Typhoon

Saigon, Thanksgiving Day 2007

Yesterday I was young and invincible. Underground, in the low dark tunnels of Cuchi, I was playing a Viet Cong soldier. Crouching, I moved as fast as I could, imagining myself with a rifle, ready to strike the enemy in the jungle above. In those years I was a soldier too. Drenched in sweat, I wriggled out through the narrow hatch. Maybe the pleasant cool breeze outside, was the first hint to the coming storm.

Back at the guesthouse, the newscaster showed Typhoon Hagibis heading for the city. Saigon is rarely visited by typhoons, and the residents were apprehensive. Having experienced a Typhoon in Hue, I was not concerned. There, as the rains turned the sidewalks into riverbanks, and dark-tanned women, in wooden canoes, offered ferry service through the flooded alleys. Fun. Only later did we learn of casualties in the rural areas. I stretched in bed with Lonely Planet. Unconsciously, my hand wandered where it usually wanders when it has no assigned task. Suddenly lightning struck through my finger. My body froze, my breathing stopped. I felt an alien sensation on my testicle. I touched it again. No mistake, it's a small, hard lump. The lump became the center of my universe. How long did I have this? Is this cancer? How do I find out? What's next? Exhausting the questions, I turned to meditation, and after a while, I fell asleep.

Today, I woke up to cloudy sky. Hagibis will make landfall tomorrow. Google confirmed my symptoms. Testicular cancer is rare, and when caught early, it is almost always curable. Rare and curable, those are pretty good odds. I continued with today's plan, and made a reservation in a highly recommended spa. Vietnamese massage is reputed to be excellent.

The heavy overcast made the walk to the spa comfortably cool. I sank into a deep sofa in a candle-lit room. Soft music was playing in the background. I focused on the sharp sensations, administered to my foot by a pretty young woman, and slowly relaxed. Half way through the session, the electricity died. Must be the typhoon. The massage continued even better without the music. Just me and my breathing. I decided to see a doctor.

Outside, the wind blew my hat off. I tightened the rubber band and continued to the local urgent care clinic. The clinic was a corridor open to the street. The grayish paint on the walls was peeling in spots, and as my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could see people silently sitting on benches along the walls. The receptionist was busy stamping forms and attempted to ignore my questions. Finally, a nurse arrived. Now I got it. The receptionist wasn't rude, she just couldn't speak English.
- I would like to see an English-speaking doctor.
- What's the problem?
- Can I see the doctor?.
- Wait here.
- How long?
The last question must have been too much. The nurse called an attendant who escorted me through a saloon-style swinging door and motioned for me to sit. I did not want to be there. I tried to entertain myself and Adi by outlining the possible outcomes, and concluded that even if I have cancer, I will not die young. The humor did not go well. A few more sullen patients were ushered into the room. We walked out.

The Lonely Planet map indicated that the French-run clinic was a bit closer than the clinic run by the "Well respected Rafi Kot". Navigating towards it, we passed the restaurant that introduced us to Ap Chao Xao (Beef and vegetables are served on a bed of fried noodles. You make a lettuce wrap and stuff it into your mouth.) The heavenly taste and texture which I anticipated, did not materialize. The food was bland, and the beer did not help.

The temperature dropped. Other pedestrians were wearing jackets. The automatic door opened smoothly and silently to an environment that could fit any high class clinic in the US. Here, in this bright clean room, It felt better to be sick. In professional English I was informed of the price ($90), instructed to fill a questionnaire, and was asked to sit. Again? Am I wasting my time? What can the doctor do other than ask me to monitor the lump? He could recommend a biopsy. Ouch. Not much else. I passed the time reading an article on the clinic's aid to the Bali bombing victims. Shortly, a friendly looking doctor called me to his room. He too felt the lump and ordered an ultrasound exam. I felt stupid. How could I forget Ultrasound? Especially me. I worked on that stuff.

The ultrasound will not be available till four. A full bladder is recommended for the test, and I should not go to the bathroom till then. That was enough time to visit the former Presidential Palace. Strolling through the palace, I was more aware of the WC signs than the ornate reception halls. On the way back, a lucky man was urinating in the alley. It was almost dark. I felt rain drops.

The urologist and I exchanged pleasantries.
- What are your plans?
- I was thinking of going to the Mekong Delta tomorrow, but with the typhoon coming, I am not sure.
- Don't go. You can get stuck in a flood, and in Vietnam there is no helicopter rescue.

As I undressed and sat on the examination table he reassured me.
- Nothing to worry about. This kind of cancer we can cure almost 100% percent of the time.
- What's the cure, radiation?
- Well, first surgery, than depending on the situation, radiation, chemotherapy, or both.

The doctor applied gel and started to scan my balls. He was slow and methodical. Lying there not daring to move, I tried to decide which country would be better for undergoing chemotherapy. After a long while, the doctor paused and showed me the screen. The tumor is attached to the epi-something, not to the testicle, and therefore with 95% confidence, it is benign.

The rest of the exam passed quickly. No other tumors were found. Nonetheless, the doctor recommended a CT scan, to make sure. I made an appointment for tomorrow but I was already brave enough to doubt the necessity of the procedure.

Epilogue

The next morning the best doctor I know, my brother, confirmed that the CT scan is not required. Hagibis slowed down, was downgraded to a tropical storm and veered back to the Pacific Ocean. Saigon did not see any rain.

Vietnamese 101

Here is how I passed my first Vietnamese Language test.

I needed a jacket. After ten days in Dalat, it was time to venture out of town. The highway leading North from Dalat crosses the Central Highlands along the wartime Ho Chi Min Trail. Lonely Planet proclaimed it "A wonderful motorcycling road". Even in the tropics, riding at an elevation of 1500 meters, I needed protection against the chilly air. Cho (market) Dalat was the obvious shopping destination.

As I started down the staired road leading to the market, a middle aged woman unfurled a huge bundle, and spread a colorful array of jackets on the steps right under my feet. In a melodic tone with the diction of an auctioneer, she started chanting 'milame, milame'... Right next to her, another woman spread her merchandise and started her own chant. A young man with a bigger bundle and louder voice positioned himself a bit lower on the stairs. More followed. Within seconds there was hardly room to walk through the piles of clothes of all types. All the vendors were chanting, bringing to life the market scene from Porgy and Bess. The first pile was mine. The vendor kept tumbling the pile, washing-machine style so that sequentially all items were exposed. In the jumble of jackets, I managed to find the one that was the right size, material, and color, and was also not too blemished. It was time to settle on the price.

Here I need to digress.
In Vietnam, every price is negotiated. Anywhere. Even in the street stall selling Pho Bo (Noodle soup with beef), where the price has been long established, the hardy Vietnamese will negotiate for a few more condiments in the bowl. A westerner in Vietnam is faced with an additional problem. The starting price for a foreigner is higher than for locals. My unscientific survey shows a 50% increase for an experienced foreigner, while a wide eyed tourist may be asked twice or three times the going rate. You can often feel the split second hesitation when they try to place you in the correct category. The occasional error is quickly fixed with a smile, with no one loosing face. The nice aspect of haggling in Vietnam is that the process is short. You are not subjected the middle-eastern laments of hardship and loss. You offer half the asking price, and after a couple of rounds, the Vietnamese vendor seems to loose interest, says "No" and turns away. At this point, you most likely hit the vendors price target for foreigners. Only if you walk away, and the vendor doesn't call after you "OK, OK", do you know enough for negotiating in the next stall. To me, each purchase is a psychological adventure, though frequently I tire of the process and let myself be overcharged a couple of dimes for a bottle of the local wine (Vang Dalat: $2.00).

Back to the jacket.
I came to the market armed with two negotiating tools: A target price, and patience. Now straddling the pile of jackets I tried the third tool, watching what the locals are paying, The transactions were few and too fast to observe. Where is the negotiation? That's when inspiration struck. What if the chant contains the price? I replayed the chant at slow speed. Could it be that Mi-lam-e, is actually muoi-nam (-eh) meaning fifteen? I handed the vendor fifteen thousand Dong and was acknowledged with a thank you smile. That's how I passed my first Vietnamese Language test, and became the proud owner of a ninety five cent jacket.

Ha Noi Traffic

But how do you cross the street?

On my first sight of the Ha Noi traffic, I recalled the hypnotizing display greeting visitors to the Monterrey Aquarium. A large school of sardines swims in unison in a continuous stream of silver. In Ha Noi, thousands of small motorbikes flow through the boulevard without any interruption or gaps. Spacing between bikes is so tight that some riders carry on a conversation while in motion. However, unlike the aquarium, this scene is not quiet. A prudent Vietnamese driver will produce a series of shrill honks aimed at any potential impediment. The combined sight and sound is mind numbing.

Traffic lights in Ha Noi are rare, so eventually you will face the need to cross the motorized river. Suddenly, the Sardines turn into Barracuda and you stand on the edge of the curb, frozen with fear. You watch the locals gracefully glide across. It's time to act.

Slow your breathing. Look for the slightest gap in traffic, and take the first step. Open your eyes. You are in the water, Barracuda swooshing within inches of your face, and you are still alive. On your second step, the motorbike that was going to run you over accelerates and swerves to the left. The next rider, slows a fraction, and swerves to the right. A protective bubble forms around you as you steadily move deeper. The bubble is also impervious to noise. Engine and horn sounds diminish, and disappear. You are in a meditative state. The traffic miraculously clears in front of you and resumes in your wake. That's how Moses must have felt.

Many Westerners never overcome their fear. They stand on the curb waiting for someone to go, and then join the journey on your lee side. The brave, with practice, improve their skills, but the act never becomes routine. Each time you climb unto the opposite curb, you feel that Adrenalin High.

So how do you cross a Ha Noi street? Very, very, slowly.

Rafting the Li

Yangshuo is the place to be amazed at beautiful limestone hills sprouting upward from flat green valleys. It is a view seen on many traditional Chinese paintings. Nowhere are these peaks more marvelous than along the Li River. Many visitors come to Yangshuo in large tour boats that navigate the Li. It's probably a pleasant voyage. However, I have become allergic to cruise boats and megaphones. Besides, it costs more than seventy bucks. I came by bus.

For several days in Yangshuo I hiked, I biked, and saw many beautiful peaks, but the Li river views kept calling me. One segment of the river was supposedly the best. It has interesting peaks and one of its views is even immortalized on the back of the 20 Yuan note. A bus could take me to Yangdi, the beginning of that section, I could then float down river, and take a bus back from Xingping. There was one hitch. No one in Yangshuo knew if this trip can be done. The twenty-passenger "Farmer boats" which ply the river between villages, were deemed by the authorities to be too dangerous , and are barred from carrying passengers. Maybe, if it's early in the morning, before the police arrive on the river... Early the next morning I boarded the bus.

The bus terminal in the sleepy village of Yangdi is right on the river front. There were few tourists and only one "Farmer boat". It was there to take hikers to the other side of the river where they begin the five hour hike to Xingping (I am not stupid. That was plan B). My dilemma didn't last long. Anywhere in China, it takes less than 5 seconds for a stationary tourist to be approached by a woman selling some tourist attraction. In this case a bamboo raft. These rafts are composed of about 10 bamboo stalks hitched together, a small engine mounted at one end, and a couple of easy chairs nailed to the center. They are used by locals for fishing, transportation, and taking tourists on short rides. The woman was not surprised at my request. Brief negotiation reduced the (low) price, and a lengthy mobile phone conversation eventually produced her husband on a raft. I figured that if we get arrested by the police boat which I saw just minutes ago, it's his problem.

We pushed off and entered the current. Within minutes, a similar raft, floating ahead, must have made some error. It overturned and dumped it's occupants, a family of three, and a big camera bag, into the river. Now I noticed that there are no life jackets on board. I have overturned more than one canoe in my time, so I watched carefully as the "Captain" maneuvered the raft. Just than, the motor died. The captain was frantically pulling the start cord. I grabbed the one oar and tried to align the raft. Thankfully, the tension did not last long. We made it. The overturned passengers also climbed ashore wet but safe. Soon, the motor started, only to stop again on several occasions later. Otherwise, the trip continued calmly. Cruise boats passed by. I could hear the megaphones blaring while their wake washed over my Teva sandals. Suddenly I heard the Captain shouting over the din of the motor. I turned. He emphatically insisted that I take his cigarette pack. OK? After some further gesturing I understood. The view ahead was the same as the one on the cigarette label. Later came the 20 Yuan view, and Xingping.

By the way, did I mention that the river was, at most, a hundred meters wide, the tallest white water was about 10 centimeters, and the overturned passengers made it back by wading in water up to their waist? Why ruin a good story?

For more Yangshuo pictures go to

http://picasaweb.google.com/isaac.ohel/AdriftInAsia/photo#5118522271372681298

Expectations

Expectations

I came to China expecting to experience its changing culture, absorb its natural beauty, and marvel at the grand historical monuments. I now know that in a first visit, fulfilling all these expectations will be difficult. China has put language, noise, and crowds as the main obstacles between me and my expectations. Accepting these obstacles as part of China, allowed me to enjoy my visit here.

Frustrations

The morning after my arrival, I stepped out of the hotel into a world totally devoid of English. It felt like a sudden transition from light to darkness. I don't recall having this feeling in my previous travels, and I certainly did not expect this in the capital of a world super power. As you move farther from Beijing, the center of the Chinese universe, the situation gets worse. People assume you speak Mandarin. There is one exception to the lack of English. All vendors, touts, and guides, know at least one word in English, which they use loudly anytime a foreigner is within visual range "Hello!". Soon this sound starts to annoy, and the hope of a discussion of the Cultural Revolution starts to fade. I had to adjust. Hand signals and the Chinese phrase pages which I tore out of the Lonely Planet guidebook allow me to handle travel practicalities. I learned to appreciate small pleasures. The vendor that can count in English and say "Bye", the university student that haltingly but happily translates the menu, and mostly the middle school girls that giggle and practice their homework: "Welcome to China. Where are you from?". The culture is changing, but If I am to capture it, I will have to master the language or slow down and find a local friend.

Now, in the safety of my room overlooking the Tuo River, I can recall scenes in Chinese movies of fearless leaders wielding megaphones. These grainy black and white images of an officer rallying troops to battle, a party official promoting the Great Leap Forward, or a young student inciting his fellow students to riot, are alive in the form of the Tour Guide. A Chinese tour guide comes equipped with a microphone that seems to be surgically attached to her mouth, and a loudspeaker that is either hand carried or hangs from her belt. In either case, it is permanently set at "Stun". While cruising down the Yangtze river, the thirty-something Chinese couple sharing the cabin did not object to turning the overhead speaker off. The continuous public announcements came in clearly from the rest of the speakers on the ship. Passing through each of the three gorges, when all passengers gathered on deck, it was harder to avoid the noise. The tour guides joined us to provide a running narration. Escape was possible by moving to the other side of the ship. It was not until the side trip to the "Little Three Gorges" that the full impact of the weapon hit me. Corralled on a small boat, there was no escape. A tour guides set herself at the back of the boat, and for four hours, as we floated on clean blue water between sheer walls rising high above, the megaphone blared without pause. (What can be said at such length?). The river was quiet, the scenery beautiful, but the high volume in that close proximity turned the experience into a splitting headache. On the next side excursion, while attending a folk performance I finally got it. I rolled two wads of toilet paper into my ears and enjoyed the beautiful costumes while avoiding the worst of the sound system. On land, the incredibly shrill car horns add to the discomfort. The Chinese seem to relish the noise. Maybe generations of exposure resulted in survival of the deafest. For all others, add ear plugs to your packing list.

As for the crowds, I cannot claim to be surprised. Almost all location descriptions in Lonely Planet have some disclaimer in the form of "…despite the swarms of Chinese tourists…". It makes sense that with increasing wealth and the freedom to travel, one billion people can easily saturate the relatively few spots on the tourism map. (Do the math, it's fun). Still, on the first few times the view is intimidating. Dozens and dozens of groups, each obediently following a flag carrying tour guide (with a megaphone of course) cover the grounds of any site worth visiting. I, for whom traveling includes the feeling (usually imaginary) of discovery, and a search for (relative) solitude, needed an attitude adjustment to be able to share the space with so many. Fortunately, it was an easy adjustment. Chinese tourists, are not Israelis. While not exactly quiet, they are not intrusive, they are always in a good mood, and seem to appreciate their surroundings. So once I learned to wait my turn and slow my pace, even my mild annoyance faded.

Rewards

Language, noise, and crowds, are obstacles but not barriers.

Culture can be observed even without a common language. The people are friendly. A smile is always returned, and an attempt at speaking Chinese is warmly welcomed. Foreigners are still a rarity to some Chinese. Tourists approach and ask to have a joint photo with me (See example above). If a Chinese can speak a few words in English, they will try to communicate, and if they don't, they do their best to be helpful in Chinese. The wide gaps in the society are visually evident too. The fashionably dressed city tourists, point their fancy cameras at a barefoot farmer wearing the traditional straw hat who is using a hoe to turn the earth in his small rice field.

The natural beauty of China can hold it's own against the megaphones. The cliffs in the narrow Yangtze river gorges tower 1000 meters over the water. The knowledge that the dam has reduced that height by 100 meters does not reduce to feeling of awe. Another superlative can be encountered in Wulingyuan Park. Karst columns over 300 meters high are closely placed in any direction you turn. Their irregular shapes and groupings prompted names such as the obvious "Mother and Son", and the not so obvious "The four beauties waiting for the Generalissimo". It did not take long for me to start attaching my own names and stories to some towers. The following day the clear sky turned to rain, the peaks drifted in and out of the clouds and mist swirled around the columns. The same towers now turned into supernatural, mysterious creatures.

Appreciating China's history was easy. The forbidden city is so splendid and huge that the thousands of tourist strolling the golden halls and decorated courtyards do not detract from it's splendour. On the contrary, they help your imagination appreciate the grandeur, and recall the scenes from the "Last Emperor". The amount of engineering and labor that went into building the Great Wall boggles the mind. It is built on the crest of the steepest mountains, and it is tiring to reach it, even without any stones on your back. Is the Great Wall long? It is one of the few places in China where I did not feel the crowds. It's easy to avoid the most touristy access point. In Pingyao imperial China is well preserved and somewhat reconstructed. "Raise the Red Lantern" was filmed in a residence near Pingyao. Visiting the old residences I could taste the privileged life of the nobility.

China is an amazing country, and traveling here is rewarding, if you accept it's limitations.

Waltzing in Beijing

Beijing is a city of Magnificent temples and palaces, underwhelming architecture and congested traffic. The fashionable young people tempt the feeling that you are in a cosmopolitan city. However, the comfortable feeling evaporates every time you try to talk to someone. A level of basic English, easily found in most world cities is almost absent here. So even though while admiring the sights, I could read the English plaques, I could not avoid the feeling of isolation. Isolation broken by the Waltz.


We started early, heading for the Temple of Heaven trying to avoid the heat and the tour groups. We were a bit surprised to be in line for tickets with throngs of elderly locals. Unknowingly, we were in the North (and wrong) gate to the Temple. Through the gate, instead of a golden temple, we encountered a peaceful park of shade trees, lawns and relaxation. People alone or in groups claim some corner of the grounds to enjoy their favorite activity. We strolled past the elderly woman practicing Tai Chi. We were drawn to the gentleman playing a flute, and from there to a small ensemble of two-stringed violins. They played the traditional music, then a woman joined to provide the lyrics in Chinese Opera style. As we moved from group to group we were encouraged by unspoken friendliness. No words were exchanged, a nod and a smile were enough to convey the message: We are having a good time, and you are welcome too. A bit further a small speaker was playing Chinese music for several couples practicing their ballroom dancing skills. Some couples were really good, and we showed our appreciation by the international "Thumbs-up" sign. Soon we were invited to join. No one stared, no one laughed (I guess we were not the worst dancers there.) Chinese music or not, we were caught up by the mood and the rhythm. One dance followed another, and when we mastered the waltz, we felt part of this smiling group. We said good bye, as we left for the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvest, but from that point on, we were no longer tourists. We were Beijingers.

The Shaman

I was half way up a steep granite face, when I heard the rhythmic beatings of a gong. After climbing a few more vertical feet, the sounds of monotonic chanting became distinct too. I was on the slopes of a green mountain overlooking Seoul. I was in search of a Gut, and I may have found one.

A Gut is an ancient Shamanistic ritual, where beautiful young virgins, dressed in brightly colored flowing robes, twirl in ecstasy until they are possessed by a spirit. After possession the spirit communicates through them. At the village, far below me, the temple was closed for repairs. There were no ceremonies. A well maintained path led up the mountain, but ended in front of this vertical rock. An official sign read “Shamanistic rituals are not allowed beyond this point”. I was headed in the right direction. While walking up the path, the smooth rock seemed impassable. Here, on closer inspection, it yielded small concrete platforms, no larger than a shoe, strategically built on the rock to form a safe path. I started climbing faster. I was anxious to see the ceremony, the delicious food, and especially the beautiful virgins.

Earlier that morning, I saw that the stock market turned up. The knots in my stomach loosened. My investment strategy was correct. Since retirement, I took more and more of my eggs out of the Fidelity nest and put them into my own hands. I am slowly gathering skill and confidence. Still, it is not easy for a rookie investor, to go to sleep when the stock market in New York just opened lower, and then wake up, three days in a row, to learn that it went down further. But today, the market and my investments are up. The sky, which is usually hazy grey, welcomed the news with a beautiful California blue, and a light cool wind was keeping the temperatures at comfortable level. It was a perfect day to head to one of the mountains surrounding Seoul. Lonely Planet recommended a hike to Mount Inwangsan. A mountain revered by Shamanists for the many gods that inhabit it.

Shamanism is an ancient religion in Korea. Its followers believe that our world is inhabited by gods as well as the spirits of the dead. The shaman is responsible for communicating with the spiritual world. He, or she, is possessed by one of the spirits, and uses this power to cure illness, read the future, and provide guidance for a better life. Modern Koreans have ambivalent feelings towards shamans. They regularly consult them before making marriage decisions, and sometimes they ask for medical advice. However, they regard them with contempt mixed with fear. Koreans are still influenced by the traditional Confucian philosophy of their past. In the Confucian hierarchy, shamans were among the lowest of the low, in the fifth (not named) class, together with slaves, clowns, and executioners. The other four classes were ordered as follows: Noblemen, farmers, skilled craftsmen, and merchants. Today, shamans make their meager living in the cities, but they often come to the mountains to recharge their spiritual power. The Gut ceremony, with its lavish food, colors, and music, will attract the spirits, and is attended by those seeking advice or a conversation with a recently departed relative.

As I reached the top of the rock the chanting became louder, coming from somewhere in the forest. A few more steps and I reached the ceremony site. She was alone, beating the gong and chanting. A plump, middle aged ajuma (married lady), wearing green pants and a blue shirt with pink flowers. She was kneeling in front of a small indentation in the rock, where she placed several lighted candles. Strewn around her were soft drink cans, a half eaten ham and cheese sandwich, and an assortment of chocolate bars. I sat at a respectful distance and waited. She finished the chanting, bowed three times and waved us to approach. She was eager to talk. Her name is Sun-Ee, she became a shaman at the age of 12 when she was possessed by her spirit. Her mother was not a shaman. She married, had three children, and after a while, decided to stop her practice. However, the spirits were not pleased. Her fortune turned to the worse. Her husband died, she got breast cancer (she pointed to the flat right side of her chest), and her businesses failed. She decided to start practicing again. On this mountain, she can communicate with the Mountain God, the General God, as well as her own spirit. Her spirit is very strong, and carries Buddha on his travels in the sky. Today, she received some money and food from her children, and she came up this mountain to pray for them. This was my opening. Can she pray for me? Yes, she replied, and I could pay her as much as I felt. A 10,000 Won note (about $10) seemed to make her happy. I could supply only three of the necessary four pillars (I did not have my hour of birth), and therefore I got only a superficial fortune reading. Since my birth, I have been successful. I am healthy, and will remain so. She does not see any major setbacks until my death. I should live in a warm place with a lot of fruit trees. To make money, I have to use a pen. That reminded me of the morning news. How will the stock market do? Her answer was much more specific than I expected.

Do not be addicted to the stock market.
Put only a small amount of money in stocks.
In the next two to three years, the stock market is not going to do well.
To make money, buy good real estate and rent it out.
Don’t forget, you need to use your pen to make money.

Getting financial advice from the spirit world seemed to have exhausted Sun-Ee. I accepted a couple of chocolate bars, bid my goodbyes, and continued towards the mountain peak. On the way up I reached the eerie looking rock with face-like features named after the General God. Besides the rock, a meditating Buddhist monk exemplified the gentle acceptance of these two ancient religions. I sat.

Catavina Night

On my second day in Catavina, I decided to ride to the Mission ruins. On the first day, Ralph gave me directions to the cave paintings. "Which ones? The ones everyone knows about?" Yes. Over the years, I looked for them several times, without success. This time, there is a sign on the road, a guy collected 20 pesos, and pointed me there. The paintings in this location are more colorful than usual. Probably because the early missionaries enhanced them. After the cave I rode a high speed dirt road to a far away farm and had coffee with the ranchers.

So today, to the mission. The guidebook labeled the road "XXX", but only 10 miles Ralph said it's very bad. I figured a ride of a couple of hours, be back before siesta. Don't need much planning (1). I filled my camelback (A), decided not to take my repair kit (2), flashlight (3) first aid (4) or lighter (5) and tool off (6). The air was cool and fresh, the views were exhilarating. The trail, though pretty bad for a car, was reasonable for a motorcycle. A moderate climb, and the Sea of Cortez, Gonzaga Bay (my favorite airstrip) came into view in the east. Now a moderate descent, punctuated by rocky not-so-moderate hills. After about 14 miles, I saw the oasis in the canyon below. The trail became steep, and I started worrying about my ability to climb back out. After the third ledge, I stopped and walked the rest of the way down (B). Rested near the water on the Oasis, realized I didn't get directions to the Mission ruins (7) , and walked back up to my bike. The time: Noon.

A short aside. Before my trip, Kobi and I had a long discussion regarding the merits of street-oriented tires Vs trail tires. While the latter are not as safe on the road, we knew that at some point on the trail you will wish you had them.

I quickly found that point. On the first ledge, the sum of my riding capabilities (rusty) and the tire capabilities (street) were not enough. My speed deteriorated to zero and I ended on my right hand side, on a rock, under the bike . No big deal, broken turn signal, a few bruises, we have done that before. I picked the bike up and managed to ride over the ledge. Next ledge, same thing, this time on my left. I tried to pick up the bike. Too heavy. It was lying in the wrong direction relative to the slope. I needed to twist it around, but first I had to sit down. My head was spinning. I took off the helmet and using the camelback as a pillow, took a rest. After some time I got up, twisted the bike, and by then I needed a longer rest. Rested, put my back to the bike, got it upright, and felt very proud of myself.

I regained consciousness lying on the ground beside the bike. I checked myself. A bit of blood (my head must have hit a rock) and a left butt the size of a watermelon (same firmness too.) I now understood better. The internal bleeding to the left gluteus was the cause of the extreme weakness and eventual fainting. I needed to rest more. Legs up, I fell asleep. Got up. Got the bike up. Felt woozy. Rested. Tried to ride up the ledge. Felt woozy. Rested.

I couldn't keep riding, and I had to make a choice.

Option A: Walk down to the Oasis (500 meters), spend the night by the water. By morning I should feel much stronger and be able to ride back. But what if I don't get better?

Option B: Walk back 14 miles. The time is 3PM. I have a lot of pain everywhere, (The adrenalin was wearing off), I feel weak going uphill, I have to walk slow, probably all night.

I chose to walk back. Sleeping outside sounded too cold and boring (Now, if I had my lighter...)

I started walking very slowly, sipping water every few minutes to replenish the lost blood. I walked the short up hills as if climbing the Everest, but I didn't stop. I figured that at this rate I will be in the campground by 5AM. I summoned my meditation training. Focus on the present without Craving and without Aversion. Your mistakes are in the past, gone. Don't think about it. The campground is not here. No craving. The pain is here, it's ok to think about it, but without aversion. Focus on each step. One step at a time. It worked. One step at a time. Even the next hill is not an objective. One step at a time. After a few hours, when I peed for the first time, I knew I will be ok. The sun went down, but a quarter moon was still in the sky, and I decided to keep walking. Gradually, my strength came back. To an outside observer I would have looked very romantic. Moonlight, complete silence, a leisurely (or so it seems) stroll in a beautiful surroundings. I actually enjoyed it from time to time. When the moon also set, I took my first rest on a soft river bed. I slept until I felt the cold, then started walking again. The stars cast enough light to distinguish the rocks. The wind picked up, and rumbling through the brush, sounded just like Ralph's ATV, (Why didn't I ….?) but after a couple of times I got back to my steps. When the fog covered the stars, it got really dark. I had to slow down and pick my feet high. I stumbled over rocks a few times, but never fell. Truck noises from the highway, (No craving. One step at a time). Car lights bouncing off the fog, (One step at a time). Dogs barking, (One step). I made it back to camp and looked at my watch for the first time. Midnight. I walked for nine hours.

I was not about to reassemble my tent, nor could I contemplate bending down to lie on a the ground -Too much pain). The rental rooms in the farm house were open. I plopped into a bed and fell asleep. Hours later, I woke up to take my shoes off. In the morning Ralph showed up on his ATV. Last evening, he has seen my tracks going out, and not coming back. This morning he saw my footsteps "stumbling" back to camp. We recruited Jose ("One person but as strong as two" ) and set off in Ralph's pickup to get my motorcycle (It's in the picture too). During the several hours in each direction that it took us to negotiate that trail, I "actively listened" to Ralph's stories. Among them, stories about the many others that he helped extricate from this trail.

The doctor here in Mulege agreed that there is nothing to do. According to him, if three days after the incident, If I am here, and not there (A finger pointing skyward), it means I will be OK. Some pills to reduce inflammation, and rest. am doing that. My butt is black, but almost normal size. When I twist, the pain in my right side I is bearable, and I can climb stairs with both legs. A young Mexican saw my bike, which is the same is his, and invited me to ride with him and another American friend to the Ocean. Saturday may be a bit too soon.

For those that care to keep count, my mistakes are numbered. Number 6 is biggest and dumbest. (Going on a trip without informing people exactly where I was going). The things I did right are lettered (I filled up with water!). The mistakes will never be repeated. However, there are some basic issues that I will have to think about. Ralph and his friends, for example, stopped riding bikes in the mountains "The reflexes are not what they used to be", and converted to ATVs. I promised myself to think about the basic issues.