Adventure, Andre Sólo, The Great Adventure, Writing

Return of the Rogue Priest

Hi adventurers. It’s been a while. I’ve spent the last few months doing many things:

  • Planning the next leg of the bike ride
  • Dating someone wonderful
  • Writing

Writing has, in fact, consumed most of my time. And not just writing new stories—I also educated myself about how to build an author career. A few weeks ago I made my first ever submission to a literary journal(!). Those journals are where great authors start out, and they’re the road to prizes, literary awards and publishing contracts. I’m excited to see if I’m accepted.

At the same time, I believe in the indie route. My novella Lúnasa Days was independently published, and was 100% funded by my fans (that’s you guys—I couldn’t do it without you!). Readers also backed the last leg of the bicycle trip, which produced four short stories set in Mexico. One of those stories is the one I’ve now sent out to the journals.

So, what are the fruits of all these months of work? Well, I have three big announcements to make:

1. The Adventure Continues

My Adventure is far from over, and the next leg is coming up soon! I expect to be back on the bicycle starting in November (just in time to escape Trump). The next ride will go from Mexico to Panama, through all the countries shown in pretty colors here:

Next leg of the journey! Image by Wikimedia Commons.

This will be the most borders of any leg of the trip to date. It’ll take me across mountains, rainforests and volcanic lakes, and through places you’ve seen on the news—the countries where child refugees come from.

That’s why I’m pleased to announce that this leg of the Adventure will be a fundraiser. This time, the miles I bike will raise dollars for a worthy cause. I’m working to identify an organization that’s a good fit, preferably with a focus on heroism or immigration, both of which are close to my heart (and appropriate for Central America).

Any thoughts on an organization worth supporting?

2. New Rogue Priesting

The long hiatus of this blog is over. I won’t be posting every week, but you can expect new pieces in the near future. Topics will include:

  • An updated vision of the Heroic Life.
  • A new report on the journey to meet the gods: where I’m at, what I’ve seen, and everything I’ve learned so far.
  • The true story of how I ended up chasing down a laptop thief, and what it taught me about the bystander effect.

3. My New Website

I’ve known for a long time that I need a separate website for my fiction. That site is now under construction! The most exciting part is that I will release free fiction online there, and eventually run a full length fantasy story, told in free weekly episodes.

Don’t miss the first episode when it launches—sign up for my new mailing list and be the first one to see it. Signup is free and you can unsubscribe at any time. Click here to sign up for email updates from me.

Subscribe

That’s the latest here. What have you all been up to?

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Adventure, Andre Sólo, Bicycling, Fellowship of the Wheel, Mexico, Road Logs, Spotlight, The Great Adventure, Travel

A Music Video of My Adventure Across Mexico

My friend Pixi made me a music video(!). She assembled it from footage I took cycling across Mexico. I can’t believe it:

Riding 4,700 miles was not easy. Often I would forget the reason I was out there. An adventure can look glorious from the outside but the reality of living it is you’re just trying cope. This video made me smile because I can see how grand my Adventure looks from the outside, even when it seems pretty overwhelming from the inside. I wouldn’t give it up for the world.

Thanks Pixi! The song is “Adventure” by Be Your Own Pet.

The footage comes from the 100+ video logs I made during the ride. To get full access, become a supporter today.

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Adventure, Adventure Prep, Bicycling, Mexico, Road Logs, Travel

Bicycling to Mexico’s Great Pyramids

Last time I explored the city of Mérida, where a 13 year old gave me a lesson in spirituality and a local artist joined me for a bike ride.

Now it’s time to push on—for the final leg of the Mexico ride. With literally thousands of miles behind me, just three more days will take me to my endpoint in Valladolid. And on the way I’ll see some of the most famous pyramids in Mexico.

Photo by Andre

Photo by Andre

February 5 (Day 944 of the Great Adventure)—The Yellow Town

I made a last minute change of plans. A major highway stretches from Mérida all the way to Valladolid, and I had planned to stick to it. But I heard great things about the town of Izamal, supposedly one of Yucatán’s prettiest, and I decided to go out of my way and see it.

I had a late start, around 12:45 in the afternoon. (I took so long getting ready that hotel staff moved my bike back into a storage closet after I’d already wheeled it out.) But with only 40 miles to go, I wasn’t worried about time.

The ride out of town mimicked the route Martín and I took for our joy ride days earlier. I remembered the fresh squeezed orange juice he’d brought along and got a hankering. Luckily Mexico has fruit stands just about everywhere, and soon I had a fresh 1-liter bottle in my rack.

Choosing the path less taken was a good call. Instead of a cuota (freeway) it was a country highway with jungle on both sides. There was a threat of rain but never more than a few drops, and traffic was blissfully light. Along the way I passed through Mayan villages. The people there would either gawk at me in surprise or pretend they didn’t even see me, depending on their mood, but if I waved and said good afternoon they’d always return the greeting.

Izamal is great! The entire town is yellow. Every single building is painted the same shade—thankfully it’s marigold and not, say, butter or lemon color. Other than white trim and some red-tile roofs, you can’t find another color within the city limits. I have a feeling that if a homeowner breaks ranks they face a forcible re-paint.

Photo by Andre

Photo by Andre

There was still plenty of light left, which was good because I had no idea where I was staying. I headed straight for the town center, rattling along on the faux cobble streets, but when I got there hotels were the last thing on my mind.

Instead, I stared up at a yellow and white palace sprawling across the top of a pyramid mound. The was the convento, the monastery at the heart of Izamal. If you can imagine slicing off the top of the Great Pyramid and dropping a medieval church into it, that’s pretty much literally what happened. The old Mayan temple had simply been replaced by a Christian one.

The Convento overlooks two squares, and I circled both and then explored out through the town streets. I found two very low-budget inns that could put me up (one with a nonstop barking dog and one with more mosquitoes than intact bathroom tiles). After that was a hotel that was blatantly vacant but which I was told was “completely full,” and one at the very edge of town that was out of my price range.

Despairing, I decided to take one more pass down the main road to see if I’d missed anything. That was when I found the Posada Ya’ax Ich, and immediately fell in love. The posada is actually a private home, with two guest bedrooms for rent. It was spotlessly clean, incredibly comfortable and had the first strong wi-fi signal I’d seen since Xalapa. I had a great conversation with the owner Elena and her sister Soco while Elena made up my room. Later I would meet her son Andrés as well.

Elena told me which of the three restaurants in town I should go to, and I mounted up one last time. (To be fair, there are actually four real restaurants in town, but one of them is super pricey and set up mainly for receiving tour buses.) My eyes dazzled: with the light of sunset on ochre buildings and polished streets, I thought I’d fallen into a bronze casting of a colonial scene.

Photo by Andre

Photo by Andre

Dinner was tasty, eaten in under the arcade surrounding the main plaza. I had my first taste of dzikil-pak, a Mayan dip made from toasted pumpkin seeds (amazing). It rained for a spell, and I enjoyed the cool air before the last ride back to the posada.

41.0 miles.

Map.

The Convento. Photo by Andre.

The Convento. Photo by Andre.

February 6 (Day 945 of the Great Adventure)

Morning came and I got up early. I had exploring to do. Andrés served a great homemade breakfast and Elena said I could leave my things in the room while I looked around.

Before long I was climbing the steps to the Convento, finding a giant courtyard with arched arcades on all sides. Each of the corners of the courtyard once housed a shrine, and the arcades were built to shelter religious processions from rain as they marched from one to the next. These days the shrines stand empty, for no reason explained at the site.

I didn’t spend long at the Convento, however. I was more interested in something else I discovered during yesterday’s hotel hunt: a giant pyramid right in the middle of a city block.

This one wasn’t cut off halfway to put a church on top. It’s gigantic—200 meters to a side—and rises in multiple levels up to a tiny stone platform stories above the city. Most of Mexico’s pyramids are cordoned off in archaeological parks far away from development, but this one is part of the neighborhood. One on street the lineup is literally: house, oil change shop, restaurant, house, pyramid.

Photo by Andre

First stairs up to the pyramid. Photo by Andre

I found the stone stairs that lead up to it—nestled in a break between yellow homes—and started up. The climb was intense; a series of steps led up to a large plateau, big enough that there were trees growing on it and a local family enjoying it like a park. Just past their picnic the stairs continued up the pyramid proper. I waved to them and up I went.

Second staircase up. Photo by Andre.

Second staircase up. Photo by Andre.

The pyramid itself. Photo by Andre.

The pyramid itself. Photo by Andre.

According to legend, offerings left at this pyramid were once collected by a red macaw who carried them up to the heavens. I’m not sure if mine will ever be collected, but I paid my respects and placed a few coins as gifts. If not a macaw, perhaps the next kid who climbs up will find a use for them.

Then I gazed out over Izamal, all yellow and white. From here I could see that the town is the original Mayan city, following the same streets as 600 years ago. It was obvious now that the Convento was once a much higher pyramid, looming directly over the town center. It would have been a twin to the one I stood on, and together they made up the heart of a once city-state.

Climbing the pyramid. Photo by Andre.

Climbing the pyramid. Photo by Andre.

View from the top. Photo by Andre.

View from the top. Photo by Andre.

There were other pyramids, too, according to the map, but each of them is in the center of a city block, houses and shops literally leaning against its stone sides as a convenient foundation. I can’t imagine what it would be like to grow up with a pyramid in your backyard. I suppose that like all growings-up it must seem boring at the time.

Jim Morrison and the Road

Soon enough I was back on the road, headed toward Pisté—the nearest town to Chichén Itzá, Mexico’s most famous pyramids. I noticed a cocina economica (tiny restaurant) in the first village along the way. I didn’t stop but it put the idea in my head, and every time I coasted through a village after that I looked around hopefully for another one. No dice.

The hours passed by, listening to music or podcasts or just enjoying the jungle road. I got about three fourths of the way to Izamal before my tummy began rumbling in protest, and at the last real town I turned off the road and hunted around. Sure enough, a doña was willing to serve me some chipotle chicken and rice. I shared the only table in her kitchen with several construction workers, who had matching mustaches and all seemed more interested in football than asking a foreigner any questions.

After that it was a short, sweet ride in the late afternoon air. Golden light cut through the forest. Because my spiritual experience in Mérida had been inspired (indirectly) by Jim Morrison, I had downloaded a few of his albums. Previously I wasn’t really familiar with his music, and it seemed surreal to hear it in the peaceful Mayan jungle. The songs were as trancey as I’d been told, and reminded me of all the things I missed about New Orleans.

But every good buzz has to come to an end, and by late afternoon I crossed the toll road and entered the sprawl of Pisté. Everything that Izamal is, Pisté is not: it’s ugly, noisy, busy (for such a small place) and has no colonial town center that I could find. I suspect it exploded when Chichén Itzá, just a few kilometers down the road, became a major tourist site.

I was headed toward a cheap hotel, but first scouted the road to Chichén, clearly marked and even closer than I thought. After checking in and taking a shower I headed out for dinner, at an outdoor market alongside the busy main road of town.

The night ended peacefully. I had made a pledge to those who backed my journey that I would make offerings for them at the great pyramids. Now, one by one, I unpacked stalks of copal incense carefully bundled in my toolkit, and clipped pieces of red ribbon with my boot knife. As I tied a ribbon around each incense stalk, I said the prayers that had been requested by my friends, binding them to the offerings in knots.

It was a beautiful night.

45.7 miles.

Map.

Photo by Andre

Photo by Andre

February 7 (Day 946 of the Great Adventure)—The Last Day

Another early start. This hotel owner wasn’t as understanding as Elena, and I had to get all my stuff out of the room before I headed out to see the pyramids. I left it in the owner’s living room, then biked up the road. I wanted to be in the gate as soon as they opened at 8 a.m., and would save breakfast for later.

Even at 8:01, an entire tour bus managed to offload in front of me, but soon enough I had my ticket. I’ve actually been to Chichén once before, ten years ago. It felt good to revisit this place now that I’d come all the way on my own body power. To the various guides at the entrance I was just another tourist though, and I had to endure sales pitches in multiple languages to get through the gate.

Chichén Itzá was the capital of the Itzá people, one of the most powerful Mayan nations in the days before the Conquest. But it wasn’t the Spanish who knocked the Itzá off their throne; they had declined as a civilization long before smallpox or gunpowder. Even so, this city—the one I was walking into—had become such an important ritual center that it remained a destination for pilgrims long after its fall. Supposedly, emissaries from other Mayan civilizations would arrive here in large processions, walking through the ghost city to visit the oracle who still dwelt there.

Photo by Andre

Photo by Andre

The main draw of Chichén today is its largest pyramid, nicknamed El Castillo (the Castle). The railings of its staircases are carved stone snakes that run from the top to the bottom, where giant feathered serpent heads leer with gaping stone mouths. The main staircase was made with incredible precision: at the winter solstice, when the run rises, the shadows on the stairs look like serpents wending their way down from above.

That’s not the only engineering marvel. I was surprised to see none of the tourists clapping their hands. Standing in front of the staircase I took out my camera and recorded a short video for my supporters showing what happens when you clap in front of the temple.

“Excuse me,” said a Belgian after the video was done. “What was that you just said?”

“Oh,” I laughed. “Yeah, when you clap your hands here, the echo comes back sounding like the call of a quetzal bird. The quetzal is sacred to Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent. This pyramid is his temple.”

The Belgian was floored. Soon, he and his girlfriend were clapping as hard as they could, and twee twee twee came the echoes back. I’ve heard recordings of actual quetzal birds played just before the handclaps, and they’re almost indistinguishable. The Maya (with possible help from the Toltecs) knew what they were doing.

This news spread to more tourists, and more, all of them wanting to know why we were clapping. Soon about fifty people were applauding in front of the pyramid and a cacophany of birds answered back. Smiling, I walked away.

El Castillo isn’t the only sight, though. The preserved ruins of Chichén are a Vatican-like city of temples and palaces. It’s bigger than most of the surrounding towns, and you could walk there for hours. Not far from the main pyramid I found a giant platform decorated with thousands of stone skulls, each one representing a sacrificial victim killed at the site. This is the monument that stands out most in my memory from 10 years ago.

I also strolled through the ball court, where warriors once played a soccer-like game with their lives on the line. Standing in the middle of the stadium, one of the tour guides demonstrated the “whisper effect.” A word whispered in the middle of the field echoes down the walls and can be heard everywhere. Then he had about 30 German tourists shout something in unison, and the sound of their cry resounded through the stands. It must have been a hell of a ball game.

Photo by Andre

Photo by Andre

In bygone times, the Chichén Itzá’s cenote (underground lake) was as much of a draw as the pyramids. In fact, the Chichén in the name basically means “well.” The water source was the reason there was a sacred city in the first place, and it was also considered a ritual gateway to the underworld; Maya pilgrims would once have paid at least as much homage to the cenote as they did to the oracle.

These days that sacred pool is at the end of a long trail lined with merchandise vendors. Their stalls crowd both sides and they aren’t afraid to accost you with promises of “Only one dollar!” (none of the merchandise actually costs $1). I thought about it and said my prayers from afar. I’d be making offerings at a different cenote soon in Valladolid, and didn’t really need the extra headache.

That’s not to say the rest of Chichén is vendor-free. Now that the park was filling up the salesmen were out in force, lining all the trails that wander away from the Castillo toward other areas of interest. I decided to do what I’d come for while the doing was good. I found a shady, empty spot around the back of El Castillo, knelt, and said the prayers of my supporters. These were people who had helped make my dream come true, and whose own dreams I had carried with me for 1,700 miles.

As I finished placing the offerings, a call split the sky. An eagle swooped over the pyramid.

Photo by Andre

Photo by Andre

From there on I wandered the ruins with a light heart. Toward the back of the site is a forested area with giant palaces crumbling amidst it; certainly my favorite spot. A different trail takes you to El Caracol (“The Snail”), a spiral-shaped tower once used as an observatory. Near the Caracol is a pyramid that’s a smaller replica of El Castillo, and a gigantic structure that has collapsed just enough to reveal that  its pyramid is largely hollow. All of it is breathtaking.

I didn’t dawdle as much as other tourists, and none of this was new to me. But it still inspired awe. And it marked a major accomplishment on my Adventure, reaching this sacred landmark and also reuniting with the place where I first fell in love with Mexico.

Photo by Andre

Photo by Andre

The Last Road

By 11:00 I was back in Pisté. I found a small kitchen on the main road where a doña served breakfast in a sunny room. Again, there was no sense of hurry: this was my last morning as an itinerant cyclist, at least for the Mexico trip; why not stop and enjoy it?

Ready for breakfast. And yes, that's Nescafé there. Photo by Andre.

Ready for breakfast. And yes, that’s Nescafé there. Photo by Andre.

Eventually I got back to the hotel and found the landlady, extracting my things from behind her couch. And just like that, the last day on the road had begun.

The road to Valladolid took me right past Chichén Itzá once again. The jungle is so thick you can only see the entrance; not even the pyramid tops are visible from the road. I turned my eyes forward. Again I had chosen a country road instead of the toll road, though this one had plenty of tour buses to buzz past me.

Time went by. I was in no hurry, and the wind was a little against me. As I approached the halfway point, I noticed a little trail running alongside the highway, tucked away back in the woods. To my surprise the trail was paved, and I quickly switched over. (It turns out Yucatán roads often have a bike/pedestrian path somewhere nearby, though the pavement on this one was remarkably good.)

Photo by Andre

Photo by Andre

The highlight of rolling down this trail was coming upon a small dog who got spooked and fled from me—but had nowhere to go except further down the trail. I ended up basically chasing him for a quarter of a mile. Eventually the path connected with the side streets of a village, and kids stared or waved as I rolled through.

Valladolid!

Valladolid was my home base on my first ever trip to Mexico. At the time it was a quiet, charming town without a lot of tourist buzz: large enough to have things to do, but not so big it was annnoying. As I entered the outskirts I was relieved to see that it hadn’t transformed, hadn’t tripled in size, hadn’t lost its charm. It was a lot like I remembered it, and for some reason that made  me happy.

I reached the town center, a giant central garden with a fountain and trees and iron fences and gates. It was as if I had just left yesterday. The Giant took a victory lap around the central square, then I pulled aside and recorded this video:

I couldn’t believe it. Later that night, riding in the dark just to enjoy the night air, it would suddenly hit me: I rode across Mexico. Everyone told me I would die, and here I was, alive and ready for 4,000 more miles.

But first a rest. I had booked an AirBnB in town based on simple criteria: pick the one with the coolest owner. That happened to be a British fashion designer who had built much of her home of out recycled wood and salvage. Once I got through congratulating myself I headed toward her house, some English tea, and the new adventure: find out where I’d live for the next few months.

28.9 miles.

Map.

Total traveled this leg: 115.6 miles.

Total traveled since Day 1: 4757.1 miles.

Thank you to everyone who followed along so far. The Mexico leg is over, but the Adventure is not. Next time I’ll fill you in on what I’ve been up to since Valladolid and what I have planned for the future.

Until then, of course, feel free to peruse past road logs, get yourself a postcard (yes, I’m still in Mexico) or ask me anything about the ride. Anything except, “How does it feel to bike across Mexico?” because the answer is, “Boy are my knees tired.”

Thanks guys!

Thanks guys!

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Adventure, Bicycling, Mexico, Road Logs, The Great Adventure, Travel

Palapas and Concrete Beds

Last time around I explored the stunning colonial streets of Campeche. Now I leave behind both the city and the shining Gulf of Mexico, cutting inland toward Mérida. It’s not easy, but I can feel how close I am to the end of the Mexico ride…

Pirates beware! Photo by Andre.

Pirates beware! Photo by Andre.

Wednesday, January 28 (Day 936 of the Great Adventure)—To Hezelchakán

I said goodbye to my now-familiar hotel staff, loaded up the Giant and rolled out of the medieval walls for the last time. I was in no hurry, having a short day ahead and wanting to enjoy the ride. The very first leg ran along the malecón (water walk) and blue waves loaded with seaweed lapped up against the stone wall. Looking north over the sea I could almost picture New Orleans 1,000 miles away, or Veracruz far to the west.

The malecón ended in a string of palapas (thatch roofed buildings) selling seafood. Several waiters waved menus at me, but I was still full from breakfast and pushed on. I made a short palapa video for supporters, music from the restaurants thumping in the background.

Once off the malecón the Gulf disappeared off to the left. It was nothing but highway through jungle and savanna up ahead. I said a final farewell to the water and pushed on.

I continue to learn a lot about how to make a bike ride more fun. For one thing, the shorter mileage days mean less schedule stress and more time to stop and explore. For another, when I see a roadside place that looks attractive, I’ve finally developed the habit of pulling over and checking it out. The spots I find my accident are often much more attractive than the ones I “planned” to stop at, so there’s no reason not to. That’s exactly what I did today, going right past a tiny cafe with a covered front porch, but turning around  quarter mile later and stopping in for a sandwich and a juice.

Lunch stop. Photo by Andre.

Lunch stop. Photo by Andre.

The scenery was pretty, but mostly wide open with a headwind. I spent most of the ride lost in podcasts and pedaling almost robotically forward.

My destination for the day was Hezelchakán, a Mayan town dating back at least to the earliest days of the Colonial period. It was essentially the only town I came through: the villages are located slightly off the highway, so that unless you turn off you never see them.

I didn’t have much of a plan for lodging and was essentially relying on luck and exploration. I had heard rumor of a place called the Hotel Margarita located near the center, but when I rolled in I saw no signs for it and not even anything matching the description (a “yellow building.” As the afternoon slipped toward evening I explored out in a wider radius, looking for any hotel at all. Eventually I spoke to some policía near the main road who had some advice for me. Knowing that there are major resorts in the area (with prices upward of US $1,000 per night) I made clear I wanted something “not too expensive.”

“Ah, a cheap place,” the policeman said. “I know where you need to go.”

He was terrible at giving directions, so I got out a piece of paper and made him write down the names and draw a little map. He pointed me to two places, but emphasized one in particular as “exactly what you want.”

Score.

I rolled into the exactly-right place, a posada consisting of a long row of rooms in a cinder block strip behind someone’s house. A young man opened the door and let me tour one: ripped up mattress on a concrete slab, no pillows, one bare light bulb, and a perfectly functional 40 year old TV set.

“Thank you,” I said. “I have one other place to look at, so I might return in 20 minutes.”

Or, as I thought in my head, please no please no please no.

With fingers crossed I rolled expectantly toward the policeman’s runner-up. Lo and behold, it was a yellow building with Hotel Margarita painted on the front.

The Margarita was no lap of luxury, but compared to the posada it was P.O.S.H. Cracked walls, busted screens and iffy running water were offset by an intact mattress, an actual pillow and enough light to see by. I paid the equivalent of US $11 and checked in.

Fun fact: hotel rooms in Yucatán include rings in the wall where you can sling up your hammock. Many Mayans use hammocks instead of beds.

Also, just because the hotels are a little basic doesn't mean they can't have stylin' bikes.

Also, just because the hotels are a little basic doesn’t mean they can’t have stylin’ bikes.

Not much happens in Hezelchakán. I wandered the centro twice: once in the daylight and once again after sunset, hoping some night life would spring up. (By “night life” here I’d be willing to include even a taquería with a particularly punchy owner.)

Instead I had a hard time even finding food, but eventually settled on a small restaurante in the husk of a colonial house. I peered in the hot window and chose carefully what to order, remembering past problems with meat that’d sat out too long. After dinner there was little else to do but turn in. 36.9 miles.

Map. (Note: The beginning is not exactly accurate—the map follows the closest road to the malecón. Also, I exclude my circular wanderings in Hezelchakán.)

Great scenery. Photo by Andre.

Great scenery. Photo by Andre.

January 29 (Day 937 of the Great Adventure)—To Maxcanú

I slept well in my concrete bed but my romance with Hezelchakán had come to its end. Breakfast was at the same restaurante. Dinner had been lackluster, but today the food was terrific—a testament to the value of arriving early in the day.

Tonight’s destination was another Mayan town, Maxcanú. Instead of getting back on the highway I took a rural road straight to the next village. I noticed that bicycle taxis, which were all over Hezelchakán, were not shy about heading out on the open road and creaking slowly toward the next town, doñas seated tacitly in the back. These Latin pedicabs would be ubiquitous from here onward.

Yucatecan bicycle taxi. Photo via University of Arizona.

I did end up on the highway for a bit, but actually took a longcut to stick to rural roads and good scenery. Along the way I passed some kind of eco resort. Small cabins for rent, nestled in the jungle, a restaurant and a big sign listing their amenities… the temptation was strong to just turn in there and call it a day. But that would leave me a lot of miles the next day, and I was enjoying the ride too much to stop. Onward I went, past limestone caves covered in the roots of giant trees, possibly the entrances to hidden cenotes.

If Hezelchakán had nothing going on, Maxcanú made it look like a cosmopolis. The place was simply dead. I spotted one hotel/restaurant in what looked like a beautiful colonial building, and approached the owner about renting a room. He looked up from watering his roses, pointed at the dark windows of long-shuttered hotel rooms, and went back to his chores. So much for the welcome mat.

The place that turned me away. Photo by Andre.

The place that turned me away. Photo by Andre.

A little asking around—and a lot of bicycling in circles—gave me three lodging options to choose from. One was almost a carbon copy of the concrete longhouse from yesterday. The second, a little posada that doesn’t appear on any version of the internet, offered conditions that were little better but were at least part of an actual home, with grandma herself in charge. At the third one I struck Mayan gold: a legit little hotel with simple but clean rooms, also attached to a home. I grabbed a second floor room, unloaded, and took a shower with sun-warmed water. (The place was called Posada Doña Bety, after the lady in charge.)

The entirety of Maxcanú seemed to be under a technological pall that blocked 3G/4G signal for my phone. The Doña Bety, of course, had no wifi, but I found a small cyber cafe off the main square, reachable only by climbing a metal fire escape staircase that sways in the wind. There, a 14 year old named Sergio allowed me to set up shop and catch up on my work while he played dubstep songs. We were the only ones there except when his brother Pedro popped in, and Sergio took an interest in my adventure. He seemed ready to pull out a bike of his own and join me, but Pedro managed to hold him back.

One thing that stood out was that instead of bicycle cabs Maxcanú seemed to favor moto taxis, which were basically the exact same vehicle but with a motorcycle smashed into the back instead of a bike. This was a step up from the moto taxis in Dominican Republic, which were literally just motorbikes with way too many people piled on them, but I couldn’t help but notice that the people sitting in the front scoop would basically be lauched into the air in the event of a collision.

Motorcycle taxi. Photo by Sun-Ling.

The one highlight of Maxcanú was a terrific taquería at a small public market just a block from the Doña Bety. They took good care of me, never bringing me exactly what I ordered but always making sure I had plenty of it. After dinner there and one more stop at the cyber cafe I headed back to my room and turned in. 36.6 miles.

Map.

Friday, January 30 (Day 938 of the Great Adventure)—To Mérida

In morning, phone still little more than a paperweight, I saw no reason to prolong my stay. Today the road would take me to Mérida, capital of Yucatán and another glimmering colonial city. I ate a quick breakfast with a couple mugs of Nescafé, said goodbye to Doña Bety, and rolled out.

The miles rolled by. For lunch I stopped at a kitchen in one of the villages (Chocholá). The woman here had no change for a $500 peso note and sent me to a grocery that promised to break the bill, but only after a very confusing Spanish conversation that basically translated as, “Bro, you need to buy something.”

Change (and extra water bottle) in hand, I returned to the kitchen where they served me a delicious hot pressed sandwich.

As I got closer to the city, I found myself on a big highway with a strong wind and no shade—but also no traffic, as a long segment of it was closed off to vehicles. This eerie, abandoned stretch came to a head as I passed under an overpass. The cement pillars holding it up were stained black from a fire, a small cross painted nearby. The under-bridge itself reeked of human poop. I struggled to put a reason to this creepy scene: a septic cleaning trunk exploded into a fireball? A hobo camp had a party that got out of hand? I decided to get off the Mad Max set while I could, and turned onto a side road with trees, shade and fresh air.

This course correction added a few more kilometers to my route but also took me through the town of Umán, which I really enjoyed. Traffic was lively but not dangerous, and instead of braving a freeway I rolled past business, parks and plazas. Thanks to traffic lights I moved almost as fast as the cars did, and a guy in the back of a pickup truck kept waving every time leapfrogged past each other. His smile put me in a good mood. The edge of Umán merged seamlessly with the sprawl of Mérida and soon I was in the city proper. I swooped into a city park for a break in the shade.

The last order of business was finding a hotel—this time with plenty of options. I checked out a promising option called the Hotel Reforma, but the rooms were meh and the prices steep even offering me a “discounted” rate. So I coasted onward to the Hotel Caribe, where the faux discount was a bit deeper and the rooms truly sparkled. Soon I was checked into a sunny little number on the top mezzanine overlooking a well-groomed courtyard. It was a gorgeous place to rest.

View from the mezzanine. Photo by Andre.

View from the mezzanine. Photo by Andre.

After a shower I explored the city and investigated dinner options but, as usual on my first day in a big city, I passed up local delicacies and headed straight to the local pizza parlor. 39.7 miles.

Map.

Total traveled this leg:  113.2 miles.

Total traveled since Day 1: 4641.5 miles.

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Adventure, Ask Me Anything, Personal Development, The Great Adventure

Why Didn’t You Lose Your Mind and Go Nuts Being Alone?

Photo by Evan Mitchell

I just received another great question from Pixi. She asks:

“You have mentioned in blog posts about how being a fellowship of one wasn’t super awful, you met a ton of cool people along the way, and how you found friends and supporters all along the route. But I am interested to hear more of your internal process on that front. If you want to share… What was it like doing it on your own when you had planned to have people?”

I think loneliness is normal when wandering. For those of us who have never fit in it’s even more pronounced—even among our friends or loved ones we feel alone. So the journey can be intensely lonely at times, but it will eventually show you your role in life. Your purpose.

That sense of purpose is a big part of why I didn’t feel so alone on this trip. I will admit that when I first found out it was just me, in Saltillo, I was worried. I had been pretty miserable bicycling Texas on my own. I expected it to be a repeat of that, hard days and lonely nights. But a lot had changed since Texas.

For one thing, by the time I started the Mexico leg I had a very clear idea of my job in life: I’m a writer. When you know your purpose it’s easy to feel like you have a place in the world, even if you’re alone or don’t fit in. And writing gave me a lot to keep me busy. Nights that might have been “lonely” for others often involved drafting road logs or outlining short stories. If anything, I felt like I didn’t have enough writing time.

The surroundings were also different. Texas is boring. It’s essentially one endless plain of cookie cutter towns. But Mexico is beautiful. Every town in Mexico has its own unique character that’s different from the next place down the road. I had a sense of discovery every day. It’s not that there were no repetitive or difficult parts, but I could always look forward to something new up ahead.

(It helped that I was a successful freelancer now, and stayed in cheap hotels every night. Basic comfort makes other hardships easier to endure.)

Last, I just had more confidence. Early in my trip I struggled to know that what I was doing was important. I looked outward for affirmation from other people, as if people joining me would mean the trip was worthwhile. But that’s not really where meaning comes from. Before the Mexico trip, I proved that I could attract lots of interest and excitement—14 fascinating people wanted to come along, and countless others helped support it. But by then I didn’t really even need anyone else’s affirmation. It’s my journey and I’m doing it for my own reasons. Whether others join doesn’t change that.

Within about a week after Saltillo I was having fun and knew this was going to be a good trip. I never seriously questioned it after that. I knew my purpose, and with a purpose nothing feels overly hard.

At least, that’s my experience.

Have a question? Ask me anything. 

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Bicycling, Mexico, Road Logs, The Great Adventure, Travel

The Sun-Drenched Streets of Campeche

Previously on Rogue Priest, I hopped islands on a beach road to reach the city of Campeche. Now it’s time to go behind the giant medieval walls and explore this colonial port of call.

Campeche. Photo by  Andre.

Campeche. Photo by Andre.

January 24-27 (Days 932-935 of the Great Adventure)—Campeche Days

The hotel room was the best I’d had. Twelve foot ceilings, colonial tiles, a wrought iron grille on the windows, and a view of the sunny courtyard. It didn’t last long though: each day I had to check with the front desk and see if they needed to bump me, making way for a guest paying full price. I never did get kicked out, but after two nights they moved me to a smaller room.

View from my hotel room (Thanks, Hotel Castelmar!). Photo by Andre.

View from my hotel room (Thanks, Hotel Castelmar!). Photo by Andre.

In four days in Campeche I almost never left the old city. Wrapped up in its ancient walls, the old city is maybe five blocks by eight and simply simmers with history. All the streets are cobbled, all the houses are pastel, and every structure is from the colonial days. There is a beautiful central plaza and at least one pedestrian walking mall.

Three of the four sides of the old city still have the original walls, or at least some semblance of them. In places they have been restored and even enhanced with mosaics of tiny pebbles or shells. Elsewhere it’s exactly as time has left it: battered by cannon and rain. The back end of the old city has one of the original parapets complete with cannon embrasures and a mini pirate ship where tourists and local teenagers snap pictures of themselves. Instead of a hungry army of pirates, a public market lurks just outside.

Parapet and gatehouse. Photo by Andre.

This is seriously how you get to the market. Photo by Andre.

Yucatán’s Lost Port

The pirate theme is not just a marketing tactic. Campeche was the first major port of the Yucatán, back when it was part of Yucatán and not the capital of its own separate state. The massive walls were built to repel raiders, and did their job well.

Yucatán’s main export was originally sugar. By the 1800s however rope, made from a plant called hennequin, was the bigger cash crop. That was a problem for Campeche: the hennequin plantations were far to the north, and soon opened their own port town, Sisal. (And yes, that’s why sisal twine is called that even today.)

The lost commerce was not Campeche’s only problem, however. Mérida, the capital of Yucatán, was determined to win a war against rebel Mayans, and they expected Campeche to help. The war lasted for fifty years. The rebels, sick of being serfs on plantations, successfully established their own independent Mayan nation deep in the jungle. They fought off Yucatecan/Mexican armies and marched on Mérida itself. The Mayans were just days from reconquering their entire ancestral homeland, when the first summer rains arrived and they went home to go plant corn.

(If you’re wondering how I know all this, you might enjoy this book. Thanks Alberto!)

The point is, the war was long, costly and divisive. Eventually Campeche split off from Yucatán which is why it has its own state even today. (The Mayan nation, on the other hand, was eventually destroyed.)

View of Campeche from atop the wall. Photo by Andre.

View of Campeche from atop the wall. Photo by Andre.

Climbing the Walls with Dr. Fun

It took me a little while to realize that you can actually go on top of the walls. I haven’t had great experiences with this—when I scaled a rampart in Thailand I found out it was a breeding ground for rats—but I rarely learn my lesson and quickly sniffed out the entrance. I’m glad I did. Campeche’s walls are reached by stairs at what was probably once a gatehouse and is now a museum. I entered its courtyard watched closely by a security guard and two women at a table. I expected an entrance fee but, unique in Mexico, they only wanted me to sign a guest book saying what country I’m from. Admission is free.

Campeche. Photo by Andre.

Campeche. Photo by Andre.

I went up on the walls several times during my stay. Only one section is accessible, but it’s great: a view of the Gulf, real battlements, even little cupulas for shade (it closes at sunset, which seems like a shame given what a great makeout place it would be).

The walls were never crowded, but I did meet one American couple there. When I mentioned my website, the man said, “Well Rogue Priest, I’m Dr. Fun.” Literally—he has a Ph.D. in Recreation Studies. They invited me to dinner at a seafood restaurant but I had a feeling it would be far too expensive and we’d get far too drunk. Our paths never crossed again.

Me with statues in Campeche.

Me with statues in Campeche.

Around Every Corner

You can tell a lot about a city by its approach to public art. The worst have none; the merely bad cities commission a few public pieces and vet the designs. The result is bland and often confounding. The best cities provide a theme or event and allow artists to interpret as they see fit. That’s how you get a city-wide sculpture garden, with something to discover around every corner.

Thus Campeche. Statues of human figures by a variety of artists were scattered through the streets and plazas and walking malls, always grabbing the eye and pulling you just a little farther along. Here’s an example:

Photo by Andre.

Photo by Andre.

The cuisine was also amazing. I didn’t have to go on my usual pizza hunt to find an alternative to tacos, because seafood was cheap and abundant. I had fish pretty much every night, and great salads or smoothies from a veg place by day. There was even a cozy, artsy little coffee shop just two streets from the hotel.

Walking mall in Campeche. Photo by Andre.

Walking mall in Campeche. Photo by Andre.

Needs More Americans

Campeche is among the most beautiful cities in the Americas, but the tourists there are almost all Europeans. That surprises me. I know not all Americans spend their whole holiday on the beach; we’re a people who love to explore. But most of us never seem to get over to this side of the peninsula, which is a shame. Dr. Fun and his wife rented a car and made Campeche their first big stop on a tour of the little beach towns. I think that’s a great plan and would recommend it for anyone planning a flight into Cancún.

I found myself a little in love with Campeche, so much so that I started looking at apartment listings and house prices. It was hard to believe I was living so large, in such a breathtaking place, when just a week earlier I was trapped in a hotel with ripped knees and a fever.

Clearly I could have stayed in this city much longer, but the road was calling. My end point was just a few dasy’ ride away. So next time I’ll take to the road toward Mérida—and discover a very different kind of Mayan pueblo.

Until then, check out all my road logs or become a supporter.

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Adventure, Bicycling, Mexico, Road Logs, The Great Adventure, Travel

To the Pirate Walls of Campeche

Last time I rejoined the Gulf coast, crashed a political rally, and got kicked out of a hotel. Now I continue my flight along beach roads and islands, headed toward Campeche.

Sunset in Sabancuy. Photo by Andre.

Sunset in Sabancuy. Photo by Andre.

Tuesday, January 20 (Day 928 of the Great Adventure)—To Isla Aguada

Breakfast was a quick affair at a diner on the main square. Soon I was loaded up and weaved my way out of town. Ciudad del Carmen is a city on an island, but I wasn’t crossing back to the mainland the way I came; instead I’d chase up along the barrier islands using bridges and coastal roads.

I made some poor navigational choices trying to get out of the city, and was impressed by the amount of traffic. After some factories however—including one with a Coca-Cola logo—it was pretty much just me and the iguanas. On my left side was the beach, endless miles of it, big turquoise waves rolling in from the sunny sea. Walls lined all of the beaches, made out of loose rocks stacked in rectangular mesh cages, probably to hold off high water. Lizards loved the mesh and scattered over the wall as I biked past. I didn’t see many swimmers, but I did notice one semi truck parked in the middle of nowhere, driver missing, just a few feet from a break in the wall. I like the way that guy takes his breaks.

Today’s destination would be Isla Aguada, which I translate as “Flooded Island,” not exactly a confidence inspirer. It was early afternoon when I reached the bridge from Carmen’s Island to Isla Aguada. It was a long, curving affair over turbulent seas, currents with different colored water coming from three directions and mixing into a froth. I paused to admire the sea halfway across.

After the magic of the bridge, the grit of the island was hard to believe. Isla Aguada is a hardscrabble place with few jobs and little money. The coastal road is the main drag, passing through a checkpoint just after the bridge where commercial trucks pay a toll. Other than that there isn’t much to see, though I did spot a seafood stand under a giant red tent, and stopped for some fresh caught lunch.

The seafood tent in Isla Aguada. Photo by Andre.

The seafood tent in Isla Aguada. Photo by Andre.

Then I checked out hotels. Given how badly my last beach day went, I wanted to stay somewhere nice and I was willing to spend a little more than usual to do so. I found the perfect place, a gorgeous suite with my own hammock and a private porch with a thatched roof, all for just $700 pesos. Just one snag: no wifi (which I found so hard to believe at this fancy hotel that I made the owner repeat herself). But I had no client work due right away, so I decided to accept the ultimate privation and go for a day without internet. (Well, mostly; my phone still worked.)

It started with a trip to the beach. This is a lot less exciting than it sounds. First you walk three blocks through a really poor town, the only tourist in the place. Then you reach the giant abandoned beach that has the ruins of old concession stands and wonder if it was converted to a naval artillery range. Reassured by spotting one solitary Mexican family on 11 straight miles of beach, you wade across pebbles and floating litter into turbulent, silty water. It reminded me of a beach in the Dominican Republic where some fish kept taking bites out of me, protected from retribution by the cloudy water. This time I suffered no such attacks, only the hands of a particularly wicked tide that wanted to drag me slantwise along the shore, toward the bridge and the foamy mixer of the open bay.

It was pretty fun.

I let the current carry me for a few minutes, covering a half mile of shoreline, then waded ashore and walked back, repeating the process several times. I also made offerings to the sea.

I spent late afternoon in my hammock and reading. I texted a lot with my friend Urban. Urban had become increasingly important to me on this trip. I’d made a deal to check in with him via text message every night, so that someone somewhere in the world knew I was safe. He had become something like my guardian angel, my Siri, and my mission control all rolled into one. And frequently he was my only sympathetic ear in a bad situation. Urban, if you’re reading this, thank you.

I asked the hotel owner if she could recommend somewhere for dinner. She mentioned a place with “really good pizza” just two streets away, and I set out to find it. After a recent string of impressive non-Mexican meals, I though I would try it. This is what I found:

Hot doog and soda. Photo by Andre.

Hot doog and soda, y’all. Photo by Andre.

The string was broken. 27.5 miles.

Map.

January 21 (Day 929 of the Great Adventure)—To Sabancuy

Morning confirmed a new trend: if you ask a restaurant whether they serve breakfast, they say yes even if they don’t. Even if they have no eggs and no breakfast dishes. Basically they’re just willing to serve you lunch any hour you want. This seems to be a quirk of Campeche and the Yucatán; I don’t think it would fly in central Mexico.

So it took some doing, but I eventually found a semi-outdoors meal counter that had eggs in the house. Some rancheros and a little Nescafé got me in good shape for the road. Not that I got moving early—I shot a video tour of the Giant for supporters and enjoyed the hammock a little longer. I didn’t get on the road till 2 p.m.

It was a short ride, though. More great scenery: strange currents criss-crossing offshore, copses of palm trees guarding the beach, a few closed beachside eateries, iguanas invisible until they moved, and so few cars that I biked on the wrong side of the road. To my left was open water, to my right was jungle.

Within about two hours that jungle had given way to a direct view of the lagoon protected by the island. It was the opposite of the open Gulf: sheltered, still, more green than blue, covered in marsh grass and bird life and small fishing boats. My destination for the night, Sabancuy, was somewhere out there.

By 4:30 I reached the turnoff. Leaving the Gulf behind I crossed the lagoon on a series of causeways—at least five—and approached the town. Its ancient church and small central square are the first things that greet you as you roll in. Rumors of hotels were scarce, but I navigated to a place mentioned in a couple online reviews. It looked nice out the outside shabby on the inside, and had wi-fi in the lobby only.

After a shower I got a delicious dinner of alambre at a local taco restaurant. This time I did have client work, so I sat in the hotel lobby tapping on my laptop till it was time for the hotel staff to close up.

Although not well known, Sabancuy has a claim to fame: sea turtles. The surrounding lagoon is their nesting ground, and a local university has a program to protect the eggs and bolster the species’ dwindling numbers. Anyone who visits there can volunteer to help, collecting eggs by hand and moving them to protected places. But this wasn’t turtle season, so I had to content myself with a beautiful sunset and the sounds of the lagoon at night:

(Supporters get access to all my videos!)

26.2 miles.

Map.

Shop in Sabancuy. Photo by Andre.

Shop in Sabancuy. Photo by Andre.

January 22 (Day 930 of the Great Adventure)—To Champotón

Shabby or not, the hotel had a cute enough little dining room, and for the sake of convenience I decided to eat there. I’m glad—the fruit plate that came out was amazing, the kind of mouth-watering fresh fruits that make me wonder why anybody buys sweets in the tropics.

I had still been icing my knees at night, and had no soreness to speak of. Today’s ride took about five hours and aimed at Champotón, a larger town right where the flat coastal plains give way to a more hilly region. It was my last day of constant, unadulterated beach views and I soaked it up with joy.

Beautiful church possibly in Champotón. Photo by Andre.

Beautiful church possibly in Champotón. Photo by Andre.

Champotón itself was a bit disconcerting. Maybe every town has its own attitude, or maybe it’s just luck of the draw on who you meet, but people here seemed surprised to see a foreigner and more than a little uninterested. That surprised me—it was (slightly) larger and more cosmopolitan than my last two stopping points. The heat had also gotten to me, and I was not eager to spend the entire afternoon following vague directions to questionable hotels.

So I took the first decent place I found. It was an old colonial building with a view of the sea and gorgeous grounds. Yet some strange contrasts: for example, the king size bed had a plush velvet bedspread but no under-sheet. Apparently you were supposed to lay directly on the bare mattress. (I chose instead to sleep on top of the bedspread, a spare blanket over me.)

I walked down to a string of seafood stands along the malecón, the owners vying for my attention and shouting their menus at me. The seafood was good and fresh and I washed it down with some house made agua fresca (fruit drink). 42.3 miles.

This hotel believes in tiles and mahogany but not bed sheets. Photo by Andre.

This hotel believes in tiles and mahogany but not bed sheets. Photo by Andre.

Map.

Friday, January 23 (Day 931 of the Great Adventure)—To Campeche

Owing to the heat and a headwind, yesterday’s 40 miles had been a bit of a slog. The wind shifted in the night, and the earlier I left the longer I’d get a tailwind before it died. But early is relative; after finding a breakfast place, eating way too much in their courtyard, and loading up the bike it was just after 11:00 a.m.

Today was one of those days where I took a longer route because it would be prettier. A main highway cut inland straight toward Campeche, but the winding coastal road looked a lot more interesting.

The first stretch looked almost like Ireland: sea cliffs on one side, the tropical equivalent of heath on the other, occasional thatch-roofed huts clinging to the hills in the wind. The road was narrow with no shoulder and plenty of traffic, also not unlike Ireland.

This is a real ad in Champotón. Photo by Andre.

This is a real ad in Champotón. Photo by Andre.

After a while the terrain got woodsy and hilly. I soared past wattle cottages and spooked chickens in the road. I stopped to buy oranges from a fruit stand in the village of Villa Madero. The vendor charged me double for what few bruised oranges he had left. Only after I parted with my pesos did I see shining ripe mandarinas at the fruit stand next door.

Winding roads eventually brought me to the fishing town of Seybaplaya, one of the most picturesque in Mexico. I rolled through the streets, weaving uphill on narrow lanes, and made a second stop for a snack and Powerade. Eventually I reached the top of the town and joined a lesser highway, still no shoulder, but much less traffic now.

It was the final run to Campeche. The approach is quite beautiful. The road is beachside, and you go through the outlying town of Lerma with its cute restaurants and nice houses. I stopped at one such restaurant hoping for a seafood cocktail… but they didn’t have them! I should’ve known it would be no good from the sign that read, “Mexican Grill” in English. I left without ordering.

Campeche itself is a sight. It’s a true city, but there’s no sprawl along the beach road, just a malecón and high end restaurants. I found my way to the old city—the historic downtown surrounded by giant stone walls.

For centuries, Campeche was the major port of Yucatán. It was also a frequent target of pirates. The city’s massive walls and big guns made it virtually unassailable, and despite several attempts the pirates never did manage to raid the city.

Those walls are still there today, carefully restored with a million slivers of stone forming mosaics on every surface. I passed through the wall and gawked. Historic Campeche is like being on a movie set, except everything is real.

Everything, that is, except the hotel prices. I wandered into a well-reviewed 400-year old building and hesitantly approached the desk. Just then I noticed a sign with the prices:

Single room…. $1150/night

“Oh,” I said to the concierge, laughing. “Nevermind. Thank you.”

“Wait,” he said. “How many nights do you need?”

“Two or three.”

He shrugged. “How about $550 a night?”

Ka-ching. This is the advantage of not booking in advance: if they have rooms they need to fill, they might give you a deal. I agreed and soon had been shown into the all-around most beautiful hotel room of the entire trip.

I showered, found food, and realized I might be here a lot more than two nights. 41.2 miles.

Map. (Note: The loop in the route is accurate. Is that cheating to include that? I don’t think so, that’s how I biked it.)

Total traveled this leg: 137.2 miles.

Total traveled since Day 1: 4528.3 miles.

Next time I’ll explore the wall, the Mayan cultural museum, and the creepy but beautiful statues that haunt the alleys of downtown. Until then, become a supporter to get the video logs or check out past stories from the road.

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