RALPH GREEN & MARY ANN

GO TO MEXICO

It is with some puzzlement that I find myself on a plane to Los Angeles. Whilst I wouldn't concede to being haunted by past words I am conscious of the fact that for several years I have been known in mixed company to proclaim : "There are two places in the world I have no ambition to visit and one I have no intention ever to return, these being specifically, Las Angeles, Las Vagas and the Gold coast." Given this jaundiced prejudgemental perspective and a stay of 24 hrs restricted to the Airport and the coastal suburb Longbeach a more reasonable man might hesitate to criticize. Reason, as the post-modernists would say (now I'm jumping in with unfamiliar bedfellows!), is subjective to a degree. If you can't write a travel diary to please yourself - reinforcement of one's own biases is always comforting retreat - then who are you writing for, given the potential readership of a few loyal friends a clutch of crusty relatives and a sprinkling of motorcyclopaths? Ah that quotes better; having offended most of a potentially meager audience we now we know where we stand!

California seems a curious place. While obesity and a preponderance to speak only at maximum volume and mostly over the top of each other in conversation are rife, courtesy and consideration of a visitors needs feature prominently. The city is flat, smoggy and sprawling. The pollution report was favorable (relatively speaking remember) as we left in Mohammed's cab from the LA International Airport (what was that pop song?) allowing visibility of a kilometer or so nearer to the CBD as we passed on the extensive multi-lane freeway. This is car culture in it's mature phase (pre-extinction?). Nobody walks, everything is spread too far apart; for every 100 square meters of buildings there is a surrounding acre of car parking usually incorporating a drive through, no matter what the industry classification. Want to pawn that ring after the big divorce Californian style? Drive through pawn shop on the way back from the courthouse? - "you got it!". This and the preponderance of pre-packaging and disposability - cheaper restaurants provide plastic cutlery only, so do the motels with their continental breakfasts - clashes heavily with visible evidence of consciousness of the consequences. Containers are prominently marked with extensive instructions regarding not only the recycling of materials but also ratings as to the degree of adverse environmental impact. Street drains bear inscriptions warning that "this water flows into our oceans - do not dispose of waste here".

The LA public phone system is abominably expensive. Timed local calls of 3mins cost 35 cents - that quote is a quarter and dime to you bud. There are numerous area codes within LA, understandable given the size & population but, wait for this, from one area code to the next is long distance rates. Effectively this means local calls at 35c per 3 mins are restricted to about 10km radius. The public phone swallowed $US3 worth of coins in a couple of minutes making two calls - both to locations within LA! Come back Telecom, all is forgiven! Remember this the next time the government starts making noises about deregulation allowing timed local calls. Deregulation and competition haven't helped make communication cheaper for the American consumer.

By comparison collecting the purple swinehunt (our heavily modified '89 BMW R100 G/S for those yet to have confronted the world's ugliest motorcycle) was at least easy if similarly expensive. I can't fathom why it should cost more for handling the bike at this end than it did for the actual shipping from Melbourne to Los Angeles. The sad state of the Oz Peso is only a partial clue. Fortunately money was all that was required. (Not the tears of blood required by Chilean Customs officials in 1996 South American trip- but that, literally is another story.) Sign a form, pay $US25 for them to clean up the mess and they pulled the crate out of the warehouse and plonked it down in the truck loading bay under the mid-afternoon sun. The assistance of several Chicano laborers from the warehouse made light weight of extraction. The bike was in perfect condition thanks to the carpentry skills of my man in Geelong who knows how to build an indestructible crate and secure a bike properly within it (Name and phone number supplied on request if your contemplating similar - forgotten your medication? I know the problem well!)

L.A., Tecate, Phoenix - where? (1/9 - 2/9)\par

A tank of petrol, a few adjustments to handlebars, replacement of mirrors & indicators, a crank on the button; mercifully the swinehunt bursts into life, at first spluttering to clear it's venturis of the Pacific salt air, finally filling the air with flat flatulent drone distinctively, unemotively a BMW twin. The blandwurst and soukraut of acoustic engine design. Satisfying the need rather than enhancing the appetite. Not capable of really getting the juices flowing - much the prosaic German rather than the flamboyant Italian.\par

We're off, concentrating to maintain the right side of the road, spatially disorientated at the first few uncontrolled right turns at intersections. Finding the freeway south to San Diego. It certainly is no difficult to use the road system. Enormous multi-lane capacity, well sign posted. Getting excited about the roads from a motorcyclist's perspective is another thing - a bit too much like a futuristic version of the Geelong freeway. Just the thing I've run away from on holiday. For 300 km with hardly a rise of turn past the barren undulating coastal plane with ocean glimpses (as a shy and sensitive Californian real estate salesman might say).

We detour inland through the City of San Diego to avoid Tijuana, having chosen the small border town Tecate further inland for our crossing point. After a wrong turn we find ourselves off the freeway, travelling down a major road on the outskirts of San Diego when a BMW motorcycle shop looms up on a corner. Inside I find exactly the front tyre I'm sure I'll want on the dirt roads of Mexico within the next two weeks, agonize over carrying it around for that long, finally leaving it on then shelf. I'll stick with plan one and try to source one closer to the Copper Canyon - Hermosillo best bet.

Tecate is great! How re-assuring that this far north and you can't get any closer to the USA border, Latino culture still flourishes. The town is a little bit shabby around the edges. The important ingredients are however all there. These include, a sense of community centered around the central plaza (or Zocalo as they seem to be called in most of Mexico), the chaos of an under-regulated life where streetscapes are fascinating for their unexpected variety and surprising improvisation. Where the streets have life and that life itself inspires and underlines the diversions of urban interaction. The Yanks are losing these important components from my brief experiences in Long Beach.

After a cruise around thee hotels we discover that the cheapest one has the most secure motorcycle parking - bonus! The guy behind the desk wants us to bring it into the office for the night but the Swinehunt is wider than either of the doors. An hour later we are in a small dim restaurant facing onto the zocalo. The beer is cold, flavorsome and cheap, brewed a few blocks away at the Tecate Brewery, one of Mexico's largest. The food however is the revelation. Anyone who has eaten in one of those restaurants referred to as "Mexican" in Australia, forget those experiences, they cannot guide you in imagining how Mexican can taste. Perhaps a hint of what you won't find might be more illuminating. No Nachos, no plates stuck down with mozzarella like cheese toppings, no taco shells, no tired mass produced tasteless red sauce. These things aforementioned are Yankee abominations exported to Aussie menus the same way that sandwich bars have become "Subways". It's great to see that right on the border the Carl Jr Hamburger joints and their multiple clones disappear.\par

Poor Mexico

So far from God,

so close the USA

Mexican refrain

From Tecate, moving east shadowing the international border, the road splits into a toll road which resembles a freeway as we know it and the routa libre where all the traffic is! This free road is very up and down, and a lot curvier than the toll road, which it usually keeps in sight of. The country is dry and rolling, mostly given to grazing. The two road types converge at the edge of the escarpment before the dramatic fall to the Desierto de Altar. The first indications of change are bizarre rock formations like a malignant Lego land on acid! Giant rounded pebbles appear to be stuck to a jagged landscape. Suddenly around the umpteenth bend a vast vista opens like a hole in the sky. Fifteen meters below (a 100 or so below sea level) the desert expanse licks at the hazy western horizon. Nowhere to go but down, in stream of tight switchbacks, grossly distracted by the view, the occasional carcass of errant vehicles showing the evident penalty applied. The searing heat of early afternoon rises to claim us, sucking, wringing the moisture from our lungs, searing our faces penetrating behind the polycarbonate windows of our helmets.

At last we're down. The exhilaration of the descent replaced with an endurance test across the barren plain which looks like it long ago lost any competition against the relentless rays of the sun. We pass a great salt lake to our right. I indicate to Mary Ann that we should abandon the tollway and cross it - as we had before in Bolivia navigating by compass - but she indicates, by the sign language developed by 20 years of pillioning that she is unimpressed with the concept. After the temporary relief of an air conditioned luncheon on the outskirts of Mexicali the perspiration continues for a couple more hours. Gradually the rocky ridges intervene shortly followed by the appearance of cacti. Yes those classic candelabra types but rarely the perfect three pronged pitchfork version. More bizarre origami like forms plus other cacti species of diverse sizes shapes and styles. We're within 100 km of our night's destination when my right boot begins to feel a little slippery on the serrated footpeg. Looking down to the right my mood is crushed by a slick of oil covering the carb whipped by the windstream down the side of the bike. We cruise to a halt at the roadside, cacti looking on dispassionately, the silence of the desert our only companion. Without looking I know what the outcome will be. Confirmation comes as the source of the leak is traced to the cylinder head gasket area. Another cylinder stud has pulled out, after half of the total 12 were replaced and thread repaired before we left! We limp into Sonoita keeping to under 100 km/h. The leak is slight, particularly if you keep the revs/oil pressure down but it is 1800 km to the nearest BMW service center in Mexico (N. E. city of Monterrey) but only 275 km back across the "septic tank" border to Phoenix the capital of Arizona state. It is tempting to trust the likely thread repair to a local mechanic but I can't be confident about their skills and the facilities amount to a dirt floor with some corrugated iron propped up by a few poles to dodge the heat, surrounded by the ugly scars of rusting battered vehicle parts. A few phone calls locates a BMW dealer whose service manager advises if it is one of the previously thread repaired studs extra metal may need to be welded into the cases to allow a second thread repair to be performed. This seals our decision - you can't trust alloy welding to a "bush mechanic". Welcome back USA!

Phoenix, Nogales, Hermosillo (7/9 - 8/9)

Yankees, are always on the TV

'cause killers in America

work seven days a week

I'm so bored with the USA

I'm so bored with the USA

But what can I do!

The Clash, London Calling Album

USA! Another five days if it. What have I done to deserve this? I should be more specific (notice, judiciously avoiding the word fair), only a very small part of America. Not the whole apple pie, just a small slice of it. But what about the ingredients? Has it all been in the oven a bit too long? From the battering our (Ozzie) culture suffers one would expect certain of the familiar toxins to be present. And they are - crap food, suburban boredom, rampant omnipresent de-humanizing advertising, intellectually stupefying television. What I didn't expect is the isolation brought about by the endemic culture of the motor car. Life in Phoenix comes in four flavours 1. driving between garage and carpark (including all manner of drive thru shopping experiences), 2. parking in vast ugly parking lots, 3. shopping in faceless air-conditioned retail malls, 4. watching commercial television (remote in one hand, beer and/or junk food in the other).

What is hard to communicate is the vastness of the carparks. Buildings are set back hundreds of meters from the street. This requires huge towering advertising to get your attention while driving past. The trend seems to be giant electronic screens what flash keywords like "WOW", "HERE NOW", "LOOK", "TURN HERE". Best to keep it to those one syllable words - the scripts of the top rating TV programs confirm this!

I do have some praise however, all reserved for the friendly and helpful people at Victory BMW in the 'burbs of Phoenix. The "Victory" refers to a line of Harley Ferguson type copies, which they also sell and service, with even bigger 45 degree V-twin motors but in the familiar low technology, poor dynamic mould. We dropped off the hemorrhaging Swinehunt late Thursday. They had it stripped down Friday got hold of the correct thread repair kit but couldn't complete the job due to racing commitments over the long weekend. They don't get many long weekends in the USA working year but the following Monday happened to be Labor Day. The shop races a BMW R1100S in the "Twins" category. That's the more sporting (for a BMW - hey all things are relative!) model with the half descent, only caressed rather than king hit with the ugly stick, styling. Thus the 5 days, four nights penance.

At least I had a motorcycle to ride. Generously (neigh, don't mutter foolishly!) they gave me a F650 demonstrator single. This is no bad thing. Riding another bike always brings home how awful the swinehunt is. I'm just not used to sharp brakes, brisk acceleration from a revvy crisply carburated modern motorcycle. It was a lot more road orientated than I expected. Slow stable steering, firm suspension at both ends. Not really the sort of thing to take bad dirt roads two up - couldn't fit the luggage on anyway, it's too small. It made a useful tool for an excursion out to "Firebird Raceway" only a few km from the edge of town; easy to find off the Tucson motorway. It was witheringly hot. I seemed to be one of only a few of the several hundred in attendance that had worn both a helmet and jacket. (Neither are compulsory in Arizona State. This leniency extends to front number plates on cars, allowing the septics to substitute something really 'cheesy' on mid front bumper like their favorite baseball team emblem or "Arizona Grand Canyon State", complete with cactus motifs. The hard wired headlight was a surprise in contrast. I digress. A common failing.) The "raceway" is a drag strip with a medium fast left after \'be mile, followed by a series of slow L,R,L,R,etc until the final left hander back onto the main straight. Basically an oval with one side turned into a squiggle. Because of the long straight and the difficulty of passing up the back due to the narrow one line nature of this part of the track, the drive onto the last corner before the "straightaway" is omni-important. Those readers carrying the legacy of old road racing injuries (I can feel a twinge coming on now can't you?) would be heartened by the nature of this particular corner. The entry is an almost dead stop left where it is common for wouldbes to try the outbraking maneuver on the inside leaving you the only option of the comfort of the concrete wall. Shame about those big gaps between infrequent hay bales. The white paint is a bit unfortunate too the way those old red stains hang on over the seasons past! Once you commit, still blinded to the exit by the drag control tower on the inside, the exit runs directly across firstly the mound of rubber left by drag lane one, then a thoughtfully white painted area between the lanes before the next rubber mound which finishes inches before that concrete wall which continues right around and up the length of the straight. I commented to a couple of other "race fans" on this radical change of surface on the exit to the tracks most important corner but only got blank expressions from the few that were enthusiastic enough to creep out from the shade under the stands. Perhaps they were drag race fans with the wrong fixture calendar or maybe it's just my strine accent.

At 2.30 pm, before I'd had a chance to view a twins race, the only source of viable liquids i.e. the caravan in the pits flogging burgers and soda pop, decided that business wasn't brisk enough and packed up. 110\'b0 in the old septic scale, fresh from the middle of a Melbourne winter and nothing to drink. Exit stage left.

Another adventure, on the little German thumper with the Austrian heart, this time two up, was in search of the cultural heartland of Phoenix\'85\'85\'85\'85\'85 Oh, sorry,! The closest we came was a bar in the 'hip' suburb of Scottsdale. Dim minimalist stripped down d\'e9cor. Beer on ice in open eskies behind the bar, friendly clientele and management. Is it not a little ironic that the overall theme was Mexican hard drinkin' Cantina without the cultural challenges associated with confronting the real thing? We also went to visit the winter studio of late Frank Lloyd Wright, who is considered the USA's most accomplished architect. On arrival we were informed that the final guided tour commenced 15 mins ago. The bookshop was worth a squiz but hardly justified the trouble finding the place. We took a couple of external photographs between the cacti from the carpark then vamoosed.

Come 10 am Tuesday morning I had the loan bike back in one piece. I'd refrained from telling Victory BMW that our American Insurance was valid only for California. Our initial plans to visit Spain, Portugal and Morocco had already fallen over due to the vagaries of insurance so I wasn't about to miss out on a bike for the weekend. There was a two hour wait for the Swinehunt repairs to be completed. I had the privilege of talking to Don who had grown up around New England where "the roads are great but it's too cold to ride in the winter snows". He had his BMWR1100RT in for service. Six hours he told me but he was going to wait around. His other bike is one of those new BMW cruisers. That's correct, one of those hideous cowhorn handlebarred, pig ugly malformations that has caused many a stomach cramp in Australian showrooms. The latest example of the bankruptcy of German aesthetics - and don't forget that my judgement credentials are hard won - I own one of \ul the\ulnone ugliest of the ugliest myself! I broke the Ozzie reaction to his bike gently but a the concept of unfavorable aesthetics seemed unfathomable to him. He was about to ride to California for a week or two. Over two thousand kilometers across desert like terrain on strait, flat, multi-land motorway roads. With the expectation of creating an impression on me he boldly stated that he almost always wears a helmet (compulsory in California) and with greater emphasis "for longer trips, long sleeves to beat the sunburn". We happened, at that moment, to be standing next to a rack of ventilated leather jackets. I inquired as to whether he had ever stepped off at speed to which the expected reply was in the negative.

They charged me less than $US200 for the repair even including throwing in the rest of the thread repair kit, fork oil and a spare head gasket. Shockingly they also washed it! Fortunately it survived this extraordinary experience. Felt like the dinosaur it unquestionably is after the F650.

The road south to the border crossing at Nogales was uninspiring, the scenery interesting enough in it's desert starkness. The temperature appeared to drop 15-20\'b0 south of Tucson approaching comfort zone with the assistance of wind chill. I shan't quickly forget final few hundred meters with their the cogent contrasts. The road narrowed to a pothole marred uncontoured swerving meander over the hills, dropping around a corner to reveal \'85 the chaos of M\'e9Mexico ! What a relief, not a carpark or drive through in sight. The narrow streets were crammed with people, mostly shouldering along the footpaths. Spilling onto the pavement from every window and door were goods of every likely and most unlikely description, the air heavy with the pungent odors of street food sellers mixed with their beckoning cries to sample the offerings. The colour, the atmosphere, the giddy crush, the utter attraction of the unexpected, the spontaneous, the unregulated. Where the action of the individual is still free to both smell the roses and suffer the consequences of their actions without government or bureaucratic interference. Disconcerting for some perhaps, but for myself, fresh from the shores of one of the world's most over-governed countries (that's Oz not the USA) utterly intoxicating.

Hermosillo, Basaseachic (8/9 - 9/9)

Hermosillo was unremarkable. I had a knobby front tyre fitted in preparation for the Copper Canyon (see later). The computer connection from the hotel room failed in contrast to the easy access from USA cities. Next day we rode on.

This is what it's all about. Those lingering doubts of the "is it all worth it?" variety have been banished; conquered by the exhilaration of a magic days ride. The parched plains of the north west give way outside Hermosillo to a gentler greener, more productive landscape trapped between distant rugged rocky ranges on all sides. The locals have exploited this fertility by production of fruit and grains. We rode south east to the hills in flight from the welling demon heat of the morning. The roadsides were waist high with cereals germinated from stray grains lost from passing bulk transport trucks. Within 50 km the hills began mounting in front of us, at first rolling foot hills. Then the sinuous climb began. The Sierra Madre Occidental (western mother of a mountain range!) was the source, 350 km of scratching road, 2\super nd\nosupersub and 3\super rd\nosupersub gear corners, blind varying radius bends, stray animals, fallen rocks from vertical cuttings. Everywhere nature was on the rebound. The air peppered with dancing butterflies, attempting to mate mid air, the road was littered with grasshoppers locked together piggy back style being fruitful. This was a real distraction at times, avoiding running off the road while trying to line them up with the tyres. Most impressively almost every second corner exposed a bird of prey either resting on the sunny bitumen, circling overhead, or caught in the act of devouring prey. Once we disturbed two birds on the side of a cutting who, lumbering down the road trying to get airborne we nearly collided with. The swish of powerful wings was imminent, even through the earplugs as I braked and we ducked to avoid being king hit off the back of the swinehunt by these formidable avians. Having forgotten to pack our inflatable ornithologist I cannot be more specific about which creatures these are. I can however report a lack of circling buzzards overhead so far. They obviously know nothing of "legendary BMW reliability! With luck we won't learn them.

Several hundred kilometers of demon riding roads - were we prepared? Does two up with kitchen sink (i.e. 400kg), 35 HP (down from the usual 50 due to 1500 -2000 m altitude), knobby Taiwanese front tyre sound prepared? Without contesting that point I can at least tell you it was a lot of fun. Too much fun actually, the day's end target of the Barranca Del Cobre (Copper Canyon) proved several hours too long. Roads that appear on the map as reasonably straight in reality are several times as long with reduced average speeds due to the rugged geography. Realizing that the fading daylight is going to beat us, we encountered a small hotel in a minute settlement (Baseachic) in a national park. Minutes after having parked the swinehunt outside the front door and toted the luggage inside my request for two cold ales is countered by the confession that the National Park is a "dry area". Bad service and ordinary food from the Manager and his dippy teenage daughter. We do however next morning, visit the longest single fall waterfall in Northern America - don't ask how many meters, I've forgotten.

Barranca del Cobre (Copper Canyon) (10/9 - 12/9)

OK, hands up those who knew that Mexico has a canyon that is of equivalent depth but FOUR times as long as Arizona's Grand Canyon? Is this a pertinent answer to those who inquired "Why Mexico?" on hearing our last minute change of holiday plans? I haven't seen the septic tank version. Five days stranded in Phoenix was as much of Arizona as I am ever not planning to see! One of many contrasts between these two geographical phenomena, I understand, is the vegetation. The Copper Canyon is green, covered with conifers who's thick spiny coating if violated relentlessly by shear layered sandstone buttresses reaching for the sky. The result is both a motorcycling tourist nirvana and a dilemma. The roads that cling precipitously to the escarpments tangle themselves in knots falling there, rising here, you often catch a glimpse of the road you were travelling on kilometers ago, now on the opposite side of the valley. The dilemma is that the roads are so unforgiving - good surface but one meter out of line means over the edge or into the cutting face, yet the canyon views are so spectacular that distraction is inevitable. The best solution is to actually stop and take in the views for a minute or so from the most scenic locations before getting back on the job.

There is a "World Famous Railway Journey" through the Canyon, including umpteen tunnels, etc, which I'm sure railway buffs will be familiar. There is however a road that travels much the same route and many other roads in the region that give different but equally spectacular views. So why go by train when motorbicycle is available?

We attempted a route that apparently nobody recommends by any form of transport. Our base was the railway stopover town of Creel. A forgettable town in itself, but more on it's meager highlights later. Our failure to reach the tiny subtropical town of Batopilas deep in the bottom of a distant corner of the canyon could be attributed to several failings. Among those I'm prepared to admit, cartography and climate figure prominently. We have two maps of the region and three tourist guides with us which also provide maps interspersed within the text. I can truthfully report that between these five there would appear to be a similar level of consensus to that achieved by rival team supporters on the referee's performance down the pub after the game! Satellite geography hasn't reached this corner of the world yet.

We set out, notions of banana plantations amid steamy tropical vegetation lingering. The first 45 km was good bitumen. This luxury ended abruptly at the town of San Rafael where the last millimeter of pavement met as series of moon- like craters big enough to swallow the blunt end of a F100 pickup. This was the main road through town. We rode through, emerged on the other side, but had to go back for verbal confirmation that this was indeed a continuation of one of the areas major roads. While we are somewhat accustomed to these conditions overseas, and the Swinehunt has suffered hours if torture from some of Australia's most innovative technicians to mould it's performance envelope to same, we were somewhat surprised at the steepness of the roads. This may be due to their relatively recent (I hesitate to use the word) "construction". In the South American Andes many of the roads evolved from the traditional tracks which were never too steep to lead a fully laden Llama up or down. Enough transport theory! Along with the steepness the roughness and amount of loose dirt and rocks on the surface kept me quite busy at the bars. No mud bog holes however. Despite the breaking of the three year drought (the eastern Pacific suffers el Ni\'f1o along with Oz) water does not easily collect on the sides of mountains. We were confronted with several mystery "Y" junctions, unfeatured on any of the aforementioned maps. In a couple of cases we were able ask passing vehicle drivers the correct fork, at other times used the compass or took a punt.

The punts led 50 km later to a swollen creek crossing, on the wrong road, sufficiently deep to drown the swinehunt, if the force of the current didn't claim it first. Rafting to the bottom of the canyon wasn't the preferred method though I was tempted to throw it in now that it had developed an oil leak from the driveshaft / gearbox seal. Initially, after the disaster of the cylinder stud repair in Phoenix caused me a great deal of introspection and a frenzied needle attack on the BMW voodoo doll. More recently the rate of leakage has not proved to be more than a cosmetic problem - so far.

We were back in Creel a few hours later. It was Sunday night. Many of the main streets shops, restaurants, etc were closed. Despite this the streets were a hive of activity as the local community partook of the traditional "paseo" (stroll) exchanging greetings with friends and relatives, children tucking into ice creams, teenagers flirting, grandparents supervising trundling grand children. Those who weren't on foot were clogging the street cruising and waving, music streaming from open windows. In a town heavily dependent on tourism there seems no evidence of the cultural poisoning that has occurred in say the tourist & re3d light districts of Bangkok, Thailand. The resilience under duress is a feature of Latin American culture that we have noticed elsewhere.\par

Hidalgo de Parral (13/9)

The ride out of the canyon was spectacular if a little disjointed. Initially the twisting bitumen was wet from heavy rainfall overnight. The dry patches were about to coalesce into a dry spiral when, shock horror, the carbs sputtered onto reserve. A glance at the trip meter confirmed less than 250 km since both the main and auxiliary tank were filled. Both the swinehunt and my riding style have a long reputation for woeful fuel consumption. Additionally the high altitude makes the motor run rich due to the lack of oxygen. Forty five liters will always last further than this, no matter the conditions. A moments reflections on the possible explanations laid the blame squarely at the foot of a fleeting fuel thief during the night. Bastard! The bike is always chained and locked to an unmovable object in a an off street carpark. We refuse to stay in accommodation that only provides on-street parking. Motel type off streeters have their security limitations, only partially counteracted by chaining the bike directly outside the room door. Locking petrol tank caps are impotent when fuel lines are easily pulled off.

In the middle of the Barranca and reserve can only take us a max 40 km. Unless the Mexican's (no slouch at unlikely construction techniques given the haphazard nature of outer shanty towns) have developed a method of constructing petrol stations on the vertical faces of mountains we weren't about to roll around a corner to the local browser. A tiny restaurant at a crossroads 10 km later had no fuel but we were pointed in the direction of some muddy ruts leading to a village "quite close". The damp clay descent into the valley and the first shallow stream crossing were managed without drama allowing us to roll up to the dwelling with the rusting "Shell" petroleum company sign outside. Our relief was short lived due to the disclosure that there was no petrol, try the other side of the village. After somewhat conflicting directions from a clutch of locals encountered within the next 300m we concluded that yes the house in question was indeed on the other side of the swollen stream. Mary Ann dismounted and walked to the edge of the swirling brown water. She even offered to wade in and check the depth. What a girl! I couldn't let her do it however, it is at my insistence that we take motorcycling holidays, usually not in the easiest conditions. Moments later I was able to confirm, by the high tide mark on my trousers that the level was above cylinder height. Horizontal twins have a lower center of gravity and less vibration than other configurations. These advantages don't extend to waterproofing however with the spark plugs relatively low. There were several alternatives after eliminating riding across. These revolved around the options of disconnecting one or both tanks, wading across, filling up and wading back to the bike. It is very easy to disconnect the auxiliary 10 liter tank and it's no problem to carry, even when full. Ten liters could not however be guaranteed to get us much over 100 km - possibly not far enough to reach the next petrol station. The main tank came off. Unfortunately being an agnostic skeptic the waters refused to part! After tripping across invisible submerged rocks I made the other side only to discover that the key to the petrol cap was still in the ignition! The air went blue momentarily.

After a short walk interspersed by shouting for directions from locals on the opposite bank, 23 liters were disgorged from a drum and hand pump. The arms were getting a little fatigued by the time I reached the stream again. Mid torrent there was a delicate moment where due to stumbling on a submarine boulder it was necessary to break from brisk two step directly into a tango. Visions of head butting the bottom with tank still firmly clasped to chest remained unfulfilled - just, as I rose up out of the firmament on the other bank. Just another day in the life of an occasional world motorcycle traveler I guess!

Parral is a pleasant town with a small sense of bustle around the central plaza and commercial area. The highlight was the Hotel Acosta. Almost perfectly preserved '50's decor and furniture, 3 stories with great views of the town from the top story rooms and particularly from the roof garden. Swinehunt parking was provided in the hotel foyer at the management's insistence. That's the service I like!

On the way we stopped at one of the infrequently encountered motorcycle shops to replace the front knobby tire fitted in Hermosillo to cope with the canyon dirt roads. This was starting to look rather sad after copping 1500 km of bitumen along the way. The correct size was not in stock but resourceful as they have proved in the past the lad behind the desk leaped onto a customers sad GS 850 in for service and a few minutes later returned with a more road orientated Taiwanese offering. For $50US he fitted it then led us to our hotel.

END OF FIRST PAGE

BEGINNING OF PAGE TWO

Durango (14/9)

The mountains gave way to rolling hills as we continued south east reaching the central alti-plano where the ridges retreated a few kilometers as the road took the easy route of squeezing between them. This is the ultimate cowboy country. By that I don't mean we were at risk of being herded down by rednecks in pickups and exterminated in some bizarre re-enactment of sleazy rider. This is where some of the most revered directors of classic westerns have found their backdrops. Frustratingly these harsh lonely vistas proved difficult to capture with a 35mm lens. The big screen really is the only answer. The M\'e9xican extras are cheap as well. Several movie sets are still standing within 50 km of the town but from what we have read the locals have created a bit of a tourist ghetto fencing the place off and charging admission as well as converting many of the set buildings into dwellings.

Somewhat fatigued from the day's ride we didn't explore the town to any great detail. Settling in at a student bar to sip Cerveza Bohemia (highly recommended) I was astounded to hear the Beasts of Bourbon along with a host of other eclectic rock songs on the CD player. We had just ordered our third beer when the M\'e9xican version of \i Hey Hey it's Saturday\i0 came on the TV. Moments later the local Darryl Sommers clone was babbling away at max volume over the music. To the Latin Americans too much noise is never enough and M\'e9xicanos are no exception. We retreated to the hotel.

Zacatecas (15/9 - 17/9)

When I visited Paris in the early 1980 as an early twenty something the experience left me with a lasting impression. From growing up in Brisbane, then spending 2 years working in Perth, on a first trip overseas, the French capital was a revelation. My eyes were suddenly opened to the potential of the urban environment can have for enriching the human experience. A city with a unique sense of identity molded by it's history and an innate sense of style and direction. The most lasting impression was of the grace of the architecture, how the ugly urges of high rise commercial development (Rob McClelland take note) had been subdued, allowing the city to retain a sense of unity with the new complementing the old.

I know your going to find this hard to believe but Zacatecas, a Spanish colonial mining town, 2,450 m altitude, 600 km north west of M\'e9xico City, is in it's own somewhat different way is as impressive. The sense of style may be lacking and the "attitude" almost absent but, no city since Paris has captured my soul the way Zacatecas did in the three days we spent there. To walk the narrow steep cobblestoned streets crammed in a narrow valley between two steep hills, pausing for gasps of thin air on the stairways, is to be transported back in time over a century to the wealth and excess of the colonial silver boom. Not only is the architecture, in particular the public buildings, ornate and grandiose, the city centre is so well preserved that if your ignore the (never congestive) traffic the only give away to the twentieth century are the occasional water pipe or electricity meter. This is not some trite piece of perfectionism bestowed by some highbrow hysterical society. No, the stonework radiates the ache with the years, stairs are deeply dished by the imprint of uncountable footprints, iron knobs on heavy wooden doors are worn smooth by century of palm work. There have been coats of paint applied for sure in the last 10 years but the city remains functional, far from some museum piece protected by a humidified glass cabinet. Zacatecas is old, you can read it's history from the lines on it's streetscapes. Transfixed, I spent hours each day simple wandering the lanes and stairways, drinking in the atmosphere. Around every corner was a new discovery, at the top of every staircase an enticing new spectacle. When footsore wine by the glass and expresso coffee quenched our thirst and provided relief from the drought of gastronomy since leaving Mal Born. Is this the really still considered part of the "developing world"?

We arrived fittingly, on M\'e9xican independence day. Here the sense of the achievement, of the grasping of control of one's own destiny is as acute as anywhere in the country. No meso-american indigenous community has suffered more than the generations born to and those that followed the Spanish conquest of the central heartland. While this area produced over a third of the world's silver for more than two centuries, amassing colossal fortunes for Spain, the Indian population declined from twenty five to just one million. The eminence of this victory rings out from the unmarked mass graves of indigenous Indians and imported African slaves who were worked to death in the appalling conditions of the mines.

Balconies were a riot of ribbons and banners of red, white and green. Below the streets were clogged with rummaging bodies waving tricolore flags, faces painted, sombreros striped. Dodging aerosol foam spray sold to pranksters by street vendors we made our way through the crowds, pausing at a bar here. Towards midnight one of the overseeing hilltops exploded with fireworks as the patriots partied on into the night. If this is what Australia could look forward to at least once a year then it is a convincing argument for a republic.

On the last night a visit to the "Ladies Bar" wrapped things up. Such tags exist due primarily to the reputation of the old frontier M\'e9xican Cantina, sustained by the reluctance of Latin machismo to succumb to the modern ideals of equal opportunity. As no cantina will allow a woman on the premises you will occasionally see an establishment trading as "Ladies Bar". On a late Friday night quest for bottled water we found ourselves drawn there by some compelling force, possibly beknown only to our livers. Inside we were alone while the bar women concerned themselves with looking up a book on how to prepare out two \i margaritas\i0 ! Moments later a thirty something longhair in a dress overcoat, clutching a white manicured poodle joined us. Through the confusion of what I assumed to be a heavy intoxicant interaction he eventually managed to communicate his wish of a beer. Then the rush appeared someone almost sober who ignored everyone and pretended to drink a Corona a and his mate, a bespectacled middle age gent . The latter immediately stuck up a form of communication with the poodle owner followed by a genial drunkard who tried to practice his English on us between revelations of who he could remember was Australian. The hit list included Mel Gibson, the Bee Gees and Errol Flynn. The miss list is too long and bizarre to mention. So there we were four local blokes Mary Ann and myself in the Ladies Bar. We fretted about the severity of the challenge then as the tequila started to kick in ordered two genebras y tonicas (G & Ts, pronounced "hi-NEE-brah" as in "inebriation" - perhaps "mothers ruin" is not just a British phenomenon?). After calling a last minute time out as the vodka bottle teetered above the glasses some M\'e9xican gin was eventually found on a high dusty shelf. The quandary was then what to mix it with? I suggested straight lime juice as these citrus, slightly sweeter and juicier than the Oz variety, are as common as a salt shaker on every M\'e9xican table. As you may well imagine our "helpful" drinking companions were forthright with their suggestions for solving our drinks dilemma. Add the confusion of interpretation of local dialects, gringo pronunciation, the lateness of the hour. We got out alive after the G & Ts with firm handshakes all round promises of bringing kangaroos back with us on our next visit. Cultural collision, what a circus!

San Luis Potosi (18/9 - 19/9)

It is perhaps unfortunate for SLP to fit into the itinerary between the two colonial jewels of Zacatecas and Guanajuato (see later). None the less I can report that it is a agreeable town sited on a sensible flat piece of ground in the centre of a agricultural and increasingly more important industrial region two hundred kilometers south east of Zacatecas at a more respiratory altitude of 1850 metros. There are signs of the past mining glory days in many preserved splendid public buildings. The streets here are however definitely busier. Come the evening "paseo" it's wall to wall flesh. T accommodate this swarm many narrow inner streets have been permanently pedestrianised. This nightly surge and the almost constant activity around the plazas, gardens and squares gives the city a real sense of life. Why can't Swantson walk be like this? Where free time often means tucked away in the corner of bar or caf\'e9 in Zacatecas, in Potosi it is more likely to entail window shopping.

The frustrations from yet more failures to connect with our "global" internet support service are exaggerated by the hotels insistence in adding $US5 for calls that didn't get through!

Guanajuato (20/9 - 22/9)\par

Struth, another absolute jewel of preserved Spanish colonial architecture, again for one's enjoyment at a mere fraction of the price of the European experience. The location is geographically like Zacatecas only even more unlikely. Both are crammed into narrow valleys but in Gwannaz the sides are too steep to drive on! They have diverted the river and built sub-terranian roads in the bed to allow traffic circulation. This is also another university town so students abound. Action centers around the beautiful Jardin de la Union where outdoor tables spill from restaurants, wandering Minstrels proffer their services or if unoccupied for too long strike up a tune or song spontaneously. The milder weather here at only slightly lower altitude (2000 m) certainly aids sitting outdoors with cold ale in hand.

Whilst dramatic setting, keen sense of history, mild climate, beautiful architecture, affordable prices, friendly M\'e9xican hospitality, etc give an impression of having stumbled on nirvana, there are perhaps a few cracks just starting to show. Gwannaz is a much more popular tourist destination than Zacatecas, particularly for domestic market being only a couple of hours drive from Mexico City. When 25+ million people get a long weekend look out! This small blemish materialises in several forms consistent with those of other destinations that have become or are in the process of becoming corrupted by the economy and mentality of the town becoming too focussed on the tourist dollar at the expense of their own local identity. Waiters get very grumpy if the tip is less than $US5 - tips are unheard of in the North West where we've been travelling. Instead of focussing exclusively on the excellent local leatherwork the high street shops have deemed it necessary to display and promote imported Milanese products. Additionally to demonstrate the international "hippness" of things Italian we stumbled across a caf\'e9 / restaurant attached to one of the moderate to posh inner city hotels that was decorated in a motorcycling theme. Caf\'e9 Veloce had a dustbin faired Ducati 450 single mounted prominently mid floor between the tables, a MV two stroke road bike (looked about 250cc) wall mounted along with various pieces of aging British iron. While enchanted enough by the beautifully restored desmo single to get the camera out, such sights aren't the reason we have come to M\'e9xico. I would have drawn a hard line after expresso coffee when it comes to cultural importation.

END OF PAGE TWO

BEGINNING OF PAGE THREE

NEXT INSTALLMENT:

Ralphino attempts to relate his interpretation of post Hispanic Mexican history. Get out those red pencils to spot the errors, omissions misinterpretations and massaged facts!SENT 27/9/99\

Diario M\'e9xicano Draft

Installment 2

Guanajuato (Cont.) (20/9 - 22/9)

Before leaving Guanajuato we visited an ex-hacienda, now preserved in it's full glory as a tourist attraction. This provides an eye opener for those not so familiar with M\'e9xico's turbulent colonial past and, I expect, an example to current generations as to what the Revolution and self determination were all about. This palace and enormous grounds featuring extensive gardens, fountains, terraces, chapels, sanctuaries were won on the fortunes of indigenous and imported slave labour in the mines and later after the abolition of slavery to a "serfdom" that bound workers as economic prisoners unable to afford to bargain on borderline subsistence wages. Grand but I found my admiration tainted by the "blood mixed with the mortar".

Ralphino's

(short, inaccurate, often plain wrong, grossly assumptive, glossed over)

History of M\'e9xico

The area currently being discussed is known as "the heartland / cradle of independence / Bahio" for historical reasons that can only be explained by providing some background information. History ,being a continuum rather than a series if disjointed events, is best tackled from the start. (Cue : long inhalation, pause.)

Pre-Hispanic\par

There is evidence of Homo Sapiens from around 20,000 years BC (that's beforeColumbus, for agnostics & atheists). First great civilization was the Olmecs who started creating pre-ruins, oh sorry major stone buildings, on the Gulf of M\'e9xico central coast around 1000 BC (it's Columbus's great uncle, some guy called "Christ" this time). The Olmec superstition and art was influential culturally on many ensuing meso-american civilizations. By a couple of centuries BC (Jay-zuis again) subsistence aggro-culture had allowed the establishment of permanent towns of several thousand inhabitants with all the necessary social organization that urban life requires. Cryptography (not photos of mummified corpses - you can see that sort of goulish thing at the Museo de las Mommies in Guanajuato!) evolved in the form of hieroglyphic dots and bars.

Further south the Izapans were coming on strong near the (now) border with Guatemala as the Olmies began to fade for reasons best not speculated about by ignorant motorcycle tourists. Closer to around Columbo's cousin's time the Maya burst onto the scene. They (the Big Ms) developed a stonework come Jaguar/Butterfly/Tropical Bird fetish in the central valley of M\'e9xico only some 40km north east of the capital. There at Teotihauc\'e1n (customarily pronounced "TIT-Oh-Wakkerz" by gringos) this got out of control, in the sort of way that poultry fancying can grip a man, especially around September ShowTime. Anyhow, this wildest of part-poultry cult rituals hung on persistently until around the seventh century when the place burnt down due perhaps, to too much port served with the cigars (Ralphino Theory - controversial in many learned circles, quote with due caution!). This charcoal-chicken scene was perfect for the opportunistic entry of the Aztecs, bankrolled by the (pre-KFC) invention of take away food they were able to sustain a population of perhaps 200,000 in the Valley of M\'e9xico. They didn't stop at be-heading chickens however. The fads changed to Rival Warrior Cardio-Burger with a Cardi & Chips headlining. The ritual human sacrifice to obtain the primary ingredients give captured rival warriors an instant heartburn treatment on the stone slab courtesy of knife wielding priests, believed to have dressed in Colonel Sanders outfits.

Then one day in 1519 a gay sailor called Cortez arrived unexpectedly.

The Conquest (lapsing back to semi-seriousness)

Eleven ships carrying 550 men and 16 horses engaged a few tribes along the Caribbean coast before going ashore

after the "El Dorado" proper. The spot was at present day Vera Cruz on the Gulf Coast during a less than fully authorized voyage from Spanish controlled Cuba. Soon after this the news of pale skinned warriors reached Moctuzuma II at the Aztec capital of \i Tenochtitl\'e1n \i0 (soon to be razed to build M\'e9xico City). According to Aztec superstition one of their cult Gods was to return from the east on a "raft of snakes". Unsure if Cortez was this entity Mocca 2 decided to wait and see.

Meanwhile Cortez and his men were making good friends with some of the coastal tribes who resented being under Aztec dominance. Chuffed by this he scuttled the ships, in case any of his men were having second thoughts regarding their commitment and set in for the long haul toward the capital with 6,000 indian allies. They arrived a few months later to what must have been an extraordinary site. Built amidst lakes in a valley high in the mountains was a city, laden with gold and far larger than any in Europe at that time. Mocca II gave Cortez a cordial greeting and 5 star accommodation, befitting of Gods, in the city though kept them surrounded and under close observation.

Mocca II equivocated about how to deal with them but they moved first. Fearing a revolt amongst the Aztec hierarchy, the invaders took him captive. Not surprisingly this, and the self righteous "our God is better than your God" destruction of Aztec idols, created some tension only just held at bay by Mocca's insistence, under duress, that he went willingly. During this standoff a new Spanish fleet landed on the coast to bring that bounder Cortez back to "please explain" about the unofficial expedition. Cortez left a few subordinates in the capital and swept back to the coast rolling the much larger in number recent arrivals, due to his superior local knowledge and shrewd military tactics. The defeated survivors, not surprisingly jumped the fence to Cortez's side rather than face the musket.

Meanwhile the "subbies" back in \i Tenochtitl\'e1n \i0 lost their bottle. Fearing an uprising, they killed Mocca II and jockstraps laden with gold, attempted to fight their way out of the city. This they did achieve in one night but only with heavy losses on the causeways while those that fled into the water were soon overcome by the weight of their bounty. Ain't that a moral tale!

Cortez amassed allies from the conquered tribes, returned and within 18 months he had razed the city.

More devastating than the conquistadors themselves were their diseases to peoples with no natural immunity in an age of medical ignorance. The M\'e9xican population plummeted from an estimated greater than 20 million to only about one million by the early 1600's.

Queretaro 23-24/9

Queretaro is on the itinerary primarily as an internet access point. (If you prefer a typewriter to a keyboard then best to skip to the next heading.) Connection throughout M\'e9xico has been a major frustration. Our \i Toshiba \i0 "Fagtop" (actually a \i Libretto 100CT \i0 for the nerdz out there in cyberwank) is a fully featured \i Pentium \i0 computer though literally the size of two cigarette packets. It has a modem card slot in the side into which a \i Xircom 'World Modem' is inserted which is connected via a regular cable to a phone line. This device has a range of settings for many countries and is adaptable to hotel phone systems in that you can specify to dial a particular number first to get an outside line before the number.

The theory is that globe trotting ameteur motorcycle travel journalists and their architectural companions can send and receive from cities around the world listed as access points in the "phone book". This virtual book contains a list of telephone numbers in umpteen countries and is updated (overwritten) each time you connect. If you are outside one of these cities you pay a long distance rate when connected for the call time. The actual log on time is charged to your regular account with your provider in Australia (OzEmail in our case) who has the agreement to provide a world connection net with other providers internationally. The user never knows who these foreign providers are, only the connection numbers.

This all worked faultlessly in the US of A (Los Angeles and in Phoenix) as you might expect of the most electonically connected country in the world. M\'e9xico, weeeeeeell \'85. Initially I was a little concerned when the modem set for M\'e9xico automatically defaulted back to "USA or Canada" ie it didn't have a specific setting for the country. Frustrations have continued, with both pulsation and tone telephone systems in M\'e9xico the computer can't cope with the "dial 0 first, \ul wait\ulnone for the dial tone and then the number" routine. The result, nothing below five star accommodation has direct lines available and in the case of the \i Hotel Mirage\i0 at Queteraro (that'll be $AUS130 a night thanks Se\'f1or) only in the office itself. Several nights stay were necessary to receive, respond then receive replies, $hee-ite!

Teotihuac\'e1n 26/9

It's easy for me to get a little cynical about the "big" tourist destinations. There could be a host of reasons for this but rather than get into some ameteur Freudian twist lets put it down to a hatred of bus/plane/package tour traveler's gulability and sheep like mentality. I'd imagine that most motorcyclists would lean in the direction of independent travel and perhaps show a tendency to avoid the tourist traps. More than a few times my initial misgivings have been transformed into wonderous awe. The first of these was when visiting Ayre's Rock. Prior to setting off a "bloody miles of hot feature-less desert with a big (deal) rock in the middle" prevailed. I probably should have guessed from my previous crossings of the Nullabor Plain that the red centre was likely to be as close to a mystical experience as a card carrying member of Australian Skeptics can get!

Another was when visiting Machu Picchu in Peru.

Teotihuac\'e1n (cue: embarrassing strine attempt to phonetically imitate local indigenous indian pronunciation, let's use "tit-oh wakkerz") is in a similar league. To me it puts one's existence in a truer perspective may not be particularly comforting - adjectives like "insignificant" spring readily to mind. Man's few million years on this planet have left a few scars. Some of these look like they might become problem sores, others are worth the effort to seek out and experience in one short lifetime. We arrived just after the site gates opened at 8 am so were virtually the only visitors there. Standing at the top of the Pyramid of the Moon looking down the 6km long Avenue of the dead with it's buildings terraces and platforms dwarfed by the giant Pyramid of the Sun to the left, a structure to rival any in the built environment, sends the mind swimming with questions. Many of these will remain unanswered. Go. If at all possible. Nobody in their death bed, ever wished they had spent more time at the office!

Puebla 27/9

Arrived at one of a few of the BMW dealers in M\'e9xico listed as having a motorcycle workshop. 3.10 pm so the place is devoid of any personnel except the security guard who tells me to come back after lunch ie 4 pm. We try to find a hotel where they have a direct line out to enable us to receive and transmit e-mail. No luck, the management are too paranoid of guests or staff making illicit long distance phone calls not to have a lockout of some sort fitted. In a country where the cost of phone calls verses incomes is hugely higher than Australia this is understandable.

Back at Swinehuntville Puebla there are two bikes on the showroom floor amongst the cars, a hideous cruiser and the much sleeker R1100S. Deeper in the bowels of the building I locate the service person I spoke to on the phone from Queteraro. She directs me to the workshop boss who takes one look at the oil leak from the shaft/gearbox seal, then calls over a mechanic for a mutual headshaking session. They reckon they don't have the tools for the job, I'll have to go to a dealer in the capital. This would appear to be a further explosion of BMW mythology - dealerships granted to entities that are underequipped and untrained in their servicing facilities/abilities. Before the "hasta luegos" I even get an admission that motorbikes are such a small part of their business. Perhaps we have a "chicken & egg" situation operating. At the last moment I remember that the back tyre is almost down to the canvas. After some more brushing off (go to Mexico city story again) my persistence elicits directions to a Goodyear tyre centre which he insists caters for motorcyclists.

On arrival there I'm encouraged to see a Yamaha dealership incorporated into a small glass fronted room at the front. On display are some runt scoots a few late '70 technology oil injection 2 stroke 100/125s and just as I was getting in the flares and lamb chop sideburn mode a sole R6 at the end of the line up gestures toward modernity. They don't have a rear tyre the right ("very unusual" 130/90/17) size and quote 5 days delivery from Mexico City - only about 150 km away! My offer to pay extra for a fast courier falls flat because they don't have an account with same. Digging in pay off again (you'd never get anywhere without some grasp of Spanish) when they pick up the phone to ring around. Second call scores a hit. In the usual generous fashion they rebuff my offer to pay for the cost of the calls. We depart for Senior Gomez's workshop in the outer suburbs, smiles all round.

The place isn't easy to find. This is the "other face" of M\'e9xico. Ramshackle, buildings deeply potholed dirt roads laid out in a regular grid, diseased dogs usually sporting one crippled limb from a vehicle collision, children playing in the dirt, the listlessly unemployed shuffling around the streets, the despair, the dejection of entrenched poverty. After 30 mins of riding around in the dust, following directions from persons encountered there appears a small strip of bitumen. A hundred meters later the sign and workshop of "Technicos Unidos" appears, a sight we were becoming convinced was less and less likely. Inside the shed are 30 bikes in various (but mostly complete) stages of servicing and repair, a separate air-conditioned room with spares and accessories behind the computer topped counter and three short rows of bikes for sale. Sr Rosalio Gomez is in the business of importation of bikes from the USA for sale in Puebla district. The models are an eclectic mix, most several years old but mostly larger capacity 600-1000 road bikes. There is a rack of tyres from which a rear to suit is plucked and one of the two younger guys from the workshop is instructed to fit it. I notice, for the first time in M\'e9xico (and this is the third tyre change so far) that the tools used are all top quality. A torque wrench is even produced to re-fix the wheel nuts. I can't complain about the price being roughly equivalent to that in Australia as this is a sellers market! The boss hands me a business card at the conclusion and offers to organize getting spares to me anywhere in M\'e9xico - the consummate knowledgeable businessman.

We took our communication problem to the Tourist Office in Puebla. The city is the forth largest in the country (pop 1~2 million) so the office, rather than some kiosk in the plaza is housed in a major public building. The frontsman at the inquiry desk is sympathetic and directs us to come back in \'bd hr to ask the boss. After a trip to the post office (see following) we're back with a further explanation of out connection difficulties. Pulling the computer out of it's \i Mambo \i0 storage bag promotes the cause. The whole office are so taken with how small and neat it is that they are falling over themselves to help. The "boss" even calls up the "big boss" to come down and have a look while we're connecting to a line plucked from a desktop internal modem. The whole procedure (connection, receipt and transmission) takes about 13 mins but this passes quickly without causing us much embarrassment as an open forum chaired by the bosses fires up around the topic of updating the tourist computer network. Mission accomplished they refuse our offer of payment for the call and wish us well.

Ah, the postal service. To send a package overseas one must first show it to the postal officer for inspection. Once approval has been granted you proceed across the road to the "papelaria" (newsagent / stationery) where for a few bob, er pesos, goods are boxed, wrapped in regulation paper and string tied. You then return to the post office desk. They obviously assume that in the interim you have refrained from exercising the opportunity to slip in that bag of cocaine or priceless artifact of national heritage you lifted from the archaeology museum! There follows a lot of looking up tables and shaking of heads when the word "Australia" fails to be located in the countries column. A guestimation is made and adjusted according to the forces of debate up and down the counter. This settled a page of stamps, followed by most of the next page with one edge separated off is placed on the counter. One doesn't need to have a quantity surveyor's credentials to easily determine that the area of the stamps proffered exceeds by several factors the sum of the areas of all six sides of the box (in this case the size of stack of 100 photographs)! A plea for stamps of higher value leads to more shuffling of draws which after upturning most of the counter storage, is eventually successful. This time the stamps cover every surface except a small window in the top right hand corner on each of the major sides. Just enough space to write an address and convenient in that it solves our dilemma as to what return address to write - there isn't space.

Another biggish city, 5,000 km in four weeks. We were starting to get travelling fatigue. A quick trip to an isolated beach for a few days was the recipe to solve these blues. Only we didn't get there. The choice of the toll roads (mostly freeways) for an exit from Puebla was simple - we didn't want to be riding round in circles over the frequent violent speed bumps (called "topies") on poorly signed roads. The downside is the cost, over 20 cents per KM on some motorways, and the difficulty of getting off between toll booths. I'd stop short of claiming there is a conspiracy on the part of the M\'e9xican government to milk road users as cash cows but the jury is still out. In short we missed the turnoff to go north-east and had to continue almost due east on the less-than-free-way to the port city of Vera Cruz. M\'e9xico's oldest Hispanic settlement. This desire for coastal solitude could be repackaged as "heading for the eye of the storm" since news reports, including a string of drownings, had been flowing in over the last week on TV and newspaper regarding the inundation the gulf coast had been copping. This was initially due to a tropical anti-cyclone that drenched from Florida south to Guatemala then transformed itself into "tropical storm number 33" according to the meteorologists. A bit of an impersonal end for an entity who's shown real strength of character through their persistence if you ask me. They didn't!

As we approached the edge of the Sierra Madre Occidental (Eastern Mother of a Mountain Range) a wall of dark clouds swarmed to greet us filling the air with the sweet, threatening scent of tropical moisture. First it just rained, then got a little misty, typical of the forcing of moisture from clouds as the weight of the water vapor cannot be carried into higher thinner air. Then within the space of a kilometer the descent had begun proper through the clouds reducing visibility at times to less that five metres. Stopping to remove my sunglasses hardly helped. The brake lights of heavy vehicles crawling in first gear suddenly materialized one twitch of the bars before impact. The visor quickly become uselessly fogged inside and out. Pushing it up let the stinging fine rain batter my eyes and face, reducing visibility further. Down to less than 20 km/h it was often a matter of guessing which way the steeply twisting road might go with the infrequent relief of a short lit tunnel. Winter riding in Melbourne can serve up a thick fog and the few gullies on the Geelong Freeway can filled with white cloud. In the South American Andes cloud was a frequent companion but could almost be sure that you had the road to yourself. These conditions were some of the most difficult conditions I had ridden in

After a fall of 2,000 metres over about 40 km of roadway, the descent and the cloud started to peter out, allowing glimpses of swollen streams and glistening green hills. After more tolls and km on the coastal plain the rain and fog cleared leaving only a heavy cloud cover. On both sides of the blue grey line the foliage continued it's ancient ritual battle for a root in the soil and leaf in the sun. Dense broadleaf vines attempted to overwhelm trees while the undergrowth filled out any niche left below. Stony streams gushed restlessly to ward their goal in the Gulf. The mark of Man while not absent was reduced (ignoring the road) to a few fingerprints of walking tracks or donkey paths across the coastal plane jungle. On the infrequent overpasses all that could be sited were the occasional lone horseman or cart seemingly mocking the advancement of transport.

Damp but not quite bedraggled we arrived the port.

END OF PAGE THREE

BEGINNING OF PAGE FOUR

Vera Cruz 28/9 -30/9

Vera Cruz. What a riot! The action around the Plaza is extraordinary and all the more unbelievable that it happens every night!

Let me try and find the words.

Steamy, clinging, tropical heat. High humidity, endlessly circling overhead fans. Waiters in white jackets sporting huge teapots of steaming milk that, with flair and accuracy of a highly practiced skill send lethally scalding streams into the open mouths of waiting tall tabletop coffee glasses, commingling instantaneously with the black expressant no further than brim of another "cafe con leche". Everywhere there is noise, colour, motion. Mariachi groups, clutches of guitarists, xylophones so large it takes three men to move them, two of which beat out the rhythm as the third clatters away on a drum set. The noise is incredible, particularly when one or more of the civil or para-military bands is either performing from the plaza's central stage or often simultaneously marching through the square to some official ceremony.

Bizarre acts, including impromptu balancing by clown suited acrobats on a rope strung tight between two palm trees. A constant steam of mobile street salesmen flogging everything imaginable and most of the unimaginable. Trolleys stacked head high with smuggled Cuban cigars in beautifully made wooden boxes (economic embargo or not?) challenging respiratories while the external sensory assault continues. Every type of handicraft, much of it junk, peanuts, a myriad of confectionery, even complete triple masted sailing ships precariously balanced on shoulders are proffered by the hawkers. This may seem like a big hassle but though frequent they are never persistent and always good humoured. Often I found myself laughing along with them at the ludicrousness of both the object being vended and, given the opposition, snaking between the tables, the unlikelyhood of a successful sale. This all continues simultaneously, indulged by dancing between and sometimes on top of tables by locals and tourists.

On the first evening - an early in the week Tuesday night during a period where the news was constantly reporting excessive flooding of Vera Cruz State - there was a slight lull around 10.15 pm but moments later it picked up again and outlasted our retirement after one margarita too many around the bewitching hour. On the walk back to our $10 hotel around the corner from the table-dancing video bar, hookers slouched against doorways, or gathered in groups to guffaw about each others clients fetishes. Across the harbour, out in the Gulf the next tropical storm was brewing. Nothing it seems can dampen the spirits of Vera Cruz. Life in your face and all your crevices all at once, without relent! Not the restful release we had planned but a tonic of an entirely different sort.

The move from Vera Cruz was a slightly reluctant one. The place has such a sense of history to it. The first Spanish settlement, occupied by more foreign forces than any other M\'e9xican city over the years, the major exit/entry point for both people and goods traffic until the advent of economical air travel. Other ports have also taken over the majority of sea freight but it remains remarkably well that sense of a true port town. There is still that a heavy sense of transition, of the unexpected; headlines of "last seen boarding an unmarked vessel in Vera Cruz" spring readily to mind. This is the same atmosphere of intrigue and risqu\'e9 that writers from Graham Green to Hunter S. Thompson drew their inspiration from.

Almost forgot to mention the tremor from the 7.4 Richter earthquake in Oaxaca (Wah - har - kar) 300 km away. Just a bit more rhythm in the like a Jorocho - as the born and bread locals call themselves.

Catemaco 1/10 - 3/10

The urge for some relaxation approaching the mid-trip phase stirred us on to Catemaco, a charming small town set next to a beautiful freshwater lake in the hills in southern Vera Cruz State, ringed by green forested hills with several small islands. Here there is absolutely nothing to actually do, but as it is possibly one of the world's best places for doing nothing, this is hardly a problem. In fact it becomes more of a challenge to work hard at the task of doing nothing extremely well, approaching that warm inner glow that comes with the satisfaction of high achievement - at doing nothing, perfectly. In such terms relaxation can readily be defined.

A day could consist roughly of the following :- Wake late, ablutions. Meander across the plaza, accept the offer of a polish from the shoe shine booths, stroll across to the Hotel Catemaco cafeteria for an expresso coffee and juice, purchase a newspaper from a wandering street vendor, read about the latest mortality count from the local floods (as the rain begins to beat again on the portico roof) with the abetting of the earthquake in Oxaxaca, 300km away. During a pause in the deluge, make your way down to choose one of the many lakeside restaurants for a long lunch of Mojarra (local perch) or other seafood from the Gulf Coast nearby at meager cost, accompanying glasses of vino. Siesta in hotel room till 6pm, shower. Encounter fellow guests in hotel lobby. Discussion, over procession of beers with lawyer and several other hotel guests, during national league soccer game (pause for goal replays) on merits of Constitutional reform since the M\'e9xican Revolution. Waddle to street-side taco stand for evening snack, dodging worst of surrounding flooding streets. Return, fall into bed.

Mary Ann meanwhile spent other than the meal times drawing up renovations for amigos in Australia. I'm proud to have given her the sort of support she needs!

The rain kept on, worsening until on the third day there was not a moments pause in 24 hours. The streets of the town were becoming a torrent, now reaching above the curbing and entering the retail premises. If we didn't get out soon the water would carry us away.

The first indication of an eventful day.

Much of the countryside was under water, sadly including fields of crops that are the meager livelihood of impoverished M\'e9xicanos. The rural villages are an ugly sight, flotillas of partially submerged of household rubbish, mostly plastic packaging, encircle the ponds of the lower areas. The tropical sun beats down mercilessly between showers brewing up a cholera cocktail that preys on infant elder and invalid as well as claiming many able bodied scalps. Flood death toll has already topped two hundred and still rising. For the poor rubbish collection and disposal if attempted is a haphazard affair, a luxury along with many of the "-isums" (environmentalism and vegetarianism spring immediately to mind) that belongs another class who's concerns are fortuitously remote from the bitter realities of borderline subsistence. Like myself.

The road is generally on higher ground apart from several swollen stream crossings. Only one of these causes concern as the water starts steaming from the underneath of the cylinders but fails to get above to the spark plugs. We press on leaving several cars to the assistance of several enterprising local youths who are offering to push start stalled vehicles - hard labour but for a price, in a seller's market. The road moves more inland through several smaller towns joining the heavy vehicle route before the twin oil processing towns of Coatzacoalas and Minatitlan. In places the surface is a mess. All last and possibly several before's dry seasons pothole patches have disintegrated leaving a moonscape that strangely seems to alternate effecting one side of the road or the other. The local traffic sticks to the good surface side, no matter which direction it is headed! This takes a bit of concentration, like dodge-em cars without the bumpers, as vehicles weave around chasing the "good line". Finally the sign for a "Routa Cuota" appears. One of the few times we are glad to pay at the toll booth to escape the shredded secondary road tarmac to a freeway.

Ten minutes later, gastric distress signals tell me it's time to be on the outlook for lunch. Just after merging onto a freeway junction a building looms up on the right with amateurishly written signage. I take my eye off the road for a moment to determine that it is offering - a tyre repair service ("Vulcanadora") rather than a feed. Glancing back to the roadway I discover, to my horror, that the dark patch across both lanes ahead, which I took for an underground cable or pipe repair is in looming reality the granddaddy of all potholes. There's no time to brake - this would only compress the suspension heightening the imminent impact. There is no room to swerve, it's across both lanes. Only time to brace our weight on the footpegs. The sickeningly violent crash of metal on metal, as reserves of spring energy and damping forces are spent in an instant, followed by the ascent generated by the force, time slowed almost to a standstill by the pumping adrenaline. The landing is in comparison relatively soft but initiates an alarming sway that threatens to unseat us, as if both wheels are alternately challenging for the lead role. This only partially dissipates. Within 400 m we have stopped to inspect the damage. I immediately start to look for a burst tyre, broken spokes or snapped frame tube, but encounter no explanation.

We continue. Every time the suspension falls and rises the Swinehunt breaks into a wild samba! Still 500 km from the Caribbean I'm not prepared for this. Half an hour later a restaurant eventually appears. Rather a restaurant but not as it in known in Australia. A cement hut with chicken wire covered hole in the wall windows and a thatched roof and plastic tables and chairs. There are three dogs to greet us, not a good set of legs between them. Courtesy, I presume, of the main road location the all have survived appalling but less than fatal injuries. One has a limp dangling front foot pressed permanently into a flat plate. The other two have dog's hind legs to out do any crooked joke you might like to crack. (What's that? You've forgotten them all?) If this wasn't enough distraction, several pre & early teen children from the establishment gathered in the doorway to giggle and point at the "Gringo Freak Show" that had suddenly come to town. Mary Ann had ventured inside to order meals while I removed the luggage, seat, tank and side panels to assess the damage. The sullen management either weren't taking any notice of her or were not going to serve anything until I was at the table. Close inspection revealed a flat spot of mild to moderate proportions on the rear rim. This had not significantly upset the spoke tension balance of the wheel to explain the severe oscillation. Nothing else appeared broken. At my entrance and insistence lunch was served. It consisted of the "comida corrida" (traditionally served in many Latin American countries at lunchtime - a running menu of usually soup, rice dish and main course often with a small sweet to finish). The brown stew of potatoes peas and some unrecognizable large avian with very dark flesh suggested that indeed all the courses had been "run together". It tasted OK though, Gringo surcharge was added to the price.

Outside again I decide to have a look at the wheel alignment. A nauseous sinking feeling overwhelms me on discovering that the rear wheel is pointing in a radically different direction to the front. Tilted about 15 deg to the right it is also rotated to an even greater angle to the left. If this were not a shaft drive bike, the chain would instantly climb and run off the rear sprocket within one revolution. I'm stunned. Can't fathom both where the distortion has been sustained nor how possibly the bike is still able to run, albeit erratically. Surely this can't last much longer without some terminal mechanical failure? Not another 5,000 km 'till the end of our M\'e9xican trip?

Could this be the Swinehunt's death throws? Time and distance will be the arbitrators. Those dogs look pretty fit after all!

Villahermosa 4/10

An unremarkable but certainly not unlikable city, underwritten by the discovery of oil in the region several decades ago. As we left the next morning the river in the CBD was just beginning to break it's banks, causing a flurry of vigorous activity, with a hint of vaudeville chaos in that uniquely Latin way where instead of there be a modicum of co-ordination everyone is trying to do the same thing at the same time. Certain logistical limitations are under frequent challenge, if not refutation. Like the number of workers who can hold each shovel, the number of shovels that will fit through the mouth of one sandbag at one time. They were pushing, if not exceeding the limits but looked bound to loose.

We choose the less traveled but more scenic coast road crawling east close to the Gulf coast, toward the neck of the Yucatin Peninsula. Lots of land still under shallow water. The road is literally falling into the sea in places. Constructed too close to the beach, disturbing the coastal dunes, sand erosion has marched toward it. On our right occasional glimpses of a large inlet are frequently visible as we follow a narrowing finger of land, crossing a 4km bridge with a high ramp section close to it's north eastern end to accommodate water born vessels. Cuidad del Carmen is at the other end allowing respite for luncheon. The Swinehunt's handling hasn't improved but we are becoming accustomed to it. In typical BMW boxer fame just when you thing things might be getting out of control it settles again. Top speed is definitely limited to 100 km/h. This is no great hindrance as in M\'e9xico, particularly on the local (rather than motorway toll roads) where you are always about to encounter a rural village with topies (vicious poorly marked speed bumps) chooks, turkeys, mules, bicyclists, blind bus drivers, etc. Surpassingly handling through lower speed 2nd and 3rd gear corners is hardly effected by the gross wheel mis-alignment proving, if there was ever any doubt that the Swinehunt's design brief is from the "axe" rather than the "scalpel" perspective.

Campeche 5/10

Approaching Campeche we continue to ignore the inland toll roads, instead following the coastal route through small fishing towns. Not much more than a main street, a Plaza Major and Cathedral, plus a few dusty diversions where the residents modest dwellings can be found. Lazy dogs bask in the sun, chickens and turkeys strut and flutter as we pass, bicyclists meander laden with heavy bags of produce, the towns fishing fleet clustered together near the foreshore in a tangle of octopus net poles.

Campeche is a real find - a genuine oddity. Centuries old relics encrusted with the salty scars of the harsh tropical coast climate confront the chrome and glass of modern architecture with a smattering of the genuinely odd. A sixteenth fort trains it's cannons on the opposing concrete edifice. A diamond shaped public building resembling spaceship enterprise of the design that could only be approved if designed by the government architect clash with classic colonial Spanish streetscapes. Though the higher rise blocks much of the "Certro Historico's" view the sea still seems to dominate, marine smells and sounds heightens the sense of recreation, enjoyment, relaxation. Old men, walking sticks propped against table argue over black coffees while waiters look expectantly bored. Children skipping along footpaths with impossibly large scoops of ice cream balanced precariously atop a cone.

We choose a room in a relic, built 19 century last painted, pre WW2. Peeling paint, hooks for oils lamps still visibly rusting the hallways. Doors 5 foot wide and 4\'bd feet high, with a lip on the bottom to trip over. Cold water shower, consider it a luxury at these tropical temperatures. Swinehunt parking as was traditional in South America - in the central courtyard, entered via the lobby by charging up and over a few stairs.

Uxmal 6/10

A load of old Mayan rocks. Sorry, that is a bit cynical. See comments under Chich\'e9n Itza & Palenque!

Merida 7/10

The White City? Well it might have been white once but it is now hard to tell through the grime. It's also hard to breathe in the narrow streets due to the hanging vehicle pollution. Sticking with difficulties, it's hard to stay on the crowded footpaths, so narrow that it is impossible to pass mother with child in tow without putting a foot in the grimy gutter, risking a broken ankle from a kerb skimming local buses. Finally, it's hard for the locals to raise a smile for a gringo.

The central plaza, usually the centre of cultural life of any Spanish planned city, as well as a haven from the bustle of the streets, is undergoing renovation. Several hydraulic rams are battering the bitumen streets on all four sides to pieces to be replaced with street paving tiles. A beautification project that is far from beautiful during it's execution phase. Stifling heat and cloying humidity embellish the ordeal.

The Spanish were particularly harsh on the local Maya when after a bigger fight than they expected, they finally over threw Merida. In respite the all buildings of Mayan religious and cultural significance were razed, Catholic churches and Spanish public administration offices constructed in their place. Further, the indigenous were barred from passing even near centre of their own township. Understandably this last provision led to a bitter a resentment before in the face of race riots it was rescinded many years later. Whether this has anything to do with the reception granted to gringos in the late '90s, I dunno. More certain is a prevailing attitude of hostile tolerance to our presence from the sullen inhabitants.

Here in the Y\'facatan peninsula the locals are somewhat of a different breed. These Maya descendents are shorter, stockier, more prone to obesity, than their NW countrymen with slight Polynesian features. Housing, as you might expect due to the climatic difference that 2000 m in altitude brings in the tropics is also a contrast. A low oval ring of narrow trunked cuttings is bound together with twine and then covered with earth or more recently plaster. Poles lead from the wall tops to meet centrally to which a thatch from the local palm varieties is attached. Due to the upward sweep of the Y\'facatan Peninsula much of the territory, including Merida and Canc\'fan are actually north of M\'e9xico City. It is very flat and only a few metres above sea level. The majority seems not to have been cleared, remaining thick 3-4 meter high small leaf tropical scrub, densely intertwined with creepers. There is little surface water. The runoff has eroded large underground caverns in the limestone substrate. There are lots of caves to stop and explore is the smell of dank bat droppings is your thing! In some places the rooves of these caverns have collapsed leaving large deep wells the locals call "Cenotes". The of the major pre-Hispanic communities made use of the cenotes for their water supply and incorporated them into their superstitious beliefs. The Mayan Rain God "Chac" was a big mover. It's thought that many of the skeletons and other items dredged from the bottoms of several cenotes at major ruins cites were offerings to this deity.

The lack of claimed arable land struck a question mark in my mind as to what the villagers actually do for a living. This remains unanswered.

Valladolid, Chich\'e9n Itza 8/10 - 9/10

Chich\'e9n Itza? More old rocks. No. More honestly, these ruins and those at Uxman (Ooch-mal) are impressive and worth seeing, in dramatic tropical forest settings. I'm no anthropologist however. The best I can do is describe a dull sense of cogent awe when confronted with the altar ("chac-mool" actually - a reclined figure with knees and head up clutching a stone plate against it's belly) where the hearts of captured opposing warriors were placed by the priests, still beating freshly ripped from the their gashed chests, as an offering to the Gods of their particular time and place. It is thought that up to two thousand sacrifices occurred at a really big gig. The corpses were left to fall down one long flight of pyramid stairs while the "fresh meat" was being hauled up another. Much the same scene as East Timor really - concepts of any human progress are totally misplaced!

The base from which we visited the big chicken scratch was Vallodolid (vay-oh-do-lid). Left out of the tourist trail because the busses generally charge on to Merida, is worthy of comment simply, for it's re-emphasisation of all that is good, healthy and attractive about a typical M\'e9xican town. Between Merida and Canc\'fan it certainly stood out as an example of being uncorrupted by tourism.

END OF PAGE FOUR

BEGINNING OF PAGE FIVE

Canc\'fan 10/10 - 11/10

Unexpectedly, perhaps the exception that proves the rule, the hype is true! Warm (28 degrees), crystal clear water, white sand that is hardly even hot between your toes (very low silicon content). What a perfect beach. Looking out toward Cuba from Canc\'fan the Caribbean (el Carib\'e9) is as much of an aquamarine tinged aquatic paradise as you could wish for, as good or dare I say better - the water is definitely clearer - than Auzzie beaches.

Then, inevitably you eventually turn around to face the shoreline!

If you are of the opinion that Surfers Paradise is over developed than best take all precautions to avoid Canc\'fan. Imagine, or conjecture failing come and experience for yourself, 20 km of huge towering multi-storey hotels built down to within 5 metres of the high tide waterline. (Near the equator tidal movements are small meaning the buildings are always about this close.) The septic tanks fly in on a weekend, stay one or two weeks, have a "great time", blow the holiday money and fly out again. This is the big business of modern beach resort tourism. The effect on the local culture is dramatic. Throughout M\'e9xico you will, on regular occasions, be intercepted by street venders, cajoled by waiters at street cafe's to partake of the establishments services, be approached by beggars for a handout. This very much in good will with a sense of humour that persists even if they receive a knockback - though understandably beggars are a little more desperate than the traders. Nowhere in M\'e9xico, however have we encountered the cynicism of the street touters of Canc\'fan. Couple this with bad food at several times the price of similar or better fare at a typical restaurant, gaudy fake waterfalls, plastic Corinthian columns, fibre glass Mayan ruin facades, in fact any gimmick that might cross your mind and many that wouldn't even on hallucinogenic, have found fruition here.

We came, we saw, we logged on and collected / sent our e-mail (the primary reason Canc\'fan is on the itinerary). We reflected that it would be good if all the cheesy commercial kitsch could be restricted to a few places in the world, L.A., Surfers Paradise, Canc\'fan plus a few others then this would be great. One could then travel widely easily avoiding them.

Laguna Bacalar 12/10 - 13/10

Beautiful. Forty kilometers long a bit over one wide. Crystal clear right to the bank, the smooth large rocks on the bottom gradually fading to a darker hue as the bottom falls away. A hotel high on the bank with a commanding picturesque view from every balcony finishes off this natural beauty with a comfortable tinge of sophistication. The tiny neighboring township has a Spanish fort, restored to give the freshwater lake some minor competition. It's quaint too, complete with surrounding moat - now filled with flowers and shrubs. This battlement held out against the pirates and the British gunboats from the very nearby British Honduras (now Belize) a few kilometers south. We decided to stay a couple of nights to get some swimming and recreation in. This gave the Swinehunt enough time idle to pull another flat battery trick.

Why do I have to put up with this again! A new battery was purchased, put on the charger to maximize it's memory, commuted to Geelong and back for a week before the terminals were disconnected and taped up for crating. Surely 6-8 weeks idle shouldn't be enough to kill it? What use is the 12 month warranty on BMW batteries to me now in southern M\'e9xico! It's twice the size of any other battery fitted to other motorcycles, this happened in northern Argentina in '96 as well. Carrumba, Dios mio! Necissito sufrir falta de technologia continualmente! With some effort and a steep incline it bump starts, but this is the beginning of the end, electronically speaking.

Palenque 14/10

This is better than both Uxmal and Chich\'e9n Itza in my non-archaeological non-anthropological opinion. The reasons I would offer are several. Firstly, unlike the west and north of Y\'facatan the setting is real broad leaf rain forest. Also unlike the previous two ruins the terrain is not flat allowing major structures the extra elevation of hillside or hilltop positioning. The structures themselves resemble the other sites but are better preserved - almost all the roof structures are at least partially intact. Thus the commonly held romantic image of grand edifices jutting toward the sky from the steaming jungle is largely satisfied. If you have ever had the urge to go and see same I can certainly recommend these ruins themselves as good enough reason to do so. The rest of it, ie M\'e9xico, is in my opinion, is the real the bonus thrown in.

There is even a town right next door (within 10 km of the entrance gate) to make the accommodation options more extensive (read cheaper). The place is crawling with Gringo tourists, even now in the low season and prices, while mostly still reasonable (a Corona is still $Aus 1.50 in a restaurant), hint at tourist exploitation. I enquired about having a film developed at several locations to discover that it is 50% dearer than elsewhere on the trip so far.

Palenque and Teotihuac\'e1n are certainly spectacular sites to tantalize the senses and send your imagination scurrying in wonderment of civilizations lost. In comparison I can't avoid the conclusion that they can't match Macchu Pichu in Peru for spectacular location - but that literally was another diary.

Comitan 15/10 -16/10

Into the hills again at last to beat that demon heat and humidity. Just perhaps, after 2\'bd weeks, when we were starting to acclimatize! Such is the restless traveler's lot in a bumpy country. The road along the way had got a bit careless, in part falling completely into the valleys or in others a mild subsidence of up to \'be of a metre. The torrential rains (death count still mounting over 300 due mostly to mud slides) were definitely a factor though M\'e9xico is prone to frequent seismic activity. This required the adoption of various tactics, ranging from the brake and swerve to the complete halt at the back of a long line of traffic, itself headed by earth moving equipment making repairs, or heavy winch tow trucks dragging a vehicle back up again from the depths of a precipice.

I can smugly report that in these situations we were able, by shrewd choice of motorcycle, to filter our way through the chaos while those unfortunate beings in vehicles of lesser capabilities cooled their heels and frayed their temperaments in long cues. This included on one occasion approaching Ocosingo a road blockade by militant taxi drivers (taxistas) protesting against the injustice of their lot in life and/or legislation. This required a little diplomacy at the head of the line to negotiate a safe passage. Fortunately, as has proven true in the past, the Latinos have a soft spot for motorcyclistas.

We stopped for lunch in Ocosingo. Riding into the road surrounding the plaza we immediately knew some special event was in progress. Yes there was noise - from speakers set up in front of the town hall - but a racket of some sort is par for the course. More unusually there was a large gathering of Campisinos (country hill tribe folk) who had come to the centre from surrounding villages. The isolation of mountain rural life and different ethnological roots from the more mestizo (mixed race) of the M\'e9xican majority has worked both for and against these peoples. On the positive side they retain a strong sense of self and cultural identity in language, beliefs, customs and dress. Against this, these factors plus other historical events (the state of Chiappis was, under the Spanish, administered as part of Honduras, later voting to break and join M\'e9xico's newly won independence), have resulted in less of the benefits of the country's economic development flowing on to such remote regions.

These tensions exploded in 1994 when a popular uprising, led by a charismatic figure balaclava clad clandestine figure known only as "Subcomendante Marcos" overthrew several of the state's major towns, including the capital Tuxtla Guiterrez for around a week. This generated international headlines drawing a quick and ruthless response from the M\'e9xican authorities. Much blood was spilt as the guerillas (yes, the origin of that word) fought a retreat into the dense cloud forest jungles close to the Honduran border. Marcos a savvy intellectual radical operates a web site for the Zapatistas (EZLN - Ejercito Zappitista de Liberaci\'f3n Nacional) pushing himself to pipe smokin' cult hero status just a rung below Ch\'e9 Guevara.

Much bloodshed occurred in Ocosingo when the local subgroup of rebels barricaded themselves in the town market and toughed it out to the bitter end. Thus when the guide books advise not to photograph local tibespeople in their colourful traditional dress I take it seriously. The tales of gringos getting the shit beaten out of them for snapping sacred tribal rituals or places are quite believable.

Comitan is, even in this land of strong contrasts, a great change. Here is a modern city. Although much of the architecture is Spanish colonial, the attitude in terms of dress and attitude on the fashionable streets is thoroughly contemporary. The exception is the market is a fascinating eruption of colour, odour, noise and congestion where the Camposinos rule the bargaining stalls. Next day, leaving Comitan as base we fire up the Swinehunt (starts on the button surprisingly) and take a tour out to a series of different coloured lakes (mineral contents) near the elbow in the Guatemalan border. We stop by one lake where two women, in a hut on a wood stove with a metal plate, prepare us lunch of steak, village salchicha (sausage) and salad. Sitting down at a rudimentary bench we are able to borrow the sole implement of the kitchen - a carving knife - to dissect our meals into pieces suitable to be rolled up in the tortillas that are emerging sequentially off the hot plate.

San Christobel de las Casas ( 17/10 - 22/10)

Next morning Swinehunt is dead to the button requiring \'bd km push to the nearest steep hill for bumping. A picturesque ride up through cloud pine forests to San Cristobel de las Casas is tainted by my brooding over the looming electrical problems over the last 4-5 weeks of the trip. In fact we ride straight through San Cristobel, for it is Sunday morning - the time of regional village markets. Heading to the tiny rural settlement of Larrainzar, about as far off the tourist trail as you can get in M\'e9xico by road. This locality gets a one sentence grab in one of our three guide books.

When one travels to remote undeveloped corners of the world, dressed in motorcycle gear on a giant hideous purple contraption, one can reasonably expect to receive similar attention as if you had landed in an alien spacecraft from another planet. In Larrainzar this focus is intense without relent. Not hostile in any regard, more a sense of intense innocent wonderment that such creatures mounted on such a strange mechanism of propulsion actually exist. The strong irony of the situation was heavily apparent, to me at least. Here we were, journeyers, come to observe obscure foreign cultures, but the tables had been turned on us by the flashing of hundreds of wide curious eyes. The crowd almost threatened to smother us as the group pressed closer around. I had to sound a warning that parts of the bike were hot and should not be touched as inquisitive hands stroked and touched various components as if to confirm this apparition was actually real. This plea was largely lost however as the local native language is one of the many indigenous Mayan tongues, scarcely corrupted since the conquest to this day.

To our relief a majority of the group stayed with the bike as we made a retreat to the plaza which was a maze of action. Makeshift stalls but mostly produce and a few other goods spread on woven rugs in front of traditionally dressed tribeswomen. Though the crush of bodies had abated every eye was still upon us. Occasionally children, looking up in sudden realization, would yelp or squeal before running away to hide behind maternal woven skirts. (Reminds me of the sort of effect I used to have on women back in my courting days!) Amongst the industrious commerce there was a little exchange of money but bartering was more the fashion. Two bunches of bananas for two large scoops of hillside grown small potatoes was one transaction I observed. Will this rate rock Wall St? After 30 mins wandering around we returned to find a large crowd still clustered around the Swinehunt. While many things had been and were still in the process of being touched the intent is born of curiosity, so as I expected from past experiences of this type nothing was amiss or had been tampered with. We kitted up again at the height of self consciousness, like freaks about to return to the cage, requested by word and gesture for a little more room to roll the bike off the mainstand. As it (thankfully!) fired up and we waved our departure a hundred white crooked toothed smiles broke out across the crowd.

This is the sort of richly rewarding encounter that can only be experienced by independent travelers (i.e. not on bus with the rest of the back packers) and short of touring in the batmobile in full cape, mask and tights regalia, probably only by motorcyclists. If we had arrived by rent-a-car this would have hardly have set the locals agog.

San Christobell the town is actually fairly hip, for M\'e9xico. Not in the dripping with designer clothed solarium blondes sense of "hip". (This is a long way from Chapel, St Prahran!). Rather, vegetarian dishes are on many a restaurant menu, there is a workshop producing recycled paper and generally there seems thought for the future rather than just the present. We visited the headquarters of Na Bolom organization, founded by Dane Franz Blom and Swiss Gertrude Duby. These two "unfashionable blondes" were archaeologists who retreated to M\'e9xico to avoid the fascist tendencies of WW2 Europe and began investigations into the anthropological history of highlands of Chiapis. The founded an institute called Na Bolom ( Jaguar House in local dialect) to provide both a research base facility and to support and protect the Lacandon tribal group who live as the have for over 1000 years in the national park jungle of the same name. This is North America's only surviving patch of cloud rain forest. (Jungle in neighboring Guatemala is classified as "Central American".)

The blondes have since carked it but the organization remains to support re-forestation and other worthy causes.

We had plenty of time to look around due to the electrical impotence of the Swinehunt. I simply parked it in the hotels distant parking lot and commenced planning how to resolve this dilemma. The closest BMW dealership to San Christobel is Villahermosa about 230 km north across the isthmus. We had already been there, just before it went under water and given the general incompetence of the BMW Car/Bike dealership in Puebla we weren't confident that they could manage to get us a battery. It seemed sensible to start at the source - M\'e9xico City dealers. The first two calls weren't promising. One simply said no ring them. "Them" said maybe about a week from the warehouse. When I asked the location of the warehouse of swinehunt parts he said this was also in M\'e9xico city but no, he couldn't ring to check if they had the correct battery in stock. Legendary BMW service at it's best! Discouraged by these outcomes I was reluctant to ring the third a company called Alta Vista. Sr Fernando Cervan answered and within a few minutes confirmed stock, took my hotel address, gave me a BSB bank account number to pay the $US160 (including delivery) into and projected it's arrival next day. I quickly went down to the bank and paid up.

Five days and over 250 ozie dollars later the battery still hasn't arrived. Fernando is polite, concerned and apologetic, making numerous calls to the freight company but every day the same promise is made "ma\'f1ana". On morning of the fifth day I decide to try and take some other action. Astonishingly the swinehunt, neglected out in car park in the rain for the best part of a week, fires up on the button! This instantly makes me suspicious that the electrical problems are not as simple as failing power storage. In an ideal swinehunt world one would have got around to bringing a multi-meter but the one I do own is a bit bulky to carry around and I was too jewish, given my doltish electronic knowledge, to justify the purchase of a second micro-sized unit - ma\'f1ana (next trip)!

We find an automotive parts shop with batteries for sale. They have a volt meter which confirms the latest diagnosis - a charging system problem. The battery reads OK until you start the engine, when even at higher revs the battery charge falls indication more of them leprechauns\'85.. er lectrons are emigrating then immigrating? Check! This means a new battery won't help much only stalling the inevitable. The farcical pursuit for an auto electrician then begins. The auto spares shop directs us to the initial one. A greasy hole in the wall with a broken voltmeter and an acid stained floor, bereft of even the most basic equipment. He changes the acid in the battery but refuses to look at the wiring diagram in the back of the workshop manual. The second shop doesn't even have a broken voltmeter. Rounding a corner to the third I fail to notice a thin slick of oil covering the road - obviously where they dispose of the workshop waste. At about 3 mph the front wheel goes west, the big inside foot plant amounts to little on the slippery surface, Mary Ann steps off the back completely unharmed to allow swinehunt and myself to have a little lie down in front of two local soldiers. They look concerned but are not about to abandon their arms to help right the bike. We decide to give up on the "autoelectriz" and return to the initial battery shop. Their voltmeter tells the same story - battery OK, charging system faulty.

Back at the hotel I give Fernando another ring. Monday he says. I say forget it, tell my first lie in Spanish (proof of progression toward mastery!), that I've modified a car battery to fit and want my money refunded. I back this up with accusations that the freight company is incompetent and that I can't spend the rest of my holiday in San Christobel. Fernando doesn't have the authority to refund my money. Conscious that I might need access to further BMW parts in the next 6 weeks I tell him that I'll visit him when in M\'e9xico City at the end of our trip to sort it out.

We set off for Tuxtla Guiterrez (capital of Chiapis State) in search of electrical competence. Bike starts on the button again. Perhaps it just wanted a gentle throw down the road?

END OF PAGE FIVE

BEGINNING OF PAGE SIX

Tuxtla Gutierrez 22/10

The road out falls 1500 m in 70 km, from cloud forest to tropical scrub land. We certainly find the cloud. In fact you can't see the forest as rain and heavy cloud cover reduce visibility to around 50 m which is about the longest distance between any two corners. Given different atmospheric circumstances this would be a great scratching road. I'd like to put the headlight on to make us more visible to the suicide overtakers coming up in the opposite direction but given our electrical woes, resist. At about 800 meters we fall out of the cloud to panoramic views of the valleys and ranges below.

Tuxtla is a city rather than a town so lacks the quaint mountain valley charm of San Christobel. There is one tourist attraction the Ca\'f1yon del Sumidero - a chasm over 1km deep and around 40 km long with a damned river at the bottom. We get a glimpse of the lower reaches of this on the way into town. There are more (starter button) pressing matters to deal with before sightseeing. On the way in the Yamaha dealer is closed for lunch so we look up the Honda shop. Despite my almost pleading Mr Red's mechanic doesn't want to look at it recommending the Kawasaki dealer's workshop - number 3 of only 3. The K workshop has a small frontage, understandable as the retail showroom is elsewhere. There seems an almost interminable wait during a discussion over a parts invoice, though our presence is thoughtfully acknowledged. After this and a short explanation of our problem the purple electron eater is wheeled straight around the back. The setup here is not luxurious, walls on three sides, but it large enough, contains a wide array of many types of bike as well as marine engines, to tell me that this is where the "problem jobs" from the district end go to find their solutions.

The head honcho mechanic gets straight into it. I extract the workshop manual from it's storage position on top of the air box to discover that a passing electrical wire has worn through the triple plastic wrapping with vibration. This has allowed water to enter cementing the pages together. While the electrical dissection proceeds I'm forced to try and separate this soggy mess having promised a full factory workshop manual electrical trouble shooting translation. What a turkey I must look frantically working with pen and knife slicing through the stained blurred mess. Fortunately they don't need really need much assistance, diagnosing alternator rather than the regulator at fault. The alternator is extracted and inspected. The wiring looks intact but one of the brushes is sticking out a lot further than the other. These are positioned by largish spiral springs - the sort of thing that you would see in inside an alarm clock 50 years ago. This is typical BMW form - WW2 archaic technology! Cunningly the mechanic extracts the "pushing" end of the spiral, gives it another wind around the post and re-inserts it against the base of the brush. Both brushes now protrude the same distance with about the same spring pressure. Bolted back together the charging system is pronounced fit. Wunderbar!

For this hour and a bit's toil they only want the equivalent of $US8 in pesos, so I insist on giving them $US10. What a bargain.

That night we can't find a bar in a city of close to a million people! Juice and taco shops everywhere, though. A long walk eventually leads past a hotel with a sign saying restaurant / bar / live music. At the top of six lights of stairs is an empty restaurant save for a loan punter staring up from his plate to the TV with a group of 2 guitaristas and a bass player being ignored even by the barman. They have at least got beer, though after two numbers the trio call it quits completely killing the atmosphere.

Next morning the bike responds to the starter button - eureka! There is a short period of pick and guess navigation to the Sumidero access road. There are several lookouts to stop at and admire the spectacular views. Peering over a short wall down a 1000m drop stimulates a little vertigo. No safety barriers or wire in easy goes M\'e9xico. Large birds of prey hang and glide effortlessly in t6he thermals. As if they are just having a good time on the wing rather than seriously looking for prey. The last lookout is completely clouded out which not surprisingly means the accompanying restaurant is lacking trade.

Tehuantepec (23/10)

The town after which takes it's name from the isthmus located close to the pacific coast. This is the narrow waist of M\'e9xico, around 200 km wide. Here the worlds longest mountain range (Rockies Andes) takes a stumble only averaging 250 m above sea level. It was also here that a canal to link the Pacific and Atlantic was proposed before Panama stole the show. While the waters missed the opportunity of mixing, the winds try to compensate with the Caribbean and Pacific weather systems trading millibars at a rapider rate than stocks on bearish Monday opening on Wall St. M\'e9xico has only started to investigate the potential of this natural energy resource with a few lonely experimental wind generators.

Traditional Istme\'f1a society is matriarchal. The eldest daughters inherit the property, the mothers give away the daughters at the wedding ceremonies and if this wasn't confirmation enough, at regular fiestas the women climb onto the roofs and pelt the men with fruit in the "Tirada de Fruitas"! I'm a little shy at mentioning this last ritual lest the equal opportunity officer of the Ducati Club instigate similar proceedings at the AGM! Needless to say in modern \i Macho \i0 M\'e9xico these traditions are dying fast.

I can't make myself understood. Is this matriarchal factor? Perhaps not as Mary Ann, attempting to get across in restaurants and shops only fares slightly better at the cost of much greater persistence. It might just be the gringo accents given this town is off any tourist trail. Perhaps I should have a shave or buy a comb - it's been three months now and the wild colonial boy crossed with bushranger look is starting to take hold.

Benito Juarez (24/10 - 25/10 )

In two days ride and 600 km we've gone from tropical cloud forest jungle to steamy hot tropical coastal plane to a stark late autumn night at high altitude. Cortes, when on a return trip to Spain, asked what M\'e9xico was like, crushed a piece paper in his hand and threw it onto the table. "This is a map of M\'e9xico," he proclaimed. It is this "crumpled" topography spread over the landform of the worlds 9\super th\nosupersub largest country leads to this incredible variation, far in excess of the cliched siestering ponchoed peasant at the base of the candelabra cactus under the afternoon desert sun.

Stunning scenery, crisp and clear, sharp definition of images the invigoration of high altitude scenery. Panoramic vistas extending 1500 meters below to the state capital city of Oaxaca (war-har-ka). While direct sun during the day gives off comforting warmth, the late autumn air at 3000 m quickly assumes siberian proportions after sunset as it whips and rasps at the window panes. This isolated mountain "town" is really only a cluster of a few ramshackle buildings clinging close to the top of a ridge with few facilities. A comedor (simple cafeteria), two huts that sell basic produce but surprisingly also a small tourist office in a room off the comedor that manages a few caba\'f1as (cabins) which are comfortable - if you ignore the frigid drafts from the huge gaps between boards. These have a couple of bedrooms, cooking facilities, and spectacular sunsets.

The journey would be worth it just for the great days ride, although it didn't start so well. My heart sank when the purple mongrel refused to acknowledge the starter button. We really thought the electrical problems were behind us. Dios mio, is three months (legendary BMW) reliability really too much to ask? Now I really dunno - no change really since a thorough synopsis of my knowledge of electricity is "if you can't see it you can't trust it!". Perhaps we are dealing with some dodgy connection in the starting relay, the sort that is intermittent so therefore impossible to diagnose? Thankfully it bumped on the second attempt with the low altitude of the coastal plain assisting the carburation.

The climb toward Oaxaca is a marvelous continuation of corners that sweep around almost 200 km of ridges alternately climbing to cool heights before descending again to temperate valleys. The route is enlivened with striking views that spring from the exit of corners distracting you from the pothole free line. Series of ranges, increasingly bluer in fading definition distract the eye for a moment as the next turn in point rapidly approaches. Looming brown gray scrubby spurs, studded with cacti and palms. Patches of Maguey plantations appear in the most unlikely locations clinging to almost vertical surfaces, high on cliff faces. Donkeys lazily graze on the roadside vegetation without acknowledging your fleeting presence. This is the type of road where you can become immersed in the rhythm of left, right, left, brake, accelerate, brake. Where a continuum of swerving motion hypnotizes the rider, a rich indulgence that blinds temporarily to the existence of other human perspectives.

On the second night at the mountain retreat the 'store' ran out of beer. Fortunately local Mezcal came to the rescue. Mezcal is the mongrel inbred half brother of tequila. Both are fermented from cactus juice but a little less care results in lot less refinement. There wasn't too much sophistication about dispensing our order. A plastic 15 litre jerry can was produced from under the counter. We guzzled the remainder of the purified water we were carrying with us to provide a container. Five hundred mil of high potency alcohol and a dozen limes to juice with it cost 13\'bd pesos ($1.70 AUS!). I can report that it has the desired effect, nullifying the chill autumn high altitude air. We gave up on the lime, preferring it neat.

Oaxaca 26/10 - 27/10

The central plaza is one of the most beautiful in M\'e9xico. Distinctive colonial architecture, a leafy expanse in the centre to wander through, closed to traffic, outdoor caf\'e9 tables, the right temperature to linger. Oaxaca (wa-har-ka) is a mountainous region where the USA/Spanish influence of the centre and north of the country takes a back seat to tribal influences. Culturally it is more like Central America than the majority (center & north) of M\'e9xico. Not surprisingly the markets are very colourful. In one section we stumble across a BBQ your own butchery where smoked meats and salchciches (spicy sausages) can be tossed onto the griddles above charcoal then wrapped in paper for you to take home. Makes a change from the cheese and salad sandwich routine.

The readily available kultural event is the most of the nights of the week indigenous dance Pe\'f1a. I was a bit luke warm about going to this, fearing a tourist trap. Strong competition from the M\'e9xico vs Ecuador international soccer friendly telecast at 8 pm meant at least some degree of kultural kompromise. The first two dances weren't promising. It's not that they didn't have rhythm. In fact the costumes were bright and charming and the footwork polished. They looked none too happy to be there, understandable given the forest of flash and video photography with accompanying patronizing orthodontically perfect smiles from the several septic tank tables. I was considering whether to order a dozen beers or walk out (only 10 mins since kick off) when things began to improve. The major performers appeared, the more complex routines began and most importantly the performers started to look like they were enjoying themselves. The dances represented cultural celebrations from the many regions of Oaxaca with considerable variation in style and costume. One particularly memorable number was the "Pineapple Dance" to celebrate the harvest. Performed by the women (no Istme\'f1a like matriarchy in this region) who naturally do the harvesting. About a dozen girls in bright skirts, shirts and hair ribbons prance about each with a pineapple on the left shoulder. One has the honour of being "lead pineapple", on our occasion the tallest lass but we are unsure if this is a central feature. The tallest pineapple did not appear to have the roughest end, though this could be variable given that the fruits looked far from virgin dance apples. There is also much bowing and thrusting of pineapples into the air which made me feel a little restless in the chair. A long swallow of Dos XX Oscura Cerveza was needed to restore my composure. Don't know who won the soccer.

Next day we went on a small ride around a few of the neighboring small towns, happening upon a market day at one of them. This provided an hour or so's diversion. The connecting road to the next was dirt but in reasonable condition, if a little difficult to find at first with the market closing many streets. A couple of kilometers out we approached a creek crossing. A shallow stream looking no more that a couple of inches deep was flowing at a briskish rate across a concrete causeway from L to R whereafter it fell a meter and a half to the creek bed on the other side. The water looked a little dark over the causeway though it didn't look green. Entering the water at low revs in second at about 20- 25 km/h I was a little surprised that the front wheel began to "walk around" slightly. Perhaps the current or depth was a little greater than my expectation? Next microsecond both wheels disappear instantly out from under me to the right. I'm on my ass slithering through the water, throwing up a bow wave! The swinehunt half pirouettes on the left cylinder crash bar, with Mary Ann still semi attached and matching it's routine. They're both gliding slowly toward the drop at the right edge. Will this be the solution to all my problems? Will woman and 'hunt disappear forever over the precipice? It's not to be. They glide to a halt a meter short as the headlight, turned to face me, is bumped on by the tank bag connecting the switch. As if to illuminate my humiliation.

The immediate impulse is, of course, to stand up. This ain't easy though. The dark colouration of the water is some form of (brown) slime growing on the concrete, giving an extremely low level of friction. A comedy routine of stand, fall, stand, fall again is finally interrupted as we steady ourselves by clutching onto swinehunt peripherals, while it gurgles to itself prone midstream. Now tenuously on our feet, the next problem becomes immanent - how can we lever 250kg back upright on ice skates? Trying to drag it the 5 meters to dry land fails as the lack of underfoot grip, boots filled with water and the crashbar digging to the concrete past the slime defeat this. Perhaps it would be better to just shove it over the edge and catch the bus? The horror of imagining backpacker bus travel drives us on to new innovative strategies. The swinehunt waits patiently cooling in the steady current. By furiously grinding our soles against the slime enough grip can be found to eventually hoist it vertical. The next 5 meters walk one of us on each side of the bike (keeping myself strategically upstream of bike and woman should friction fail) are a little tense but finally we make it. The mutual decision is to cancel the country tour and go back to the Plaza for a beer and a quiet sit down!

During this interval I ponder a new theory of swinehunt therapy. Two crashes within a week have resolved the starting problem. Perhaps this has a cleansing influence, strategically eliminating electrical toxins, restoring the innate holistic balance (crash right, then left side) of the purple creature. Is there the makings of a new mechanical cult movement brewing here?

Izuca de Matamoros 28/10

Don't bother going.

Taxco 29/10 - 30/10

Like an ant, lost in a rival colony's nest. Stairways, spiraling upwards, contorting at different angles, hidden platforms, sudden balconies, enclosed terrace gardens and everywhere people, goods, food, gadgets, beckoning. The bewildering environment of the Taxco market which seems composed of stairwells with every tread claimed by a merchant with there own bag of produce, proudly, proffered, it's quality and economy vouched for as you squeeze past others ascending, descending in a fusion of humanity and commerce. Notions of left/right, north/south, even up/down rapidly become inapt. Surrendering to the flow is the only option. At last by accident we emerge to the street but here too space is at a premium. The narrow colonial streets make the slight traffic, those foolish enough to contemplate driving, conspicuously awkward by constant entrapment between pedestrians, donkeys, carts, scooteristi, wandering dogs, all manner of things mobile.

Like Zacatecas and Guanajuato (see comments on both earlier in trip) Taxco is founded on the wealth of mines past. An as with the previous, Taxco's precious metal (silver) was not located on ground suitable for urban development. This went ahead though creating a township where buildings appear to be falling over each other, fighting for space. The colonial architecture of the whole town is beautifully preserved, leading to it's national historical monument status in M\'e9xico. While the silver ran out a century or so ago the ghost town consequences were avoided by the development of tourism. The punters certainly come to observe the freaks of urban planning, drink in the history but what has mainly led to the rejuvenation is silversmithing. Obvious really! There are literally hundreds of silver shops selling everything from jewelry, to trinkets to table ware to cigar holders. After poking around a few the choice and range quickly becomes bewildering.

As a diversion on the morning of departure we visited a nearby mountain village where the streets are paved with marble. Naturally the stuff is literally falling out of the surrounding hills. This and the fact that M\'e9xican marble is hardly in the same global demand league as the Italian stuff, makes this less extravagant than it seems. On arrival it is also a bit of a letdown as, apart from being a little lighter in colour, the paving stones are the same smallish irregular shape as many other paved streets in the country. More rewarding was the ride clinging to the side of a high altitude ridge past several waterfalls dodging wandering donkeys.

END OF PAGE SIX

BEGINNING OF PAGE SEVEN

NEXT & FINAL INSTALLMENT - RALPHINO CONCLUDES THE M\'c9XICAN EXPEDITION BY GOING GREEN AT AN AVOCADO FESTIVAL, TACKLING THE PACIFIC COAST, SOLICITING FOR A COFFIN TO RETURN THE SWINEHUNT TO GODZONE AND LASTLY THE CAPITAL - COUGHS, WHEEZES, A SEA OF VW BEETLES - ALL THE GOSS ON THE WORLDS BIGGEST URBAN ENVIRONMENT

Sent 31/10/99

Toluca (31/10 - 1/11)

This largish (\'bd million) city lies only 65 km west of the capital at an altitude of almost 3,000 m. Despite this proximity there isn't a view to be had of M\'e9xico city. Even if an unexpected attack of heavenly flatulence were to part the smog there are numerous mountains ranges in the way. Toluca is located amongst these, effectively outside the central valley. The view in the opposite direction (westish) is dominated by Volcan Nevado de Toluca. An extinct crater whose menacing jagged rim extends just short of 5,000 m. The guide book description of a "rough road' leading up and into the crater and snowfalls from November to March was too much of a temptation not to go! The road actually isn't that bad, a family car can make the journey though usually reduced to a snails pace to avoid the worst of the jarring through the suspension.

From the base at about 3,500 m we looked up at the imposing black brown monolith. The jagged peaks of the irregular rim were as if the volcan were wearing a soot stained at an irregular drunken angle and sneering at us to attempt the folly of scaling it's heights. Folly, of course, if you hadn't already guessed is our mission statement so I screwed open the throttle. There was a gasping gurgling response from the carburettors, struggling to obtain enough air to mix with the fuel, before the reward of utterly modest accelleration, er sorry, legendary BMW performance, I meant to say. The climb was basically circular which afforded broad vistas of the surrounding valleys and ranges, limited unfortunately by some medium to long distance haze. The air became increasingly thin, chilled, as if losing sympathy for the mundane comforts of human existance. A caretaker, preparing a skiing hut for the coming season, waves a gloved hand in acknowledgement. Gradually the distinctive feel of high altitude began to surround us, seep through our clothing, peirce our nostrells, fill our lungs, pop our eustacian tubes. The unique sensations known to the Nepal trekker, the Andean hiker and a few the lunatic motorcycle tourers. Time apears to slow as your senses appear to highten. Every image takes on a sharper definition as if the world had suddenly come into focus after years of uncorrected myopia. Vast distances seem so close you could reach out and touch them. The silence is stunning but when broken the sound seems so pure, clear cut as if your ears have have become bionic.

Finally after thirty minutes of bouncing across the washouts and corrugations we burst over the rim. Before us was a central volcanic plug with a lifeless looking aquamaine shallow lake. Only a sparse of moss clumps and isolated tufts of stunted grasses can endure the caustic volcanic chemistry of the soil coupled with the harsh climate. The track winds around the plug, to reveal a second larger lake of subtly different colour towered over by the irregular perks and troughs of the rim behind. We park the swinehunt, after the engine it splutters to a stall on a closed throttle. The stillness, the silence, the elevated heartrate, the conscious action of laboured inhalation replace the concentration on the road surface, the motion and wind noise.

Nothing can prepare your cardio-vascular system for exercise at 4,600 m yet it seems natural that we should immediately discard our riding gear and attemopt to scale the slope to a vantage point high on the lip of the crater. Every step requires conviction, the will that though your head is pounding from your temples down to your bootlaces, your lungs are about to burst, your calves and quadrecepts are crying enough, there will be a relaease soon, some reward for these unlikely efforts. Alas, after half twenty minutes of struggle to reach one of the lower edges, the view is limited by haze and advancing cloud that swirls into the bowl, obscuring the peaks, teasing the rarefied air above the lakes like a final year high school flirt.

It's time to go as the early afternoon mist begins to assert domenance. The descent is easier mechanically, though requiring similar concentration mentally. Despite the swinehunt's condition (with the frame smashed into a bizzare angle by giant M\'e9xican pothole, wheels pointing at distinctly different angles and tilts to the the road surface) the quality of the suspension (Marzocci modified heavy duty sprung forks and WP Paris - Daker setting rear shocker) allows progress several time faster than an of the other vehicles we encounter on the ascent/descent. If only the BMW parts could be replaced it might work perfectly!

Although this sojurn to the volcan was an enjoyable digression, the real reason we are in Toluca is that it is an internet connection point for our global roaming network. Toluca isn't really an active part of the tourist circuit. So close to M\'e9Mexico City and without any really distinctive sights in the town itself, most travellers don't get past changing busses at the depot on their way elsewhere. Punishment enough if they are silly enough to take the bus I say!

The first and second day of November are two of the most important dates in the M\'e9xican calendar. El Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) is celebrated wildly throughout the length and breadth of the country. This is not a phenomenon that we in the developed west can easily fathom. M\'e9xicanos carouse during the proceeding week reflecting on the memories of their deceased relatives but definitly in a joyous rather than solemn way. There is feasting, rituals of making and buying highly decorated chocolate, icing sugar and sesame seed skulls, elaborate decoration of houses and workplaces with death images - coffins, skeletons, bones, skulls, etc. The greatest fixation and the climax of the Dia de los Muertos is on the night of 1/11 and day of 2/11 when family groups descend on cemeteries country wide to clean, tend than highly decorate graves of late relatives. There is a competitive edge to the phenomenon, where families compete to outdo each other with candles, flowers, wreathes and colourful crucifixes.

I can only speculate on the origins of this ritual but since ignorance has never proven a barrier to stubborn forthright indignation in the past I might as well have a go again now!

Let's look at M\'e9xicano life for the first clue. For a large percentage of the populace, death is closer to home in several ways than we (the comfortable ozzie suburbanite) know. Death is around the corner on the road - no brakes, no headlights in the dark, no fences to keep animals off. No warnings when the road clumsily falls into the valley after a tremor or heavy rain. No or limited medical resources. Death is as close as the next virulent microbe. Airborne, in the contaminated water from the upstream village, in the dodgy food that has to last an extra day or two without refrigeration. National health system chronically under resourced, can't afford a hospital? Next taker. Generations live together in the one household. From a young age M\'e9xican children know that a grand or greatgrandparent has or is about to die. They pass away in the family home in front of everybody, not hidden, their increasingly mortal condition on display, not out of sight in some nursing home or hospice.

Death is a close as the rusty knife wielded in a slum ghetto gang fight. As close as the next drug injection.

A traditional pre-hispanic fixation with violent death prevails. This is most obviously evident in roadside shrines to the splattered and crushed, routinely tended with elaborate decoration, candles and fresh flowers. This cult has it's roots pre-christian superstitions and and has been resisted by the catholic church. However by the number and extravegence of road side shrines, and the fact they are as prevalent in central Chile 5,000 km south, largely unsuccessfully!

Angangueo (2/11)

So you reckon I'm starting to go a bit soft? On the eve of the big four owh, lapsing into a middle age hippy flower power mid life dilemma? All you take no prisoners BEARs racers and black spur bravados are swearing never to retire from the bitumen sinew after this confession? OK so we \i did\i0 go to the butterfly sanctuary! But before you start guffawing about the mellowing of Ralphino let me fill you in on the rest of the facts.

We approached the first corner outside the small township just as the concreted rock fragments ended. I tipped into the uphill 180 deg hairpin. There was an instant loss of traction, suspension refusing to follow the unorthodox profile of the washouts and corrugations, failing to cope with the grapefruit size loose boulders. The bars burst a wild oscillation reminiscent of a windmill in a cyclone. Suddenly we were rolling backwards, front wheel locked by the brake, both rider and pillion frantically steering backwards, feet down trying to keep upright. When we came to at last to rest, I noticed the bike was approximately where we had left the hard surface. There was a brief period of regrouping to catch our breath, wait for the heart rate to fall, release 15 PSI from front and rear tyres and soften the damping settings. These innovations made the 7 km possible in 15 minutes, rather than comfortable. We had been pining for some challenging roads after discovering that in we were over equipped for the generally good condition of M\'e9Mexico 's byways, though a glance at the wheel alignment wouldn't support these sentiments.

When we did arrive at the end of the track , signalled by a rutted bog, a guide was waiting to take us up the 2km uphill path. This was a bit of a wheeze at 3000 m altitude up to where the Monarch Butterflies were beginning to congregate for a bit of extrovert communal reproduction, just before the onset of the winter. The mountain national park in question is covered by tall connifers who's branches are literally covered in those same black and orange butterflies common to the Ozzie springtime. A hunred acres or more of shimmering black and orange conifers must be a sight to behold but we were about a fortnight too early for the major arrivals of immigration insects from the north. What the guide did show us was several isolated trees deep within the nature reserve which had several branches covered with a quivering mass of colour

Patzcuaro (3/11 - 5/11)

This is an old colonial town, located next to a substantial natural lake with several small islands. Preserved in it's colonial state initially by good luck and/or neglect of development, more lately by government decree the dusty streets. Whitewashed buildings with overhanging red tile roofs plus preponderance of colourful local indigenous indians, most noticably in the large market, makes Patzcuaro an interesting place to visit. Despite the significant proportion of transient M\'e9xican and foreign tourists and a resident aging hippy western minority the town manages to retain that several hundred year time capsule feel. You don't need to pine for many of the comforts of civilization however. Good expresso coffee, drinkable wine. Only the food is a little of a disappointment. This last comment is being unkind to Patzcuaro. By M\'e9xican standards the standard of cuisine is representative. What has been brewing for the last few weeks between us gringo bikers finally came to a head. The quality of cuisine in the country certainly easily exceeds the lowest common denomenator style M\'e9xican restaurants in Australia - themselves based on the American idea of mass produced M\'e9xican food - in a word horrible! What brought this to the surface was a visit to a vegetarian restaurant for a change of culinary scenary. After we were served two, average by Melbourne standards, but never the less extra-ordinary compared to the last 7 weeks, plates of non carniverous tucker, we got into a discussion with the manager/waiter/chef.

We gringos (sample size = 2) find it impossible to fathum, when a wide range of vegetables is available at every town market we visit, why it is almost always impossible to progress beyond the chicken soup followed by rice then meat in sauce monotony of M\'e9xican restaurants. Do the campasinos (peasants) live on the good greens an' yellas while the emerging developing classes feast on meat every meal to demonstrate their social gains? If you had asked me a month or even slightly less ago how I found the local food I would have been (actually was -check earlier in the diary) much more complememtary. It's much beter than the food we sampled in Long Beach and Phoenix where we were instantly repelled. The restaurant boss thought it was a 'cultural thing' but failed to elaborate beyond this, preferring to concentrate on direction praise on his establishment.

Uruapan 6/11 - 9/11

I've just seen the news, tucked away in a small paragraph in a national M\'e9xican newspaper, somewhere between the weather and funeral notices. You hopeless mob of drongoes! Can't you get anything right when we are out of the country? Last time in '96 while we were lost in the Andes you voted in the bluetongues! Surely our guidance shouldn't be this keenly missed? I canna believe, this time, over 54% of you decided to throw you wretched lot in with that regressive lot again; that royal skirt tugger, backward looking, mental pipsqueak Howard and rejected a republic? And where were the ballot papers of Green and Jackson I hear an indignant chorus rising! Well we prefer to sit back and criticise rather than participate. Don't forget it's the knockers (referendums included), tall poppy and otherwise that\rquote s made this country great mate! No worries cobber, throw another prawn on the barbie, have another beer, she'll be right or slap me acrfoss the choppers with a double headed mullet! We'll keep sleeping with our toes to the west because our ancestors always did.

Another embarrasment, more personal this time. As soon as I criticise the countries food we arrive in a culinary paradise - relatively speaking of course. Uruapan (ur-ooh-AH-pan) the Avacado ("aguacate") capital of the world, so the sign proudly proclaimed on the highway on the way in, does extrordinally better foodwise. Not the Vic Market sort of variety or specialisation of course but you don't even have to especially ask to get a good helping of vegies or salad on a plate.

Ran into a local restaurant owner and the manager of our hotel in the foyer. They are confirmed motorcyclopaths and intend (unwisely perhaps) to ride BMWs each from M\'e9xico to South America next year. After some brief discussion a dinner engagement was organised for the proceeding night so I could warn them of their folly. A larger group than expected turned up for several hours discussion, really giving our Spanish a thorough workout. These guys are the local "captians of industry" , big fish in a small pond perhaps, but like your typical motorcyclist they haven't been trapped by that comfortable, conservative descent into the safety zone of middle age. There is still that joyfull spark of youth shining through, they want to embrace life rather than shrink back into a home sanctuary that shields them from the nasty reality of the outside world. These experiences are certainly not unique to this location or this trip. There is a case for a world brotherhood of motorcycling. The local motorcycle mafia don't seem to have quite got the equation correct, though. A little less work, a little less income but the time to enjoy it would redress the balance. The morning after this "conference" the swinehunt sheared off the bolt that connects the bottom of the rear shock mount to the rear hub. We were on our way out of town for a day trip ride down through the southern ranges. Fortunately we were only partially laden and going at a relatively slow speed. The sensation was unusual. Suddenly the rear squatted almost half a metre as if the swinehunt had been devinely transformed into a purple easy rider. Nothing locked up so we cruised to a stop and inspected the damage. This is likely to be a further result of the massive impact that bent the frame so severely to wildly mis-align the wheels almost 5,000 km ago.

One of the local motocyclopaths we were talking to the night before - Arturo - owns a truck spares and deisel engine rebuilding business in town. This made him stop number one on our search for salvation. With the swinehunt temporarily patched and Mary Ann leading the way in a taxi, (fortuitously driven by one of Arturo's previous employees of 11 years) we made it to the business premises without further incident. A few hours later it was fixed by the local bike shop extracting the broken bolt end with an easy out and the local engineering shop drilling, tapping and inserting a replacement threaded rod. During this time Arturo lent us his spankers BMW F650 to shoot down the canyon roads south of town for an hour or so including a lesuirly BBQ charcoal chicken lunch at a roadside restaurant. The least I could do was reward him with a good bottle of scotch which he was reluctant to accept.

Another non-BMW part in the bike. It must be getting more reliable all the time!

Mazamitla (10/11) , Colima (11/11) or not?

While these towns are worth of some comment, my mind, I confess, has been wandering elsewhere. Since Oaxaca (see previously) a sence of finality, of completion, relaxation even, has descended. It's of the end of journey, adrenaline pause, all of of sudden I feel very tired type. A bit like after you finish your final session of laps at Phillip Island on a Ducati Owners Club Funday on opening the first beer. This is due to two factors. Firstly the mental tyranny of constant expectation (soundly based, on prior years of ownership) that the next inevitable mechanical or electrical failure is just around the corner, possibly immenent. The second is entirely personal in that, in my own mind, Oaxaca, was the last of the "must see" destinations and therefore the flag that the holiday was coming to a close. Thus I now feel fulfilled, ready for the worst. Well, perhaps not another broken bone and 3\super rd\nosupersub world surgery as occurred in Peru in '96!

Para\'edso (12/11 -14/11) \par

b Paraiso (\i Langenscheidt Pocket Spanish/English, English/Spanish dictionary definition: \i0 "paradise, heaven").

Paradise lies on the M\'e9xican mid-pacific coast. A tiny dot, found on only the largest scale most detailed maps. Lost in the vast coconut palm plantations that dominate the coastal plain for hundreds of kilometers. These run in a blanket from the base of the jagged Sierra Madre Occidental range to the very edge of the dunes. The palms are staggering higher than I have previously experienced, their slender trunks tilting up to 30 meters into the sky, crowns clustered with green brown fruit, fronds gently gesturing to the distant mountains in the cooling sea breezes. Below, dwarfed by their tall elegance, small clusters of banana trees struggle to assert their presence, branches weighed with bunches ripe for harvest. In harsh contrast to this bountiful serenity is the restless menovelence of the ocean. The surf is vengeful, contemptuous of any object in it's path. Crashing day and night, at it's loudest like rippling thunderclaps, linked by intervals of gruff reverberation. The threat comes not so much for their height, reaching to around three meters, but rather for the sheer energy discharge. In a few isolated areas where rocks cann be found the wave action pounds them together letting out a series of rappid staccio crackles firstly from the wash, closely followed by the rip. Actual waves form quickly in the rip. Those running parrellel to the incoming waves collide with a slap sending a thin shaft of foam high into the air. Those counter but oblique set up a bizzare zipper-like action that scurries across the surface dragging your eyes with it. The atmosphere is rich with a haze of salt spray as if the beach was generating it's own cloud formation. Spectacles, sunglasses need constant wiping, a thin crust of salt begins to form in your hair and beard!

It is possible to enter the water but, I confess, a stubborn reluctance to venture beyond chest deep. This is far enough to suffer the brunt of the waves crashing against you, throwing you wildly around in the turbulance as you struggle to keep your feet. Then, when recovery seems possible, the opposing forces of undertow are draging you back out again, sucking the very sand on which you stand out from under your feet, exposing bivalves and marine worms who tickle your soles, while fingerlings race back and forth brushing your ankles. Five minutes is enough to conclude this habitat is no more habitable for human habitation than the bottom of the first ruck after the opening whistle on grand final day. Yet some do endure, mostly to surf suffering the ferocious dumpings

The sand is almost jet black, yet sand it is, by texture, by the familiar squeaking underfoot, by the way it seeks out residence in your intimate crevaces! Initially both a surprise and disappointment, the sleekness of it's shimmering ebony gradually steals it's way into your empathy.

The prime seat for observation of paradise is the Hotel Paraiso, by default the only of the three hotels above the state of condemnation, though this no building engineers opinion. The prementioned forces of nature may however soon lay claim to this. It was built, as is often the case in environmentally unconscious M\'e9xico, right on the beach, in front of the dune vegitation. This was I'd guess around twenty years ago. The height of the sand immediately in front has since receded three meters, exposing the foundations of the building against which the high tide intimidatingly constantly crashes. At low tide some scant protection is provided by several truck loads of boulders dumped at the most exposed seaward corner. From the hotel rooms set back a few meters the ferocity is little diminmished, the most intimate sounds of the ocean are your constant companion. I find myself touching a wall after a particularly defening breaker crashes in, testing as to whether the building is actually shaking. The hotel's public space is a fifty meter thatched "Palapa style" gable roof, under which tableclothed plastic tables and chairs streatch in orderly rows. Whole days can easily be whiled away here, watching the combatant surf, reading novels and newspapers, eating steaming bowls of locally caught seafood with a few beer chasers or if you prefer something a little more tropical, "jarras de aguacoco con ginebra" (jugs of gin and fresh coconut juice). The "town", little more than sandy partially cobbled street and a cluster of ramshackle buildings, offers little distraction, other than a souce of beer and skittles when the hotel kitchen closes daily at 6pm. This may sound suprising but business is 90% from M\'e9xican day trippers after spot of sun, a hint of surf, a serve of relaxation and a splurge of mid afternoon seafood lunch. The food is good and cheap enough to keep you coming back for several days, even if the service is somewhat eccentric.

What drove us out after three nights was the voraciousness of the mosquitos. Impossible to keep out of the room despite full intact screens on all windows. The local variety flies silently in the dark of night. Is as swift and manouverable in flight as a housefly and, increadibly, seems resistant to amounts of aerosol insectacide that would put a flock of pterodactyls belly up! Better not forget to take those malarial prophylactic tablets for four weeks after getting home.

There are other sure signs that nature is winning. The thatch won't survive the next cyclone, metal reinforcing inside the concrete is rusting, bursting it's way out into the salt air. In diffidence to regular maintance, the place is literally falling apart. Soon Paradise WILL be lost! But then, it is the nature IS the real attraction anyway.

Barra de Navidad (15&16/11)

This is a real contrast, and not just because the sand is yella. Almost more gringo's than local M\'e9xicanos. Because they are virtually all yanks everybody assumes we are as well. Mary Ann gets (cue septic tank accent) "Are yuu fraam Minnesota?" yelled at her when emerging knackered after half an hours exercise in the gentle sea swell. About a hundred km north of Paraiso this is a yachties and deep sea fisherman's hangout. Since both these activities are beyond the pocket (and possibly desire) of the majority of M\'e9xicanos it is the holidayers and retirees from the north that the local industries (read tourism) cater for. This has minimal advantages for us however with a grip on the lingo and almost three months experience of the culture. We can put up with being spoken to in bad english. After all we have been emanating our bastardized language school castilla\'f1o since we arrived.

What I (with complete agreement from Mary Ann who's hearing is more acute) do feel totally justified in carping about is the, unreal, soap operatic, saccharine-sincere, wallowing in mutural condolence, ultimately utterly pathetic, life story confessions of the semi-resident and holidaying yanks. Why does their level of conversation have to be so loud? Even at the opposite end of an open air restaurant every word rings out, making their drivel impossible to ignore! At the risk of estranging \i the \i0 reader I will endeavor to give an example from memory. Here goes:

Middle age male septic -\f1 \i " When she hit me with the separation, you know, I thought I'd do the right thing by the kids and go quietly. Not make a fuss that would cause problems. I ended up, kicked outa home with just $15, yeah that's right $15 in the bank!. I thought the kids would appreciate that, you know, being older at the time but, narr, they don't give a shit, even think that it's a failure on my part because some of them were still living with her for a while after the divorce! Then \'85\'85

Middle aged female septic interjection-'85\'85. Well I've been a barmaid for 23 years and I've heard a lot a peoples hurts and curses. I've had a lota heartache poured out over the bar, night after night an' a lot a my own as well. I tell you, when I went through my first divorce \'85\'85\'85

(Continue, ad infinitum, slotting in you favorite soapy cliched lines!)

Is this their version of reality? I kept looking around for a "Days of our Lives" TV camera! Is life in the USA really this this corny? I just dunno and am afraid that I might not cope well with finding out!

The ride out of Barra to Guadalajara was all the more poignant, being the last leg of our three months and 13,000 km. An appropriate time to reflect on what makes riding in M\'e9xico attractive.

Riding in M\'e9xico

In my experience of around 10 countries, in Latin America and South East Asia, riding overseas is really not a lot different from Oz. Similar considerations apply like, assuming all other road users are, in the next instant, going to run into or over you. That around the next corner there will be something unexpected, so having a little in reserve is always advisable. But any rider that makes it through the first 4 years alive or only modestly scarred, knows these survival skills. OK, so what is actually different?

The right hand side of the road of course but, assuming you aren't going from a C90 to an Amazonas, the adaptation is quicker than for a car. The gearshift doesn't swap sides on a bike! Left hand turns, across the oncoming traffic, require some concentration for the first week. In M\'e9xico the roads are surprisingly well surfaced but you still need a high clearance vehicle! The explanation for this is topes - speed reduction devices that are basically vicious speed bumps. They are on all secondary and minor roads, on the way into a town, sometimes through the town and always on the way out again. Often about 100m apart but this varies enormously so cannot be relied upon. Neither can the presence of roadside "topes x meters" warning signs. These bitumen or concrete mounds are painted on installation but this quickly wears off and/or gets covered in oil and road grime. Consequently you can't avoid accidentally running into some of them at speed. This would smash off the lower fairing of any so equipped road bike and possibly cause damage to the sump, stands and exhausts. The Swinehunt's long travel suspension copes with most but the sump guard / bash plate is left carrying a few scars. With experience you begin to look for the indications, like buildings, pedestrians, donkey carts, anything that signifies you may be approaching a town. Less threatening than topes are vibradores -which are shallow closely spaced concrete corrugations. These give a similar sensation as riding over a cattle grid although when raised (often) require similar caution to topes. But you don't need a swinehunt, particularly if you are one up without a lot of luggage and don't intend to tackle the worst dirt roads. Any \i naked bike \i0 (il monstro 900M heads the list) with a bash plate adaptation would be ideal. A fairing would only be of some use in the flatter N W for covering the bigger distances or if time constrictions forced usage of a lot of the (toll) freeways.

There are lots of toll (Cuota) roads in M\'e9xico. These are usually of freeway or similar multi-lane standard but their use quickly becomes horrifically expensive. Like up to $AUS2 per kilometer! Makes City Link look like a bargain! In a majority of cases there is also a non-toll(Libre)alternative, usually the old pre-freeway road linking and passing through the towns along the way. Signage showing how and where to get off the toll roads to reach a certain destination is sufficiently poor often enough to get the juices flowing amongst conspiracy theorists. Counter to this, the signage on libre routes is similarly bad! We found ourselves surrendering to the tollways after endless circles and topes on a couple of confused occasions in the more populous areas close to, but still outside, M\'e9xico City.

There are very good reasons for choosing to ride in M\'e9xico. The country is very mountainous by world standards. Keep off the tollways and you can enjoy thousands of kilometeres of great swervery with a backdrop of stunning high altitude scenery. Furthermore most roads carry only light traffic, the police are conspicuously absent and the M\'e9xicanos generally less aggressive than might be predicted given Latin macho mythology. While the altitudes are lower than Nepal or the higher Andean regions of South America you still get that head in the clouds feel but without, for the most part, the extreme respiratory demands of 4,000 m and upwards. Along with the constant up, down, left right comes an amazing variety of scenery. Despite the proximity of Caribbean beaches and tropical rain and cloud forests, you can still be freezing cold and with snow on your visor within an a hour's ride. The north endlessly rewards you with the sort of cactus studded badlands backdrop that the legendary director of the most atmospheric westerns movies, Sam Pekenpah so loved. There remains much to be said about the experience of riding a foreign culture but this is a topic for another aside.

Guadalajara (17 - 23/11)

I've given it away. A dull sense of loss, emasculation even, assumes the void. What is there now to set us apart from your garden variety backpacker (apart from having a Gearsack tankbag as a backpack). Far worse is the contemplation of the remaining methods of mobility! A man is truly nothing without a motorbicycle!

Mexico City 24 - 28/11

The biggest and the smokiest of the big smokes!

Quotation of statistics have proven sufficiently stupefying, alienating and/or boring to alienate many. Stephen Hawking in his "A Brief History of Time" suggested that every time you quote an equation in the text you reduce your readership by half! Bertrand Russell did not believe that man could be moved by statistics. According to the big R one could quote the morbidity and mortality statistics of Bangladesh, Cambodia or East Timor eliciting no more than a furrowed brow, but the presence of only one dying child would result in immediate action driven by the anguish of personal confrontation. Despite the risk then, that \i the \i0 Reader may feel compelled to close one eye, the statistics are justifyingly mind-boggling enough to quote:

Twenty six million people. The peripheral shanty towns are estimated to be growing by 2000 people a day, mostly desperate economic refugees from rural M\'e9xico gambling on the possibility of improving their lot in the megalopolis. When Cortez arrived the Aztec city of \i Tenochtitl\'e1n \i0 was estimated as population 200,000 (and within the whole Valley of M\'e9xico about 1.5 million). Thus four hundred years ago it was already one of the most densely populous cities of the world. By the early 19\super th\nosupersub century the city had grown to 160,000 and by 1910 almost half a million. In the 1940's and 50's industrial investment saw an average growth of 7% annually with the first appearance of the peripheral shanty towns. Things have just accelerated from then with a minimum of control, planning, foresight or intervention. Some of the industrial centers of mainland China may have worse air, possibly even equal traffic congestion but communist paranoia prevents the release of such information even if estimates or studies have determined figures. This leaves M\'e9xico City as theworldwide example, the fascinating insight into the future. Is this a foretaste of what the increasing urbanization of the countries of the world is leading to? If so what can be learnt and is it necessarily all bad news?

OK what is it actually be like? On the street, mixing it with the downtown M\'e9xicano districto federales?

Our first experience was from the air. According to the ticket schedule we should have been circling for a runway as the sun was setting. The reality, much like flying to Sydney (wait till the limpics start!) was that there were considerable delays. The decision, that day, by the government aviation authority to suspend the license of one of the internal airlines to fly, following a recent air crash, may have caused a little chaos. Anyhow from the air at night it is immense, as you might expect, endlessly filling the restriction of the DC-9 window in all directions to distant horizons. Broken only by the occasional dark form of a park or hill towers winking irregularly back at us, that has been saved from development, planned or otherwise. What is different from passing over a nighttime Oz city is the randomness. There are no neat, straight lines of modern street lights. Nor is this glistening spectacle made up of lights of the same brightness or colour. More like an immense lighting warehouse laid out by toss of the dice where some display stock is reaching the end of it's useful life! Arriving by air gives no insight into the desperation, disease, poverty and crime of the outer shanties. Thus I can only report our experiences gained from various locations within 12km of the center. Ugliness, violence, suffering, death and tragedy are the ingredients of "newsworthy" reporting. Undoubtedly in a megalopolis of this size combined with grossly inequitable division of inadequate resources these sensation-isms are ever-present. The inner areas while not free from the anguish of the darker side of the human experience, aren't likely, given the concentration of wealth, to reflect the worst desperation.

I'm pleased to report, on a limited experience of four days at the end of November that all the negatives seem unjustified. M\'e9xico City is an elegant if frenetic, with striking architecture, impressive public spaces and a strong sense of it's tragic and violent history. This doesn't preclude a modern optimism about the future (Europe take notice), tinged with the realization that, although it may be ready to fall in with popular economic theories and globalism, the results are a likely escalation the country's social justice problems. The casual tourist however need not concern themselves with such things. M\'e9xico City is an organism barely controlled by legislation, convention or even it seems at times laws of physics. Nowhere else in Latin America have I experienced such an intense colourful street life. Devouring your constant attention, desperate to satisfy your every whim with food drink, gadgets gimmicks, entertainment, the footpaths are a wild circus exploding before you at every uneven step along a crooked, uneven pavement. The street food is sensational in it's availability, flavour and variety, rungs above most restaurants in the rest of the country. For a couple of dollars one can experiment sampling a range of freshly cooked on the spot snacks or plates for a few pesos. Never a plate of nachos in sight! It's not just food which is on offer though. The street stalls appear to work in shifts. As soon as one packs up another moves in to take the space. It is often difficult to walk without having to constantly swerve, duck and step over produce, gadgets, clothing, footwear, pirate CDs, etc.

There is certainly pollution. Visibility up any of the CBD's main avenues was at best 2-3 km before merging into the gray haze. This however caused us no obvious respiratory discomfort. I'm prepared to admit that my lungs mightn't be the ideal litmus paper being partial to the occasional Cuban cigar. Mary Ann though was a lot less gurgly than during a "north wind" day in Melbourne. There is certainly also traffic. We took a couple of cab rides that were a little slow in progress but not the nightmare one might expect. I'd chosen to dispose of the swinehunt before coming to M\'e9xico City but on reflection it wouldn't appear any more difficult than riding in Bangkok or Kuala Lumpur.

These perceived discomforts and inconveniences pale into insignificance when contrasted with what the city has to offer. A full listing would take several pages but here's a few of the outstanding highlights. An astonishing array of museums including the world's best anthropology museum featuring a rich array of the cultural artifacts of the many great pre-Hispanic meso-american civilizations. The world's second largest (after Moscow's Red) public square where the full gamut of the countries active public/political protest is daily displayed. A rich cultural and artistic heritage based on a fascinating fusion of ancient indigenous tribal belief molded into an unlikely but unique collusion with Spanish vitality and catholic stoicism. Impressive public and historic buildings that due to the instabilities of the city being constructed on an an