Caveman Cycling For Earth » Travel

Going Home

charlie — Sun, 14 Nov 2010 20:18:28 +0000

This is an email I sent out on November 14, 2010. I apologize for not updating this website sooner – it’s been pretty rough these last months.

I have some news… can’t say it’s bad news, really, but it doesn’t feel quite like good news either. Let’s call it “conflicted.”

I am going home to Madison, Wisconsin.

During some touristy time off in Alexandria, Egypt, I slipped on some wet concrete and fell off my bike. It was such a little thing; it took less than a second. But the ramifications are turning out to be much larger and more far-reaching than I could’ve expected.
I was hospitalized for surgery in a foreign country (again) and they installed a titanium plate with 11 screws to stabilize the wicked communuted fracture on my left femur. There were other complications as well, but that’s part of the full story, hopefully coming soon.
Lily came to take care of me. Then my mom came to take care of me. Capers came and helped too. I thought I was getting better; I figured I would be able to walk with a single crutch(and therefore be able to take care of myself) before they all had to leave again. But I wasn’t.
Not sure why (a “high rate of non-union” with this type of fracture?) but it hasn’t healed very much at all, and the orthopedic surgeon’s latest recovery estimate was 5 months before I can even put any weight on it.
That’s too long to couchsurf, and being able to walk normally(and ride a bike fully!) is too important to me to risk living on the streets of Egypt or in my tent out in the desert somewhere…. so I’ve decided to go home and stay with mom for the recovery.
This means an airplane. Which sort of represents a complete breakdown of my principles. Sort of feels like giving up, sort of feels like failure. This world bike tour has become my life, and though “going home” has always been the goal, I really wanted it to be all the way around the world first, by bike and sailboat. Anyway, to grossly understate matters, it was a hard decision to make, and not without its sorrows.

But I am not giving up on the tour. I am leaving my bike with a good friend here in Alexandria, so one day(probably after a year or so of recovery) I will be back, to dig up the scarab, to visit he accident site, and to pick up exactly where I left off.

Hopefully this will just make a great part of the whole story. And whatever route my emotions or opinions about this may take, up, down, or around… well, it’s life, vibrant and glorious, as always.

Wish me luck!

With Love and Joy,

Thank you.

Charles Brigham

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Libya: they call me Rahalla

charlie — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 00:16:23 +0000

They say it’s the ghibli, the southern wind from the Sahara, that brings the dust down to the populated areas of Libya. Wherever it comes from, it’s everywhere here – ramula. Sand, stretching as far as I can see, on either side of the lonely strip of road, with dry grey bushes and maybe a bit of the sea to be glimpsed at times to the left. It’s encroaching on all the towns and villages; between, behind, and all around every sun-baked, run-down building, and covering what used to be gravel streets. Trucks are equipped with extra-rugged tires, just so they can pull off the road or stop for gas. And this wind brings the fine dusty sand straight in my face as I painstakingly pedal across the country. I learned early on to keep my mouth shut out there on the road, to avoid catching a mouthful of grit in my teeth, especially when the big semi-trucks disrupt the consistent wind, changing it into a moment of chaotic sandy maelstrom. Of course, then it just goes into my nose instead…. It sticks to my sunscreen, it sticks to my sweat, my hair, my gear… my poor, poor drivetrain.

I’ve now made it across the worst of it I think, from Tripoli to Benghazi, after 1100 kilometers and ten days of some of the roughest pedaling I’ve ever done(I can’t decide whether this is harder than winter in Scotland). The wind has been in my face literally the whole time, it’s true, but after a couple days, this becomes normal. It’s just slower. And it’s also true that this is probably the hottest time of year to be cycling across a Libyan desert. But I stayed hydrated, dunked my head and doused my feet(surprisingly effective – thanks for the Tuareg tip Saadi) in water whenever I got the chance; and, well, the wind actually helped a lot to keep me cool – it was really only when I stopped riding that I felt the true force of the scorching sun beat-down.

No, it wasn’t the wind, or the heat, or even the sand. In truth, the real most difficult part about it all, was the fact that Ramadan started the day before I left. Ramadan is like Christmas for Islam, except there’s firecrackers and the gifts only come after a whole month of fasting-during-daylight-hours. Which in August is a lot of hours: no eating, no drinking anything(even water), no smoking, no sex, no perfume, no swimming… a real fasting of the spirit. It’s one of the most important aspects of Islam, and Libya is all Islam – by law.

So in a country where every single citizen and probably most visitors are all fasting during the day, the restaurants are simply not open until nightfall. Many just close for the whole month. Shops or markets to buy food and water, which are already far and few between, are closed in the mornings, because during Ramadan, life naturally becomes much more nocturnal.

In Tripoli I fasted the first day, just like everyone else. Slept till two, sat around until the fourth a’dan call to prayer that signals nightfall and the end of the fast, then feasted! Every night is the same: it begins with dates and a glass of milk, and maybe a quick cigarette. Then muslims make a quick prayer. Then back to the huge platters of soup and home-made breads and rice with chicken liver and stuffed grape leaves or bell peppers and a great variety of delicious fried potato-and-meat finger foods, the special cuisine of Ramadan. Delicious and bountiful!

On day two of Ramadan I took off from the capitol, and for the first couple days, I decided to try to “do as the Romans do.” Somewhat - I knew I would have to drink water: it’s the desert, and I’m on a bike. But I limited myself to a couple yogurts or date bars for sustenance during the day. And I didn’t really feel hungry. But those days were hell. It turns out you have to eat if you’re bike touring, you just have to, I don’t care how religious(or crazy) you are. Two nights in a row, I found my muscles completely wrecked, completely without energy, in pain, whether I was eating or stretching or even just laying in the dirt outside some random tire shop on the edge of town. “How am I going to survive all the way to Benghazi?” Something had to give.

So I took a day off in Surt, as a guest of a nice man named Milad, and recuperated. I ate and ate and ate in the seclusion of the hotel room he bought me. My stomach regained its normal bike touring stretch, my electrolyte balance got the salt it had been lacking, and after that the desert crossing was quite doable. I had to plan ahead and buy food and drink the night before, and eating during the day was a bit delicate, especially since the only bits of shade(I can’t sit in the open sun or my head starts swimming) were usually taken by lounging Libyan men waiting for nightfall. But there is a part in the Qur’an that allows travelers to eat and drink if they’re going farther than 81 kilometers(must be an old chapter from the donkey-cart and camel-back days – an hour in a car isn’t an excuse not to fast, is it?), and once people realized I wasn’t an Arab, they were cool with it. Nevertheless I maintained discretion while chugging water and stuffing my face….

I met a lot of nice men out there. Here they call me r’halla, or adventurer – my new favorite Arabic word! I was impressed by Arab hospitality in Morocco, Algeria, and Tunisia, but here in Libya, nearly everyone I speak to asks me if they can help me. It’s simply amazing! I’ve been given so much food and huge quantities of beverages, money, and offers of everything else, from phone recharge cards to places to sleep. I traveled ten days on only 21 dinars, about $15. There were stretches of distance that started to worry me, whether I would reach a shop for water before I ran out, but there was no need to worry – everyone and anyone will help me. It was awesome, but at the same time I felt a now-familiar sense of exclusion, like reading the big sign outside a mosque: “Non-muslims not allowed.” Many delicious meals were shared, but I was never allowed to see, much less meet or say thank you to, the women that cooked them. Several petrol-industry towns were completely closed to me, denied right there at the Gadafi-green police gate. And generally, people did not invite me to their homes(as in Morocco, for example), but rather just offered to pay for a hotel room. I guess it’s just a different culture, one with a good deal more modesty than mine, and in the end I feel honored and lucky, even sort of excited, to have the chance to witness it. It’s a different sort of exotic!

So now I am in Benghazi, taking a few days off. Ahmed, the Libyan man I met in Tunis(see the Bike Effect: Tunisia) lives here and has taken well care of me. I’ve been hangin’ around with a particular taxi driver named Mohammed who I met out on the road. He passed me three times on the way(making his passengers wait while he got out to chat), and now I am here practicing Arabic and tutoring English, though I can’t get him to stop using the word “standby” for everything, including “be” “wait” “stay” “live” or “sleep.” Ah well, he is a taxi driver, after all.

I’ve rested, I’ve showered(the water ran dark red from ten days of desert dust), worked out the visa timing, cleaned and fixed up my gear and bike a bit, and tomorrow I’ll continue, rubber side down. Ahead lies something called “The Green Mountain” which must be nice; it’s certainly not very desert-sounding, anyway, and I miss hills. Some more famous Roman ruins, and a week or so of horrendous Libyan traffic and humbling Libyan hospitality, and I will be in Egypt! Meow!!!

The Bike Effect: Tunisia

charlie — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 13:33:29 +0000

Downtown Tunis, Tunisia.

A little cafe on Avenue Habib Bourguiba. The waiter offers me a “personal discount” on my coffee because of something I’ve come to describe as “the bike effect”: my rig looks bad ass resting next to my table, and here the travel-worn, custom-grub adventure bike is out-of-place enough to mark me as an adventurer, a traveler, not just another tourist who comes on the ferry from France for an afternoon-in-the-medina to say “I visited Tunisia!” It’s not just literally that a bike is “open to the world” – it opens the very soul of the rider, and affects the first impressions of others in a mysterious but undeniable way.

The table next to me is taken by a man in a wheelchair, his wife in hijab, and their little daughter. Now, when I see wheels with tires on them – not counting cars – I pay close attention. At the bike shop, on the street, all over the world, I’ve noticed that most people don’t maintain a proper, or even safe, air pressure in their tires. I can’t count the number of times I’ve yelled “Air your tires!” to passing cyclists, or preached to parked bikers, “More air pressure directly translates to more speed. And if you don’t want to go fast, it converts to ease – less energy used.” The same goes for wheelchair tires. And fixing or replacing a wheelchair tire or inner tube is such a hassle that it’s even more important to keep the pressure up; if you’re rolling low enough, just hitting a sharp bump can pinch-flat the tube, and if you can’t fall back on your legs and walk….

Subtly I confirmed: the poor fella at the next table was running this risk. Not to mention spending a lot of extra effort pushing himself around under the Tunisian summer sun with sloppy tire pressure. So after my coffee, a bit nervous and feeling like this might be a dumb idea, I approached their table with my pump in hand.

“Excusez-moi, je ne veut pas vous importuner, mais….” He doesn’t speak French. “Do you speak English?” I ask.

“A little.”

I’m weird and this is uncommon, but he lets me help him. “Yes it is a normal valve, just give me one minute.” I know the thin wheelchair tire can take a hundred pump strokes or more to reach maximum, but he cuts me off after fourty or so. I let it slide; he’s past the danger zone now, at least.

I give the same treatment to his other tire, and before I can escape as an unidentified good samaritan, he starts asking questions. I give a brief account of where I’ve been on my bike, and mention that Libya is next. “No, I don’t think the visa is easy to get – I was just at the embassy this morning. Inshallah!”

Then the cosmic serendipity reveals itself, stunning me nearly to speechlessness:

“By the way, we’re Libyan. If you need contacts in Benghazi…”

Everyone was smiling when I left that little cafe on Avenue Habib Bourguiba – the Libyan man and his wife, their precious awe-eyed little girl, the waiter, the tables nearby – and especially me. The Bike Effect in high gear, blowing away the fog of fear and indifference, to let truly meaningful life shine through!

Yay Bikes!!!

Fear: the mind killer

charlie — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 12:50:56 +0000

I’m not a terrorist, and I’ve never spoken with one, so I can’t really say what they’re really thinking. But it seems to me that the whole point of terrorism is to Spread Fear. For example, if they kidnap one tourist – just one – they can strike fear into all tourists. If they can paralyze an entire population with fear, then it becomes much, much easier to control that population, for any number of diabolic or simply misguided purposes. The imagination can go wild with the potential for corruption and conspiracy, with just one single act of terrorism. It’s actually much more efficient than full-on war.

This is made even more effective when the targets themselves buy into the fear:

(Taken directly from the U.S. Department of State’s website)

“Algeria Country Specific Information

…

SAFETY AND SECURITY: Terrorism continues to pose a threat to the safety and security of American citizens traveling to Algeria. Terrorist activities, including bombings, false roadblocks, kidnappings, ambushes, and assassinations occur regularly, particularly in the Kabylie region. Since early 2007, vehicle-borne suicide bomb attacks have emerged as a terrorist tactic in Algeria, including in the capital. Suicide car bomb attacks in December 2007 targeted the UN Headquarters and the Algerian Constitutional Council in Algiers. The attacks occurred in areas where many diplomatic missions and residences are located. The group that claimed credit for the December 2007 attacks has pledged more attacks against foreign targets, and specifically U.S. targets. The same group is believed to operate in southern Algeria and has kidnapped foreigners in neighboring countries. This kidnapping threat was noted in the Department of State’s Worldwide Caution, dated February 12, 2010.

The Travel Warning for Algeria contains the most current information concerning the threat from terrorism.

The Department of State recommends that U.S. citizens avoid overland travel in Algeria. U.S.citizens who reside or travel in Algeria should take prudent security measures while in the country, including making provisions for reliable and experienced logistical support. Additionally, sporadic episodes of civil unrest have been known to occur. U.S. citizens should avoid large crowds and maintain security awareness at all times. Visitors to Algeria are advised to stay only in hotels where adequate security is provided. All visitors to Algeria should remain alert and adhere to prudent security practices such as avoiding predictable travel patterns and maintaining a low profile.”

Now, I’ll admit that people should be informed about the risks of traveling to any particular country. I remained alert and prudent. But to me these previous paragraphs don’t feel like an impartial bulletin about the situation in Algeria; they feel like exaggerated fear-mongering. By posting this type of warning, replete with all the keywords that push an automatic Fear button, the U.S. Department of State is pretty much helping the terrorists – by spreading the fear.

Some other examples:

The verbatim response from the U.S. embassy in Algiers to to my request for travel assistance:

“Dear Mr. Brigham:

The border is indeed closed between Algeria and Morocco. Nor would we advise anyone to attempt a bicycle ride anywhere across Algeria. Please see the current travel warning for Algeria at (link.)

We do not assist individual private American citizens to obtain Algerian visas, nor do we provide letters of support for such visa applications.

You should not attempt this trip.

Regards,

American Citizen Services

U.S. Embassy, Algiers”

The response from the U.S. embassy in Morocco:

“Hi Mr. Brigham,

Sorry for the delay in responding to your inquiry. While the economy of Morocco does depend largely on tourism, it would be extremely unsafe, not to mention logistically impossible for your to attempt to bike across Algeria and Libya. Even if you were able to obtain a visa to travel to Algeria and made it across the closed border, you would end up stuck there trying to get into Libya, which has complex visa entry requirements. Please consult www.travel.state.gov to review the travel warnings for these countries. While we applaud your efforts to bike around the world, you must consider your own safety. Perhaps an alternative would be to ferry to Spain and travel along the European Mediterranean coast?

Once again, we urge you to make alternate plans. Bike travel across Algeria and Libya is simply not an option.

Best Regards,

American Citizen Services

Casablanca, Morocco”

Of course they have to be rather blunt and frightening, lest some moron gets himself killed or someone sues them for giving relaxed advice. (Our society is actually prepared quite nicely to be paralyzed by fear, isn’t it?) But they were wrong.

And I’ll wager that the U.S. government doesn’t really care if Algeria maintains a reputation for being full of terrorists – they would rather Algeria just fall off the map.

But I do care.

Algeria is not full of terrorists. Algeria is full of wonderful, generous folks who hate terrorists.

I did “attempt this trip,” and the only “reliable and experienced logistical support” was me, and my attitude of love and joy for all, which blossomed elegantly into a network of Algerian friends. I never felt in danger, I never felt close to any manner of terrorism or even crime. In fact, I must say that it was an unforgettable experience of the true cosmic beauty of humankind.

Conversely, if I had swallowed all the tripe the U.S. government tried to feed me – if I had gone to Algeria full of fear – well, I can’t say for sure, but it surely would’ve prevented me from reaching out to the people of Algeria, and I would’ve been much more alone, suspicious and frightened of everyone until something ugly actually did happen. Sure, when that’s the alternative, it’s better to just stay home under the covers and watch Fox News.

I’m not saying that there is no risk of terrorism in Algeria. All I’m saying is that the people of Algeria do not deserve to be feared, and you don’t deserve to live in fear either. Terrorism depends on fear to succeed; if you live in fear of it, you’re living exactly how they want you to. If you live in fear you are being controlled. Fear is a natural phenomenon, but it’s how you react to it that makes all the difference. It lives or dies in your mind. Will you choose repression, control, and desperation – or freedom?

P.S. Please look up the book “Three Cups of Tea.” Pakistan, Afghanistan. Education to promote peace, alternatives to terrorist training camps, dedication, love, growth… it’s an inspiring story.

“If you just fight terrorism, it’s based in fear. If you promote peace, it’s based in hope.”

الجزائر : ruoF keeW

charlie — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 09:12:59 +0000

الجزائر, al-Jazā’ir, week four

I stayed one extra night at the tourist complex near Bejaia. Said and Nounou had to take off, and in the morning I said a final goodbye to Saadi. It was a little sad; he’s become a great buddy!

Alone again and headed for adventure, I pedalled along the paradisical coastal route towards Jijel. There were even ten kilometers or so of traffic-free construction zone, now that’s paradise!

Nightfall approached and I found a beach to camp on. As usual the gendarmes wanted to stuff me full of food and Islam – all I wanted to do was sleep, but there’s the captain in my way with his leg up on the railing, getting more and more excited about converting me to his religion. And he was the one who originally said “No no, don’t ask about that; he is a free man,” when his privates started in with the glittery-eyed muslim enthusiasm….

Finally asleep for maybe a half an hour, when the bigger boss arrives, orders me woken up so he can put me in a hotel back in town! “NO NO NO – NO HOTEL! I WAS ASLEEP ALREADY!” How completely degrading.

In the morning there wasn’t much Islam talk, but everyone wants me to rest. “I just slept 7 hours! Why would I want to rest?!?” I reply, jumping around a bit to make my point. But something isn’t normal, and they’ve got my passport hostage…. After a swim and breakfast the captain tells me that his boss has decided they will arrange an escort. After complaining a bit I concede, but where is this escort? I can’t believe I’m saying it, but “I”m late!”

An aggravating hour later, three green and white gendarme SUVs arrive. They give me my passport finally, and I just leave - if they want to escort me, they can catch up later.

And they did, making passes all morning, all the way to the border of the province. At least they were subtle.

A girl from Constantine had invited me to visit, but unfortunately she couldn’t host me, because her brother would have to chaperone and he wasn’t there. She set me up with some English-speaking college friends who were anxious to meet me, calling calling calling… do I really want this phone?

They met me outside of town and gave me some water. I declined a ride in their car, so they escorted me – and this time it wasn’t subtle. Just behind me, hazard lights on, snapping photos from the passenger window and drawing honks and yells from all the highway traffic that had to go around.

Constantine is at the top of a huge mountain, and the ascent is straight up, no gentle switchbacks. It was a brutal climb, in danger of overheating, dousing my head with water from my drinking bottle, nearly losing my momentum over the broken concrete, no end in sight… but most of the cars that passed and all the folks on the sidelines recognized what a challenge I was undertaking, and supported me with lots of honks and waves and shouts and “Bon courage!”

After hefting the rig up ten flights of stairs, a snack and a shower, we went down to meet the girl and her sisters. I wasn’t surprised that they were Muslim, but I was a little miffed when she declined to shake my hand; “I am sorry, I can’t touch you.” And then, after a two minute meeting in the parking lot, they left! Why did I come over all those hills again?!?

Well, Constantine is gorgeous. A city of bridges, build right on the cliffs by an ancient Roman emporer(and the French). My hosts were very hospitable and everything was taken care of for me, but my original plan to stay one night seemed to have been forgotten. “Oh but I made plans to do so many things!”

But I’ve been so rushed and pampered and celebritized here in Algeria that I really, really wanted to have one full day at the end, to process everything and do some writing. Sorry guys, I gotta go. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

We met up with the sisters again the next day, still in the burkha body covering, who brought gifts and well wishes for me, and a pamphlet on “The truth about Jesus.” You know I’m not Christian, right??

The guys escorted me again, across the longest stone bridge in the world and out of town. I wish I could’ve spent longer there and learned some breakdancing, but I need to empty my cup before I can fill it with anything else!

The next day I was awoken by the 3 am a’dan call to prayer, because the village police put me right next to the mosque for the night, so I made it to Guelma by 11am. But Saadi called and mysteriously said I should wait, that there’s a gentleman coming to meet me and it’s important. Hmm…

I waited. The longer I wait in one place, this time a cafe, the larger the crowd grows. Four hours is a long time to practice Arabic and listen to Islam preaching from all angles, even if there is free food. Eventually I took off to meet this “gentleman,” thankful to have a reason to escape.

We meet at a hotel bar. I learn his name is Said, but before he can explain what this is all about, Saadi was there! “You drove all this way?!” What a surprise! Suddenly I knew I wouldn’t get my day of cup-emptying…

It was nice though, we went to a hammam in the country fed by a natural hot spring, and I was able to have a nice night’s sleep without mosque calls or police poking their heads in my tent. And it was especially nice to see Saadi one last time – he’s helped me so much, and his attitude is just golden. Thanks a million my friend!

The day I had planned to sit and write and process this crazy month in Algeria, I instead spent pedaling my ass off. Just after dark I arrived at a campground I had heard about, and pulled in with that exhausted-but-relieved aire about me. Finally.

But despite being called “Camp Africa,” it was prohibited to camp there. It’s actually a “vacation center.” But they told me I could camp anywhere I wanted in the national park; just not here. So I walked down the road a bit, and actually ditch-camped in Algeria for the first time, on my last night there. I found a nice sandy spot(under a tree to block the morning heat), well-hidden and comfortable, and slept until eleven.

Then I got up and went to Tunisia.

30 days in Algeria – what a wild ride!

Thanks for reading, thanks for your comments and messages! Thanks for the love and the joy and thanks to all the wonderful Algerian people! Sahit!

الجزائر : eerhT keeW

charlie — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 23:34:12 +0000

الجزائر, al-Jazā’ir, week three

Week three has been great!

A bit too much being in a car, though, I must say. I am just not accustomed to it, and my friends here want me to see everything there is to see, toute de suite! I want to see it too, and with only 30 days on the visa, I’ve been letting them make tourist plans for me – in between days of cycling, that is. I will still trace a solid route clear across Algeria with my two wheels.

Algiers is big and bustling and spread out. Parties and tours and police checkpoints everyzhere, freeways and messy little warrens of one way lanes, broken slums and huge white buildings with sky blue trim built by the French.

I finally met up with Farid, who helped me with the invitation. Sahit mon ami!! I was installed in style with Saadi’s cousins Said and Lydia; and properly pampered for a few days.

After some wicked traffic on the autoroute out of town, I crossed into Kabylie.

This is the one region that scares everyone when I talk cycling routes. The US Embassy flat out said not to attempt such a journey, and it is well known that the few terrorists that remain in Algieria are hiding in the mountains of Kabylie. It’s a long story….

Though there are Arabs here, it’s really Berber country. I thought I would be fine with French in Algeria, and when it seemed disrespectful to start an interaction in French(the colonialists’ language), I figured I could use my bit of Arabic. But here; it’s a whole other level – “Don’t say salam aleikum, here it’s azul.” They’ve got the language; and the ancient pre-Arab history, and they’ve got a strong spirit of freedom and independence. I never expected such a rich African culture that wasn’t Arab. But it’s a nice surprise, a real adventure, especially since most of the fast friends I’ve made – they’re Kabyle Berbers.

Saadi gave me a cellphone, and his cousin Said kept tabs on me as I entered “his country.” He called a couple times, and I knew he was on the line whenever I needed him, but other than that I was still pretty solo.

I hit some really backed up traffic about 80 kms from Tizi Ouzou, cut some lanes of jammed up trucks and cars, skirted around the roundabout where everyone was turning around, and found myself on an empty road. Not normal. Ahead I could see a bit of traffic, and a huge plume of black smoke. An accident? A bike can go around; I kept going.

But it wasn’t an accident. It was a huge group of people, some wearing t-shirts around their faces, burning tractor tires in the road – now that’s interesting… But the strangest part was the fact that there wasn’t a cop or a gendarme to be seen! No cops?!? In Algeria?

I thought about stopping before I reached their civilian roadblock, but only to take a photo. I just wasn’t afraid, and I rolled up with an intrigued expression on my face. Everyone surrounded me, as usual, very interested, but I didn’t feel threatened.

I give that quirky hand signal that means “what’s this?” and ask “C’est quoi ça?”

Amidst the cacauphany of replies that followed, I only heard one word I recognized, “Amerikani,” spoken with a twitch by the crosseyed, shirtless, pale-skinned youth holding a huge dry palm branch. American… what? Are they waiting for an American? To kidnap him, or to welcome him? I decided suddenly I didn’t really need to know what they were doing there. Hopefully they think I am French, actually….

“Tizi Ouzou?” I ask quickly. “Tizi Ouzou, e” says one, and ushers me around the burning tires. “Welcome to Kabylie” someone said, trying out their English, and I was past.

They used to be the only place without terrorists. Kabylie was not so affected by the terror of the nineties. But after the death of Matoub, a most cherished Kabyle musician(which everyone says was blatant murder by the state in response to his critical lyrics), they went crazy with a million and a half person march to Algiers and the complete destruction of all police and military buildings. They actually forced the government out. Perhaps this was premeditated by politicians and generals, as some Kabyle claim, because then, the terrorists all fled the increasing military pressure elsewhere to the only place they won’t be chased – the rich forests of Kabylie.

We have the phone for safety. My friends know where I am. We decided not to meet the press and keep a lower profile. Stick the big roads, travel during the day. It’s been no problems – Kabylie and its people have been more and more beautiful and welcoming the longer I stay. I’ve seen forests and mountains, lakes and waterfalls, tiny Berber villages and black sand beaches – a gorgeous backdrop for stark Berber pride and humbling generosity. It’s a shame I will have to leave my new friends soon, but that’s life on the road – each goodbye signals a new adventure.

الجزائر : owT keeW

charlie — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 22:50:54 +0000

الجزائر, al-Jazā’ir, week two

I left Oran late, after meeting new friends and really new friends in town. One random Christian Berber student taught me the phrase “asabi3 alyad mokhtalifa” – “each finger of the hand is different.” Allah loves wondrous variety!
“You sure you want to leave today? It’s five pm already….” Yes, I have to leave – my psyche is already out there pedalling.
“Aren’t you worried that you don’t know anyone down the road?” No. That is comletely normal. Adventure!

Saadi and Nadir would meet me in Algiers and show me around Kabylie, so the goodbye wasn’t so sad. I shoved off with brotherly hugs, one side cheek to cheek, then the other, repeat. On the way out of town, three teenagers on bikes surround me with questions in Arabic and try to get in my way; we actually chat while riding amidst the hectic inner city traffic, until they realize I’m going for the long haul, and if they follow me down that hill they would have to come back up… “Bye bye!” Everyone knows a little English.

There were supposedly roman ruins worth seeing in Arzew, so I pushed it to make it there by dark, past a dusty rut of a truckers’ outpost and a huge industrial zone. The town thrives off the petrol industry, pipeline from the Sahara to the coast and dozens of oil tankers waiting out in the bay. If there were roman ruins, they were surrounded by dirty sprawling industry, complete with gas towers spouting flame and black smoke. I pedalled into town and started asking for a youth hostel… once again, they were all closed down. Not many tourists around here, or anywhere in Algeria. Finally under full darkness, I ignore the advice thrust upon me by an eager young fella who looks like he dresses from American rap videos, and approach a police officer. No youth hostel, it’s true, but prehaps the permanence can be of assistance. “Permanence… c’est quoi?” Police station, police infrastructure, police detective, police captain. “Your problem is very easy to solve, just give me five minutes to pray.” Ten minutes later, with face and arms up to the elbow still dripping from the “small wash” Muslims do for prayer(or just to touch the Noble Qur’an), I am set up with a free hotel room and a pleasant dinner at the local restaurant. As usual I am a bit of a celebrity – a short little Algerian mother, smiling impeccable English from under her colorful hijab, tells me their vacation to Disneyland was wonderful in 1992. My police benefactor translates most things, but I interject my Arabic phrases here and there, to the near-shocked laughter and bonheur of the locals. And yes, I would love to eat another plate of food! Sahit merci!

Several long days on the road follow, passing villages full of stares and shouts, passing coastal farm roads lined with bright green river cane and healthy trees with trunks painted white, passing sleepy fruit vendors lounging in their wheelbarrows and boutiques exploding with pink and yellow blow-up beach toys; several long days passing police and military checkpoints.

Algeria is completely militarized. One does not see a single highway patrol motorcycle cop; one sees a caravan of three motorcycle cops with rifles on their backs followed by an SUV full of soldiers. They don’t keep the big guns in the car, like in the US – they’re ready, right there, resting on their old kevlar vests under the hot afternoon sun. At every village, every roundabout, and every intersection, there they are, checkpoints in force. At each end there is a chain across the road, laid in a tiny cut in the concrete so the car tires don’t destroy it, manned by a bored officer in a tiny little bulletproof chimney-looking bunker, ready to pull the caltrop-strip across the road if anyone fails to stop. I have nothing to hide, everything is legit, so I’ve managed to stay calm and smile, but it’s really hard to stay free of fear when there are guys with guns everywhere. So of course I have to ask: why is it like this?

I spent countless hours in military buildings. Out on the street, I could pass unhindered if I said nothing; but as soon as I ask for directions or stop pedalling for a minute within view of the gendarmes, suddenly it’s time for investigation. “Come inside.” I answered the same questions thousands of times, at first simply in my pidgin Arabic with the low-ranking guy on the street, then in French with the mid-level officers, and after a certain level of authority, in English. I spoke with cops in blue, I spoke with city cops in well-cut navy-and-sky uniforms, and gendarme grunts in hand-me-down army green. I balanced complacency with self-respect in the pseudo-interrogations of cops in ill-fitting one-piece jumpsuits, in black or white or green or blue. I started paying attention to the epaulettes – Ah this guy has two stars on his chest; that’s why he’s treating me like a criminal. Ah finally, four stars; maybe now that we’ve reached the top rank in town, the bureaucracy is nearing an end….
I tried to remain calm, visualizing only my eventual release, and not the other myriad nightmare possibilities. Sor3a taktul, speed kills, take it as it comes. It was quite frustrating to be delayed so much, so often, and so reptitively, but when I mentioned these “problems” to my Algerian friends, they said it’s normal, of course – you’re an American, traveling alone. “And the beard doesn’t help things….”

The war of independence against the French colonialists is sort of old news – what really lingers in Algeria is the memory of ten years of terrorism in the nineties. Hundreds of thousands of civilians were killed by bombs in buses and markets, and everyone remembers – it was only ten years ago. I have met people who have been shot at by terrorists, robbed by terrorists, shot at by military who thought they were terrorists; I even met someone who was kidnapped by terrorists and ransomed after a week of captivity. This was not some far-off war where your cousin is sent to fight with a highly-trained army unit – this was in your neighborhood, saying “I hope you come back” every time your kids leave the house. And it was perpetrated by men who interpret the Qur’an’s “Do not change how God made you” by letting their beards grow….

Nowadays, everyone says the times have changed and it isn’t a problem. And now I know why there is so much police control, which actually makes the control and bueaucracy easier to handle. And hey – I am an American traveling alone, and they are all pretty nice to me. So I hope you don’t take this update as complaining; week two in Algeria has been even more amazing than week one, and I look forward, without fear, to week three and four!

enO keeW : الجزائر

charlie — Mon, 14 Jun 2010 12:02:44 +0000

الجزائر, al-Jazā’ir, week one

June 7. The visa begins, but I am still in Spain, pedaling more kms than ever before, under a hotter-than-ever sun.
I reach Almeria with plenty of time to spare, and give my rig a tune-up on the rambla, amidst an angry protest against Israeli terrorism and Spanish arms manufacturing.
The ferry terminal has a little makeshift mosque. Huge groups of Arabs and a few Europeans; ninety percent take the ten o’clock for Morocco, leaving me feeling quite hard-core alone with the Algerians. The midnight boat boards at one and leaves at one thirty.

A quiet walk on deck, harbor waves glistening and Spanish cliffs looming in the night. I say goodbye to Europe like a lover I know I’ll meet again. She was unforgettable.

A rough night’s sleep on a rough Mediterranean, and a morning greeting on the deck – ahead lies the port of Ghazaouet. An Algerian man tells me not to trust anyone…. I reply with “Even you?”

Entry protocols and hectic African queues. A copy of my invitation letter smooths things along nicely, and my gear is so weird that the aduane has no interest in searching. He lets me go with only a smile and a “Bonne route!” I breathe a sigh of relief as the entry stamp is sealed, and the police smile and say “Bienvenu en Algerie!” YES! I MADE IT!

No dinar. No map. No Arabic. Pure adventure hits me like a hot wave as I explore deeper into the town. Dark faces, foreign scripts, scooters and cars and trash. Busted streets, busted walls. Soccer graffiti. Everything falls into place, nothing is stolen from me, and I begin to remember the shwia arabia that I learned in Morocco. A teenager tells me, in cherades, that he wants to travel someday too. Yallah!
Mountains. Hydration. My enthusiasm carries me up and over with joy. A car accessory salesman gives me a bottle of juice, a pair of gas station attendants give me a string of Algerian flags.
The first time a car stops and tries to flag me down I am extremely wary, and only say “Salaam aleikum.” They drive past again and take phone-photos out the window. Everyone wants to take photos with me!
The first time I encounter a police road block I am extremely wary, and examine their uniforms and vehicles closely. They are happy I can speak French – English would be a big hassle – and wish me a “Bonne route!” The police are always nice to me here!
The mountains give way to big rolling hills, full of farmland and dusty dry grass. This is a country of big distances, as well; it reminds me a bit of Kansas.
A bag of delicious tomatoes and a pair of World Cup Algeria soccer scarves are handed to me from the window of moving cars on the autoroute. Ice is shaken in my waterbottles for me, and everyone wants to take photos with me.
After 140 kms that first day, the youth hostel in Ain Temouchent is closed down, but there are kittens and plenty of space for a tent. The guardian is very optimistic, but the slim little director with the weasly administrator’s attitude seems pleased with the opportunity to say “no” in his elegant French. I am exhausted and nearly cry saying goodbye to the cats, but return to the town center to search for a hotel. Full nighttime has fallen.
I find food first, but the proprietor of the restaurant won’t just let me take it and go – he’s offering proof that Allah exists, though I did not ask for it. Asleep on my feet and trying to be polite in French…. Finally he sends his employee with me to find the hotel.
But I can’t simply pay my 1200 dinar and crash into bed – all foreigners must declare themselves at the police station. A spoiled brat of a boss rushes to his car; I follow him on my bike. He waves out his window, “Hurry up!” He doesn’t say a word to my protests, only passes me off to the police so he can return to the television at the hotel. I am abandoned.
Inside the police station, the room quickly fills with curious officers. For the first ten minutes I am desperately frustrated – but then I realize that this is a different culture, different land. I relax and start to enjoy it. My bad French gets smoother as I let the answers to their questions roll off my tongue.
A grizzled sargeant enters with two stars on his chest, the only one with a pistol. His interrogation commands the scene, his questions continually interrupting my answers. I am beyond caring, and joke with him. “Don’t you think we should let someone else ask a question or two?” He picks up the phone and screams into it; this appears to be normal.
Finally I win him over, and finally the paperwork is finished. He escorts me back to the hotel after asking if I have any explosives.
The administrator kid expects me to carry my bike up the stairs. “No no no, you have to help me!” He doesn’t lift a finger, just gets someone else to help me push.
Finally I fall asleep to a random soccer game on TV. My first day is over.

On day two I enter the metropolis of Oran, without a clue. Nowhere to stay, no idea where to go. With intuition I find the right cyber cafe, and make some new friends. A Facebook connection comes through for me and I make a call to Saadi. He picks me up in his car and later tells me – “Those guys you were talking to? All thieves. But don’t worry! They won’t mess with someone who needs help.”
My previous notions of Algeria are wiped away.
There may be a few terrorists in the forest remaining, but they are not Muslim extremists fighting Jihad – they only want to keep the country closed, so it is easier to steal power.
The country may be 99 percent Muslim on paper, but there are bars and nightclubs, whiskey, prostitutes… it’s more lascivious than Morocco. I slowly readjust to the idea of having access to beer, between mornings of pushups and stretching.

In fact everything seems so very very different now that I am here. I look out over the Mediteranean towards Spain, and remember when I used to look out over the Mediterranean towards Algeria – and they are worlds apart, these two minds of mine. I haven’t had any spectacular revelations or any particularly enlightening culture shocks, but just by being here, just by experiencing it directly, I feel somehow bigger.

Algeria, c’est magnifique!

Never Fear: The Algerian Visa Process

charlie — Sat, 05 Jun 2010 22:12:30 +0000

It’s hard to say when it began, exactly; but at some point after leaving the States for Europe, I started imagining in what manner I would include Africa in this world bike tour. As a tentative “plan” – or let’s call it the most likely to happen of all the various possibilities – I decided on Northern Africa. I didn’t feel the need to ride Cairo to Capetown, or cycle the entire continent or anything(which would take forever), but I knew I wanted to do Africa better justice than a simple tourist dip into Morocco, and I’ve known, ever since that breakfast with my cousin Katie in Crystal Lake back on week one, that I wanted to see Egypt. Most importantly, though, I also felt somehow more intrigued by Arab Africa than by Black Africa.

There’s a thing… generally speaking… some thing, between the United States of America and the Arabic/Islamic world. It isn’t a good thing, necessarily, but there it is, undeniable. Arabs and muslims are considered to be “the enemy” by many Americans. In the past few decades, the US war effort has been concentrated against predominately Islamic countries – now that the Cold War is over, they’re the new “bad guys.” In movies and media alike, muslim goes hand in hand with the spectral menace of the new millenium: terrorism. And in the US we’re told that the feeling is mutual – that muslims think Americans are “the enemy,” and our existence threatens their way of life.
Obviously this animosity is exaggerated, but the mere existence of this… this thing, makes me want to investigate it. I want to explore Islam and see with my own eyes what the deal really is. Maybe I can even do something to show muslim Arabs that not all Americans are bad, and vice versa.
So the route for Africa was to be Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, Libya, and Egypt, along the Mediterranean coast. I tested it out for the first time on my sailing companions while crossing the Atlantic nearly two years ago, and received my first dose of negative reinforcement: “You know there are a lot of kidnappings in Algeria, and fake roadblocks set up by thieves. You won’t make it.” And that wasn’t the last time I had a poisonous wad of fear shoved down my throat. When I say I’m going to ride my bike across Algeria, no one ever mentions the gorgeous scenery, ancient culture, or deep tradition of hospitality – they only ever want to shoot me down. This reflex reaction of telling me the dangers and disasters awaiting me – without ever having even been there personally – this is the real terrorism, and makes my heart tremble more than any suicide bomber or Kalishnikov-weilding extremist.

But through all the put-downs and all the imaginary hazards people try to build up in my way, through all the attempts to convince me not to do it, I’ve remembered something my friend Berry in Norfolk couselled: “Always make decisions from a place of love, never from a place of fear. Of course there will be fear – I have my own inevitable daydreams of being kidnapped or robbed – but when it comes time to make a decision, I just don’t decide it, if I feel surrounded by fear. I choose to believe that the people of the world are 99.9% good, and you can just keep to yourself everything you’ve heard about Algerian terrorists. Repeating some fundamentally racist propaganda to me will only make me want to prove you wrong.
Once in Europe, I was subjected to other damp attempts to smother my adventurous, unplanned ideas for Africa. One very common example was trying to cross overland between Morocco and Algeria: “The land border has been closed for ten years and more; what you want to do is impossible.” And when ninety-nine in a hundred people tell you it can’t be done, it makes the people that say “Sure you can, it’s no problem,” sound like they’re just blowing smoke, even as they allow me a tiny glimmer of hope. The word impossible became anathema to my ears, and every time someone “enlightened” me with what they had read, or seen on the internet, I only wanted to go there and see for myself all the more. I got so pissed off at times like these – I mean, I’m sorry, but until you get on your bike, and do everything in your power to (legally) cross this border, I don’t want to hear your advice! It’s like being defeated before I even have a chance to make an attempt! When I felt cornered like this, coming back with, “But have you ever been there? Have you ever tried it yourself?” allowed me to retain some of my personal power, instead of meekly giving up, “…yeah… I heard about that….” and letting the idea shrivel up in pity.
Of course most times it was for my own good. For my safety, my sanity – people just wanted me to be informed. Which is good for my intellect, but bad for the dreamer idealist inside. It’s possible I need to balance them a bit better within myself….

I could have started the visa process – the real visa process, with passports and embassies and sick-to-the-stomach bureaucracy – sooner, but I put it off until I reached Madrid. Slowly, ever so slowly, I started learning about what it takes to enter Algeria as a foreigner. In Madrid the main objective I worked on was the “certificat d’hébergement,” an invitation letter from an Algerian citizen, which is required for the visa. After dozens of emails in French, a couchsurfer in Algiers put an official invite in the mail for me – but it never arrived, despite my best efforts at patience. Or was it procrastination, or distaste for bureaucracy? I did pass by the Algerian embassy in Madrid, once, when it was closed… but before I made any more progress, I had to leave town to meet my mother and sister in Morocco.
No problem – I had been encouraged, having now gained a helpful Facebook following of North Africans, to apply for the Algerian visa in Rabat, the capital of Morocco. I let it slide until my time with my family was over.
Once in Rabat, I stayed with a part Moroccan, part Algerian family. They were wonderful and helpful, but the Fear was prevalent, even there. The grandfather thought I was admirable at first, but when he realized I was actually serious about cycling across Algeria, he was more than a little discouraging. Grandma just thought I was crazy. And on top of that, the visit to the embassy revealed that foreigners cannot apply for visas there – something that would have been nice to know before, had I only possessed the smallest bit of ability to research or plan ahead. “Only Moroccans can apply here. Your next closest option is Alicante, in Spain.”
Alicante… okay. I got on my bike and started pedaling. Twelve days later I arrived, installed myself in a friendly anarchist’s flat near the beach, and began working the visa again, trying to remain “in Africa mode.”
But my contact in Algiers had apparently been procrastinating, too, because it took another two weeks to get my hands on the certificate of invitation – and just a digital copy this time, no snail mail involved. It was an aggravating time, full of waiting and hoping, and wishing I’d planned ahead, and writing “fingers crossed!” a lot. He took forever, he didn’t reply to all my questions. He sent a certificate with the wrong passport number. He sent a certificate without the official stamp. But then finally, with a “I hope this solves your problem,” I had the final piece of the application material.
At the consulate in Alicante, the staff were very friendly. “Aleikum Salam!” Everything seemed to be going splendidly. I smiled, my heart beating fast, as the clerk behind the window checked my documents. “Everything is in order here, now I just need your NIE.” My heart stopped. What in the hell is a NIE? Some sort of foreigner ID card…. “Numero de Identificación de Extranjero – you don’t have a NIE? Well it should be easy, look, just go ask the policeman on the corner where the nearest precinct is, and they’ll give you the NIE and you can come back. We’re open until 4 o’clock.”

I should have known it could never be that easy. I visited various government buildings until I was finally directed to the office for foreigners – a 100% police affair, which in Spain is quite a nightmare for a bearded bike hobo saying the word “Argelia.” Fascists, maybe yeah, that’s what people say. Assholes, definitely. Still, I did my best: “I’m riding my bike around the entire world, and sir, I need your help.” I think the madero behind the desk had already denied me the NIE before I even sat down. “You don’t need a NIE to apply for a visa. No, they’re mistaken at the consulate. No, no, no, no.”
Slowly, ever so slowly, I learned what it would take to apply for an Algerian visa in Spain – official residency. A friend wrote up a rental contract for me, and I obtained an official census residency status, but down at the office of foreigners again, this time on my birthday, we were only denied again, and more insultingly than before. It was the worst birthday ever.
To make a long, long story short, I would have to stay in Spain a long time to get that NIE, and pay money, and deal with endless red tape. And my heart was just not in it, after being denied that second time. I felt violated and powerless; there was something horribly crippling about being fucked by the cops, even if I wasn’t violently victimized.
I gave up on trying to apply in Spain, but I did not give up on Algeria, despite feeling like I was drowning in delays. Certainly not in “Africa mode” anymore, I gathered the requirements for a mail-order visa application to Washington D.C., sent it off with a flavorless “fingers crossed….”

I looked around. Still in same-old Spain, and two, three more weeks to wait….

It was a real test of my patience – and I have a lot of patience! I had spent six weeks or more already in Alicante, and despite having made some great friends, I had to move. I loaded up the bike and headed off towards the big city. On the way I visited an ecological farm collective in the mountains near Alcoi. It was my kind of place: impossible to reach by car, donkey power and solar cells, and they are breadmakers up there too, eighty loaves a week – viva la pasta madre! Then I stayed at a rural house outside of Valencia for a while, playing with kids and cats, learning about the dangers of patriarchy, and checking out the city a little bit. Good fun, but the deepening feeling of directionlessness only made me more delerious.
I had to make a change, but instead of finding a direction to go in, I decided to dive into the feeling, and just be without a direction.
I stowed my maps and compass away and navigated by intuition alone. I can’t tell you where I went, but for five days or so I was at peace with the waiting. I learned about my heart’s particular voice, and found myself in various astounding “coincidences.” I stopped smoking for good, and I started a routine of physical training and stretching. I was more free than I think I’ve ever been.

Then my mom wrote me an email saying that the embassy had called – “They gave you the visa, for thirty days, starting on June 7th.”

WOOO HOOOOO!!!

Intuitive traveling time was suddenly over. I figured out where I was, and headed back. It felt like going home. Now when I looked out over the landscape, I didn’t see Spain – I saw the entire world. The next day I did my first handstand ever. Indeed I felt like I could do anything!
And in the end, it turns out I never needed to come to Alicante at all. The visa application was mail-order, and I’ve decided to take the boat from Almeria instead of Alicante, so, why did I come here? But of course there are other reasons in this Universe than visas and logistics, and I’ve returned to Alicante to say goodbye. It seems a little strange to be throwing a party and cheering and smiling and hopping around with glee, just because I was awarded a visa for Algeria. That’s just not normal.

But for me it is a source of joy. For me this visa represents the opportunity to complete a circle, or to gain some closure, or let’s say, to finish the story. One way or the other, Algeria by bicycle is going to happen.

Now, before you have a chance to worry about the danger, take a deep breath.

I wrote this travelogue before doing the trip(something I rarely do) so you can come along with me, in a way. But be careful, please – one surely finds what one looks for out there, metaphysically speaking, so let’s not be looking for danger and catastrophe around every bend. Those are bad vibes I don’t want because they just can’t help. Instead, I will be looking for the goodness in Algerian people; the assistance, the solidarity, and the friendship.

Yes! The joy, the love – but never the fear.

La Prisa Mata Charla

charlie — Wed, 21 Apr 2010 12:51:41 +0000

Lee mas aqui:

LA PRISA MATA

(Hola, ¡bienvenidos! Yo soy Charlie, y disculpa – mi Castellano no es perfecto, pero bueno, vamos a ver como hago aquí.

Mi vuelta del mundo en bici, es una aventura, una peregrinación, y una búsqueda existencial, pero también es una oportunidad de difundir y compartir filiosofías. Lo que hice fue, escribir un pequeño discurso para arreglar mis pensamientos, y si me permiteís, lo voy a leer. Y no os preocupeís – será corto, quince minutos o algo.)

Quiero hablar esta tarde sobre los peligros y el daño de La Prisa; de donde ha venido nuestra sociedad; a donde está iendo, y una solución posible para vivir mas felices. Y para echarles un poquito de sabor a estes temas un poco pesados, hablaré un poco de mi viaje también. =)

Pero primero, quiero decir que – yo no soy miembro de ninguna organización activista, no he sido educado formalmente en estas ideas, y no voy a deciros que soy algun tipo de autoridad. Es verdad que he aprendido mucho por viajar sin utilizar vehículos motorizados, y se me han desarollado naturalmente algunas filosofías fuertes, pero todavía soy nada mas que un solo hombre, siguiendo su sueño. Bueno….

Dejé mi trabajo – ¿buen primer paso, no? ¡Lo recomiendo! Trabajaba como mecánico de bicis allí en Wisconsin. Después de una fiesta de la hostia, me separé de mis amigos y de mi familia, y salí de mi hogar, el quince de septiembre, dos mil siete.

El objetivo fue, y todavía es, recorrer el mundo entero en bicicleta. (Digo “objetivo” en vez de “plan” porque, además de ser muy malo con los detalles oficiales y la puta burocracía, no me gusta itinerarios ni horarios ni planes – estoy buscando aventura, y lo mas sé de mi futuro, lo menos aventura exitante puedo disfrutar)

Pedaleé a la costa oriental de los estados unidos y me di cuenta que, no se puede recorrer el mundo entero en bicicleta – había un océano en mi camino. Pensé mucho en ese océano y como atravesarlo; un avión nunca era una opción, y eventualmente, después de aprender mucho de la alta contaminación de las naves de carga y los yates de recreo tan horriblemente materialísticos, llegué a saber en mi alma que sólo aceptaría una sola respuesta – un velero, que cruzaría la distancia abajo del poder de viento. A pesar de todos los chistes monos de “barcos con pedales,” me puse a buscar un barco de vela que iba a Europa o Africa.

No lo encontré en Virginia, entonces me bajé hasta el punto de Florida – Miami. Y allí, depués de dos meses mas, en un golpe de suerte, encontré un capitán que necesitaba tripulación de la isla de Antigua hasta Inglaterra, y otro de Miami a Antigua. No tenía experiencia previa con los barcos, pero te lo juro – aprendí.

Pasamos diez días al mar, y una semana en la isla del Caribe. Me cambié de barco. Otros veinte días al mar, y otra semana en las islas Acores. Otros diez días, y finalmente aterrizamos en Inglaterra. Os digo – yo soy aventurero, y he visto mucho desde el asiento de mi bici. Pero dejar la tierra atrás por esa larga de tres semanas y tal – fue otra cosa entera…. El viaje sobre el Atlántico fue completamente inolvidable, y después de tantas dificultades en encontrarlo, y tanto tiempo en hacerlo, podía sentirme que mis principios se habían endurecidos. Ya no habría la oportunidad de cancelar este viaje; casi era como un viaje nuevo había comenzado. Ahora estaba por allí, en el mundo, de verdad, y una pregunta continuaba a volverme – ¿No podría yo, hacer mas? ¿No es una vuelta en bici una de esas cosas que se hace para curar cancer y tal? Hmm pero ¿como quiero yo ayudar? Podría difundir conocimiento, sobre lo que estamos haciendo a nuestra planeta… sí, sí, seguro que sí… pero bueno, poco a poco….

Coninué mi vuelta por Inglaterra, Gales, y Irlanda. En Irlanda un día, bajando una montaña en el medio de nada, de repente todo cambió. Me caí de la bici en un accidente bastante violento. Se me rompió el pie y también la bici, pero no fue la culpa de ningun coche ni conductor irresponsable – no había nadie alrededor. Solo iba demasiado rápido.

Los doctores me dijeron que mi pie duraría dos meses en recuperar, y que no debería mojar el yeso, abajo de un cielo Irlandés que nunca deja de llover. No tenía amigos, ni bastante dinero para pagar un alojamiento. La asistente social me juró que yo no tenía otra opción: tendría que regresar a los estados unidos. Y al salir del hospital, sin saber lo que iba a hacer, la recepcionista intentó de consolarme: “Seguro que el resto de tu equipo va a reunirse contigo muy pronto, no te preocupes.” No pude responderle, por las lágrimas que me amenazaban.

Eso fue un tiempo desesperado, pero logré, en gran parte por la caridad de unas familias católicas que me alojaron y me alimentaron.(¡Muchas patatas!) De hecho, porque rompí mi pie, me pasó una experiencia muy divertida y muy auténtica en Irlanda. (por lo cual quiero decir mucho whiskey y mucho Guinness…=) No pero en serio, tenía mucho tiempo para pensar. Leí un libro de un tipo que pasó diez y siete años sin hablar ni una palabra, en protesta de derrames de petróleo, y bueno, si él puede pasar diez y siete años comunicando con su banjo y sus acuarelas, joder – yo puedo quitar los coches completamente de mi vida. Tengo una bici, no pasa nada….

Encontré a alguien que soldó el cuadro de mi bici, y reemplacé la llanta mi mismo, y por fin mi pie estaba recuperado. A continuar, pués, al camino – pero era invierno ahora, y el invierno Irlandés no es una broma. Sin embargo, y diciendome “Soy de Wisconsin, Soy de Wisconsin” (donde hace muchísimo frio) seguí a la vuelta en bici, cruzando el país de Galway a Dublin. Luego subí a Irlanda del Norte y Belfast, donde esperaba que alguien me podría llevar a Escocia en barco de vela. Pero la temporada de Navidad no es la de jugar con barcos, y aunque encontré y intenté de convencer a varios marineros locos…. tuve que tomar el ferry. Lo siento. (Sí, yo sé, yo sé.)

Atravesé Escocia en el invierno también y pasé la Navidad con un couchsurfer en Edinburgh. Pasé por Newcastle para comprobar la cerveza local, y estaba en Amsterdam para el fin del año dos mil ocho.

Una vez aquí en el continente, parecía que me caía naturalmente con gente viviendo de estilos alternativos con mas y mas frecuencia. Pero aun adentro de estes círculos familiares, y claro afuera en el “circo,” veía mas y mas, una enfermedad, casi hasta el fondo de nuestra sociedad. Al separarme de la industría petrolera en esta manera tan sencilla – escoger siempre la bici en vez de otros modos de transporte – notaba mejor la verdadera adicción no solamente al petróleo, pero a la conveniencia. Aun los viajeros activistas que conocí, que siempre viajan por auto-stop(que es de verdad una manera mas sostenible) – están acostumbrados en sus vidas, a una velocidad determinada por su condicionamente social. Casi no conocí a nadie que viajaba, ni vivía, verdaderamente despacio, y aun por mi lado, yo no me di cuenta que significa vivir una vida ralentizada hasta que cambié mis “planes” de asistir la Criticona en Madrid, y giré al Este, siguiendo sólo mi corazón, para destinaciones desconocidos y por quién sabía cuanto tiempo.

Sí que ultimamente pasé por Madrid, pero fue via Alemania, Austria, Slovakia, Hungria, Croatia, Slovenia, Italia, Francia, y Catalunya….

Llegué en España con mucha anticipación y con una comprensión mucho mas desarrollada de los peligros de la prisa y la conveniencia, y de la tecnología que los ha amplificado hasta un punto donde se entienden como completamente normales. Pasé cinco semanas en Marruecos también, donde todo el mundo listamente comprende cuando digo “SOR3A TAKTUL” – “la prisa mata” en Árabe – y ahora me siento bastante fuerte en esta filosofía para estar aquí mismo, ahora, ofreciendo a vosotros lo que he aprendido.

(Ahora, si me permiteís, antes de vuestras preguntas (y las fotos), me gustaría explicar un poco la filosofía de La Prisa Mata…. ¿Bien? Bien.)

Es verdad que hoy en día hay muchos problemas con el medio ambiente. Se acaban los recursos naturales de la tierra, y ellos se han convertidos en una contaminación que amenaza toda la vida, hasta cada rincón del mundo. Coches, aviones, fábricas industrialas, y agricultura grande tienen la culpa de esta consumación y contaminación. Pero porque existen estas cosas?

Durante la revolución industrial, el Occidental aprendió que se puede producir mas, llegar a mas gente, y ganar mas dinero, todo mas rápido, con el uso de nuevas tecnologías. Sin pensar mucho en las concecuencias, o las gentes oprimidas, hemos adoptado todo lo que podía hacer la vida mas “facil,” mas conveniente. (Es cierto que ahora tenemos algunas habilidades medicales y apoyos tecnológicos, como helicópteros, pero con toda la tecnología, el poder de destruir ha ganado mucho mas que el poder de salvar vidas, y además, la mayoría de estas tecnologías se guardan para el Occidental. No se ven helicópteros de hospital en los campos del tercer mundo – sólo helicópteros militares.)

Bueno – también este poder jamás visto antes, de viajar rápidamente o escoger de una seleccion mas grande de productos, nos da una forma de libertad personal. Seguro, ahora se puede visitar paises exóticos durante los vacaciones de trabajo; se puede asistir conciertos o conferencias muy lejos con sólo el tiempo del fin de semana. Ahora, gracias a tecnología, se puede comprar bananas y café de PERU, aquí en España. Tenemos mas elecciones – ¿que hay de malo en éso? Bien… hay bastante, porque esta tecnología que viene con frutas exóticas, ella no viene con educación ni conocimiento. Ha continuado a “mejorar” nuestras vidas, sin mencionar los peligros sútiles, hasta que el mundo anterior, un mundo mucho mas equilibrado, se ha olvidado. Casi….

En estes días, la tecnología es nuestro salvador. Para cada problema que sube, buscamos primero una solución tecnológica, porque se realiza la solución mas rápidamente. Pero rapidez es sólo una cara del valor total. Y cada ejemplo de tecnología viene con un alternativo, atractivo pero enfermo, que poco a poco está reemplazando nuestra comunidad. Está matando a la confianza entre nosotros seres humanos, que es necesario para sobrevivir, exactamente como el aire, agua, o comida.

Por ejemplo, si uno tiene su coche, ya no hay que quedarse en el barrio con sus vecinos. Si no le gusta la selección de amigos allí, puede irse a otra ciudad para buscar otros. Pero el efecto que tiene, hacer esa elección, es muy grave para el barrio. Luego cuando hay un problema en la comunidad, nadie va a comuniciarse; sólo va a llamar a la policía. No se fie en los vecinos como antes. Antes, si había un invierno duro, o simplemente necesitabas ayuda con tus hijos, había gente allí a tu lado. Pero ahora será difícil encontrar alguien que te puede ayudar aun solamente a subir las bolsas del mercado a tu piso… o bien, si TU ofreces a ayudar, nadie te conoce, y aunque tenga tu vecino una sola pierna y un brazo roto, puede ser que no te dejará tocar sus bolsas. Porque no queda mucha confianza en la comunidad. Se está reemplazando con Miedo, en gran parte por la culpa de este nueva libertad de escoger la comunidad, que viene de… el motór de combustión interna. La conveniencia.

Otro pequeño ejemplo. Hoy en día tenemos también muchas elecciones de productos, de muebles y ropa y tal. Suena bien, pero si vemos sólo un poquito mas profundo de la idea, ¿como nos ayuda, en verdad? Sólo veo una ventaja – cuesta menos dinero. Producción rápida, sin mencionar su contaminación, aumenta la consumación mucho… ¿porque mendar un pantalón cuando un nuevo sale tan barato? No quieres que los vecinos te miren con parches en la ropa, como un pobre…. Y además. Así los grandes corporaciones que pueden producir tanto, casi han matado al negocio pequeño, y algunas profesiones enteras, que eran una gran parte de nuestras comunidades. Se han muertos por esta elección alternativa, que viene de… la conveniencia, la prisa. Ahora ¿que relación se tiene con el dueño del Corte Ingles, o sus gerentes, o aún sólo sus empleados? La comunidad en este caso se ha reemplazado con una monstrosidad impersonal.

Bueno, hay muchos mas ejemplos, pero quiero preguntar: si continuara la sociedad así, consumiendo, comprando, tirando, siempre buscando lo mas fácil, lo mas rápido, lo mas conveniente… ¿como parecería nuestro futuro? Yo veo muchas mas tecnologías, tecnologías para compensar para las fallas de otras tecnologías que compensaron para las fallas de otras todavía, que al principio sólo existían para hacer nuestras vidas mas fáciles, mas sencillos. Pero la tecnología no es sencilla, es muy, muy complicada, y a la gran perspectiva no hace nada mas fácil. Es absurdo que tanta gente, en vez de gastar el tiempo para hacer algo, siempre eligen la opción de consumir algo mas. Creo que ya hemos visto que la vida no se hizo mas fácil por toda la tecnologia. Una microondas calienta la comida mas rápidamente, pero de hecho, ¿donde está la tranquilidad que debe de venir con ese tiempo extra? Un coche hace mas fácil el viaje al trabajo, pero en las calles yo no veo muchas sonrisas – solo veo muchísimos conductores enojados, ansiosos, y tristes. ¿Es mas fácil vivir asi, de verdad?

Es que el coche, la microonda, o los demás de nuestras conveniencias modernas – puede ser que sí, hoy en día son normales… pero no era siempre así. De hecho toda esta tecnología es muy reciente, tan reciente que yo dudo que hemos descubierto todos las ramificaciones sútiles, y éso es sin mencionar el daño obvio al medio ambiente, el gasto imenso de recursos naturales, y los muertes que causan. ¿No puede ser que el cuerpo humano simplemente no fue hecho para moverse con tanta rapidéz, y que nos hace daño invisible? ¿No es posible que hay algo que no vemos cuando lanzamos una tecnología nueva, o aún sólo cuando enviamos un correo electrónico? ¿Cuanta confianza tienes en los científicos, las corporaciones, y los gobiernos que nos da nuestra tecnología?

Bueno, quizás yo debía de haber nacido hace mil años, pero aquí estoy, preguntandome si queda alguien en esta tierra que se recuerda de una época mas sencilla, cuando no había tráfico a todos lados, cuando no se podía escoger tecnología sobre comunidad, cuando había que pensar en lo que decíamos y lo que aprendíamos, cuando el tiempo no era dinero, sino solamente tiempo.

Casi termino aquí, pero no quiero quejar tanto sin ofrecer una solución. Tal vez preguntas, “¿Pero que puedo hacer Yo?” La respuesta es muy sencillo – puedes usar tu bici. Puedes también luchar para mas carriles bici, o menos aparcamientos de coche y tal, y está bien. Pero sólo por montar en bici, se verán mas bicis en la calle, mas gente en apoyo de este practico, mas ejemplos responsables para el resto del mundo. Vas en bici, y los niños en peligro de hacerse en conductores ignorantes, van a aprender que hay mas opciónes.

Yo soy prueba que se puede hacer, y tú puedes ser también. Y no tienes que dar la vuelta del mundo entero – sólo tienes que dar la vuelta de tu propio pueblo.

(¡Bien, bien! Quiero decir otra vez que no soy una autoridad. Estoy aquí también para aprender de vosotros. Si algo que he dicho os ha subido un sentimiento fuerte, hablamos de él. Si teneís dudas o críticas, hablamos de ellas. Venga con las preguntas, las reflexiones, y bueno, la charla. Y… gracias por sufrir mi discursito….)