Road to Ruins

There was this thing on the internet, it said how I could refit the spring in my camera, step by step instructions on dismantling it into a hundred losable little parts, bugger that, I think that’s pushing my Swiss army knife beyond its limits.

Then as a casual after thought it says ‘of course if you don’t mind doing the light metering and focusing manually you can just glue the sub-mirror to the main mirror. So with a safety pin applicator, some instant gasket, a steady hand, lots of hope, little faith, and nothing much to lose I stuck the mirrors together. And what do ya know? I only bloody worked. Whoopee, let’s go see some more sites.
Time for some hard core culture. Man those Mayans built some cool stuff. I'm not going to go into the history, construction, and the time periods, the reasons the rulers and the rituals. If you want names places and dates you’re on the wrong site, this is just the instant gratification of the visuals. Cus wow they are really big, really old and really cool. And I think frustration would be the leading sensation if I didn’t have a device to capture it all with.
Ok I'm going to drop some names just for location purposes, but before I hit the road to ruins I stayed in the boarder town for 4 days in the end, making decisions and all that, and not for the first time this trip I feel like I'm leaving a family when I leave this little hotel, they give me their personal phone number in case of emergency, I can check out anytime I like but I can never leave completely, I always feel like I left a little bit of me behind. You just don’t get that at a travel lodge.
So after the heart retching departure I am soon faced with the army check point again, ‘you said you were going to Guatemala, how come your still here?’ But he’s friendly, shakes my hand like an old friend and probably for the first time logs reason for return through check point as ‘broken camera’.
So first I rode to Calakmul this is a remote setting in the jungle, (the bonus of having a bike, remote becomes accessible) with undefined lines that divide Guatemala with Mexico, and in fact due south is Tikal, the World famous ruins in Guatemala. What do ya mean you’ve never heard of ‘em? Well you have now.
I got there late, the little man on the gate explained it was a 40km ride and they close at dusk, all in Spanish and I totally understood. I thought for a minute, I can do this, he took my bike details, (clean, overloaded and cool looking) and off I went on a single track jungle road. I don’t want to imagine what lurks in the undergrowth and the things that crossed my path were big, cat like and fast. (Big for a pussy cat but not ‘big cat’ lion type size) I pay my £2 and in I walk, and walk and walk, I would have taken off my too hot, too heavy, too uncomfortable, and too big for me Alpinestar bike boots if I had known the distance. Carrying a jacket and heavy tank bag with me it was not a pleasant stroll but a sweaty rush to see something before the sun set. Rushing past ruins in the hope of more spectacular sites. I was not disappointed, a pyramid, in fact a plaza of pyramids, and not many people. I don’t need to climb em, I'm happy to just look.
‘If you climb any, climb this one’ said some one else’s guide, ‘Really?’ ok then, being still nimble, agile and able (unless faced with a Himalayan mountain range) I climbed up the big steps with an envious speed. Oh right, a view of course, that makes sense. Toucans, monkeys and monuments poke their heads out of the dense jungle and the sun bows its head to the coming night. Oh look, over there is another massive pyramid, with a kissing couple on top, how beautifully romantic, now sit the fuck down your ruining my picture, light and focus I can do manually, removing your prolonged embrace from the pinnacle of this pyramid I can’t do. I can only wait for their magical moment to pass.

I can’t wait any longer, I go the other pyramid. Actually I usually find in these places I would rather sit at a lesser site in tranquil solitude and contemplate and appreciate than go for the star attraction and agitate and frustrate. However who was left, has gone home now so I wander over and climb to the top; actually it was better viewed from afar. But I'm here now and so are Roberto and Gloria, still in there loving embrace, they are young, clean and beautiful, to my mature, road hardened and weathered look, but they are keen to spread the love, taking photos of me, with their camera, with my camera, then can I take one with their camera? Then with mine. When every possible combination has been captured from every angle, hang on a minute why didn’t I get to hug Gloria?

Email addresses are swapped and now in utter darkness and with sore and blistered feet I decide to canter down, back to the forest floor to find my way out. Roberto calls after me. Please wait for us; we don’t know the way, well hurry up then. And as the monkeys screech and the jaguars and pumas lie in silent stealth we chat in ‘Spinlish’ as we trot along the path by the light of the moon and his blackberry.

The attendants have gone home; with the bleep of a remote control, doors open and my friends are gone too. And I'm left alone with just the noises of jungle night life contemplating the possibility of spending the night on top of a pyramid. (They are not totally pointy, it wouldn’t be too uncomfortable) But what of the wild life? And my taken details? I think I’ll just say goodnight to the temples. I ride the featureless road with care and spotlights on full, I don’t ride at night; it’s a big ‘never’ on the list of things I try to avoid whilst biking. But I fitted these spotlights for just such an occasion, when a never becomes a necessity. And it’s actually a ride of no significance, apart from the cat type things, and I day (or night) dream my way back to the barrier. The old man is waiting with his headlight, to tick me off and check me off his clip board. When he calms down I ask if I can camp here. I can, thank god for tents that don’t need tent pegs. I set up in the corner of the car park and have a wonderful free night’s sleep, looking at my gorgeous bike outside my fly screen, outstanding in the moonlight.

I take a photo on 30 second shutter speed, not enough light was let in to the picture but plenty of mozzies were let in the tent.

Well that today’s stupid action, I can go to bed now.

Next day to Tulum. The ruins on the cliffs, the perfect turquoise sea beneath.
I sneak into these from the beach. Through the undergrowth and into the hordes. God I hate this, luckily the hordes have inadvertently bought about an option for those who think outside the rope. I duck under to a cordoned off area and sit on a cliff unseen but with a perfect view.

Right place right time. There is a stunning sunset and as the obedient multitude take they loud babblings back into their air conditioned buses, I’m left with a solitary silent sunset and an overwhelming feeling of contentment.

I think I’m meant to wander this planet alone if I'm to find lasting happiness. Company is great but has limited appeal. My own simulating selfish companionship has been most invigorating lately. I sometimes leaves me wondering, sometimes wanting but consistently reassures me the only company that I continually go back to is singularly my own.
But I'm happy to share the photos with you.


Next morning before it gets light I walk the beach again and get a sunrise to myself, then walk the grounds before the crowds ruin them, blatantly exposing my infiltration, and no one is there to see it or remove me. Smug, gratified and rewarded for my dawn escapades, I see my neighbour from the next hut at a beach restaurant and we have breakfast together.

‘Where am I going? Where have I been? Way am I going back? What did you do?’ the answer to every question is ‘the book’ I wish I could talk about something else. If I try to avoid the questions I sound like I'm being deliberately evasive and conjuring up intrigue. I'm not. I can’t tell a lie and I can’t change the subject. The book, all roads of conversation lead to the book.


Onto the next ruin Ek-Balam, over rated and disappointing, there’s restoration and then there is replication and I'm not sure what they are doing here. A plaster of Paris serpent, palm view-obscuring thatch? I walk around the base trying to see the point but this pyramid is as far as I can see, pointless.

Now I'm on the real tourist trail, where the Cancun holiday herds pull themselves away from their sun loungers, all inclusive meals and alcohol to do the Mayan tour. The locals are in tourist rip off mode, the beggars are rife and the friendly hospitality of the rest of Mexico has been replaced by the international greed and resentment that can be found at any major tourist attraction. I'm sure it’s perfectible acceptable if that’s your holiday outing but it’s not mine. That’s why there are early mornings and dusky evenings so I can visit whilst the less demanding and more sociable are in transit, in bed or in the bar.

I'm saving the best till last, Chichen Itza. A new 7th wonder of the world. That one everybody has heard of. I have low expectations but it can’t be ignored. So having found a hotel I can camp in.

I go in for my afternoon experience. The car park isn’t free; that’s a sign right there, extract money before you even get in. But I can’t get in. I can’t even buy a ticket. It’s between sessions, the day visit and the evening sound and light show. So I go to try to get my car park money back but that’s not going to happen either. Bastads!

I spend the evening with 3 fellow camper’s brother, sister and sister’s husband. They feed me and 5 hours disappear, in travel tales and the inevitable book promotion. They have a familiar dynamic due to their relationship with each other. Their ‘in jokes’ don’t exclude just endear. But I think due to their closeness I will only sell one book, it will be shared around.

In the morning I try again, (ruin viewing, not book selling) I blatantly park my bike the free side of the car park barrier, ‘say something, Senor car park ticket master, I dare you!’
I wait for the general admission ticket Nazis to decide to open up their shutters, cowardly, provocatively 15 minutes late behind their safety glass displaying their inaccurate exchange rates. Hurry up; don’t you know anything about morning light, photographic opportunity, light temperature, Kelvin’s and manual light metering? They have got resentment running rife before we even enter. A French woman has kicked off and is physically shaking with frustration, later I see her run past a pyramid to get the shot she wanted a quarter of an hour ago. Once in, I however am pleasantly surprised.

This is wonderful, maybe the 7th most wonderful thing in the world. It’s still empty, I find a quiet shady spot and gaze, and I really feel something. 5 years ago you could climb it, spend the night, but even now it still has magnificence beyond the barriers and the ‘ball park’ is equally staggering.

I'm impressed. And I'm out of there before the buses arrive, although there are still the inevitable spastics who insist on clapping their hands in the presents of any large structure, not in an act of appreciation but because they have never head an echo before. Do you really think the Mayans on top of their design and astronomy skills, when calculating the construction and positioning so as to project images of serpents heads at the equinox, actually decide a little bonus would be that it returns the sound of a clapped hand too? Fuckin idiots, shut up and just look can’t you?

Ok then, one more, I have just heard about Uxmal.

Why hadn’t I heard of this place before? It’s so vast and unvisited and now I really have inadvertently saved the best till last.

I wild Camp because I spent to long there and I'm not going to make it anywhere significant before dark.
I impatiently wait for dawn, ten hours sleep is enough. I'm in Campeche at 8am, how early can you check into a hotel? 8am apparently.
There’s no fatigue, the early hour, the cobbled streets and empty cool Sunday sensation,

it’s just a pleasure to ride round the criss-cross of brightly coloured terraces, looking for accommodation that meets my needs, (hot water and wifi) this place is like Lego land for grown-ups.

Another spectacular site waits, enhanced by another stunning sunset.

I can see I have aligned with the planets, everything is working out now, everything is enjoyable, there is appreciation and wonder, happiness and that illusive contentment that usually lasts as long as uncanny luck remains with me. It’s the slowest U turn; the country won’t stop wowing me.

It would be rude to turn my back on it now. What would I be doing if I hadn’t got my camera to work? Describing, that’s what, if a picture speaks a thousand words then spell check would take longer than usual.

It's a sign, is it a sign?

If I were looking for a sign, if I were, then they all point in one very clear direction and it’s not south.

In order of occurrence and not necessary in order of annoyance. And I have to admit, generally self-inflicted although certainly not intestinally the following could be seen as signs.
I scratched the lens of my Oakley’s.
A designer sunglasses necessity have been a quarter century addiction of mine, each pair usually lasting long enough and providing enough pleasure to justify the cost. But weather scratched in a Viet cong tunnel or lost in a festival mosh frenzy, the disappointment and sadness is equal to that of the death of a pet, well a pet fish maybe, no disrespect to the recently departed family cat, although kittens are a lot cheaper than a new polarized lens.

So this first disaster happened when a drinking session passed from the afternoon into evening and eventually darkness. Now, drunken instincts should never be ignored. I could see I didn’t need my shades anymore and decided finding my glasses case was going to be too tricky and time consuming so the safety of my motorcycle top box would be good enough for the night. Locked away, safe from thief, or sitting on and most importantly no longer on top of my stupid head. That would have been fine, but for an impulsive emergency trip on the dirt road round the lake (which could have easily been walked) to get some more beer. With my concentration on other things, namely beer and balance (which although not talents necessarily associated with each other, are skills I can pull off better than beer and keeping my big mouth shut) 12 cold beers were placed in my top box and bounced all the way back to the camp ground on top of my super cool shades, which were now as captive and as venerable as a quadriplegic in a cage fight. Bollocks.
That was a bloody expensive drink. Not noticed until the next morning when I couldn’t clean off this particular obscurity from my vision.

Other things on lenses that obscure vision, my SLR that needed cleaning. So I went to the right shop (camera), bought the right stuff (lens cleaning fluid), sat in the right place (draft and dust free) in the right light (sun) to perform the simple procedure, but somehow managed to dislocate a tiny spring. No more quality controlled shots, a Canon specialist in a big town told me via a translator, that, in technical terms and that with all the information, tools, experience and technology available the diagnosis is basically, it’s fucked. And charged me for the privilege.

To continue, and this isn’t really a sign just a nagging loss, my toe ring of 14 years, custom made in a tiny Indian silversmiths workshop slipped off my foot in the pounding surf of the Pacific. I don’t expect much sympathy on that one. But a loss it remains. Sometimes the ocean wants a little gift for the pleasure of rolling around in its surf, it was suggested to me. Yeah? Next time, eat my shorts.
Too many condensation sunsets, I decided to move on.

The bike starts cutting out at over 4000rpm, blocked air filter? I stop and clean it but don’t get another chance to go that fast as it’s nearly dark now and the New Year throngs are crawling into town ahead of me, taking the last of the inflated priced hotel rooms.
One of my two least favourite aspects of motorcycle travel is getting into a new town in the dark, tired from a long ride, hot and looking out for, traffic, pedestrians, obstructions, cops, potholes, speed bumps, one way signs and on top of that, looking up high for a hotel sign. The other thing being the travelling through a tiny village turning every head not in the least bit inconspicuous and every turned head knows what I’m about to find out, 'he’ll be back, it’s a dead end’ and once again I’m faced with the stares only now with humiliation behind my bandanna.

So predictably the hotels are exorbitant and there has been nowhere to camp on route and now it’s dark and late, I opt for the cheapest I can find and the most expensive to date, it’s a cell,

cockroach infested, noisy and horrid, a fan that clicks and a control that buzzes but at least my bike is safe outside my door, undercover of the canopy. I check the chain oiler situation so as not to leave a black slippery puddle where I parked it. There is oil but it’s not coming from the chain oiler its coming from the engine. Bollocks.

Next morning after a sleepless night I strip off all I need to, to see the engine, rocker cover seepage, phew, that’s not a trip stopper. Loosen, retighten, back together, shower, hair wash put on bike cloths walk out from my canopy into sunlight to view the map; just as the cleaner on the floor above decides to sweep upstairs pile of dead cockroaches and general debris over the edge onto my shiny, wet, cleared with expensive product, hair.

6 miles to the next stop and it’s seeped again, no, engine breather is not blocked, so why is it doing this all of a sudden? Take it all apart again and this time remove rocker cover, reseal with instant gasket and reassemble, somehow loosing, despite my frightening methodical way, an 8mm socket, not as distressful as the toe ring unless that is its inside the engine somehow.
Being alcohol free, and more in need of spirituality than sprit. I conceived with a clear mind a devious and deceitful plan. I’d sneak into the Mayan ruins after dark to see in the New Year alone, under the stars, distant and peaceful, but for the howling monkeys and all the other things I don’t know about. So I unpacked my pack of clothing, and loaded it with mozzie net and remaining photographic equipment, poncho for stealth and bandana for effect. I crept off down the road to ruin sweating with the excitement and the humidity of dense jungle. I’d already spotted the hole in the fence I was going to crawl under like a 90’s Glastonbury festival goer. But first I had to pass the police, who I figured, would be participating in some New Years Eve festivities and my dark shadowy figure would be more likely smelt that seen. A gust of wind blew from nowhere, leaves tumbled down over me, they bought moisture, the leaves stopped falling but ithe moisture continued. It got heavier, it was rain, rain? In a rain forest? surely not. Time for a decision.
Should I stay or should I go? An almost daily dilemma in my life lately. Ancient ruins not being known for their weather proofing, I decided to turn around and dived into my tent of scattered cloths as the rain fell with waterfall magnitude. I tried to take off some of my sweaty, wet, rain soaked garments, but wait, the bike and tent need attention, so back out I go and place some strategic tent pegs into the already saturated ground and covered electrical components, monklet wont malfunction from a saturation, I had to have priorities, then back into my tent, now wet with sweat, exertion, and the tropical storm. I try to gather up stuff so nothing is up against the tent walls; I make a space and lay down, the hard rain drops like ball bearings, batter, not pitter-patter the sagging roof. It’s deafening, but thankfully not penetrating, my shoes are in the canopy outside the fly screen, the floor of which is now mud and under an inch of water.
My body loses its glow; the heat has not gone though and there is no air due to closed vents. I lay, it’s all I can do, periodically I turn on my head light to look for seepage but I seem to be ok. Sleep then I suppose; and neither the New Year nor the storm infiltrate my night, they just pass by.

At 6am I get up to try again, no point in sneaking in, it’s free on Sundays and national holidays today being both I expect to get paid for the experience. But I'm not a Mexican and I have to pay just like they don’t, should they come to see the great museums of my country’s capital city. I'm turned away back to the coach loads queuing at the ticket office. I go, out of principle through the hole I spotted yesterday

and pass through new streams

and cobwebs, clamber up slippery embankments, through moist foliage up into the grounds, all to save £2.50 and to keep my principles and sense of adventure intact.

I view sunbeams and shadows before the hordes infest the structures like ants over bread, (an analogy I have recent experience with) weather the free viewing public would have bitten me too if I had tried to remove them is still unknown. I wished I’d have tried harder last night.

Where was I? Oh yes signs
So the parting of ways, a new plan, a New Year and new feeling, contentment, at last. With a shortened itinerary and what to me looks like a good compromise, some new territory, new sites but a destination closer and closely resembling the departure point. I stop in a typical boarder town for one last Mexican afternoon. Not being sure if this insignificant crossing to Guatemala will even be open on this national holiday, even on weekdays its only open 9 till 5. I get a room by a mighty country dividing river and when awareness that all things are good and it’s a moment to capture, being Billy-no-mates I had to put my compact camera on self timer to record the occasion. I turned around to sit back in my chair and grin at the camera which wasn’t there, simultaneously noticing its absents with the sound of it crashing to the concrete one floor below the balcony it was balanced on. No more cameras left. Just as I was about to cross into Guatemala for some sites of bigger more dramatic and no doubt even more crowded ancient Mayan ruins.

Undeterred by events but not oblivious to their possible significance, I spent a night where rain pounded on the balcony of photographic doom, but safe inside my room on my corrugated mattress I was unbothered buy the fear of penetration, although, I did spot a wet patch on the ceiling. The following morning is cloudy, then rainy, then very rainy, then torrential. I'm not meant to cross that boarder am I? No one spends a second night in this town, no gringo comes and stays, I do.

Getting money out of an ATM has been a kind or Russian roulette in Mexico. They have HSBC branches here but they don’t accept my card, the world’s local bank is quite selective to who is actually a local. I pass a Mexican bank that regularly refuses to despatch money to me, but has the kind of ATM’s that don’t completely swallow your card only lick it, so there is never a risk or losing it inside its impenetrable depths, there’s an equally small chance of actually getting money out either. But this time it obliged. It’s a sign, look at all this currency I have that isn’t Guatemalan.

Where shall I go tomorrow?

I saw some signs whilst out walking today I’ll look up the place names I read on the map and maybe I’ll go that way tomorrow; if the signs are right.
I recently read in a fellow rider’s blog something about us all being animals and having instincts that should not be ignored. Instincts like alcohol can be the excuse for a lot of behaviours that often defy logic. I have instincts; they helped me navigate my way through Mongolia. I'm not afraid of Guatemala any more than I'm afraid of hangovers but perhaps the sensible finger of sobriety is pointing me in a different direction.
I love Mexico and I've only seen a fraction of what’s in the big fat guide book I don’t have a guide book for Guatemala just a piece of paper with some destinations and routes I scribbled down. That’s a sticker I'm not going to get, actually that 2501 stickers I'm not going to get. Because I'm supposed to pick up a load of stickers promoting my book and website in Guatemala City, 3 month bike trip, ‘where did you go?’ only Mexico, it’s a long story, but not one I can write about.

In Search of Greener Guacamole

You just can’t do it all, well you can’t can you? 3 months on the road, I could be in South America by now. Others have done it in that time. What did they see? Anything that wasn’t from the saddle?

Mexico was not only massively misrepresented but also underestimated. Sure I could have skimmed on through and then what would I know about it? It’s embarrassing to mention you have visited a country only to add that you never actually saw any significant sites. Thing is, Mexico seems to have a lot of significant sites. Its diversity, charm, and hospitality are intoxicating and addictive, two things I'm partial to. So here I am, still, only now with some big decisions to make. The thing that doesn’t make sense is that on the last trip, 60 days after leaving Essex I was in Mongolia and was rich from the experiences, I've been on the road 3 months and I've only crossed one boarder. I suppose I didn’t stop to sight see on the last trip until I got to Ukraine and this time I just haven’t stopped sightseeing, the average speed is now about 28kmh. Stopping is something that seems to be the common theme of this journey.

Mexicans seem to have mastered the art of sitting around and I always try my best to look and imitate, in an attempt to blend in with the locals. There has been no urgency, no time limits, there was of course a destination but unthinkable distances are best not thought about. Research is best done on route, big fat guide books can be daunting and I’d rather open the relevant chapter when I'm in the vicinity. So 6000 miles and then there’s this beach,

first night we stood looking at the waves crash and the sun setting, drinking Corona and wondering how we are going to get out of this predicament.

The room is £5 a day, the fish is fresh, the sun is browning my flesh, filling in the gaps in my motorcycle clothing tan and once again the wheels are not turning. Apart, that is to go on the daily trip to the supermarket for essential supplies, wearing only shorts and shades it's such naughty trip.

It’s the only time I'm reminded that it’s Christmas is when I hear the Spanish version of jingle bells over the supermarket PA. I’d never go to a supermarket everyday through choice at home epically this time of year. Here it’s still a pleasure and even if there is a queue at the checkout, beyond the trolleys through the picture windows the bay stretches out, a half circle of white sand, palms, blue sea and the constant white surf. It’s one of my favourite queuing experiences.

Then I leave the air conditioned building of all things yummy, into the underground car park and stuff my fresh bread and ripe avocados and camembert into my top box and I'm back out into the humidity and warmth riding slowly with a cheesy grin that’s about to get cheesier. When I reach my luxurious accommodation; I left my £5 room, I decided I was worth more than that, 3 times more in fact for a private villa with a sea view balcony wet room wifi and general loveliness.

If I keep heading south I’ll find myself in a southern hemisphere winter. And if I rush then what would be the point at all. Better to do a few things properly than pass by the best a country has to offer, unaware or unable to stop. Tough decisions have to be made. If you don’t make tough decisions in life you’re not in control of it. I'm juggling 2 things that are important to me. My book and my journey. I thought once it was written the work was over, how wrong I was, it’s only just begun. It’s demanding all my time and attention and it’s demanding more every day. I can’t delegate, no one cares about it like I do. I've given it a year of my life, apparently it wants another year, and how could I possible refuse?

There is a sailing boat booked to take us and the bikes from Panama to Columbia it sets sail on January 31st I'm not going to make it, I want to keep this pace through Guatemala and then if I were to rush to the Panama port where would that get me, apart from a sailing boat to Colombia? I need more time but I’ll opt for less distance. After Guatemala I'm doing a Ueee this will have the advantage of having my bike back where I started to try again next time. It also means I can be home to give my full efforts to promotion on the release of my book at the beginning of March. It all makes perfect sense. And it’s not bad at all. It’s not failure, I think failure would be covering the distance in just 6 months and not seeing all there is on offer.

To pass through a country and see only the road that takes you through it is to transit through an international airport and say you’ve been to that city. I don’t list Braine or Qatar as places I've seen because I looked at them through a triple glazed window as I landed and took off. Equally if a country is only witnessed through a scratched visor it isn’t really fulfilling its potential. The helmet has to come off sometimes. So once again the panniers are in the room and I haven’t put fuel in the tank for over 2 weeks, in fact I haven’t put fuel in the tank for over 2 months, every state owned petrol station has an attendant to pump the fuel for you and take your money I don’t even have to dismount if I don’t want to.

So a U turn is in order. Of all the choices this is the most feasible. South America aint going anywhere and neither will my book if I don’t correct, promote and market it. Thankfully my travel companion is continuing on. I would feel guilty if he gave up on it, I would feel resentment if I guilted into joining him. Now I feel a loss and sandiness, just like I did in Ukraine when we parted ways, our paths will meet again. Our plans were never written in stone, but in sand and the tide keeps coming in.

One thing I won’t miss, and this has been going on for an annoyingly disproportionate amount of time. Every time we order food, his meal is always more appealing than mine. His choice more appetizing, his fish was filleted and it was a bone of contention I found hard to swallow, his guacamole was always greener.

A bike trip with a buddy is a holiday, solo it becomes an adventure. I'm in the same room, nothing appears to have changed, but without my mate, my encouragement and my excuse my tummy is now full of butterflies not beer. One more night, may be two, ah yes, welcome back to the indecision of the individual intrepid traveller, double think it and do nothing, but soon, I too will be re attaching my panniers and moving alone into the unknown. Compact, independent, and no one to blame for anything but myself, oh and monklet of course oh and my publisher,

actually I will always find people to blame. Mission aborted. Target not met. But my mind has not been on the road it’s been on the book. And that is where the story ends. I've got 2500 promotional stickers to pick up in Guatemala City and then I'm gonna stick those little fuckers on every available surface between there and Denver. It’s been agonizing coming to this decision. Its best for all involved and I'm comforted by knowing its right. I have a book to sell about the last trip. If I give it my all may be it will give me the opportunity to make the next trip a sequel.

Looking at an overland website today for border crossing info, its feels like a beginning. Back to the lonely road, where my banter, thoughts and inspiration are only spoken only to my voice recorder, un-distracted, unattached, solo once again and still in search of greener grass.

Orange alert

Orange, there is a theme running through this journey, I'm quite the most colour coordinated continental traveller. Its coincidence I'm sure. Ironic really when the most hated part of my working day was a trip to B&Q (Home Depot, for you Americans) with its heavy focus on orange.

Of all the preparation, aesthetically pleasing and harmoniously matching was not one of the essential criteria. However I can’t help but notice that it’s all come together, mainly when I'm looking at my sleeping bag airing on a convenient tree or post

or when my pants are drying, hanging off of a sun drenched indicator. Even the schedule is playing its part. With over 11 hours of near equatorial darkness I usually, especially when camping get my essential 10 hours of sleep a night, my body just knows when the night is going to get light, although usually there is a cock crow to confirm this. The first thing I see through my fly net apart from some frustrated mozzies, when I raise my head off of my sheepskin detachable seat cover (it supports my arse all day and my head all night) is an orange sky, the first traces of light.

I always try and position my tent so I will get the optimum morning view even if it means my head is slightly downhill from my body.

This predawn positioning can sometimes educe night time indigestion, (heart burn=fire=orange) that however is usually solved with a midnight snack. Don the headlight (which indecently has a switch and strap of the orange colour) and indulge in some silent pannier rummaging. It’s my equivalent of a night-time fridge raid; past the pot noodle, under the protein bars, before the boil in the bag dehydrated emergency meal, lurks some soft and tasty perishables that would simply be wasteful not to eat before dawn. A cup of chai and a peanut butter (orangeish) sandwich, then I sit cross legged in my tent eating, drinking and watching the stars and the fire flies, or shooting my laser torch at distance objects is a fun little insomniac pastime. If I'm feeling particularly studious I can get out my Spanish book which coincidently is also orange.

So it started with the tent, used not abused, a consignment shop bargain. In my nocturnal hours I sometimes try to improve on the design in my head but I can’t, its brilliant especially after my last few trips in my portable Gore-Tex coffin. There are so many more activities I can do in this ‘two man’ tent. It has orange highlights and when I was given my Kelty sleeping bag in the name of sponsorship it too has a strong orange theme; so my bedding and interior tent decor is perfectly matched. I have an inner sleeping sack, its red, but was given to me by an ex girlfriend who is now married and her last name became Garfield, like the cat, who is of course, orange.
But it didn’t stop there. My M&S underwear 4-pack has different colour waistbands (they are perfect for travelling cus I can use a different colour each week and not get clean and unclean muddled up, it also avoids the double check with a close nasal encounter). So I have a distinct orange waistband on my second favourite pair.

If that’s not enough it continues with a Spanish dictionary, my bikes sponsorship stickers, ratchet straps, my disc lock stretchy reminder lanyard, the stripes on my Merrell trainers, and the rusty scratches on my tank. Even bungee cords, which fasten behind orange indicators.

OK I'm scraping the orange barrel now but with the orange trees (the fruit, not autumnal), the dawn skies

and the low charge indicators on my electronics, I'm now subconsciously on orange alert. This is a shorter than usual post, I was thinking of making it a poem but I chose a subject matter that didn’t really lend its self to rhyming. Just thinking about it I could become deranged...ooo wait I think I've got one.

Let’s hope the theme stops before the jaundice kicks in. Hummm KTM

Troubles with the Spanish tongue

A year, a whole year I wasted with my Rosetta Stone Spanish language course. Learning how to say ‘my name is Yuri, I come from Moscow’ or ‘the granny has grey hair’, and a bunch of other classic irrelevant phrase book bollocks. Consequently as soon as I crossed the border to Mexico I had all the communications skills of a deaf mute. When the levels of frustration reached the same insufferable levels as the stench in my sleeping bag it was time to do something about both.

Finding an English teacher in this town of San Miguel de Allante is not hard, but finding a good one is. Jumping up and down, thi

A room with a picture postcard view

and local teacher procured it was time to stomp the ming out of my bag. Almost as worrying as putting my card in a foreign ATM machine was soaking the bag, will I ever get it back - to its pre soaking fluffy puffy form.

I dragged it like a sack of dead ducks to the roof top. It was too heavy for the washing line, so it bleed and drained its reluctant saturation from the railings. Three days of shaking and de-clumping, airing and relocating as the sun moved round the planet. But now it has the form of hot air balloon just before it’s ready for takeoff. I have not however managed to inflate my Spanish vocabulary quite so easy.

There are schools, proper schools for the students who have the ability to soak up knowledge like a down filled sleeping bag does water. Organized family stays to immerse yourself in the language and culture. I though, having all the saturation qualities of a ducks back, opted for a slower, up-close and personal approach. No one can accuse this teacher of going too fast. He clearly has some problems, possible stroke victim or vallium addict. He moves with the agility of gravity challenged sodden sleeping bag, he struggles with the continuity of the alphabet and drawing a clock face on the board was painful. In real time the hands he drew ware running late before completion. When he goes to look up a word in the dictionary he starts at 'a' for a word beginning with ‘t’ - ‘tocino', meaning bacon, that was after he tried to draw it in blue pen on the board to show us what it looked like.
I wouldn’t want him on my team at Pictionary; incidentally the wall supporting the whiteboard resembles a dart board wall, with blue spots around the outside of it from stray stabs with the marker pen. We spent a good 15 minutes deciding that ‘col’ was cauliflower and not cabbage. He reminds me of cross between Gordon Brown, with his slow but deliberate buffoon type manner, a prolonged certainty that inevitably ends in forgotten actions; and John Merck the Elephant Man, intelligence trapped inside a dysfunctional body. Despite these insulting similarities, this man is a really lovely honest man, with enthusiasm and a massive heart, all be it of questionable performance. I thought he was going to cry at the end of our last lesson when Andy gave him a pair of £1 Tesco reading glasses, ‘For me? How sweet’. Arrhh, bless.

At first it was annoying, he was going to be fired after the first excruciating lesson, but we gave him one more chance, a morning lesson, when the body still has some resilience against the numbing medication, when the coherence is at comprehensible levels. Thankfully his grasp of exchange rates is equally inaccurate, so what we lack in translation we make up for in transaction. He even had a new haircut the next day, surely a treat from his unexpected boost in income, I would have remarked but didn’t pay attention when we did the word for haircut, well why would I?

Anyway we reasoned we aren’t that quick either, we need slowness to take this stuff in. So we actually complement each other quite well.

I still feel like I'm on the edge, at any moment all this knowledge will fall into place and I will become a cunning linguist of the Spanish tongue. I can see myself talking Spanish in my sleep or suddenly bursting forth with a mouth full of sentence at an appropriate opportunity when all things a line with my retained vocabulary and an audible, comprehensible, grammatically correct stream of words will be spouted with assertion and confidence. A perfect dialect and emphasis on the accented letters of the words. Relayed so faultlessly and more importantly understood but the intended receiver, that will result in a hushed reverence at my linguistic skills, as all around, behind hidden mouths onlookers will whisper, that surely I must be some kind of albino Mexican to have such a perfect grasp of the language. Actually that will only happen in my sleep, my dreams, not in reality, although I did order red sauce with my lunch the other day, sauce being ‘molé’ pronounced ‘moe-lay’ as in guacamole, but when the word was looked up in the wrong side of my Spanish/English dictionary was described as ‘as small black fury mammal with sharp pointy teeth. An untrustworthy sauce of underground information. But there are lots of similarities; ‘in an organization a mole is the sauce of the information’.
Dirty is ‘sue-c-o’, so now we know Phil Collins was singing about a dirty Spaniard.

Anyway word association combined with my ‘Michel Thomas’ audio lessons means it is all coming together, I have no time to ride, no time to write, go out or speak to the locals, but like a garage band rehearsing in private, I have bedroom Spanish. Pretty soon I will go out on tour and see if I can spread the word, whether it will be understood, and if the reply is comprehensible remains to be seen.
We have a room with the most amazing dome brick ceiling,

another ancient town of Spanish construction, with a bright blue high altitude sky pieced with the spires and bell towers of numerous churches and cathedrals,

that all ring out of sync, without punctuality or meaning, but with an acceptable noise pollution that compliments the tweeting sparrows morning chorus from the hanging flowering plants that cascade down from the sleeping bag airing balcony. Lying in bed with morning soft focus on impossible angles and construction, not arched enough to hold its self up, the agony of analyzing how it possible came to shape with symmetrical herring bone precision occupies one sense whilst unfathomable audibly time announcements play havoc with another sense, all this as I’m trying to recall and make sense the simplest of Spanish sentence is actually a wonderful way to start the days awearness.

Speaking of awareness, we found ourselves entering in a very dodgy Mexican bar where the urinal is unhidden and right next to the least preferred table, breeze blocks walls are painted red (to hide the blood?) it’s not exactly a calming colour. The bar entrance has swing saloon doors and would be cliché in any other place, but here it is authentic and not for foreigners to see, frequent or god forbid actually come through and drink in.

However after a nice safe clean, expensive roof top sunset, guide book recommended beer,

it was time for something darker and seedier, man did we come up trumps. I had just the right amount of beer in me to deal with such a place. Stone cold soba and I would have turned right around, drunk, and I like to think I would have decided I’d had enough, but at this particular stage of acquiring a Friday night celebration feeling after a week of alcohol abstinent and audible absorption; I had the perfect combined ingredients and drive to continue to walk to the bar, as conversation is hushed and all eyes are upon us. The choice is beer, ‘ya want it or not?’ No umbrellas in voluminous glasses shading multicoloured liquids. No voluminous women in multicoloured dresses. This is a place to come to to escape the hard world and indulge in some hard drinking and dirty lovin’, ‘Cheers’ it is not – everyone may know your name but no one gives a shit. The women are whores and huge beyond any beer goggles. Not the kind of women for picking up, unless you have a forklift.

One lucky punter got 2 minutes in the stinking toilet for his hard earn Pesos,

a drunken decision that was perhaps a little rash, and that, will be his only recollection of the encounter. Two old men with cowboy hats and droopy moustaches serenade the matchless couple during their post transaction dance, with guitar and accordion.

No one bats an eye. We too have blended in (as well as a gringo can against red walls, even a chameleon would be challenged), but when opportunism and intrigue are combined with alcohol courage and nicotine addiction, I'm approached; I understand she wants money for cigarettes, having her full attention, her full figure in my face a number so large, I haven’t learnt to count that high yet; I use my slurred Spanish to confirm her request and ask what I will get from the deal. Not having learnt the word for blow job yet, although I made a mental note to put it on the list of things to find out, along with wet and dry, (for riding conditions of course, nothing sanded or sordid about those words.) I was able to ask for a kiss and my 5 Pecos was not entirely wasted nor was a week long course I have the Spanish tongue.
After 2 beers and no blood spilled we decided it was time to leave and count our blessings on washed and scrubbed hands because I don’t want to be putting any other filthy things in my mouth.

I was quite proud of my newly acquired linguistic skills, but then paying for breakfast the following day, instead of telling us the total bill she said half the amount from both of us, and utter confusion ensued. Why couldn’t you just say 60? I feel once again I am back at day one. Like guitar playing and surfing, speaking a foreign language is just something I will only ever watch other people do.

Today we were supposed to move on but the pulled back curtains revealed a grey and wet November morning the first rain I've seen in over 2 months and best viewed from the window of a comfortable room than from a wiped and smeared visor.

When I eventually press my starter button again, I think sign posts will have meaning and like a movie with subtitles I will get the gist, I just have too. I have so much to say, it’s a crime to be lost in translation.