WALKER'S BLISS

NEORA VALLEY: MARCH 31
That last, Not really, is untrue. Forget the road as dry boulder-strewn river bed. The straight stretches give magical glimpses of the valley between giant conifers. Ferns cascade from the uphill side of the track; rocks cocooned in moss, crystal clear rivulets; palest of pale-yellow butterflies chase each other, scent of leaf mold and pine tar – twelve kilometers of walker's bliss! Even the bad bits can't be that bad if a septuagenarian can handle them on a small bike. The turn to the camp is on the right under one of those square archways. The final ascent to the parking lot is near vertical mud. I don't do mud. Nor does the Honda. We get three quarters of the way up before beginning to slip backwards. Add two-villager power and we make it. A wizened elf shod in gold rubber boots grabs my bags out of the pick-up. What is a camp? What will I find? Presumably one or other end of cold-water basic...

NO FOOL AS FOOLISH AS AN OLD FOOL

I am an idiot. I have broken one of the cardinal rules. No excuses. And it might have killed me. It nearly did. The country road from the Janjira ferry connects with the N17 highway to Goa. The N17 is a great road for a biker, hill sections with luscious curves to lean in to, straight stretches shaded by overhanging trees, bridges over dream-land rivers and a good surface, great places to stop for coffee and a bowl of soup. Ratnagari is the only large town. To quote Lonely Planet, That's all that can be said for it. The town is fifteen Ks off the highway. Late afternoon and I ride midway through the outskirts for an ATM and a top-up for my mobile. Hotels are modern and probably expensive. I noticed a hotel at the highway intersection so I turn back. The hotel is a real dump. Check out a room and hear an anticipatory rustle from the bed bugs. I know that I should ride back into town but What the hell, there's bound to be something better and I ride on into the twilight. The next place, 10Ks on, is worse and night's fallen. I've been riding all day; my vizor's dirty and I'm blinded by oncoming traffic. Hill country and two buses race at me neck and neck uphill on a tight curve. No white line as a a guide and I can't see a damn thing. The front wheel kicks over a stone as I go off the road. Brake and I'm done for. The buses thunder by and I fight the bike back onto the black top. Luck saved me from hitting a tree or a rock. I'm scared shitless (as they say in impolite circles) and I'm cursing myself. 20 Ks to a small town with two small hotels. The hotels are either full or Reception hates my looks. My hands tremble as I drink a coffee and wash the visor and my spectacles. Better...
A further 15 Ks and there is a brand new hotel off to the left. So new that they haven't finished surfacing the approach road. This is a flash joint that has to be 2000 rupees a night. I'd pay 10000 to get off the road. The owner wears six chunky gold rings and a welcoming smile. The room has a/c, hot water, brilliant mattress and flat screen satellite TV with CNN and BBC. Dinner is chicken masala with both bismati rice and chapatis. Breakfast is included in the 600 rupee room rate! I lie in bed and call Bernadette. I don't mention riding by night or coming off the road. One near death experience is sufficient...

RIDING'S A BITCH - SO WHY AM I ENJOYING IT?

Riding a bike in India is tiring. This is not a complaint. I am having a great time. However a day in the saddle leaves me with insufficient energy to mount an Internet connection hunt. Back in the UK we have an image of India as the burning tip of high tek Internet development. Not on any connection that I've used. Slow as a slug and often fails when uploading pictures. However I have reached Cochin safely and am waiting for Professor Doctor Betty de Swann to sashay off the plane on the 21st. So I have two days to get up to date with the BLOG - Oh, and there is the next piece for BA and a film Presentation for Veronica. I think that's all. Or do I owe MCN? Though to have any sort of work at my age and in the present economic climate is a miracle for which I am immensely grateful...
That's enough.
Get back to your room, Old Fool, and start writing.

SLICK KID

I was at the Honda factory today outside Delhi. I sat on my bike, a 125 naturally, but what a 125, a new model red Stunner with electic start and fuel injection - 64K to the litre and only 2000Ks on the clock. I started the engine. Brmm Brmm sweet!
OK, so I hear you middle-aged BMW crowd tittering in the back ground. A 125 again! Sad old guy, what can you expect from a septuagenarian?
So let me set you straight: Honda designed the Stunner as a slick kid's cafe racer. It has style!
Though wrecked somewhat once the fat old Blimp takes to the saddle.
Honda are trying to fit panniers to it and find me a suitable helmet plastered with Honda decals. I meant to pack, when leaving home, my Mexican scarlet-and-white Honda racing shirt. I looked everywhere. Maybe my sons burnt it.

REAP AND WEEP

ROAD TO WASHINGTON, DC: APRIL 8
I am finally north of the Appalachians. Washington, DC, is a rock thrown into a vast economic puddle. Ripples flow outward. White clapboard houses are bigger, better maintained. Mercedes, BMWs and Porches are common as flies on a Third World butcher's slab. I catch glimpses of red brick mansions sheltered by parkland. Riding stables abound, paddocks protected by white picket fences. Horses are as plentiful as hand guns and bare the same romantic mystique. I am crossing the political heartland of the Land of the Free whose early heroic Presidents, General George Washington and Thomas Jefferson, were slave owners.
The slaves have rebelled.
Reap and weep.
Or move to the suburbs and gated communities...

WET CLOTHES AND HOT SHRIMP

HARRISONBURG: APRIL 6
Management, Reception and cleaners at the Ramada Inn, Harrisonburg, are Gujarati. I long for a curry made with fresh spices. I negotiate a small discount on the room rate. I have ridden through steady drizzle for the past three hours. Now the TV weather channel shows heavy rain moving southward towards Harrisonburg. Rain will be followed by a cold front. Is a cold front colder than the cold I have already suffered up on the Blue Ridge Parkway?
I strip, turn the heating up and drape wet clothes over chair backs and over the air conditioner. Bliss is basking in a hot bath and contemplating the menu of a newly opened Thai restaurant. Spicy shrimp with fresh coriander...

CHURCHES BEAT PYRAMIDS

saint paul's, cadereyta

TO THE SIERRA GORDA, MEXICO: MARCH 7
Pyramids don't do it for me. Churches do. Five Franciscan missions in the Sierra Gorda date from the 1730s. The mission at Jalpan, north east of Queretaro, is a good base for exploring. Riding to Jalpan is an experience. A gale swirls dust across the Queretaro plains. Tequisquiapan is hot-spring spa hotels and restaurants with pools. I halt at a hardware store and buy plastic safety glasses. The store owner warns me to be careful riding over the Sierra, that the wind is dangerous for bikers. I take nourishment for the climb in the next town, Cardereyta, at a butchery serving great Tacos.

PYRAMIDS ARE FOR LOSERS

TEOTIHUACAN, MEXICO: MARCH 6
Teotihuacan is one of those musts for visitors to Mexico City. The Pyramid of the Sun is the main attraction. The pyramid is 64 meters high and covers approximately the same area as the Great Pyramid in Egypt.
Big deal.
An expressway runs directly from Mexico City to the archaeological sight. Take a bus. The excursion is painless. I am in Queretaro. Avenida Lopez connects the Queretaro-Mexico City expressway with the expressway to Teotihuacan. Avenida Lopez is a ninety minute ride. Riding Avenida Lopez on a baby Honda is for lunatics. Truck drivers try using me as an ice hockey puck.
So why am I risking my life? Pyramids are impressive rather than beautiful: mini-mountains built by man. They don't do it for me - particularly pyramids in Mexico and Central America. I have become too close in my travels to the first Spaniards. I imagine the pyramids through their eyes: heaps of skulls at the base, billions of flies, steps steeped in blood and flesh and defecation. Or did a horde of scrubbers work the steps? Did the cleaner scrubbing the top level earn extra? Only a few hundred steps to the summit, great job...
Those first Spaniards are condemned for destroying a culture.
A culture that vile merited destruction.
Yes, I know. I am politically incorrect. Please excuse me. I am an Old Blimp. I can't feel the romance.

SERVICE WITH A SMILE AND A CAMERA

QUERETARO, MEXICO: MARCH 5
I rode the bike uptown to the Honda outlet for a 3000 K service. Rodrigo King is the man, speaks perfect English. He calls me to collect the bike around 5 pm. He has a couple of newspapers and a TV channel keen to do a story. Is that OK?
It is certainly OK. I have become accustomed to speaking in Spanish on camera. The questions don't change much. I wear my Alpinestars boots and top shirt and Honda give me a free service. Nice people...

A SHORT RANT

QUERETARO, MEXICO: FRIDAY MARCH 5
The Texas and Ohio votes were a disappointment to Obama supporters. I watched on CNN. Hillary Clinton made a winner's speech. Obama needed to counter-punch. What we got was niceness. Niceness is a loser.
Mexicans here in Queretaro with whom I speak want an Obama victory and expect his defeat. Defeat for Obama confirms their view of the US. This view is governed by their dislike of President Bush. Arrogant and ignorant are the first charges. Racist and prejudiced come next.
I point to two Black Secretaries of State, one a woman, and mention the huge amounts the US spends on Aid. Latin Americans counter with Iraq.
Panamanians believe that the US military killed 5000 Panamanians in arresting Noriega.
God knows how many Iraqis have been killed in arresting Saddam Husein and his clique.
The toll in Afghanistan is mounting.
Many are killed in aerial bombardment. Women and children are amongst those killed - killed from on high. These are the fatalities Latin Americans see on TV.
Collateral damage is the military description.
Both Obama and Hillary Clinton wish to end the Occupation of Iraq; as do Cliff Irving's good friends who were visiting Zihuataneje. Cliff's friends have printed camouflage T-shirts with the admirable slogan: bring 'em home.
I will try to post an address...

ONE FOR HAMISH - AND HILARY SUPPORTERS

QUERETARO, MEXICO: MARCH 5
At home, we have a Border terrier, Hamish. My wife, Bernadette, is in New York for a week. Hamish is looking after our youngest son. This photograph is for Hamish - and a comment on those who voted for Hilary Clinton in last night's Primary.

GOOD GIRLS DON'T SPEAK

QUERETARO. MEXICO: MARCH 4
A Municipal art gallery down the walking street from the Jardin de Armas is a magnificent modern space within ancient walls. I find an exhibition of communication in art on the left-hand of two mezzanines.
A young professor discusses communication with his students. He stands in front of eight small, unframed, oil paintings. The paintings hang in a horizontal line on a large white wall and are equidistant one from the other. The paintings could be arranged as a narrative: sea monster, sinking ship, telephone, satellite dish...
The painter has arranged them haphazardly - perhaps because that is the manner in which we are offered information on the web.
Haphazard offends one of the two male students.
The female students don't speak.
The professor is accustomed to their silence.
The female students are accustomed to communicating by cellular.
I apologize for intruding and offer my banal suggestion.
They seem bemused.
Silence is natural.
They have been silent throughout their education.
Sad that they haven't learned to speak.

OBAMA HAS THE LATIN AMERICAN VOTE

QUERETARO, MEXICO: MARCH 4
I sit on a bench in the Jardin del Armas this morning and listen with joy to a throaty Mexican Blues vocalist (female) accompanied by two guitars (male). A family shares the bench: two small children, mum and dad. Dad is a tall thin schoolteacher wanting to be a writer. Mum is a plump mum. Kids are well behaved. The teacher and I talk US politics. He is pro Obama. All his friends are pro Obama. Obama would be proof that the US can change.
Every Latin American with whom I have talked during the US Primaries has been a supporter of Obama.
CNN reports that the US Latino vote is pro Hilary Clinton.

GOTHS ARE WEIRD BUT OK

QUERETARO, MEXICO: MARCH 4
People in Queretaro dress for fun. Early evening and I sit a while in the Jardin Zanea and people watch. A pack of cowboy Goths pass, both sexes dress identically: black stetson, tight black sleeveless T-shirt, black stovepipe jeans, black boots.
Yesterday evening I spotted a real male Goth, streaked hair, white makeup, everything. He was crossing the road outside the Theater of the Republic. He swished as he walked, either deliberately overt Gay or acting Gay. He was with his sister and his parents. His parents appeared unperturbed.
Late, around 10 pm, I count eleven elderly men carrying guitars and either sharing a bench in the garden or chatting to each other on the sidewalk.
That is my view of Queretaro: a city of music, good people, not uptight; streets and parks are clean, architecture is the right size.

CNN ANTI OBAMA

QUERETARO, MEXICO: MARCH 3
I have a routine. I walk in the morning for an hour. Queretaro is great for walking. People are courteous and sidewalks are seldom crowded. My new laptop weighs little more than a book. It fits the hand well and is comfortable to carry. I find a coffeehouse in the cloister facing the Jardin de Armas and work three hours. I return to the hotel, connect through WiFi, post the new entries and leave the laptop on charge. I walk a further hour, visiting museums, galleries, sneaking into patios, doing my death trip in a church or two. I have found an oyster bar facing across Calle Corregidora to the gardens. I order the US$6 set menu: prawn cocktail, a red snapper off the grill and a flan. I write notes while eating, collect the laptop and finish off the battery a second time over coffee back in the cloister. Returning to my room, I post and watch the US Presidential Primaries on CNN. Why CNN? CNN is the only channel available on the hotel's satellite package. How is CNN reportage of the Primaries? A crafty assassination job on Barak Obama...

RACIAL PREDJUDICE?

mini pyramid

COPAN RUINUS, HONDURAS: FEBRUARY 3
I remark to an middleaged Englishman from Leeds on how many flies there would have been on the pyramid in the days of human sacrifice. He replies that I am wrong to judge the Maya according to modern standards. Why are the Spanish conquistadors condemened according to modern standards?

NO BANDITS BUT DON'T STOP

TO COPAN RUINAS: FEBRUARY 2
I must catch up with my writing. I have Emailed Eugenio at Hacienda Tijax on the Rio Dulce that I will arrive on the 5th. I head direct to Copan where I can work for two days. I stop for lunch at a restaurant on Lake Yojoa.
The owner is a woman. We talk of this and that, my journey, her tiresome husband of whom she is delighted to be rid, our children, the cost of living. She treats me to my meal. I ride on happy to have made contact with someone from the country through which I am travelling. I am so happy that I become overconfident and head on through the hills to Copan with dusk already falling. I stop at a police post and ask whether there is a hotel before Copan.
"No, but the road is safe."
"No bandits?"
"No bandits, but don't stop."
"Right," I say and follow a slow moving truck with good lights.

THEY DONT TALK WITH PEOPLE WHO RIDE 125s

PAN AM NORTH THRU COSTA RICA: JANUARY 27
I loathe having trucks on my butt. The wind strengthens all day, finally threatening to shove me off the road, or, worse, under the wheels of oncoming traffic. I stop for coffee in Liberia. A pose of Panamanian bikers on Harleys pulls in. The bikers say Hi in that distant manner rich guys on Harleys reserve for old men riding pizza delivery bikes.
I ride on into the wind.
The wind becomes a gale.
Tomorrow will be better. Why am I persecuting myself. Sensible to turn off prior to the Nicaraguan border at La Cruz.

OLD MEN CAN'T WAIT

hers and his, little and big


QUEPES, COSTA RICA: JANUARY 27
Quepes by day is OK. I load the bike, visit the ATM machine, eat breakfast. 8:30 AM and my fellow biker remains in bed. She joined me for dinner last night. She is from Denver, Colorado, and deals in eco power such as commercial wind farms. She is a sportswoman and suffers from too many falls on mountain bikes and skis and whatever. She and my mountainboarder son, Jed, could compare scars. Probably her knee played up in the night and she didn't sleep. What ever, I can't wait. Sad. I want to wish her well. I hope to learn whether she took the Limon/Almirante road out of Costa Rica into Panama. If so, how did she find the United Fruit rail bridges?

BIKERESS OR TIGERESS?

hers and his

QUEPES, COSTA RICA: JANUARY 26
Dusk as I enter Quepes. My eyes are bunged up with dust. I can´t see much. I do spot a small hotel with a courtyard protected by iron gates. The receptionist resembles a late middle-age frog in a straw hat. He hails from the US. He supplies information while entering my details in the guest book. Gringos frequent the bar one block to the left on the sea front: the working girls are safe. Best fish is across the bridge and a further two blocks. The fish interests me.
My room is clean. Towels are big. The shower has hot water. I rinse off sufficient dirt to construct a beach in the shower tray.
Down in the courtyard a woman dismounts from a 650 KTM trail bike. She is fair, late thirties, my height, green eyes, long hair. The KTM dwarfs the Honda. It has aluminium side panniers and a proper biker bag on top of the gas tank. The woman has a proper helmet. She is dressed in a proper biker suit, proper boots (though not Alpinestars).
I feel somewhat inadequate.
"Hi," I say.
She says, "Hi..." A real biker conversation.
She took a fall yesterday and limps a little.
She declines my offer of help in carrying her bag.
Maybe she will catch me later at the fish restaurant two blocks up from the bridge. Or maybe not...