You open the heavy wooden door, and look outside of the adobe brick walled house, only to be blinded as the bright morning sunlight filters in. You're 3500 meters above sea level, in the high mountains of the andes, and at this level, the air is thin, clear, and crisp. As your vision restores itself, your eyes become filled with colors of red, yellow, green, brown, and all around you, as you step outside, you've entered a world completely unlike what you're used to living in. The homes and buildings are painted white, with red clay tiled roofs. At first it seems familiar, but foreign, a strange mix of ancient incan empire, and spanish architecture. There is no where else like it on Earth.

Reddish brown skinned women, dressed in bright, rainbow colored shawls, and bowler hats hurry to the market, with a toddler in tow on their backs. Men in fedoras briskly walk to work, as llamas, laden with packs of food, salt, trade goods, and the occaisional sony playstation II, grunt and calmly follow the men, tired after a long journey overnite through the high mountain pass. Their ears have long red tassels, a decoration that the quechua children use to denote their herds. As taxis and micro vans ply the cobblestone streets, ox driven carts rumble alongside them, filled with corn, potatoes, which originated in the incan empire, and quinoa, a grain which the Incan emperor declared the "Food of the Gods".

As you walk down the street, ancient incan water canals flow along the pathways, sounding like many brooks and streams, as you slip and slide on the cobblestones, which are wet from the rain before. The air smells fresh, brisk, but not sodden. You walk to the ancient, but still occupied incan farm commune. It's built of cyclopean, giant stones, hewn and hauled from quarries, many miles away through mountains and valleys. No engineer, architect, or archaeologist has ever been able to adequately explain these monstrosities. You simply gaze in wonder, at the polygonal edges, and at the beauty of the stone work.

As you continue down the street, a man runs up to you, and you sense a feeling of urgency. You recognize him, for he is your comrade from the last mountain ascent, where the two of you nearly died, struggling up a forbidden site, and through punishing terrain and weather, in an ascent of 5000 meters into the heavens.

He comes up to you, and hurriedly asks, "Where have you been? We have to finish our mission! We have one last chance to go up the sacred mountain. After this, it will be impenetrable to anyone. The Pachamama guards her secrets carefully. My men are are ready to go when you are. Are you ready to go?"

Decisions, decisions...

A cool wind carresses your face, as you walk, bare foot, down the sandy shores of the ocean. All around you is the inky blackness of the warm, muggy, night, and a million pinpoints of light glimmer in the sky. The sounds of the salsa echo from the dance hall, and as you come closer, the rhythmic shapes of beautiful women, dressed in elegant skirts twirl and vibe as men, cool and poised, lead their women through a classic salsa.

You put on your dance shoes, after brushing the sand off of your feet, and standing on the wall is a beautiful woman, eyeing you. Her long black hair is tied up in a bun, accentuating her face and body. You do not miss a mark, not a curve on her slender yet curvacious body, nor the smile on her face. You walk towards her with a smile, hold out your hand, and ask, "May I have this dance, seniorita?" She smiles, acquiesces, and you lead her to the floor, into the center. The two of you dance as if you both were old lovers, from a time immemorial.

Even though the two of you just met for the first time that night, everything drops away, until the only things in existence are the rhythmic beating of the congo drums, the throaty sound of the trumpets of the salsa band, the measured pace of the cow bell, and the chemistry which crackles like electricity. During the dance, the primal urge boils inside, that primal urge to take each other and ravish each other. Yet, such wanton need is controlled by the dance moves, and every touch, every turn, every pass, only hints with the burning touch of desire, simmering underneath the calm, passionate, powerful movement of muscles, of the flair of her shoulders and hips, and of the strong sense of your lead.

Later, during a soft rhumba, as the two of you dance slowly, closely, skin upon skin, eyelash to eyelash, and you smell the sweet perspiration upon her skin, she looks into your eyes, and you can see the glow of the stars. She looks at you, breathless, and says, "You now have a taste of my dancing" and to match her, you instantly reply, "I would prefer to have a taste of your lips." She seductively smiles, and then the two of you leave the club.

The night can only get spicier...

Danger...

As you wander through the sea of dense green, the jungle seems to have become a blur. All around you, all you hear is a disquieting silence. You stop, and look around you. Not a noise, no howler monkeys, no parrots, not even the buzzing of an errant insect disturbs the air. You wipe the sweat dripping off your forehead, and touch your machete, which is slung across your back. You smile at the irony of the false sense of security that it gives you. Aferall, what good is a machete against a rifle?

Ahead of you are your comrades, a reckless bunch of peace corps flunkies who were looking for some adventure. Oh, you and your group went looking for adventure, and boy did you guys get it. Your group found itself in a situation where you got a lot more than you bargained for. You look at the literjons of water on the mule's back, and notice that the hole, which you tried to salvage with chewing gum and ducttape, is still leaking. It's the dry season, and there's a shortage of water in your group. But that's not the real fear. The fear that ladens the air is a primal fear, the fear of being hunted... and the hunter is the greatest predator the world has ever known.

Several people were killed just a few weeks ago, deep in this region of the Peten Jungle. Out here, in the wild wild east of Guatemala, there are no laws, there are no cops, and no authority except for the rules of the jungle. Will you quickly learn the rules of survival? Will you get to the mayan site, and live to tell about it?

You're already 3 days into the jungle. It will take another 3 to get out. Good luck... because you will need it.

The Land and the People...

For days you've been riding your bicycle through the foothills, up one mountain and down the next. It's been days since you've had a good conversation. The heavy weight of your equipment feels like a feather, as you continue down the road, thankfully downhill. You watch the rich hues of the reds, oranges, and gold as the sun sets over the mountainous skyline, and you decide to ignore the concern inside of you that you don't know of a safe place to pitch your tent and rest. Bah, forget that... go ahead and enjoy the view for now. Afterall, you've survived many situations, and the universe tends to reveal itself when it should.

As you gaze into the sun, little children run up to you, laughing, giggling, and tugging at your arms. You look down to see their toothy, smiling, brown faces, as they ask you all kinds of questions. You smile and joke with them, and soon they think of you as their friend. A man steps out from the side of a road, and you can see the creases and wrinkles in his face. He's brandishing an AK-47 tipped with a bayonet, slung over his shoulder, and he waves at you, smiling.

Would you like to come to my family's home for dinner, traveler?

You sense no danger in your gut, as all during this journey, the one thing you trust the most now, of all things, is your intuition. You smile back, and reply,

Certainly sir, I would be honored...

Immediately, to your surprise, the little children tug you in his direction, laughing and giggling about their new guest. You follow them to to an opening on the side of the road, to see that their home is no more than a primitive mud shack, with a tin roof. The toilet is a hole in the ground, and water comes from the rain and a defunct public works that operates twice a week. His wife comes out, smiling at you, as she holds a young son in her arms. Yet, you harbor no judgement, no pity, and no embarassment. You smile, in the glow of their hospitality, and as you share your food with them, and for the rest of the night, they pepper you with questions, you trade jokes, stories, and laughter becomes the music of the night.

Helping Others to Stand Up...

You go to the village hall, and meet with the chief, a grizzled, brown man with a wide flashing grin. He takes you to some of the outlying regions, where the campesinos eke out a living on the land. They're a tough, and proud people, and are able to support themselves. As you observe their efforts, he asks you how you can help them economically.

Later that night, to the light of the candle, you jot down a plan to put some of their handicrafts on the internet, with the full knowledge that all the proceeds will go back to the village. Working in conjunction with some Peace Corps volunteers, your team is able to bring new revenues to the villages, which in turn funds a public health project. All you've given is your time and your mind, and never in your life have you ever felt more ful-filled and happy. Later, when the village celebrates the harvest, you dance with them all through the night to the traditional music of their folklore.

And a Bicycle.

Through it all, you've melded the human body with the most remarkable machine in the world, the bicycle. With it, you've gone to places where few have walked, met people that you would never have met, had you gone in a car or a motorcycle. The steel beast, the aluminum velomachine, the bicycle was your alloy passport to adventure, mysterious places, romance, and into the hearts of some of the most remarkable people that no one had ever heard of.

Come read the book! All Photos are Copyrighted by Me. If you are interested in a print, please email me.