dark, and oftentimes comes already sweetened. Not speaking any English, he asked how strong I wanted it. I flexed my arm hard, slapped my bicep twice, and answered, “muy!”. He ran water through a filter in a large chrome canister (?) He offered me a form of sugar that was a dried powder from a sugarcane reduction (I am guessing), which proved to be rather mild, and nice. The small cup of black coffee was nutty, rich, with a smooth finish – finally! He poured himself a cup and we both sat in silence in some old theatre chairs along one wall. He read from a paperback, and I from my Kindle. It was peaceful…nice. I ordered another.

The next day I stopped by with the loaded bike on the way out of town. I sat down with my GPS unit, working on the day’s destination with my cup of tinto. Pedro came over with the same exact model of GPS, a Garmin 60CSx. I was a bit surprised. He showed me a nearby area speckled with the “waypoints” that he had saved. (Waypoints are stored positions on the unit, so that you can find your way back at a later time.) Speaking only through my broken Spanish, and a photo album of his, I came to learn that his that his coffee is WILD. He, along with friends and family, pick his coffee beans from naturally growing wild bushes in the neighboring mountains. He washes, pulps, dries, mills, and roasts the beans himself, along with his volunteers. The beans are even gathered in handmade woven baskets made by the ingenious people living in the area where he picks his beans. He packages the small batches of beans and sells to restaurants and individuals under the name of, “Café Reserva Sachamama”.

I stayed much later than planned. Not speaking a common language, we communicated rather well I think. We “talked” about my trip, and his love of books. We took some photos by the bike, and he proudly presented me with a CD filled with electronic books that I could read during my journey. We have emailed several times since (Google Translate has been invaluable on this trip).

Colombia, you will be missed.

Video:

(correction: Salento is not at 8,000 ft, but only 6,500 ft - it just felt like 8,000)

Music is the Allman Brother's "Little Martha"

Cafetera

http://gallery.me.com/mlewis30/100770

Colombian Cow Country

Video:

Here is a short video that I put together after a Sunday morning ride.

La Ruta Leche, Colombia

http://gallery.me.com/mlewis30/100763

(music is by Eddie Vedder)

Photos:

Here is the link to my unedited MobileMe photo gallery, in its entirety. (Parental discretion advised!)

Mike's Photo Library

Getting to Colombia

Jeff and I had been riding together for a week, and had planned on shipping the bikes into Colombia together. From there we would part ways: I would stay behind to experience more of Colombia, and he would move on towards his goal of Lima, Peru. Unfortunately, do to matters back home that needed his attention, he suddenly had to abort and return to the States. I was back on my own.

I continued with the original plan of shipping the bike out of Panama City with an air cargo company to the capital city of Bogota, in the center of Colombia. Reviewing the map, Cartagena was a “must see” on my list, but was up north on the Caribbean coast. The necessary backtracking, and the fact that the cost of air transport had dramatically increased, led me to seek out other shipping options.

There are three viable methods of transporting a motorcycle into South America:

-Air cargo, which means you drop off the bike at the airport with battery disconnected and fuel tank drained. You then buy a personal plane ticket for a later date, while checking all your gear as luggage. Downside: Its expensive, you are separated from your bike, additional fees can suddenly materialize, and a myriad of papers need to be rubber-stamped.

-Cargo boats, usually banana boats, can get you over the border, into Turbo, Colombia, but you personally have to switch boats before reaching shore, because cargo ships cannot transport passengers. Downside: you are separated from your bike, there can be many unforeseen variables to contend with, and little interest in going to the port city of Turbo.

-Sailboats are the third option. The cruise takes five days to complete and includes three days anchored in the San Blas islands off the coast of Panama snorkeling. The final destination is the colonial fortress city of Cartagena, on the Caribbean coast. As good as that sounds, I had heard and read many horror stories regarding this method; Drunken captains, poor food and/or shortages, additional fees once out to sea (“your bike scratched my boat, that’s another $200 that you must pay before I will unload the bike”). Downside: cannot chose your shipmates, at the mercy of the captain’s every whim and personality misgivings, and precarious bike loading and unloading methods.

A day after sending out a handful of emails, I received a response from Mark of Freshair Charters. On the day prior, I had found a couple of leads on the “go to” websites for adventure motorcyclists, Horizons Unlimited and Adventure Rider. Mark had just pulled into port earlier that day and still had two large bikes strapped atop the deck of his boat Melody. If I liked, I could come out the following day to watch the unloading process and meet the bikes’ owners. Mark, “Cap’n Marco”, has been doing the trip for nine years and takes an average of 16 bikes a year. The one-hour ride from Panama City to the Portobelo harbor to meet him and Melody convinced me, and I handed over a $100 cash deposit. Now, I just had to wait five days for his next sailing, while he found other passengers to fill the berths and restock supplies. The cost was $370 for me, and the same for the bike, $740 total (I had to supply my own alcohol or soda.) Food and lodging for five days, and transport – not too bad. And, I could sleep next to my bike if I wanted to, never to be out of my sight.

I stayed at Hostel Wunderbar in Puerto Lindo while I waited for my boat. Days were filled with “hammock reading” or wasting time on the beach on Isla Grande - a short water taxi ride away. Everyday at the hostel brought a fresh supply of backpackers who had either just disembarked from a trip or were crashing for the night before their morning departure. Soon enough, I was up to speed on all the local gossip, and realized how important it was to get onto the right boat. Some boats were known as party boats, where drugs and mayhem ruled, others had you bring your own food, or worse, fed you spaghetti and hot dogs the entire time. As people came and went, I kept wondering whom I would I have to share the five-day cruise with.

A week later I was breathing through a tube and taking steady aim at a gilled target, some ten feet in front of me. Like a Revolutionary War era musket, you get one shot with a spear gun, before having to forego the laborious reloading process. I had already missed twice early in the morning with some smaller fish, and felt like this Triggerfish was my day’s last chance. He began swimming away from me. From behind, the wafer shaped fish does not offer much to shoot at, so I calmly followed . . . waiting. And then it happened. The fish abruptly turned left exposing one of his two broad sides. His change of course would prove fatal. I released the spear from the gun dubbed, “Hemingway”, and absorbed the full recoil of the three retracted elastic bands. Direct hit!

The following day the captain’s Colombian wife Paola, served us all delicious Triggerfish tacos for lunch, as I recounted the battle to my captive audience, “it was either him or me”. The rolled eyes belonged to a young couple from London, college student from Texas, and two recent grads from the Air Force Academy. All of which, I now consider friends. Paola made many excellent meals during the trip culminating in a full-tilt Christmas styled turkey dinner with all the trimmings (don’t know how she did it). Cap’n Marco (who doesn’t drink) made sure we went to bed exhausted every night, by filling our days with - snorkeling, fishing, and visits to the nearby Kuna villages – the indigenous people that rule and inhabit the autonomous chain of islands. When he asked if any of us would mind staying an extra day before beginning our 36-hour crossing of the Caribbean due to rough seas – it was unanimous.

We pulled into the harbor of Cartagena a day late on July 20^th, Colombia’s Independence Day.

Video:

Getting to Colombia Portobelo, Panama to Cartagena, Colombia July 15 - 20 , 2009

© 2009 YouTube, LLC 901 Cherry Ave, San Bruno, CA 94066

Sailing to the Next Continent

Yesterday I secured my passage into South America, or at least I think I did. On either Saturday the 11th, or Wednesday the 15th I will strap my bike to the mast of the steel-hulled sailboat "Melody" and take off on the five day voyage through the San Blas islands, and across the Caribbean Sea to Cartagena, Colombia - leaving from the old pirate haunt and UNESCO World Heritage Site of Portobelo, Panama. The alternative was to ship the bike via air into Bogota, and myself on a separate flight. I am guessing the trip on the Melody with be more adventurous, and a whole lot less luxurious.

The problem of getting in into Colombia from Panama is a 54-mile section of jungle that separates the two countries, called the Darien Gap. The Pan American Highway is the longest motorable road in the world, with the exception of this "gap". The road, otherwise, spans from Prudhoe Bay, Alaska to Ushuaia, Argentina. The idea for the road took shape in the early 1920's and each country completed it's own portion at various times. The Darien section proved especially difficult due to problems associated with the jungle terrain, insects, foot and mouth disease, and conflicts with the indigenous tribes of the the area. Many of the diseases are no longer a major concern, but the project was never resumed. Today, it is a dense and lawless jungle.

I am very excited and anxious to start the next leg of the journey. I have thoroughly enjoyed Mexico and Central America, but I question whether they have enjoyed me? Things seemed to go my way, but my host countries didn't always fare so well. Looking back at it now, I seem to be the only logical common denominator in a series of bizarre events: Mexico - international flu pandemic breaks out soon after I arrive. My first week in Guatemala the president and first lady are accused of murder by the dead man in YouTube video (you can't write drama like this!) and threatens peace of the nation. The day before I get into Honduras, all the branch heads of the military quit and threaten a coup d'etat. The day after I drive through the capital, the coup takes takes place. The country remains in turmoil.

Now, I could take the blame for these events, and turn myself in, or consider this: "things just happen here". As the guy sitting next to me in the Honduran bar said, (while watching the president speak on TV) "Ah, we're due for a coup, it's been years since our last one".

Or, I could just keep moving :)

End of the Road

Today Jeff and I reached Panama City. That means that I get to retire another map (Central America), and that is a mighty good reason to celebrate!

Today was a beautiful day of riding- hot, but clear open roads all the way into the city. I did, however, finally have my first run in with the police. We had heard that there were a lot of cops on the road, and had already seen several, but old habits die hard - I was clearly speeding. It all went down just has I had rehearsed it (in my head): I could pay a $18 fine in Panama City or pay $16 right now. I showed him my last $5, which was honestly all the money I had on me, but asked if I could take his picture in front of my bike, and if he would PLEASE take a photo of me on his bike. A new friend was made, and the ticket was "dismissed".

Tomorrow I will start looking into a ferry that is supposed to run from Colon, Panama, through the canal, to Cartagena, Colombia. The alternative is flying the bike and myself on separate flights. I would rather play pirate for a few days.

Unfortunately, it looks like Jeff is going to have to cut his trip short, to return home to deal with some personal matters. It's really too bad because I know how much he has been looking forward to South America. Its been a nice break riding with someone this last week. He will be missed.

Off to the casino up around the corner to "retire the map" :)

Warmly,

Mike

Riding Down Volcano Agua

David is an English bloke who runs CAT Tours here in Antigua. I kept running into him and finally decided to try a tour, on one of his bikes. We took the bikes up to about 8100 ft, about 2/3 up the volcano.

This is my freshman attempt at video production :)

volcano agua Sent to you by mlewis30@me.com mlewis30@me.com has shared a MobileMe Gallery movie with you. To check it out, click View Movie.

If you have trouble accessing this page, please copy and paste the URL below into your browser. http://gallery.me.com/mlewis30/100000

Antigua Crack Party

I have met some amazing people while being here in Antigua, the town attracts a unique breed for sure. It's a small town so it doesn't take long before you start running into the same faces, and hearing the same names. It has a nice hometown feel in an amazing setting that makes it quite desirable - and hard to leave.

For some odd reason, there is not a chiropractor in the area - nada. So, when word got out about want I did, I started getting "requests", and started making house calls. Always finding a massage therapist's table, or hotel floor - whatever worked. Finally, I ask my friend Kristen if she would round up a group that would like a treatment, and find a donated space that we could use, and I would trade adjustments for pizza and beer, making a party out it.

It was a lot of fun. Luckily for me, Tuesday night was two-for-one entree' and two for one martini night at Bistrot 5, the best French restaurant in town. So, I got upgraded!

I have since made a cardboard sign that reads, "WILL WORK FOR A NICE MEDIUM-RARE FILET WITH A RICH BERNAISE SAUCE, FRITES, AND DRY VODKA MARTINIS"

Joking aside, there is a great opportunity here for a quality chiropractor. Apply here.

Good, Bad, and the Ugly.

Thursday 6-11-09

In general, driving through larger cities really stresses me out.

Today was the day to take the taxi back up to Guatemala City to pick up the bike. I was having a new rear tire put on and some general maintenance done. The city is the largest in Central America, and just the thought of riding the bike around there really jacks up my blood pressure. The week prior, I had hired a taxi driver that was a friend of my neighbor's to take me to the BMW dealership in the city, I followed on the bike, and I rode back with him to Antigua. On the initial trip, we left early on a Saturday to avoid some of the week-time traffic, but it was still a mess. Today was worse. Six lanes of chaos with motorcycles and ambulances splitting the already crowded lanes -while chicken buses coughed out black smoke nudging their way where ever they pleased. It's a "time suck" if you get lost in one of these cities - and a vulnerable feeling that I am not too keen on, like getting lost in the wicked forest without any breadcrumbs.

Just to goad me a bit more, yesterday a new law went into effect, where all motorcyclists must wear a vest with their license plate number displayed across the back, and a sticker with the same on the back of their helmets (a similar law has been in effected in Colombia for several years now - for the similar reasons). The reason is due the the high crime rate in the city, specifically the assassinations of local bus drivers. The diseased minds of the netherworld's finest began blackmailing the "wealthy" bus company owners of Guatemala City by simply killing a bus driver and then demanding money to stop killing more. Bus companies started putting armed guards on the buses, but the assassins adapted and started riding two-up on motorcycles -riding up to the side of the bus allowing the rear passenger of the bike to pull out his gun and blammo! With dark shields on their helmets and license plates removed, the bikers just disappear in the ever present chaos. This disturbing fact, and the presence of armed guards everywhere, does not exactly say "Welcome" to me.

(THAT SAID, Guatemala is an absolutely wonderful place to visit. It is an easy place to fly into (just be sure to immediately jump onto a shuttle to Antigua from the airport), and has so much to offer in such close proximity. You could hike to the top of an active volcano at breakfast and be at Lake Atitlan for a late lunch - one of the most beautiful places I have ever experienced! This weekend, I will fly to Flores to see the ruins at Tikal, the "Manhattan" of the Mayan empire. There is sooo much to do and see here, and the people make it even enjoyable. Yes, there is more risk than going to Orlando.)

After picking up the bike, I was soon out of the city, and enjoying the 30-minute ride of twisty tree-lined roads, cooling off as I gained some elevation - ah, out of the netherworld. Blood pressure back to normal. As much as I hate to leave Anitgua, and I really do hate to leave, being on the bike again reminds me of how much I miss being on the road, and how much fun it is.

Upon arriving in Antigua, I was pleasantly surprised to see that it was market day with ingenious food vendors lining the street along the square. Mmm, it was lunch time and time for me to "go Bourdain* in the streets!" "If you don't eat the street feed, then get back on the bus!", thats why you bring plenty of Cipro (antibiotic) with you when you come. I enjoyed a "tamale" roasted over hot coals - like a dense piece of cornbread with a delicious meat filling and a dish of sliced marinated flank steak (I think) with homemade tortillas and guacamole (avocado trees are ubiquitous here), and roasted corn on the cob with chili and fresh lime. I sat on a bench in the shade and watched Volcano Agua puff smoke (rather than chicken buses), and thought less about assassins, and more about a nap.

*My two favorite celebrity travelers are Anthony Bourdain (Travel Channel) and Michael Palin (BBC, and of Monty Python fame). I really appreciate how, and why, they travel.

Project Guatemala

I can't say that everything on this trip has "fallen into my lap", but I have been fortunate to say the least. Arriving in Antigua, I was both excited and anxious. I was excited to be here after hearing so many people rave about it - "how could it possibly live up to the hype?" And, I was anxious because while I was here, I was to find a worthy project for our non-profit's first venture.

Write Around the World's mission is to support schools in areas of extreme poverty, by supplying basic school supplies to those without. I desperately wanted to find the right project, in order to make a meaningful impact, but also ensure a healthy "launch" of WATW. I have some dear friends who have put a lot of time and energy into this, and it was up to me to find a project worthy of their efforts. How was I going to do this?

Rolling into town on May 11th, I did my usual hotel search, or rather a search for a secure parking area with a hotel attached. I only needed something for a couple nights, so that I could look for an apartment to rent for the month. Erin was coming for a 10-day visit, and I was going to enroll in Spanish classes after she left. I found a walled courtyard with a hotel for $17 a night.

The next morning, I woke with one purpose: to find the coffee shop that I had walked by the night before (they roasted their beans) while getting the lay of the land. Found it. While waiting for my "cafe negro con leche aparte" I picked up the magazine on display, the kind that every coffee shop in a tourist town has and always includes a useful map of the town. Now drinking my cafe negro, I came across a short story about an ex-pat that was living here in Antigua and that was busy opening preschools in the Guatemala's rural villages. Reading more, I learned that up to 30% of Guatemalan kids dropout of the first grade, or never even attend, giving the country the highest illiteracy rate in Central America! A title that can't be too easy to achieve, nor desired. The project, Pequenos Esto Listo (we are small but ready) was preparing kids, and parents for the first grade. He had ten schools successfully operating with the goal of doubling over the next ten months. But he needed help. Within 20-minutes I was at an internet cafe to see if we could meet.

Knowing that whatever project we were to get involved with had to have a key figure that was reliable and trustworthy. We would be relying on this person fully, investing in him as much or more than the project itself. Several meetings later, and a couple school site visits, concluded that Fred Zambroski was our guy. We had found our first project.

I have learned a lot since meeting Fred, and visiting the schools. Preparing for first grade doesn't simply mean learning how to count or saying your A,B,C's (eventually it does), but many of these kids have never seen a pencil, let alone hold one. I often heard how when some of the 4-year olds first arrive to school that they don't even know how to play! Put in front of a pile of blocks, they don't always know what to do with them. There are cultural issues at play too. A sad statistic is that very few people here associate reading with pleasure, but instead, always with more work or legal matters - which they are rarely on the winning side of. "Why learn to read if it only brings you more trouble?" Therefore, a big part of Pequenos Pero Listos is training teachers how to read with enthusiasm and with interactive practices, engaging kids in the process.

I can't tell you how excited I am to get this project underway. We have committed to help Fred with his upcoming 12 school expansion. We will supply all the materials needed to open the schools, and then send a box every four months to replenish many of the consumables. We will provide funds to purchase larger, or easily obtained items locally. The local villages must take ownership of the program by providing the facility for the school. Many of the parents or local craftsmen make the shelving, desks, easels, etc.... With our help, Fred can focus on training his teachers, finding sponsors for the schools ($3,300 a year), and working with village elders to get the schools open. Please read more at Lets Be Ready.

How are we going to supply all these materials and ship them down here, when at this writing, we have $325 in the bank? We are going to have fun with it, that's how! On our site, Write Around the World, we have outlined how people can collect items from our Wish List by having a house party or backyard barbeque. Business owners can have office drives where employees, clients or patients bring in needed items - from the store, or from cleaning out their closets. (This can be a great way to reach out and reactivate some of your old clientele.) We will also be importing indigenous handicrafts to be sold at house parties, farmer's markets, and through our own Ebay store (coming soon). If you would like more information, or would like to help please contact me, or one of our board members.

The Road to Palenque

After four days in San Cristobal de las Casas it was time to get back on the road. I was enjoying my time in the "troubled son" state of Chiapis, the poorest in Mexico. Up until now (with a brief stint into central Mexico) I had been hugging the Pacific coastline from (almost) Canada to the end of North America. The change in scenery and climate was welcomed.

The further south I went the drier the air seemed to get - even though I was right next to the ocean. I had started lining my nasal passages with a saline gel product to keep the inside of nose from drying out, and stopping about twice a day to rinse my eyes out with bottled water. In addition to the dry air (at 80 mph), people often had controlled brush fires along the sides of the road, or my favorite - a roadside trash dump set ablaze. After driving through a few of these toxic smoke gauntlets, my eyes would be on "fire" and need a rinse. In contrast to all of this, the air in and around San Cristobal was sweet and rich. No doubt, due to all the lush flora pumping more oxygen into the atmosphere than any Vegas casino could ever wish. Even at an altitude of just under 7,000 ft, the air was sweet and nourishing to the lungs.

There was so much to like about San Cristobal; the wide clean streets, the amazing afternoon light, the Chamala indians. The Chamala people would come into the town everyday to sell their crafts. They were absolutely beautiful, stunning actually, the women always in their long black skirts and dark embroidered tops. I was intrigued. Looking at the map and asking a few questions, I had decided to take a smaller, less traveled, road north on my way to the the ruins in Palenque, traveling through some of the Chamala villages, rather than the two lane "highway". Taking the main road would get me to where I wanted to go in about three easy hours.

Leaving at about 8:00 in the morning, I had a taxi take me to the start of "this road". There were no signs or designated numbers for it on any of the maps - I just asked for the road to Tenejapa (Tenny-hapa). The cabbie stopped at the edge of town, pointed further up the road, and announced, "Tenejapa". When I told him I was going to Palenque, he offered what sounded like a pretty strong opinion about my choice. What I could understand was something about "loco" and "ocho horas". Now, I knew that at one point about 2/3's into the trip that I would have to jog over to the main road for the remaining 1/3, and there was the presence of a road on the map to do so. This must be what he was talking about, right?

The road was beautiful, I was getting deeper and deeper into the green hills. Then mountains. I was enjoying myself thoroughly. Putting along at 30-mph taking it all in; women walking along the road with bundles balanced atop their heads, little girls walking behind like miniature versions in their matching outfits. Men collecting firewood on their backs or on donkeys. I turned heads as I rode through makeshift markets. Waves were always returned. I came across a bizarre cemetery where the prominent grave mounds all had large wooden planks balanced on top, sometimes actual doors - even I could grasp the symbolism. The presence of the dirt mounds made all the graves look fresh, like something horrible had just passed through here, and the tall spindly crosses mixed within the grove of spindly trees made the whole place feel a bit ominous - which for a cemetery I can respect.

There were no road signs of any kind, anywhere, so every once in awhile I would stop and ask,

"Tenejapa?" to people walking along the street (where are they going? where did they come from?) and point up the road, to get some sort of conformation that I was going in the right direction. Then the asphalt stopped. I welcomed the idea of a dirt road and kept going. The road worsened. There was sudden increase in the number of "Y's" in the road, which meant asking every person I came across, "Tenejapa?", but at the same time was seeing less-and-less people. I started thinking, "either I am choosing correctly every time, or these people are very agreeable". Are these people were just telling me what I want to hear?

At the next Y in the road, I picked left - it look more traveled. A few minutes into it, the road started up, way up. There were a lot of ruts and potholes in the road but I managed to creep up in first gear. As I got to the top, to what I thought was a switchback to the right, was actually a dead-end. If that little surprise wasn't enough, I was shocked to see about ten kids at the road's end digging and picking into the side of the mountain. In the absolute middle of nowhere! Apparently, this road was built to access this "quarry", for, I what am guessing, was sand for cement.

I was surprised, but not as surprised as these kids were when they saw this beast of a bike with an astronaut looking fellow atop driving up right behind them. I circled around, waved and started back down the mountain. Now, my bike has enough power and torque to climb up the side of an office building, but when all that weight is transferred to the front wheel while going downhill on a dirt road things get a little dicey. I turned off the ABS brakes and feathered both front and rear brakes making sure not to lock up either tire, which would start an uncontrollable skid. I was going as slow as possible, trying to navigate around the larger ruts when the inevitable happened. The front tire lost it's hold on the gravel and washed out from under me, and when she goes, she goes fast and hard. Damnit!

I picked myself up, hit the engine kill switch, and turned around to look up the mountain. About 100 yards up, at the crest of the road stood 10 kids standing and watching silently. I quickly thrust both fists high above my head in "celebratory defeat". There was an instant burst of laughter and shouts from my audience of 10, as their arms also pumped high into the air. I laughed, and waved for them to come done. Waved again, and they all rushed down towards me. I was happy to find out that a couple of the "kids" were actually small-statured men. They helped me pick up the bike and hold it while I got back on. We all did it again about another 50' down the hill.

I don't want to pat myself on the back too much, but I am guessing I gave those kids (and men) something to talk about at the dinner table later that night(?)

Enough was enough, I backtracked from which I came to a place in the road where I could cut over to the main road. I rolled into Palenque almost exactly eight hours after I left the taxi driver. The next day I enjoyed the ruins... almost as much as I enjoyed getting there.

(Palenque is one the three most significant Mayan city sites. The other two being Tikal (Guatemala) and Copan in (Honduras))