Well, I`m in Granada Nicaragua, pretty much the hub of tourism around this beautiful country.

Jon and I reunited here, Jon`s bike limping through borders. Somehow he managed to drive through with a buggered clutch cable and he has taken this morning to replace it.
He was also due to change his oil so will do this and then we`re back on the road.

I will write on my experience in Honduras but in the interim maybe I can tell you about my day today, at the Volcanic crater lake Laguna de Apoyo. An easy drive from Granada, the lake is smaller than others that dominate Nicaragua but it is extremely clean and very few inhabitants are around the fringes. Flanked on all sides by hills (making a crater), there are no rivers to run off pollutants into the lake so the water is fresh and about as pristine as you`ll find in the country. I invite my recent friend Mattijs from Belgium to join me for the trip.

We drove to the town and checked out the scene, which was to put mildly perfection. A range of small casita houses on the water`s fringe and relaxed tourist spots consisting of palm trees, shade and use of kayaks for $6US. We hand over our cash and eagerly hop into the boats and leave the ¨backpackers resort¨ in the distance, paddling into the lake centre. After a dip in the water, our appetites are piqued and we move around to one of several basic comedores for a cheap meal.

Waving us over are a Nicaraguan group of family on a day trip from the capital Managua. I introduce myself and they pour me a shot of rum and the most weatherbeaten man tells me that his daughter liked the look of me from the boat. Nevertheless they`re nice people and we quickly get a feel for Nicaraguan friendship. We discuss the area and the country and Rosa Blanca (the daughter and my potential fiance) makes several mentions of the attractive nature of her town. They don`t even know the word for kayak and after a little encouragement from myself and an extra shot of rum, they venture down for a lesson in paddling. Rosa is nervous of paddling into the deep water, which is not far from the shore and the father Juan Jose is decidedly anxious at her moving into deeper water but keeping them in the shallows they all have a turn and enjoy themselves and capsize poor Rosa repeatedly. Good company, I could easily sit here and drink rum with them but need to make clear my intentions are purely platonic. The time to move comes along and they settle for a photo while Juan Jose beseeches me to kiss his beautiful daughter.

We return to the resort and there are more people arrived. As the sun goes down, I meet Dave from Washington and his girlfriend Brianne from Colorado, travelling extensively through Central America. A final beer before we leave and one last swim and it`s back to Granada.

Zacatecas
Intrepid readers will recall my last serious update on the road to Zacatecas, high on adventure, dirty as a Mexican moustache and low on sleep. We roll into town and by chance chat on the street to the owner of the hostel we are looking for. Hostal Villa Colonial, run by Ernesto and Ernesto Jr accommodates our need for a good bed and a hot shower while we re-evaluate our connection to reality. We meet Tim Morgan, and Englishman with a silly notion to ride his BMW motorcycle through Canada, USA and ultimately Buenos Aires, Argentina. Some people really have some absurd notions these days.

I capitalise on a day to sort out my luggage situation, having broken a strap. A Mexican-walk later around every shop within 4 blocks and I have my luggage straps and am off to the Tapiceria, a young man with a sewing machine and a willingness to listen to an unkempt gringo`s pointing at ratchet straps. After sitting patiently and head-nodding, he got to work, taking an absurdly long time to stitch a couple of loops through clips but the finished product is excellent and he explains how he has improved on my idea to retain my saddlebags with a clip to quickly release the luggage. Mexican economy as it is, he has worked all afternoon and tries to charge me $30 in pesos, under $3 USD. I paid double gladly but felt I should have paid more yet. It is typical to find in Mexico imported goods at approximately international prices but services cost next to nothing. The opposite is what occurs in USA and New Zealand and it seems this ability to `add value` to goods being sold is what differentiates a developing from developed economy.

Zacatecas is beautiful. A `silver city`, so called after its origin in a silver mine which gave birth to the city as a place of riches in times of Spanish rule, it boasts some stunning architecture, pretty colonial-style streets and of course an illustrious cathedral in a classical Spanish plaza. This is a `postcard city`, great to travel through with a friendly flavour for travellers although navigating the hairy one-way streets makes for chasing one`s tail. The people are generally friendly and many ask if there is anything they can help with which is nice and they don’t seem to be attempting to peddle me anything. My stay is a little more focused on the bike than sight-seeing but with some great hosts and some additional friends in Matt, the professional poker player and Maria from Mexico but living in Norway we get a taste of the city’s vibe and a free shot of mescal to freshen up.

Guanajuato

Take another silver city, crazy geography, slap together a university of some repute and you find Guanajuato, a simmering hub of creative flavour. The city is a UNESCO World Heritage site and deservedly so. By way of example, they have an established Miguel de Cervantes literary festival and the parks hold several busts of Don Quijote and Sancho Panza.

Built around a silver mine, the city has been required to resort to some architectural genius to fit itself into steep hills that compress it. The sharply rising gradient around just a few blocks is reminiscent of Valparaiso, Chile however, without the sailors and requisite drinking dens. In its place, Guanajuato bustles with chic cafes, live music and cheap student bars. It has many parallels with Wellington but seemingly has left at home anyone over 30. The feel of the city is safe in spite of the dark and narrow roads. Adding to the character, roads duck down subterranean tunnels crossing the central city in a catacomb of traffic carrying us to well, really we have no idea.

We enjoy a day of walking around the compact city, and finish up in a nice restaurant watching Mexico whoop Venezuela. Growing bored as the result becomes evident, we put out margaritas aside and walk around further at dark. It’s a great place and the acoustic guitar duo in the café we choose is top notch. The following night I return to find a five piece jazz band hunkered in the corner yet warming the space with a great rhythm.

There is a premium on space here and we have to park our bikes outside the hostel. Unfortunately someone sees this as an opportunity to steal my fuel filter managing to carry off my fuel hose and break a plastic connection to the carburettor. To Tim’s credit a fix can be cadged within a couple of hours and we move out of Guanajuato aimed south for Oaxaca.

Michoacán
The guidebooks say Michoacán is perhaps the most beautiful state in Mexico and the scenery is arresting riding up through a country road which snakes us up abrupt towering ridges, dense forests and cool air in the pass to Zitacuaro and the Monarch butterfly sanctuary. We are ready to camp but Jon is feeling ill and there is no readily available space as dusk approaches. We push on through the hills which open up to highland lake countryside with picturesque small villages nestle on the waters edge. Obviously very poor economically, people universally gawp at the sight of 3 laden motorcycles passing through their home towns. Down near the lake is grassy pasture but swarms of mosquitoes dampen our enthusiasm for the tents and an advertised motel draws us in.

The boys stop at the gas station and I investigate. It is at this point I remember a quintessential difference between an American and Mexican motel. In the United States as a contraction of the original “Motor Hotel” this signifies a family friendly basic mode of accommodation similar to New Zealand or anywhere in the world. In Mexico, a motel is more commonly used for the purpose of discreet encounters providing a service for those unable to find privacy at home and seeking an outlet for their passion, payable by the hour. You could call it in more straightforward terms a Sex-Motel.

Winning the prize for the most awkward conversation through darkened glass in Mexico, I muster my Spanish and ask if three men with motorcycles would be able to share a room for the night. Obviously baffled, the receptionist considers the situation and decides she is happy to hire the room, which turns out to be surprisingly clean and well presented – superior to most hotel rooms in Mexico. In accordance with a deference to privacy and discretion each room has its own garage in which we can house the bikes and cook dinner.

The manager comes over and introduces himself, Francisco. He seems to value having some company who is happy to chat and not rushing to draw the shades on arrival. We discuss the local area and the football team whose practice he has just returned from. In the morning he is just as friendly, introducing us to his children and making sure we know we are welcome to wash the bikes or take our time leaving. Conversation subtly shifts to the pertinent question of how he came to manage a sex motel, being a friendly fellow without a hint of seediness. Like any other job he made an application to and advertisement and had been keen to depart his previous profession. His previous profession being in the circus. It takes a moment to comprehend but Francisco tells me that for approximately two years, several times a day he would be fired out of a giant cannon to the delight of crowds across Mexico. Short stocky and athletic one can see his fitness but I marvel at his resume.

A new friend made, we prepare to depart but promise that on our next visit to Michoacán, his will be the first sex motel we come to.

A Modo Mariposa

When the butterflies come, they complete an amazing migration in the highlands on Michoacán, Mexico at over 3000 metres in parts around six Government developed sanctuaries. Above the small village of Angangueo, El Rosario is the largest sanctuary where the visitor climbs 200 metres on foot to 3300 metres altitude to observe the monarchs. The butterflies are so dense, they line fir trees orange and the boughs sag under the combined weight of bodies. They have come from the northern stretches of Canada and USA in an amazing navigation which costs them 4 lifecycles to complete. Only the ancestors of the current butterflies have been here before. The butterflies feed on milkweed which is threatened by farmers spraying it as arable land is sown. The Mexican Government is taking steps of education and has established reserves in an attempt to stem the trend. Lets hope they succeed as the butterflies fit a category of “devastatingly beautiful”. As the day warms, the butterflies leave the fir trees swooping over visitor’s heads with the draughts of the wind to settle on the cooler forest floor.

A pleasing point of interest is that most of the visitors here are Mexicans enjoying their own country. Directions to the town are almost as vague as the signage and the logistics of arriving here seem to have segregated this natural beauty from the mass-tourism trail. However within two to three hours drive of Mexico City, it makes a popular day trip for locals who lumber up the cut timber steps, gasping for air.

I get told off for bringing a cold beer into the sanctuary but being obliged to stop and finish welcome the chance to sit and observe. The beer goes straight to my head at this height but it’s a great feeling to be surrounded by so much life in the crisp air. Tim and Jon catch up with me and we enjoy a laid-back picnic.

The plan is to push on to Oaxaca, a state famous for its beaches and complex culture. But things change; Jon has lost his passport so we’re off to Mexico City. We ride in as night approaches but continue on, figuring a late Sunday night is better than a Monday morning commuter dash, duelling with Mexican motoring madness on it’s home turf.

Mexico Distrito Federal

Mexico City gets bad press. With 20 million people, problems are bound to occur in the area but on the whole it is a safe, cultured city. The historic centre is packed full of outstanding architecture, sculpture and works of art while the museums would have to be the best in Latin America, perhaps usurped by Buenos Aires but the DF is impressive.

While Jon diligently trots off to pursue a passport, Tim and I took a day trip to Teotihuacán archaeological site. Only 45 minutes from the city by bus, it’s an impressive monument to the sophistication of pre-hispanic-culture. The city was at its height between 150 and 450 AD and collapsed by the eighth century by is astonishing in it’s design. What is most striking aside from it’s large scale buildings is the use of space and simple geometry employed by the unknown originators of the city. In fact, many times buildings were constructed over existing structures as the city developed. Situated in the centre of a vast valley, it most likely grew as a trading hub and construction of pyramids, elaborate sculptures and altars in conjunction with human sacrifices can be seen as evidence of it’s influence in the region.

Disappointing is that it is difficult to establish what is original and what is reconstructed (most of it). In the early 20th century archaeological work on the largest Pyramid, Pyramid of the Sun mistakenly added a fifth tier to the structure ruining the characteristic symmetry evident throughout the rest of the site.

Returning late, I miss out on the Lucha Libre Mexican wrestling but catch up with travel buddies Tim and Lauren afterwards. With a pasty looking Jon in tow we head to a dodgy cantina and settle into a dangerously cheap bottle of tequila.

* * * *

At last Jon’s passport is ready and we make plans to leave. Mexico City is not the terror some make it out to be, provided you don’t drive. The truth is, I would be interested to live or work here at some stage in the future. The main drawback of the city is the stifling pollution and in my throat is a constant dryness. Looking out from the New Zealand Embassy office building, visibility is less than 2000 metres. We rise at 5am and leave the city, ready for a breath of fresh air.

The South
Unfortunately in Southern Mexico, time pressures have pushed us through some amazing landscapes and friendly people. The state of Oaxaca, which I had expected to be my favourite place in Mexico had to make way for Mexico City and the southernmost state of Chiapas involved several days of “window shopping” at 100 km/h. Top of the list for next time will be the city San Cristobal de Las Casas. Arresting riding, within 30 minutes you rise from 600 metres altitude to over 2200 metres and the city doesn’t disappoint. Surrounded by indigenous villages living an increasingly traditional lifestyle, the city has beautiful building and hasn’t been spoiled by high rise hotels. It has a traditional square and cheap restaurants, good coffee and fascinating people. We only stayed a day but I will be back, and this time I’m going to spend a week or two, exploring the mountain countryside.

From there, timetables meant that to meet a friend of mine, Jorge I had to rush through the great country of Guatemala to Honduras but I have been able to spend a week here relaxing, and cleaning up. It’s difficult to describe what a pleasure it can be to cook exactly what you want to eat but the madras curry I made was top notch. I’ve also had a chance to change pace and see some amazing aspects of this small society and will update soon. In the meantime, enjoy the photos!

Hey people,

I’m currently chilling at San Pedro de Lagoona, on the shores of beautiful Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. For the past week or so i´ve been attending spanish classes on the shores of the lake. There are so many distractions here, a billion great musicians, poets, and cute girls. It is truly hard to leave, but in a few days I must move on to Honduras and meet up with Josh.

Our route through Mexico (^ clicky)

And through Guatemala (^ clicky)

For the first time a few days ago, its really dawned on me that I probably wont be making it to Brazil in by May 31st. My time and money are both running short, and my intention to meet my parents in Europe in June looms large. It is sad, but on the other hand riding through countries at a million miles an hour with out truly seeing them and their people would be (in my opinion) a real tragedy. I guess I’ll evaluate my options in a weeks time, after yarning with Josh. But anyway, let me update you on our doings of the past month or so.

Zacatecas

Hopefully you’ve read Josh’s account of the mountain crossing from the pacific coast to Zacatecas. It was a harrowing at times, but it was probably my most enjoyable experience of Mexcio - we got to see the real deal. A terrible dirt road, real mountain villages, real drug traffickers, slept in the home of one of the locals, ate Tamales off their wood burner stove. Zacatecas, as beautiful as it was, was almost an anti-climax. It was very Spanish, cobbled streets and old Spanish architecture. We snapped a whole bunch of photos of the place. Zacatecas is high up on the mountain plain - it was a hub of silver mining back in the day, a very rich town which allowed to to be built as exquisitely as it was. It was in Zacatecas that we met a lovely British guy named Tim.

Introducing Tim, he’s a sculptor by trade (you can see a bunch of his work here), and he’s driving all the way down to Argentina on a BMW GS1150. Seriously, our bikes look like toys next to his. We hung out in Zacatecas for a few days, making some great friends (house of pain!), trotting around the city and doing luxury thing like taking showers and washing. After a few nights camping and out in the mountains, we were dusty mountain men through and through. After hanging out with time, we decided to start travelling together, adding yet another to our crew.

Guanajato

Finishing up with Zacatecas, we bid goodbye to the lovely hostel people, and we decided to swing south to Guanajuato - another town built on the back of the silver trade in a deep valley high in the mountains. Because it was built into the valley, a bizarre series of one-way underground tunnels connects the different parts of the city. These are tunnels built a few hundred years ago, and seriously looked like it (crumbling bricks, leaky water things, a vampire or two). I wish we had gotten some photos of the tunnels, but your life is in your hands when your inside.

The architecture, again, was beautiful. Better then Zacatecas in my opinion. Guanajato is a university town, so there were many young people and funky cafes to hang out at. Our first night ended late at a cafe, cup of tea in hand (tea con leche), listening to an acoustic band doing radiohead and David bowie covers. Sweet. While in Guanajato we attended a Mummy museum. Cool! Rel mummies, this should be awesome! It turned out that, yes, there were dead people there, but not mummies in your traditional sense. Guanajauto is pressed for space, especially in the cemetery. If a family cant pay for a plot anymore, then the person is dig up and moved/disposed of.

Basically the museum was filled with half decomposed (not rotting, but preserved) people that they dug up, and decided not to get rid of. Hrrrrm. Interesting, but not entirely what I’d call pleasant, especially when we reached the dead baby room. Yes, it was actually called ‘the dead baby room’. We took a whole bunch of photos, but made the executive decision not to put them up on the site. When you run into either of us at some point, maybe we’ll show you.

After two and a bit days in Guanajuato, we decided to move on. Having got up early in the morning, we made our ways down to the bikes to discover that Josh’s battery was completely flat, having accidentally left his park lights on. No biggy, a quick push for a jump start and we were away. Hey, whats that stuff pouring out of his bike…. uh oh, stop stop stop STOP! I quickly turned his fuel tank to off, and the stream slows to a trickle. Looks like someone pulled his fuel line off completely, not too big a deal, except that in the process they had broken off the plastic nipple on the carburetter. So nothing to attach a new hose too. Crap. Luckily Tim is a bit of a mechanical whiz, and a bit of fiddling for two hours and we have it fixed. Another push start, and we’re all good.

It was at this point that a lovely Californian guy came over and offered some help. None needed, but I pulled out my little brown notebook (containing my passport and other bits) to take his email address. With this stowed away, we departed the city, eventually running out of light next to a motel. Cool, a motel! Oh, they charge by the hour…. THAT sort of motel. Lucky a night didn’t cost much more then the price of an hours use, and we all hunkered down.

Butterflys, Lost Passports, and Bad Pork Buns

It was at this motel that I suddenly got really sick - full blown fever, sweats, bizarre dreams, and some throwing up. That night wasn´t alot of fun, but my fever had broken by the morning. I was still very much under the weather, and the heat didn’t really help. I put the whole thing down to a bad pork bun. Bad bad BAD pork bun bought from a street vendor in the Guanajuato market. I guess I got cocky, a full two months on the road and I hadn’t had anything worse then the squirts, this bun knocked me down a peg or two. The next day we made our way down to Morelia for lunch, and parked up for the night in another beautiful mountain town ( I forget the name, but promise to update later), just a few k’s from the Monarch butterfly reserve in Michoacan.

On arriving at the butterfly reserve the next day, I reach in to my bag. My little leather book is gone. Passports, import permits, everything. Fuuuuuuuuuuck….. its okay, it could be elsewhere in my luggage, keep cool. I decide to put it on the backburner till after the reserve.

Stunning, absolutely stunning. You walk up a mountain path, and the higher up you get the amount of butterfly’s increases exponentially. At the top, you can’t walk a metre without bumping a bunch of butterfly’s out of the way. Just unreal. These are all Monarchs from up north, America and Canada.

For scientists, this annual migration is one of nature’s greatest mysteries. Four to five generations separate the monarch populations that make the migration, so the butterflies that make the trek to Mexico are the great, great grandchildren of the previous generation to have made it.

“The ones that fly south have never been to Mexico before, they get there by pure instinct and then by pure instinct they come back, lay their eggs on milkweed and then die,” said Lincoln Brower, a research professor of biology at Sweet Briar College in Virginia

(From National Geographic)

We had lunch at the top, and trotted back down the mountain. With my fingers crossed I searched my luggage. Gone. Dam it, how did I fuck up!? It might have fallen out of my bag at some point, I’m pretty vague at the best of times, and I had been pretty sick. Fuck. I make a few calls, and the decision is made - I have to get to Mexico city to talk to the embassy. Thank god we ere only a few hundred k’s from the place, but it was a pretty sketchy ride.

Mexico City yo

We rolled into the city around 11pm on Sunday night. I still feel pretty sick, and it’s dam cold up here. Mexico city is a sprawling urban landscape, inside a single lake valley surrounded by volcanoes. The lake is long since dried up, and the city has grown to such an extent it is beginning to creep over the volcanoes that surround it. Climbing up the face of the outer volcano, it is hard not to draw a breath when you get to the top and drop down in. Lights, everywhere, for miles and miles. The traffic was thankfully pretty light, and we drove around till we found a hotel a few blocks from the historic centre of the city. Parked up and sleep.

The next morning I was up and about, organising all the things I needed for my replacement emergency passport: police report, money, and I.D. The passport would take a few days to come through, so we set up camp in the hotel. The next day we were in for a great surprise, Tim and Loren had rolled in on their tiny scooter. They drove from Acapulco in to Mexico City…. on a scooter. They burst into my hotel room while I was noodling away on my guitar, many high fives were shared, and many stories swapped. They had driven down the pacific coast.

That night we headed out for Pizza, and Lucha Libre (mexican wrestling). It. Was. Awesome! Imagine WWF, but Mexican. Imagine huge, masked, Mexican dudes and an arena of wrestling mad Mexicans. Tim and I high fived a wrestler when he ran into the crowd, while trying not to spill our beers. After the show we all bought wrestling masks (photo to come soon!), and headed back to the hotel to find Tim and Josh. Tim was pretty bushed after a day out at the ruins, and was a little sick (being laid low by the same evil pork bun), so Josh in tow we headed out to find a canteena. We bought a bottle of tequila and set at it. I remember Josh emerging from the bathroom at one point, wrestling mask on, shirt off, slamming 3 shots in a row. Things go a little blurry after that. We made it back, but not before being told off by a bunch of policemen.

Mexico City was great, but I really needed to get out by the end. It was expensive, and polluted. More then once I would wake up in the night a little breathless. Sadly Tim had to depart south after a couple of days, having committed to being in South America at a particular date, while we watched him enviously roll onwards. Finally my passport came through (delayed because the special printer broke down - such is life), and we got the hell out.

Helmetless to Oaxaca, San Christobal, and Guatemala

At around 4 in the morning we skipped downstairs to the hotels private parking lot where our bikes were stowed, ready for a long days ride from M.C. to Oaxaca. Wait, where’s my helmet? I’m sure it was on my bike last night. FUuuuuuuuuuck…… After an hour of looking around, talking with the hotel security guard and receptionist (’we haven’t seen anything, don’t blame us’), I decided against a police report. I needed to get out of the city. I donned my sunglasses, a beanie, and a scarf to cover my face, and off we went. The only worrying part of the journey was getting out of the city, even at 4.30am, the traffic is heavy and sticky. Once clear of the city, I lost my fear of crashing and burning, and started to enjoy the greater view riding helmetless provided. We arrived in Oaxaca around 5pm, I looked like I had just stepped out of a coal mine.

We crashed that night after walking around Oaxaca. There is a pretty big military presence here. It’s been a few months since the teachers protest, and political graffiti still adorns many buildings. People are really hesitant to talk about anything political really. Things were really nasty here in November/December, when an indiemedia reporter was killed (read: murdered by government agents) during what was a peacful protest till then. But things seem peacfull, and the Zocalo (town square) is full of tourists.

I wish we could have spent more time here, but our week in Mexico City had put us way behind schedule. The next few days had to be riding days, no more stops. I picked up another helemet in Oaxaca, money I would rather not have spent, but i NEEDED a helmet. The next day we rode up to San Christobal, another mountain town where things were cheap, and the people were cool. Again, we would have like to sped onger here, but time was ticking.

Crossing to Guatemala

The border corssing was as easy as you like. We crossed at La Mesilla, a quick fumigation later, paid a few fees, and we were in. Sorted. I’m going to save my Guatemala stories for a week or so (and I have a few), I promise promise promise to update. I’ve pulled some new photos from my camera, I haven’t deleted any of the crap ones and a few of them are series I intend to stich together when I get a chance, so they’re a little hit and miss. More soon, but now i’m going from a swim.

Peace, Jah love,

Jonno

Hi all

Please click on the below link to see my Mexico Review, for some reason it is not showing on the frontpage.
http://www.locokiwi.com/blog/joshs-journal/

thanks for reading!
Josh

We are currently in San Pedro de Laguna, Guatemala on the shores of the absolutely stunning Lake Atitlan. Jon is going to study Spanish here and I am making for Honduras to meet a friend for a week.

Having not yet written about Mexico, time is bearing down. Although serious reflection is still a work in progress, I note the academy has announced it`s review of Mexico and further information is expected.

Inaugural ¨Best In Mexico¨ Awards

ACC award for Risk Management
Honorable Mention : Skillful use of a cellphone to text while riding motorcycle loaded with bread.Winner : Albert Einstein`s Mexican progeny who rides a motorcycle with wife and newborn infant slung over wife`s shoulder.

Best Performance in 80s Revival
Jon Bon Jovi himself is suspected of having played Mazatlan Carnaval to a packed and appreciative audience. Back to his best of long hair, low buttoned shirt and swooning guitar solos, he then ramped it up a gear with dancing girls.

Worst Coffee in Mexico
Runner Up: This award was tightly contested by, well every cafe north of Mexico City. If you thought
American`s did it badly, wait till you see what a Mexican can do.
Winner: Jonathan Bogacki for drinking coffee with salt in it. Three times.

Unintended Irony Award
Winner: Bimbo Bread sponsoring a float in carnaval and giving girls lycra outfits with company logo thus creating ¨Bimbo Chicks¨

Best Road Signage Award
Runner Up: Upside Down Cow spotted on Baja Peninsula
Winner: ¨No Maltrate Las Señales¨ (don`t vandalise the signs)

Best Motorcycling Road
Honorable Mentions: Zacatecas state -Descent from sierra east towards Valparaiso
Oaxaca- free road HWY 190 50kms north of Oaxaca city until 200 kms east
Winner: Chiapas - HWY 190 free road ascent to San Cristobal de las Casas

These awards are still being announced and will be updated.

Hey all, here are some new photos for you. We’ve pulled a bunch from Josh’s camera, and a few from mine - i’ll try to get some more up when I get a chance. I’ve ordered then cronologically so you can kinda follow whats been happening.

Within the next few days we should be hitting Guatemala, myself to park up in Antigua for a week or so. I’m enlisting myself in a spanglish course to improve my chances of communicating with the ladies of Latin America. So far hand-signals have only been mildly succesfull, and often a little confusing for both parties. Yes, we’ll go with confusing.

Josh has put up his personal recollection of his time at Carnival, i’ll try and get a few stories up in a little bit. Since Zacatecas we headed south with our new british friend Tim, down to Guanajuato, another beautiful old city, finally to the Monarch Butterfly Sanctuary in Zitacuaro…. it was then discovered that I had fucked up royally and lost my passport! Off to Mexico City we went (to the New Zealand Embassy). While in Mexico City, Tim, Loren and I (yes, we met up with them again) went to see Lucho Libre (Mexican Wrestling). Just hilariously cool. A bottle of Tequila was devored shortly after. I bought a wrestling mask. Now Josh and I are in Oaxaca. Horray!

More typing when I get to Antigua, for now enjoy the photos!

Peace, jah love,
Jonno

(Out of sequential order)

Where is the gang?´, I wonder as I sit alone by my bike in Loreto, Baja California. As I wait it becomes obvious there has been a mistake with our rendezvous point and I will have to catch up the others on the road to La Paz. The drive is about 4 hours and riding alone is no problem except for the obvious hassle of how to meet up with a red jeep, red motorcycle and 4 rowdy gringos in a city ramping up for Carnaval. Carnaval occurs in the week before lent, most famously in New Orleans and Rio de Janiero but La Paz and Mazatlan, an overnight ferry ride away, attract partiers from all over Mexico to imbibe, dance, and watch gawdy parades pass by. I make good time, anxious not to arrive after nightfall and reach the city about 5.30pm with an hour of light left. It is Valentines Day and I stop by an Internet Café to see if Jon has sent me directions to his hotel amidst balloon sellers and taco stands. Nothing happening there so I make for a cheap dinner, a little nervous at the prospect of shelling out for a hotel by myself. A quick check of email at 8pm and no word. I decide to cut my losses but really don´t feel like a hotel room and note on my map free camping is around the lagoon. Riding about 15km out of the city lands me on a peninsula with a now-unseen beach but I see several cars parked by a clearing so all appears safe. I pull in and pitch my tent in the dark. During this time, I notice that none of my neighbours have tents up and appear to be parked up doing nothing. The penny drops. I am on a secluded quiet patch of beach overlooking the city. On Valentines Day. And I am the only one here camping. To my right a group of teenagers drink beer from their parents pick-up, play music and trade saliva with their girlfriends. Periodically, cars will pull into the lot and trawl along the hedges built up around the high tide mark searching for their own private spot. Lovers Lane is busy tonight. Thank goodness for my discman, I plug in some music and try not to think about what´s going on around me.
Dawn wakes me with high tide worryingly close to my tent and bike. I pack quickly and make my way into La Paz. It´s a less tourist focused city than the rest of Baja and this is the first place where Mexicans don´t tend to try out a smattering of English to ease my way through their country. The waterfront is closed for live music and street vendors every night and the town is full of Mexicans holidaying in their own country. I check my email to see that my travel companions managed to make it to La Paz but on the way to the internet café seemed to stumble into a bar and not make it out. A little aggrieved at being ignored I make my way to their room but really think the whole situation was too funny to get worked up about. The room smells of beer and bodies already and Carnaval proper only starts today.

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Half-way up the tree trunk, I realise I’m not going to make it to the top but there is no turning back. Somehow discussion of coconut trees, Keith Richards and inebriation have led me to conclude that climbing one of the coconut trees can’t be that hard. It seems to be an original idea; Dave and Tim start chanting and the whole street stops and a thousand Mexicans are cheering me on. ´Mas, mas, mas´ they chant, and I feel like the king of the world. Then my arms fill with lactic acid and I can’t move. I look down and somehow I’m the centre of the party. I hang on but eventually time wears at my resolve and I give in to the inevitable. No one seems to boo at my failure, having a good laugh which I´m thankful for but no one tries to out-do my effort either.
I relax down to another beer and consider limiting any more demonstrations of stupidity to ground-level.

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If I had to describe Lauren in one word, it would be ´pluck´. Tim´s girlfriend, she´s a Melbourne girl who doesn´t take no for an answer and fits seamlessly with Mexican bustle. We are watching the formal beauty pageant to crown the Queen of Carnaval which in itself seems only to require an ability to smile, wave and dance while a Mexican band plays bizarre traditional marching music to fit the crowning. There is seating and a standing area behind but Lauren shepherds us to the front right of the stage where we sit on the ground and work on our $2 ballenas (literally ´whales´ beer sold by the litre). Somehow this attracts the attention of one of the beauty queens who waves Lauren and I onto the stage and we are suddenly up dancing with the beauty queens in front of a crowd of about 5000 gathered. Everyone seems to think it´s hilarious but I´m waiting to be wrestled to the ground by an overzealous security guard. It never happens and the princess passes me over to dance with one of the queens of whom there are about five. No one seems to tell me to go away but after two songs I feel I´m obviously imposing on the traditional part of the celebrations and we get down but they call Dave up out of the crowd and he´s up on stage as our third representative of unkempt, unwashed, unshaven drunk tourists dancing with the city´s most beautiful girls.

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There aren´t any signs for toilets around and the restaurants are charging for use of theirs. The Carnaval is on the waterfront so no problem there, I move to the water´s edge. While there I realize there must be 30000 people at this carnaval and if only 1 in 20 are as inconsiderate as me, well… I decide I won´t be swimming tomorrow.
I spot Dave in the crowd and he has two interesting pieces of information for me. The first of these is that he was caught relieving himself by the police who wanted to escort him down to the police station. Being pragmatic and extremely drunk, Dave managed to pay the fine on the spot. It cost him $20 but saved him a lot of unpleasantness. I´m a little unsure if he´s bribed them as other people tell me that´s the cost of the fine but it seems a little unorthodox nonetheless.
His second piece of information is that he´s found the spiciest tacos in the world, apparently. This catches my attention. As a chilli-o-phile I have been a little disappointed at the heat in some of the taco stands supposedly spicy offerings and am keen to rise to the challenge. I order my pork taco and drizzle the salsa liberally over the meat. I bite, close my eyes, tense my neck in anticipation and… nothing. I heap another spoonful into my mouth to Dave´s wide-eyed amazement and then well, bugger it, drink the whole bowl of salsa. Dave is about bug eyed when I finish it but now I´m charging. We rally the group for pork tacos as it is now the early hours of the morning and I down another bowl of the salsa picante. The vendors of the taco stand see this and being of good humour find me a whole green chile. I look at it´s deep green hue, look around and once again give in to blatant attention-seeking mode and chow down the chile whole. At last, this warms me up but I´m well within my tolerance level yet the taco stand guys think I´m amazing. They chatter and fumble around looking for something hotter but to my eternal pain know exactly what it is they´re about to present me. They pull out a ripe jalapeño, with dry stripes through the body, a sign of a truly hot chile. I know this is going to hurt but am on a roll and again am the centre of entertainment. I take my first bite and it stings like a coal in my throat. I chew, and swallow and realizing this is my only moment finish the chile with my next bite. Genuine chile heat, as opposed to the powdered form is a gradually increasing heat, blowing out sinuses and gradually warming your entire mouth, lips and throat. What this means is that when you reach your heat threshold, the heat may yet increase beyond what you can manage. Swallowing this chile was like eating a hand-grenade and spitting out the pin. It was only a matter of time and I sit like a condemned man, slowly rocking back and forth like a nervous twitch but I can not escape the burn. I cry like a girl and try not to vomit, yet I do manage to stammer ´get me a drink` to Dave. Some vendor donates me a cup of ice and a glass of water and I wait for the pain to subside much to everyone`s mirth.

By the time we get on the ferry for Mazatlan for the fourth day of carnaval, everyone welcomes the relief on our livers.