20:18. 20-jan, 2012. Quetzaltenango, Guatemala.

At 4am after staying up way-too-late on a Skype phone call, I threw myself together to catch the taxi waiting outside. Good thing I wasn’t facing this mission alone, having made friends with Nadia and Radim, an excellent Russian-Slovak couple who are touring Mexico and Central America on recumbent bicycles, and are fit for adventure. With our DIY spirits and budget-consciousness in common, we set off on an all-day hike to the top of Volcano Santa Maria, without a guide.

If this town has one thing as its backbone for tourism, it would be guides who take you up deliberately-unmarked trails to the tops of volcanos, which to me seems a big waste of $30 for a hired walking buddy. (The other source of tourist income being pricey pickup trucks, where you stand in the back holding-on for dear life, as the driver speeds along winding dirt roadways, hugging the cliff’s edge with no divider separating the cascading mudslide from the fog-covered farmland below, shuttling tourists to lofty hot springs high in the cloud forests, in lieu of the low-cost colectivo buses which take you everywhere except these places for a tenth of the price.)

the reward is hard to enjoy the hot bath when you're motion-sick :/

The front door to the place we called home was padlocked shut from the inside, and our impatient cabby was honking outside. Through the tiny peep-window I shouted to him that we were stuck in here for the moment, and eventually our land-lady in pink nightgown surfaced to let us out. As we bumped over cobblestone streets and beyond town, our unhappy-driver declined to make even the smallest conversation, his passive-aggressive attitude evident in his maniacal driving. With little-to-no visibility in the dense early-morning fog, and our headlights blasting everything an indistinguishable white, we crashed through potholes and over speed bumps as if this was the clanking vehicle’s final mission, and its prolonged well-being was not a consideration. Climbing in altitude, we suddenly emerged from the cloud, and I finally it was clear that the road was truly more than half-gone, as if what used to be a right lane was chomped off by rock giants of the mountain. The road dwindled and eventually even the dirt path became no more, which didn’t stop our fearless driver from taking it just as fast until the very end.

Abruptly we stopped. He waited for us to get out, with only his headlights illuminating the dusty path ahead. We paid him and he sped-off. It was eerily silent and very cold. The fog below us glowed faintly of the small town within it, and being a moon-less night, only the sky twinkled from beyond the looming cone of Santa Maria ahead. I paused to layer-up, and my comrades smoked a cigarette. Nadia was uneasy, and wanted to wait for others to come and lead the way, but I wouldn’t have this, and with my head-torch on I sniffed-out the path ahead. After only 20 meters it split-off in two directions: the dried-up path of a stream to the left heading straight for the perfectly conical peak in silhouette against the starlight, and the semblance of a construction road winding around to the right but definitely upwards. Radim recalled reading that with the help of a 4×4 vehicle, one could go up a bit farther and shave an hour off the 8-hour hike, so we decided to chance the road.

This might be a good time to mention that my soy milk-making friend Nora cautioned us to travel light, meaning Don’t bring anything valuable, not even a camera or cell phone, as machete-wielding banditos have been known to rob tourists here from time to time. Another story from the very well-established Quetzal-Trekkers agency in our hostel told of an large group including two guides getting completely stripped of their possessions at knife-point. Sadly, I put my tail between my legs on this one and left the cameras at home, so no photos for you this time! (Which means more words to paint a thousand images for you!)

After 20 minutes and some steep ascents, I couldn’t imagine anything driving up here, until finally we saw the light of a campfire flickering in the trees ahead, atop a dirt wall at which the road ended, half-dug-out by an excavation of sorts. With no path to continue on and a strong sense of foreboding, my friends stopped in their tracks and wouldn’t advance any further, and by the time I noticed this I was shining my torch in a construction vehicle to see if anyone was there to talk to. The silhouette of a [short] man appeared above us, I asked him if this was the path to Santa Maria, and he replied that he thought it was possible, although it’s not the main path, but he could help us up to cut through the site if we wanted. Nadim and Nadia were almost in full retreat by this point, I politely thanked him for the info, and had to speed-walk my way out of sight to keep up with my friends.

Back down to the original split in the road, we noticed a car at the drop-off, and my buddies wanted to wait for them. I started up the dried stream, heading straight for the cone, happy to eliminate one faulty option from our game of trail and error. The Russians were dragging their feet, reverse-following the guided group, but I forged ahead. (It might be one of my greatest pleasures and assets, my drive to explore the dark unknown.) After half a kilometer of gently ascending it was clear that all our headlamps were heading the same way. As we traced the curves of the stream, filled now with volcanic rock, the blue half light of dawn began to show the details of this pretty path, lined with trees and vines hanging down. Choosing any of many narrow and fun paths upward, as the runoff trail broadened and gave way to fields and pasture, the gradient became steeper.

Here a spritely blond dog joined our company, walking ahead as if to guide us. I accepted his lead, and enjoyed the game of spotting him, as far ahead as he could be but within view. In a few cases, Nadim wasn’t so enthusiastic about following a dog, especially when we got to a big field, and I was off in one corner asking the dog “where to now?”, while Nadim was signaling the continuation of the trail from the other side.

We took a few short breaks to eat breakfast, bit by bit, as we were at 3000 meters above sea level and oxygen was less abundant. There were a few bands of young Guatemaltecos on the trail (it was a holiday weekend before classes resumed so we weren’t alone), as well as a party of 10 or so gringos with their guides. The trail momentarily flattened out and we came upon the groups who passed us while we sat munching our apples, (each of whom saluted us with “Buenos dias” except of course for the stodgy gringos who too often avoid eye-contact). They were playing with our dog who had since abandoned us (or was it the other way around?), pausing and bathing for a moment in the first rays of the morning’s sunlight. Here the real trail began, continuing up straight ahead towards the triangular peak. It didn’t look so far to the top, as the crow flies – boy was I wrong.

Unlike many mountain trails I’ve hiked, this one had very few switchbacks, and basically climbed straight up in a more or less direct line. Much like the steep temple staircases on the Mayan pyramids I’ve come to know over the recent months, and always wondered why did these people of small stature (forgive my liberty of saying so here) engineer such huge steps at such rigorous inclines? and how did they climb up there, especially the elders, to pay homage? I could not see Grandma-P making the pilgrimage, bless her deal soul!

We were still mainly in the shade, as the sunshine hadn’t yet crossed over to this side of the mountain, and it was fun to crunch through the ice formations which had crystallized on the path during the night, curiously thick at a couple centimeters, with long, parallel honeycomb hollows, like a delicate crystal grid extruded in 3D. The crunchy ice actually boosted our traction for the ascent; little did we know this would yield treacherous muddiness on our way back down.

Every so often I’d look out upon the town far below, and as if I’ve escalated another 20 stories in an elevator, the houses and roads soon became indistinguishable, but I could see the clusters of many small settlements scattered far and wide throughout the volcanic valley, topographically separated by other smaller volcanic mounds and some encompassed within huge craters.

Pulling ourselves up a 40-degree incline by grabbing tree roots to hoist ourselves through the most difficult parts, the subtropical forest gave way to pines, and eventually the trees gave way to only rocks and shrubs. It looked as if the town was directly below us but impossibly far down, as we rose so sharply, and I imagined falling off and tumbling right back to where we started. Finally we were in the sun, and in the final stretch. I jokingly dubbed Nadim ‘Superman’, as he literally bounded up the mountain and helped us along by lending many a hand (which is especially remarkable being as he smokes like a chimney!) At this point, after nearly five hours ascending with very few pauses, Nadia and I now however needed to catch our breath every hundred paces and honor our weary legs, which had served us well beyond their thresholds of fatigue.

At last we made it. Our reward for this effort was another fantastic panoramic view over the other side, about which was said that you could see as far out as the Caribbean Sea on a clear day, but on the horizon instead was another group of fantastic volcanoes that I imagine are responsible for creating their own weather, shrouding their peaks seductively in an undulating cloak of navy blue and sunshine-orange clouds. In time I noticed that the tallest one in this group was indeed puffing smoke, adding to its atmospheric veil. I collapsed in a pile and laid down to take-in the sky above. Superman and Nadia bounded another 150 meters to the next peak, to peer down into the smoking active volcanos just beyond, but I just couldn’t for fifteen minutes. Around me a bunch of Guatealtecos sat around, relaxing and laughing, probably wondering why I was so incapacitated. (I soon came to learn that it’s in the Guatemalan constitution to make these pilgrimages with comparative ease.)

I eventually wobbled over to my friends, where we ate a delectable lunch, while the two volcanoes below us belched thought-bubble clouds above our heads, occasionally rumbling deep and long. We attempted to count the supposed fourteen volcanoes which could be seen from this vantage, but being utterly full-bellied, happy, and thoroughly spent, we all took a nap for an hour or more, intermittently warmed by the sun and chilled when smoking volcanic cloud cover engulfed and obscured us from our solar blanket.

A particularly resonant rumble woke me from an intense dream, I got up to stretch, and noticed the fervent cries from a pair of goats on the other peak. Walking over to take in the scene, I noticed there were over a hundred indigenous Guatemalans atop Santa Maria now, nearly all of the women in traditional dress of vividly woven fabrics, long skirts, and braided hair, the men in pants and buttoned-up shirts, some with cowboy hats. One man was reading charismatically in Spanish from what sounded like the bible, while a big fire was being stoked nearby, but most of the other chatter was in a local tongue.

I pondered why these goats were up here… surely it wasn’t just for their adorable company. I came back to Nadim and Nadia and made a comment about how horrible it would be to suffer a fate such as this, forced on a strenuous death march to the top a volcano to be slaughtered. But I also then recalled an example from the ancient Mayans: that for those slaves who lost in the Gran Juego de Pelota – the famous ball game in which the fittest warriors were pitted against each other in teams, and, at least in the case of Chichen-Itza where the community was especially blood-crazed, the losing side was sacrificed to the gods by beheading – it was an extreme honor. In any case, it was an odd fusion of Christian and pre-Christian worship that, unfortunately, wasn’t the first time I had witnessed.

As we crossed the scene again, ready to begin our descent, I was entranced by the sweet, low singing in unison by nearly everyone scattered across the mountaintop. The song was somber and timeless, and I could imagine an expanse of history floating along the notes, sung by countless generations who participated in this very ceremony that was underway. I recoiled at hearing the pathetic, blood-curdling scream of one goat, who was indeed being held by three men while another slit the throat and suspended it to bleed dry, then proceeded to saw off the limbs straight away… As we started down I heard the second hopeless scream of a life taken by another’s will, and wondered if this could ever be acceptable for me.

It took us three hours to descend, and while my thighs were grateful not to be hiking straight up anymore, it took more agility and balance to keep from slipping down the now-muddy crystal path. Nadim practically flew down, but assisted us as usual. In contrast to my chatty self on the way up, I was mostly quiet, concentrating of my footing and budgeting my energy. Local families bounded past us, dazzling me with their Incredibles-pace, scuttling down with casual skill. While most of the males wore boots or sneakers, I was especially awestruck that the women wore either sandals or dainty slippers, sliding smoothly down the slippery paths with grace.

In the final hour, where the forest rose up around us, I was filled with energy, probably due to the surplus of oxygen-rich air, and the downward pitch was perfect for bounding. I ran for a while, my backpack light since we ate all the food and drank most of the water, and got a good sweat going. We stopped and sat in the grassy field where we lost our dog, and filled with dust and accomplishment, we giggled and joked. At nearly 3pm, eleven intense hours later, we hobbled along the dusty village road where we were dropped, past our scrappy guide dog who ignored us this time, towards the brightly decorated chicken bus that would take us back to Xela. I noticed a big white goat tied on a short rope between two cinder-block homes, standing on its hind legs and screaming, as two really young boys pelted rocks at it.

I said I’d rather die than live like that.

Back in town the next morning, I went to pick up my soy cheese from Nora, but she was out at church, and her son asked me to come back in the afternoon. I wanted to check out a colorful church in a nearby village called San Andres Xecul myself… it took me three hours, many chicken buses and two pickup trucks to get there and back, but unfortunately it closed at noon, so I only got to shoot the exterior:

Upon my return, I was wiped-out and cranky, so I trudged home and laid down to watch the end of the Bill Hicks documentary, which was truly inspiring and brought tears to my eyes. Rejuvenated, I stopped by Nora’s house again, she invited me in, and we had another nice, long chat. She told me she’s climbed Santa Maria forty times in her life, and the first time she didn’t think she’d make it, stopping to cry on the way up, overwhelmed. It gets easier with time, naturally. She also knew very well the dog who guided us, as he’s been a friend to many tourists for years, working for food. (We fed him too!) About the bonfire and the goats, she said it was most likely a ceremony, and she doubted they ate the beasts, as they were sacrificial offerings, and they likely scattered the blood around the fire. It being my last day in Xela, I waked over to the cemetery again, and spent two hours soaking it up and thinking some new thoughts about death, slipping out just before the gate swung closed.

Those ruminations I’ll leave for next time, (along with some sick photos from this most unexpectedly stupendous city of the dead.) But I was happy, and through my throbbing legs and heart I felt a strong current roaring within me, inspiring my life force to flow anew and make the most of my time in this body. I went home and brainstormed a list of things that I could do to help transform some things for the better.

In my exploration of cultures and customs wherever I go, I observe and aim to understand how people live, and continually I’m drawn to the sacred. While I never aim to criticize, or wish to disrupt that which brings spiritual fulfillment to anyone, I do feel compelled to call attention to the curious scale that places value on life, and wish to share a website that really got me thinking about animal rights issues well beyond the scope of animal agriculture. It’s not pretty (and NSFW), but please feel free to explore the ideas and images presented at evolveforanimals.org/20-20 when and if you feel ready for a jolt. Thanks for reading!

13:49. 2-Jan, 2012. San Juan Chamula, Chiapas, Mexico.

This one will require a bit of imagination. When I entered the windowless dorm room last night in San Cristobal de las Casas, the only other inhabitant who was sleeping stirred, asked me what time it was, and I replied half past 12. Springing to life, as if he’d lost track of time and forgot to set an alarm, he thought I meant half-past noon, but it was only midnight. Settling in for the night and not even knowing each other’s names, we chatted for over an hour, and one thing that piqued my interest was a church in a village half-hour outside town, where he assured me “just go inside, and notice the Coca-cola”.

This morning after rising early and attempting to find a combi to catch the AM session of an open symposium at the Zapatista school (and failing), I hopped into another collective minivan bound for San Juan Chamula, the Tzotzil (hill tribe) village with the aforementioned church. I’m here, now, and so happy for it.

It feels a bit like Bolivia, in that everyone is in traditional dress, the men sporting black fuzzy woolen coats and cowboy hats, the women wearing long skirts of the same shaggy black fleece, which look an awful lot like the fake fur you might find people wearing in the wee hours before sunrise at Burningman (but it’s probably real.) Beautifully decorated, some old women have bright, rainbow-colored streaks woven into their long platinum braids. (Maybe this is where Burningman borrowed it’s signature aesthetic.)

The white church has aqua and blue-painted arches, with gold adornments, pictured above. But nothing would prepare me for the interior, a vibrant and sacred space, a special combination of the Christian and indigenous world, where photography is not permitted. (Sorry guys! I really am, as it was amaaaazing! I made a sketch though, see below.)

Entering through the wooden door, the scent of pine fills the air. The cathedral floor is covered in pine needles, and there are no pews. Cloth arches of flowered fabric arc down from the loftiest beam in the center down towards the sides, lending a very homey feel, like your grandmother’s linen closet, and from the center of each of the inverted arcs a giant bouquet of real flowers hangs upside-down, suspended like huge chandeliers. In fact, there are huge arrangements everywhere, not only like treasure at the ends of every arc, but also in-between and on top of every one of roughly forty life-sized boxes that line the walls, made of wood and glass, each encasing a saint or virgin, and reflecting a thousand points of flickering candlelight. The statues are beautiful, lifelike, colorful, maybe porcelain, with names like the Sacred Heart of Christ or the Virgin of This or That (there were many of each), robed in fine linens and ribbons of every color, enthroned and immortalized like carnival Kings of kings and Queens of queens, all wearing at least a few mirrors to further multiply their illuminate glory (and I’m sure there’s some historical significance, too.) In front of every box was a wooden table covered in candles, at least a hundred on each. Locals and pilgrims knelt on the floor, everywhere, chanting aloud in the Tzotzil language, and lighting candles. Each family prayed over an arrangement of 50-100 candles, stuck with dripped wax to the floor, commemorating family and loved ones, alive and deceased, and they also had Coca-Cola. Yes, everyone had Coca-Cola. Old ladies were swigging Coke like it was going out of style… just a few more ounces… This part I couldn’t begin to guess about.

"..notice the Coca-Cola."

I walked-up to what would be the altar, (being careful not to slip on pine needles or start and fires), but there was none. Instead pilgrims took turns praying before an elaborate display of garlands, pines, flowers, blinking lights, tinny electric Christmas music, and there was a small stature somewhere in the middle (reminding me much of the small but extremely sacred, hardly distinguishable powder-colored idols in ancient Indian temples), and of course hundreds upon hundreds of candles with gyrating spiraling-decorations powered by the heat of fire. One woman was holding out a chicken in front of her and her family, waving it around in circles, reciting some prayers, which seemed like a long time. I walked around some more to check out what everyone else was drinking, some people slipped and fell, and would-be altar boys were going around with scrapers, taking up wax from the shiny tile floor. Coming back around to the altar, I could see the family literally pulling the chicken apart. It looked difficult for all parties involved, as no tools were being used. Feathers were everywhere. When I noticed they had another chicken at their feet, I decided to go outside and take a breather.

Aesthetically, in detail, originality, and viscerally in scent and lighting, this was the most interesting church I’d ever been to. But what was going on in there was so different than any Christianity I’ve ever seen, and I didn’t know what to make of it. I read that when the Mayans were assimilated by the conquistadors and missionaries, they ‘adopted’ the new religion, but rather simply renamed their objects of worship (ie. Mary being associated with the moon and stars, God and Jesus the sun), and were permitted a ‘synchrony’ of the old and new rites to exist alongside each another. I love it!

Except for those poor chickens, of course :(

V. Santa Maria (on the horizon)

Monday, 9-Jan. 02:56. Quetzaltenango, Guatemala.

Thoroughly thrashed and spent after hiking Volcano Santa Maria, I came home to my big swank private $5 room at Casa Argentina (go figure), and, too tired to cook, I showered and curled up in my sleeping bag to watch the first half of a beautifully made documentary called American: The Bill Hicks Story. I had originally been introduced to Hicks by Rachel and Danny in Bolivia, who fanatically declared him a tragic genius. The story of his untimely death came with a conspiracy theory: that he was rubbed-out (by those who knew he threatened their power) at the height of his career and influence, only 33 years-old, because he was too smart, poignant, and fearless, speaking a criticism and truth that our culture desperately needed to hear (and still does), using comedy as a platform to help America see what’s really going-on.

I noted from the start of the film that it was lovingly crafted, and that almost every scene except for archival footage of his stand-up bits, usually one joke at a time, were animated. The style is delicious eye-candy for me, composited scenes placing cut-out still images of Hicks, his friends, family and fellow budding-comedians over richly layered backgrounds, the ‘camera’ panning with lifelike movements, each 5-second scene popping with subtle yet ultra-cute embellishments… I was impressed. Not only by the craftsmanship, but with the endearing way by which the story was told by those closest to him.

What really got me is when he found out that he was dying of cancer. I cried throughout the last 20 minutes of the movie, because he impressed me so, and it’s truly a shame to see genius fleeting. Thirty-three years old. Working hard at stand-up since he was 15, struggling to deliver his passion to the world, and share his voice of dissent. Even though I didn’t know him until today, save for listening to a few stand-up routines that I downloaded, I cried because his vision was so pure, one I could understand so well.

He worked hard and found his voice.

33, and what have I done? All the fucked-up things about America that I struggled with knowing growing up. My awareness drove me away, so I could find beauty, something else. Apathy; I never wanted to try and save us, as I thought we have already gone too far.

In detachment I found my breath. This is the first step.

Burning Man introduced me to the concept of detachment, being in the most blissful place I have ever known, enjoying the fruits of a massive and communal outpour of loving gifts, and then letting it all go up in flame together, feeling the heat, and creation of something beautiful dissolving into thin air, an inverted mountain of wispy spirals passing into the next world.

I cried because I hate to see him go, but also in happiness because I’m so thankful to discover that he existed, and to feel awe in the presence of greatness. Flesh, funny, human, flawed, harsh, clever, insightful, prophetic, angry, terrible, wonderful, universal, beautiful.

It made me want to be someone great. Thank you, Bill.

Sunday, 8-Jan. 2012. 16:04.
Quetzaltenango (Xela for short, pronounced Shell-ah), Guatemala.

I saw the one-line classified ad on the back page of Xela Who, “Quetzaltenango’s leading culture & nightlife magazine”. It read: Soy milk & cheese for sale: 19 Av. 2-14, Zona 1. The next morning, happily starting at the top of my day’s to-do list, I walked down 19th Avenue, reading house numbers in an attempt to make sense of the unfamiliar address syntax. A friendly man tapped me on the shoulder, and asked if he could help me, admitting that, with my backpack and tiny notebook in-hand, I looked like a lost tourist. I showed him the address and conceded that I was new around here. Explaining to me that the 2 is for 2nd Street, and 14 the house number, we turned back, around the corner and halfway down the block, stopping in front of a nondescript metal door just beside to his own laundry service – so nice of him to chase me down! The door of his neighbor was padlocked, but a small sign had a phone number, which he called on his mobile, explaining that he had a tourist looking for milk. In the meantime we waited in his laundry, I learned his name was Mario and met his wife, and within minutes Mona, the soy milk lady, arrived and took me inside.

She was awesome, a fit and vibrant woman of 51 years, but she looked at least a decade younger. We talked for a while, 30 minutes at least, about many things. I explained how I came to find her and about my excitement, but more interesting was her story, about her soy milk, the process of how she makes it by hand, and why: Because she likes to drink it; disdains the chemical and inhumane process by which regular milk comes to market; how it’s naturally rich in calcium – much more than cows’ milk, in which calcium is largely an additive! – which she needs a lot of at her age; that she takes pleasure to sell a liter of her healthier milk for 10 Quetzals, the Guatemalan currency, well below the market standard of 17Q for cows’ milk. And when I commented on how young she looks, and that it’s common for vegetarians (and especially longtime vegans) to age gracefully, she proudly gestured that all her girlfriends are quite fat, and that her grandmother always drank soy milk and lived to be 97. Gently correcting me when I occasionally fumbled to say things in Spanish, I learned about her language school, one of the first in town, and how business is slow lately, and about her two children who have grown up so fast, but have benefited much from having foreigners around for the last 22 years. Finally, she gave me tons of advice about what to see and do in Guatemala, drawing maps for me on her whiteboard, and helped me choose which volcano to hike (as there are a plethora in the area). I eventually asked if she had any of that “soy cheese”, to which she replied that she’d make me one, which I could come pick up tomorrow or the next day. And since I don’t have a phone, she even showed me where her house is, just up the hill. With a hug we parted, exchanged names, and I bid Nora thank you and see you later.

For only US$1.25, I got what was for me a life-giving (instead of taking), healthy and delicious local luxury, made with love by a radiant, intelligent and professional, inspiring woman, free travel advice, great conversation, and a friend.

I love when ‘business’ is personal. May we all enjoy our dealings, not for what they enable us to do, but for the pleasure of serving and sharing that which makes us special with those we whom we choose to share it with.

Dreadie pup

Gator-deer in New Orleans

Christmas Day 02:35 AM. Mérida, Yucatan, Mexico.

I’ve been traveling for four consecutive Christmases now, and each time has been a (third) eye-opening experience. It may seem contradictory but I don’t even miss it.. not when it compares to the ongoing experiment, my tuning-in and dropping-out, expanding thy universe and self-awareness. Questioning culture, the origins of our motivating forces, playing with attachment and detachment, stretching my soul, listening to my heart. Observing what happens on Christmas in other places and homes, or among new acquaintances.

First time, in Nepal, there was no Christmas. On Christmas Eve my three compadres and I were stuck on the border when Cara lost her passport in the neither-zone between India, and preceding that there was no trace of the holiday approaching. It was just another crazy day.

Second time, in New Zealand, I was in the forest at my first Rainbow Gathering. Been there for two weeks already and didn’t even know it was Christmas until very late in the day (Rainbow time!) when I heard a ragtag caroling procession. I recall wishing a Merry Holiday to a few people who each laughed a little, as if choking on my small gift, (like it was a joke.) Rainbowland is pretty non-denominational (except at the US gathering where there were at least three Jesus Camps), but you know what? It was bliss. Just another beautiful day… From my diary:

Merry whoever you want! Xmas music in the woods, breakfast w coffee & eggs at little fire, was gifted the most delicious smoked salt & spices by Rabbit & Maria (Cz girl), Geo. Everyone nudie this morning. Bkfst crcl w Sanae, worked the mud pool, swimming in th creek, chees & Pb&j on crackers snack, shared some mint chocolate & down to the waterfall, up the hill w Sunae. Dinner crcle already, massive. Feasted on rice/salad, Sufi dance & other songs, to bakery for vegan brownies & cookies, laughed a lot w original crew & Katherine. Back to sleep early, 2?!)

Third time, I was studying Spanish language in Sucre, Bolivia, and for once I felt the oncoming holidays in the spring air. Lit-up street decorations glowed twinkly rainbow hues over the town’s signature white-washed stucco, a couple small holiday markets sprung-up, and Santa gave hugs in front of the department store. We had a Christmas party at my language school (where my teacher & I were gifted sexy novelty underwear!) and on Christmas Eve morning I attended my class as usual (+ a tiny bit of weirdness). On the church’s borrowed wifi I video-skyped into Christmas dinner with my family (whose party seemed downright bacchanalian by the slurry sound of it!), then biked up to a beautiful spot overlooking the city to order a mistletoe – the same drink they were getting sloshed-on back home. In the town square I found a torrent of little kids parading around asking for candy, and passed the evening merry-making at a pot-luck dinner with my awesome Couchsurfing friends, featuring a beautiful (vegan) nut loaf. I marveled and was refreshed because, for the first time I can remember, I enjoyed the season.. not just Christmas Eve (and morning with Mom) – the reward for all our hard work. It came naturally for me to send love home, and it was well received.

Fourth time, I’m in land of the Mayas, as well as in a new head-space. I’ve been practicing waking meditation, lucid dreaming, and attempting nightly to astral project (leaving my body so I can fly through the spirit plane.) It’s time for an evolution, and I feel like all of a sudden I’m ready and capable. In these ancient cities, I’m listening, absorbing, feeling the lingering energy of Quetzalcóatl, the plumed-serpent God, who is predicted to return and usher forth this shift in consciousness.

Tulúm Yogi, Mexico

Do I really believe all of this?

Not any more or less than I believe any of the rest of it. To me it’s all the same. Different manifestations of the supreme energy which shines in everything. None of it exists, and all of it exists. Religious mythology, Voudoo, Hedonism, Astrology… Ayurveda, Science, Modern medicine, Magic… Peace, Politics, War… they’re all in our minds, created by us and given power by us. We are Christmas if we want to be. We are God. We are Everything. And we are Nothing.

Fourth time, I didn’t really celebrate, not officially anyway. Today I worked on my energy body, exercised my spirit, traveled to my Home, and into the pieces of everyone I store in my heart. I tried to make midnight mass tonight, for the first time since I was a teenager, walked to two cathedrals and a church in the center of this biggest town on the Yucatan Peninsula, but I didn’t find what I was looking for. Kids have been igniting Christmas explosives in the main square all night and it’s 4AM. Just another day I can’t bear to sleep and miss any of this, until I get excited to project again. See you in infinite Paradise, loves!

It’s a blessing and a curse not to have access to the internet… it’s Noche Buena (Christmas Eve) and I feel like calling all my family and friends. If I did have adequate access, I’d probably be on the phone, perhaps reaching five of the twenty-five angels flying around in my head tonight. Instead I’m bleeting an open letter, which has it’s pluses. I get to tell a story that will go down in Christmas history, well technically.

Today I scaled 1400 year-old Mayan temples on a tour of four sites along the Ruta Puuc, most notably Uxmal here in Yucatan province. As I peered upon the past and imagined an entirely different civilization, my heart fluttered between awe-filled curiosity, inspired by the vestiges of the Mayans’ marvelous accomplishments, and my home. Acutely aware that, around the same time in another dimension, the halls of my father’s house were being joyously decked, punctuated by the five-courses of our traditional Christmas feast, my tummy growled. As my mind was in active transport all day, I merrily blasted-off from atop 100-foot pyramids into the lovingly crafted place that is home, to the heart-space created by its million timeless details that have always defined my Noche Buena, a swirl of kitsch, light, smell and devotion, dependable and inimitable. Like my Mayan journey, I enjoyed it in imagination as well as spirit, satisfying both the day’s task of adventure as well as celebration.

Skyping from an internet cafe when I got back, I caught the whole crew still together, and we had our now token holiday chat, but somehow the verbal teleportation didn’t go as well as my lucid dreaming, and I came away feeling a bit melancholy. It wasn’t missing them, as I’ve overcome the emotional pitfalls of displacement from those I love. Rather I came away with an odd sense that I’ve gone awol on them. Perhaps it’s because I was so close to home all summer, or because I already visited them there today (as the waking Ghost of Christmas Past) and I could feel my own absence in the house (as the skyping Ghost of Christmas Present?) I wonder if they felt as haunted as I did.

El Castillo (the Castle), Uxmal

on top at Ek' Balam

Casa de Tortugas (Turtles House), Uxmal

Giant iguanas everywhere, Uxmal

Things are falling into place.
Few of my ‘plans’ have worked out in seven months.
Re-route. Re-route. Re-route.

Back to Square one.

I’m going back to Florida tomorrow.
I’m flying to Mexico the following morning.

It doesn’t matter anymore… All I know is that I’ll be fine once I’m in motion.

I doubt myself sometimes when I’m here.
Except for when I talk to my parents. And I have to believe in myself, for their sake.
Which is really trusting the universe.

I trust it. And now I feel different.

I found a boat tonight.

It doesn’t matter if this one works out. I’m going. And I trust the universe.

Thank you! I am eternally grateful for all you’ve done for me, always and forever.

Like cupid-vulture mauled my heart with a thorny arrow, I’m bleeding love for Cordoba State and I don’t know why.

I’ve always been a closet desert freak, enraptured by its bleached beauty, scorched soullessness, primitive persistence of the prickliest. Demon spirits thrive in these badlands, anything that is living here can probably kill you, and as you respectfully navigate through a maze of infinite thorns, you might wonder what Hell is like. I’m fascinated by the dark energy that reigns here, rivaled and augmented only by the drop-dead-gorgeous eye candy which eats my pleasure sensors and SD memory for dinner.

But what is this all about? Drawn to the town of San Marcos Sierra from the unremarkable self-titled capital of the state, I found so much goodness: a village where the highway yields to dirt roads at city limits, where slow is the speed limit, and the click-clack of horse-traffic dominates the noisy rumble of a few rusty old Ford trucks; Rainbow family in abundance; cheap and local olives to die for; a work-exchange which had us slashing las espinas with machetes, camping for free, and walking 3km along a network of dried river beds into town.

After five days of accomplishing nothing and enjoying every minute of it (with a to-do list of bike around and hike up the valley), I took off with a Rainbow brother, Manuel, to camp for a couple nights at the nearest water, 12km away, on Rio Quilpo. Within minutes we score a ride in the only car which goes out there that day, coincidentally crammed into the stuffy cabin with 4 other tramps, among them a guy with my name with whom I’d exchanged bike-friendly contact info two nights before.

Emerging with grill-greased hands and a sickly stagger from backwards bumpy dune-buggying, my first instinct tells me we might be estranged in paradise for a while, and I should have brought more than a day’s worth of food. At first sight we simultaneously exhale “Water!” White spiny wilderness cut in two by a brilliant strip of blue bliss, green-lined with exactly 2 meters of soft grass (munched down to a fine carpet by a few horse brothers and cow sisters.)

Our mission: to camp in any of the many caves along this river, and to swim in the deep pools carved out by Rio Quilpo’s will. This fourth and furthest entrance to the river from town was host to a sacred rock formation called Casa de Piedra (Rock House). Let’s go there.

Shoes off, crossing river, over the locked and barbed wire fence, thorny tree detritus piercing foot, shoes back on, and down the dirt path, past dead cow, finding spooky rock quarry, hiding bags, climbing to the peak of tallest rock formation (drilled and blasted to bits by industry), dodging, weaving and un-snaring with care not to rip too much flesh in a ubiquitously spiney sea of thorn-bush-trees.

Meeting solitary cowboy resident who scared us off with dogs and “did you come through the locked gate?”/”no we followed the river”/savage dogs barking/retreat, hopping another fence, nude refresh in river’s smooth wavy rock pools, barking dogs and dust cloud around the corner, fleeing with paranoid friend into the desert, losing them in figure-8 around rock formation.

On the river, conquering a bottomless pool, picnicking with the most persistent kitten (culminating in my Zen’d-out friend throwing her in the river), speaking of spiritual practice and nutrition in the sun, Paradise hanging on the lips.

Father Sun sliding beyond the valley wall, locating Casa de Piedra, gigantic boulders all piled up in the middle of nowhere, forming caves in their gaps. Climbing the biggest boulder, 15 meters tall atop a hill, three flat spots to sleep under the stars atop this energy center. My alien friend, gifted in his training to locate Medians within our 4th-dimensional universe, gets excited to find three lines close together and running through our chosen recharging spot.

Diving into bed with the sun at 7:30, watching UFO’s and talking till midnight, sleep proves difficult. Naïve about camping out without a tent, ants invade my very-nearby bag and eat my bread/avocado; adventurous strays pioneer my sleeping bag, gifting me with (8) love bites (which itch a lot). My vicinity swarming and compromised, I relocate to sleeping spot number 3.

Day two takes us back to the beach on the river, napping in the sand through midday, conserving energy for lack of food. Watching clouds, the main event. No rides come today. Asleep by half 8.

Day three, I wish to return to dusty cowboy Babylon. Walk to 3rd river entrance in midday sun, wait under a tree for ride. After an hour, return to the river, new lush spot. Beautiful walk, cactus in bloom, green trees shedding green bark to reveal green wood, tree morphing into cactus, passing by a cow in a tree getting gutted, possible ride out in red pickup (with 1/2 cow). Relax.

Drinking máte on ride-out in green hippie VW bus. Walking back along dried-up river, 3km to camp, encountering white horse in the dark path, campfire, spines everywhere. Lightning storm raging for hours, almost constant illumination. Wickedest bolt I’ve ever seen: an Octo-Bolt, electric tentacles reaching down to the earth from a central point way up high.

Sleep like I’m bled-dry with ear-plugs, for every night a man in the forest sings until the wee hours. Don’t even hear the rain, which colors my tent brown with much-needed reprieve.

Hi! It’s been a while, Amores. Been on a hedonistic tangent of unbridled indulgence (for the last few months), pursuing pleasure and fun at any cost. Not sure what prompted this growth, but I reckon I’ve found out more about myself than in any other period of late.

Blah blah blah ME.. for a loner, or a self proclaimed “monstruo de independiencia” I’ve made some great connections, loving and missing all the angels that chance has thrown to me. Amor swells and overflows from my charmed soul, and I can’t imagine living by any other guiding power.

Perry Farrell (of Jane’s Addiction) said during a recent concert in Santiago, Chile that he loves being a hedonist because he can’t help but feel like everything around him is his. “Welcome to our country Perry, but please don’t steal.” Without selfishness I feel the same way.. I’m certain that it’s there for me, and I’m unafraid to take it. Why not? (Nagging voice: Is it fair, after being told all my life that I’m not worthy to take it all?)

Not exactly new, but recently I’ve noticed my penchant for humbling myself at the risk of being misunderstood, but who cares.. here I go again. Today I admitted to a recurrent travel buddy that I’m actually coming around to not hating reggae music.. (hippie alert!) Actually I’m still far from loving it, but there’s a marked change, where I can for once appreciate it. (For the first time in 15 years, the soul rebel sounds of Bob Marley doesn’t make me cringe anymore!) A month at the World Rainbow Gathering in Argentina might have cultivated this tolerance, where (oh no don’t get me started) I felt myself open.. to not judging, being comfortable and confident to be myself without doubt, and naturally everyone else too. I think what I’ve criticized in reggae music was that it always sounded generic and unoriginal. But now I see it more aligned with folk music, intended to play the heartstrings that unite people rather than build on egos and ‘break new ground’ with originality.

Another thing I’ve noticed, seeing myself and accepting what pieces I’m comprised of, is how American my perspective is. Ruled by the principle that there is only one way to perceive things, which is Positively, wow I can only marvel at the North-American monster I truly am. Without going too far down this rabbit hole, I always felt a compulsion to be different, which guided me down the path less traveled, or so I thought, to be alternative, what a joke! And only appreciate things alternative, which is actually so normal, at least for the enormous subculture of rebels and misfits to which I belong, that I’ll try and prove it by asking you to contemplate the literal contradiction that is the genre ‘Alternative music’, quite possibly the greatest giant of our modern industry. If you can call any of it anything other than Alternative I’d love to hear it.

I don’t know what’s come over me down here in South America, but I’m way off my original path.. struggling to achieve 10,000km on my cyclo-computer odometer (and it’s probably not gonna happen before I come home.) Coming back, when? Time flies, and I’ve recently passed the 6 month mark on this continent. The undeniable itch to flee autumn descending has hit again, so back to the northern hemisphere I come! I’ve been a party monster, in my own way, for the last few months, and all I wanna do is have some fun. No big goals, just pure unbridled perpetuation of this dream I call life and free will. And I wanna be warm, where the feel-good onset of spring and summer tingles everyone into being their optimal, beautiful selves.

I’ve missed you guys, and indulging the pleasure that is filling my head with you while I write for you. YOU. Who reads this anyway? I recently befriended someone really cool, and naturally we became Facebook friends, and then I learned she has 1,032 friends! Somehow that came as a big turn-off, not that I’ll actually hold it against her given the opportunity, but You are my lovelies, and I write to you because I do love you, my inner circle with whom I tell my soul. I hope you know that, and if you don’t, then you probably shouldn’t be reading this.

Life seems so simple lately, though I’m about to complicate it with North America. I’ve accepted an assignment to help design a new business with an old colleague, which will kick things off first of June, sparkled with a road-trip to Tennesee for Bonnarroo soon after I arrive. July 1st reserves my heart to attend my first ever American Rainbow Gathering in Washington state, after which I hope to travel a bit down the west coast (Highway 1 on bike? National parks galore?) Oh how I long to spend the interim until Burning Man on a getaway to Mexico and Cuba with my beloved best Pizano, but our specific hopes and dreams may take some more time to materialize. It all sounds quite fun though, especially the obvious re-connecting with all my lovelies.

He done IS mmm. true!

Relatively, Paraguay is not so well-known to the world outside, evident in its lack of tourist infrastructure and travelers. Besides the very few gringos I encountered during the Carnavale in Encarnación – I met and partied with all eight of them) – to my knowledge I was a lone tourist in every town.

Admittedly, Paraguay is small, and lacks any significant blockbuster attractions like its neighbors can all lay claim to. Even Iguazú Falls, which was hands-down the most impressive sight I saw during my jaunt here, I had to leave the country to experience (from the opposite shore.)

My entry into Paraguay from Bolivia was memorable, but not in the good way, starting with the bus ride. First off, when I booked the trip from the nearest Bolivian city, it was a 22-hour journey (that actually took 28), and my choices in transport were dismal, even by Bolivian standards, and cost six-times the fare (per hour) as compared with Bolivia’s nice, double-decker, air-conditioned, sleeper-class overnight coaches. Less than two hours into the journey, we already broke down with engine problems – which is why we traveled with a mechanic – but it hardly put me at ease. (See my barrage of tweets from Feb. 15 for the play-by-play.) Supposedly, nice buses don’t do the international trip from Bolivia. (wth?!)

Other highlights of the bus trip include:

• the Chaco, or flat, bushy desert, monotonously unchanging for the whole time
• the “all-included food and drink”, (to justify the price?): 3 identical plastic-wrapped fried chicken and white rice dishes; 1 packet of 20-cent cookies; and 2 small bottles of generic orange cola. No water. No napkins (just chicken-greased curtains.)
• No A/C – it might as well have been called the fan – and No Opening the windows.
• No rest-stops to re-up on supplies, stretch legs, buy water, or to use a real bathroom.
• Immigration: taking Everything off the bus to be searched and questioned (for 2 hours), re-assembling and de-assembling my bike; and being told Not to come back to Bolivia (although I’m so allowed to for 50 more days this year, according to my understanding of the $140 Visa.)
• No movie. No reclining semi-cama seats. No ironic loud music. No views. No fun. Not even a screaming baby. Extended-limbo; Purgatory.
• The dirt road into Paraguay, a pot-holed dust-bowl. I came to understand why our only transport option was a shrieking, over-heating, convulsing bucket of bolts: anything better was too good for this road.

[ Picture, or lack-of: the Chaco. I didn't even take a picture. ]

Upon arriving in the capital of Asunción at half-past midnight, I rode my bike around. No area map was to be found in the terminal, and no tourists to peek at their guidebooks, none even on my bus. But this part I didn’t mind, as splashdown-and-explore is actually really fun, in this case relief-fun, cruising free, fully-loaded, on a warm summer night, target of drunken-invitations, asking around in the streets where to find a hotel (and being led, for a tip, by s helpful street-kid hustling to make a buck.) 5km away, in the city center, I found a great spot, the cheapest in town, which rented by the hour. With private bathroom, working air-con, and cable TV, albeit at twice the price of any I stayed-at in Bolivia, I slept blissfully.

tv remote (wired to my night stand)

In the morning, I rode around in a stifling heat, checking out the government buildings, getting a Paraguayan SIM card (or chip for you Latinos), emailing couchsurfers, and happening upon many parts of town (sans map) in my quest to get back to the bus terminal. When I say it was hot, I felt like some sort of sexy athlete, absolutely drenched, dripping with sweat, pumping away at unfamiliar high-speeds on the smooth tarmac roads (never in Bolivia!), meeting incredulous stares (and thumbs-up) from all the terere-sipping locals. (Socially drinking cold máte is what everyone does here in-lieu of working.)

Aesthetically, I really like the look here. What draws my eye especially are the dilapidated, paint-peeling from concrete walls, quasi-Miami-deco architecture, palm tree-lined boulevards, and juxtaposition of brightest-green foliage on ubiquitous dusty, red-dirt roads, and black-tinted, late-generation Mercedes-Benzes. It’s not a rich country, but there’s some money floating around.

But it’s very chilled-out, and in an almost effortless way, Paraguay is chic. Maybe what I’m seeing is just a modernism that Bolivia didn’t possess, in materials and international influence specifically – it’s the next step up. And dang, so are the women. It’s almost unfair to compare though, because while Paraguayans have certainly embraced today’s Latino-American culture of sexy, Bolivia is in a league of its own so to speak.

I digress… What made Bolivia so impressively unique is it’s indigenous stronghold, where a majority of its people still live like they have for hundreds of years, in miraculous oblivion to the progress of post-Colombian history. And as if I’ve been in another world for the last three months, it’s supermundane to come out of it and see South America as I know it again, which is sexy, variably developed, a chip off the old European block, American.

My two couchsurfing contacts both happened to be Peace-Corp. volunteers, living in little-known villages far from the big smoke. I couldn’t be more pleased, as without guidebook, my only destinations so far were two cities that host Carnavale, and we all know I need some country to know a country.

In the evening I hopped a three-hour bus towards Coronel Oviedo, in the belly-button of the country, half-way to the Brazilian frontera, to rendezvous with my host Angelique, who had another couchsurfer from Sweden arriving that same night.

En route, a woman boarded to bus shouldering a basket full of fresh, warm, bagel-looking bread. Made of mandioca (yuca) flour, salt, some cheese baked-in, and a bit of anise, chipa was to become one of my favorite snacks. She rode the bus for a few kilometers, long enough to sell one to nearly every passenger for $.40 apiece, then hopped-off. Like humintas (tamales) were to me in Bolivia, chipa has become a tradition that I’ve come to savor daily, which appear on buses and street-corners nationwide, every afternoon following Siesta.

Welcomed in C. Olviedo with two friendly, English-language greetings, I was in a very new element. For the next few days, I got my first taste of the Peace Corps., which in my estimation is basically: really nice people, working more or less alone but with the community, using their expertise and passions to teach, improve, and contribute with their foreign but integral perspective.

This is quite enough for now, so I’ll write more about what I learned in Olviedo in Part 2: No olvido!, (meaning, Don’t forget!) I tend to do that…not come back to a topic, with much to elaborate on.

See you soon!

[big thumbs-up!]