The station manager opens our exchange by offering to buy my bike. I explain that without a bike my life wouldn’t actually function and that it wasn’t really just a bike but also my companion and friend. He looks at me searchingly and then nods, in apparent comprehension.

The inevitable question.

“Where are you from?”

When he learns I am, originally, from Australia the man bustles me into a air-conditioned room filled, unexpectedly, with brand new sleek black electronic equipment to watch a DVD about an environmental programme he is running which features images of Sydney, where a similar campaign took place. We settle in to watch the film but the previously unnoticed background rumble of a generator suddenly dies and a plaintive beeping starts up from the bank of electronic equipment. The man jumps up and glares balefully out the window at a man walking away from a ramshackle shed in a field across the road. He apologises and turns off the computer.

“This is the third time I’ve tried to watch it,” he says sadly.

We return to the room across the hallway and he shows me images of the local wildlife and asks me about my trip. When he learns that I have an interest in photography he guides me back into the other room to show me the framed photos he and his workmates have taken of the Peninsula’s fauna which adorn the walls. I question him about what kind of camera he uses.

“I had a Cannon. It was a gift… but I sold it.”

He sighs.

“Life is very expensive.”

We talk more about what the park offers and where I might be able to camp and how to organise meals. He invites me to take part in any walks or excursions with any other tourists that might organise a tour with a guide and then he questions me again about Australia.

“I would love to go to Australia.”

He pauses.

“I was invited to go to Queensland last year,” he tells me.

“Did you go?”

It is a question that I know I probably shouldn’t ask – that I already know the inevitable answer to.

He sighs, again.

“No… Life is difficult.”

We bid each other goodbye and I cycle the twenty kilometres or so to the end of the road towards the east of the bay and then backtrack to the most attractive camp site where, after a brief exploration of the limpid blue waters with my snorkel, I light a fire and cook a meal from the food stash in my panniers.

The Caribbean blues on the Gunahabibicanes Peninsula.

Close to my campsite, yet another Che memorial. It is hard not to love Che; studying a book of photos of him at the airport I discover the ubiquitous photo of his stern face is almost the only one of him that exists where he is not smiling or laughing.

In the morning, after a leisurely breakfast on the beach, I return to the ecological station to talk to my new friend. He tells me some tourists have booked a tour in the afternoon and I can join them if I want and directs me in the meantime on a short walk through the forest behind the Ecological Station.

Trees grow out of an astonishing jagged bed of rocks, inhabited by swarms of large brightly painted crabs. The day is grey and blustery and soon it starts to rain. I shelter under a tree lost in my thoughts when I hear a gentle croak above – glancing around a spy a blue bird, splashed with red and white, with a long ruffled tail, also sheltering from the rain. The bird rearranges its feathers and flaps its wings to display its bright red underside to me before flying to another branch a little further away. We examine each other at length before I turn back and return the way I came. As I walk along the path large brown birds thrash about the forest with unrestrained cries.

Cuba's most prolific wildlife is a multitude of land crabs.

Bird filled forest.

At the station, my friend jumps up from his work to greet me. He tells me the names of the birds I have seen – the Cuban trogon and the Great Lizard Mockingbird – and gives an astonishing accurate rendition of their cries. I examine his bird book and he apologises for not being able to give it to me.

The group, unfortunately, have cancelled their tour because of the rain, he informs me. A mini tropical storm is heading our way and so the weather is going to continue to deteriorate over the afternoon.

I am disappointed that my guided tour has suddenly evaporated – it is not permitted to walk in the park without a guide and I would feel bad to ignore the rules since this man has been so generous to me – but my friend tells me that groups of biology students are camped on various beach towards the west end of the cape conducting a survey of nesting turtles and I could, if I wished, camp with them and see their work.

As I set off on this venture, rain pours down accompanied by fierce winds but I find the conditions quite invigorating after days of intense humid heat and the weather suits the wild terrain of the coast.

Austere landscape...

... and wild coast goes well with wild, windy weather.

After a couple of hours, I come to a camp on the beach close to the road and wheel my bike across the sand to investigate. The two young men standing in an open sided thatched shelter are surprised by my appearance. A bundled form recumbent in a hammock suggests a third inhabitant of the camp.

I ask if I can stay but the boys are wary, muttering non-committal nothings and defer ultimate decision making to the sleeping form. I mention the man at the Ecological Station’s name but it seems to mean nothing to them. However, they invite me to sit down, referring to the inclement weather, and offer me a cracker adorned with the surprising combination of guava paste and mayonnaise. An old man, toothless and gnarled, who has lived on the beach for 15 years in a nearby small thatched shelter, comes by to examine the unexpected guest. Eventually, the girl in the hammock arises and again I ask if I can stay.

“If you would like to….,” she says uncertainly.

That’s good enough for me.

I put up my tent next to one that lies collapsed on the ground which the three young people then tend to. Accommodation sorted, we all return to the shelter where we pass the rest of the afternoon playing dominoes.

Biology students studying turtles pass the day sleeping and playing dominoes.

I am initiated into the game - the concept is simple but it helps to have a good memory, not something I am particularly blessed with. I have a surprising run of wins but I think I am aided more by good luck than skill.

As dusk falls I take a nap to prepare for a night of scouring the beach for turtles and wake to a meal of rice and canned meat waiting for me. My contribution of Quaker museli bars for desert is carefully perused and commented upon.

“Where did you buy these?”

“Mexico.”

They are impressed and their thanks are embarrassingly earnest.

After dinner the girl examines my hands and gets out a primitive first aid kit to scrub out my infected cuts with alcohol and dress them with ragged bits of gauze and tape. One of the boys wraps up some spare gauze in a scrap of paper and insists that I pack it in my pannier.

We sit talking by the light of a smokey kerosene lamp.

Towards midnight we take turns to walk the beach watching for the marks made by female turtles dragging themselves up the beach to make their nests. I sit with one of the boys on the damp sand under the unknown stars and he tells me the dreams he has for his future. We pace the beach again and again and finally, I go to my tent to sleep. The boy says he will wake me if any turtles appear on the beach.

I wake at dawn and return to the beach to investigate the nest sites.

The view from my tent.

The beach at dawn.

Turtle nests...

... are carefully marked. Sadly, no turtles visited the beach the night I camped here.

The turtle camp.

I pack up my belongings and when they emerge from their tent, bid a very fond farewells to the biology students and set off to reach the westernmost point of Cuba.

The marina on the western most point of Cuban - closer to Cancun than Havana.

Always hungry for fish, at the marina I sidle up to a fishing boat and am lucky enough to end up, before long, with freshly caught fish served up to me, fried crisp and brown. with a few wedges of lime.

Cleaning a fish, that minutes later is before me on a plate.

An impressive fish.

I backtrack to the hotel on the beach at Las Tumlas where a chat to a Dutch couple brings the very welcome gift of a tube of Bettadine ointment. I spend the rest of the afternoon relaxing on a squatted lounge chair under the shady trees on the beach availing myself of the fresh water showers and other comforts.

It is four-thirty before I set off to cover the 55 odd kilometres back to La Bajada where I intend to get something to eat before finding another campsite on the beach. Favourable winds speed me along but iguanas soaking up the last of the sun’s rays and families of jutias, a large indigenous rat, playing by the road provide adequate distractions to slow my pace.

When I arrive in La Bajada the sun is already resting on the horizon and the lovely women who cook for me have little trouble in convincing me to stay for the night.

Casa! A welcome break from camping where I can wash myself and my clothes and generally make myself a little more socially acceptable.

Excellent interior decorating.

A bit of whimsy on the streets of the city.

I have found a few instant friends by the relatively simple, but not entirely foolproof, method of contacting a couple of bicycle groups and, so, of course, most of my activities end up being bicycle related but Mexico City proves to have no shortage of them.

Sunday morning sees me hazily wandering the streets of the city, after a uncharacteristic night of partying. A combination of Mexico City authorities have instituted a Sunday Bike Programme, in which some major city avenues are turned over to pedestrians, skaters and cyclists between 8.00 am and  2.00 pm every Sunday. A range of activist groups that wish to promote cycling are out and about on the streets preaching their gospel.

Something like 4 million motor vehicles are in use in Mexico City every day, commuters spend nearly two hours each day in transportation and 25% of the carbon dioxide emissions in the city are produced by cars. It would be nice to see a few more people on bikes as their preferred means of everyday transport instead of just Sunday recreation but the Sunday Bike Programme seems like a very good start in promoting bike culture in the city.

ECOBICI are one of the many groups in Mexico City which are trying to promote cycling. If you are a member of the programme (which requires you to have a credit card registered with the organisation) you can borrow a bike from any ECOBICI station and use it free of charge for up to three hours. It is possible to return the bike to any ECOBICI station in the city.

Another ECOBICI station.

The local constabulary also get around on bikes.

Bicitekas is cycle activist group that has a number of projects. One is Paseo a Ciegas, where volunteers  take sight-impaired people on tours of the city on tandems as part of the Sunday Bike Programme.

All sorts of bike organisations and projects exist in Mexico City. A volunteer wearing a tee-shirt sporting the Paseos a Ciegos logo.

I spend the first few weeks in Mexico City staying with Alisa and her three cats and two flatmates. This tolerant household seems unfazed by my erratic comings and goings and the various belongings, including my bike, that I leave scattered around the lounge room.

Alisa and Orix.

DF empties out over the semana santa - Holy Week – as Easter is known in Mexico. Semana santa is one of Mexico’s most important holidays, although less for its religious significance, than for the opportunity it provides for people to enjoy Mexico’s fabulous beaches.

I explore the city’s markets, the most obviously attractive of which is the flower market, housed in a bustling cavernous tin building. The place never sleeps because you simply can’t know when you might have an urgent need of flowers.

Flower market - open 24 hours a day, 365 days a years...

...because you never know when you might need a funeral wreath...

...or a party balloon...

...or a couple of hundred dozen roses...

...or just piles and piles of flowers.

Every market place has a shrine and this market clearly never lacks for cut flowers to place on the alter.

There are always plenty of flowers here, I'm sure, for the market place shrine.

In the general market, behind the Zocalo, I come across another macabre religious figure: Santa Muerte. This statue stands behind the counter of a stall where it is possible to buy herbal remedies for all your spiritual and bodily ailments. To one side you may, if you choose, enter a small booth sealed by a slightly ominous sliding door to get your aura cleansed for a mere 120 pesos. I briefly contemplate having the procedure performed before deciding that, on reflection, that I would prefer my aura to retain is imperfections.

In the general market, I come across more grim religious imagery. Santa Muerte's Catholic credentials are slightly dubious, I think.

Big cities have an undeniable force, something like that of a black hole, that draws me in and holds me tight and I find it hard to drag myself away from DF. Eventually I relieve Alisa and her household of my presence on their couch and move to another cat-loving household a little further south – with Rose and her feline friend, Yumi.

People gradually drift back into the city after Easter and the pace of life picks up again. Paseos Nocturnos is another Bicitekas initiative; every Wednesday at 9.00 pm cyclists gather under The Angel of Independence on Reforma to cycle through the night-time city. The evening I participated the group rode a relatively short distance to the Zocalo, and around the market areas behind it, but often the night rides are much more extended and don’t finish until 1.00 or 2.00 am.

Another Bicitekas activity are night rides around Mexico City. Every Wednesday, the group meets under the Angel at 9.00 pm and explores different areas of the city on two-wheels.

Police survey the crowd of cyclists - a couple of police cars accompany the ride.

Darkness...

...and light...

More bicycle lights in the night.

I meet with Cheve, a keen biker and mountaineer, to quiz him for information about climbing some of Mexico’s more challenging volcanoes. I have my eyes set on Iztaccihuatl but to reach the summit it is necessary to deal with some glaciated areas and this is an aspect of climbing of which I have no previous experience. We meet on a rainy afternoon at UNAM, the Autonomous University of Mexico, and chat sheltering first under a freeway bridge before making our way, in a break in the downpour, to an local example of 70s land art, a giant ring of concrete triangles surrounding a patch of volcanic rock – the rock that much of Mexico City is built from. We continue our conversation about trips and adventures and when the skies open again we hide out in a small underground cave in the middle of the encircled area.

An art work at the UNAM (National Autonomous University of Mexico) - the circle surrounds a patch of volcanic rock. There is even a little underground cave in the middle of it.

Later in the evening, I meet with Kodiak, another keen cycle tourist. Kodiak appears to devote most of his spare time to promoting cycle touring in Mexico by organising trips for members of Ciclovida, a group he co-ordinates.  We met earlier in the week to swap cycling stories and, when Kodiak discovered that I have been riding without a helmet since mine was stolen in Guachochi, he insisted that Ciclovida would provide me with a new one.

Kodiak, the co-ordinator of Ciclovida, a bike group with the aim of promoting cycle touring, gives me a new helmet to replace the one that was stolen in Gauchochi.

So, finally, armed with plenty of good advice on the best route out of Mexico City to Puebla -  my next stop -  and a brand new helmet, I am ready to leave DF. Getting out of DF requires negotiating some pretty hairy roads so I am quite happy to have a hard head again.

The periferico....

...is an awe-inspiring and...

... and awful thing. Just imagine if all those resources, effort and ingenuity were put into making something really useful.

My excuse for an extended stay in the D.F. is provided by David, an old friend from Sydney, who is meeting me here in the metropolis as the starting point for a couple of weeks of Mexican exploration and adventure. We’ve been tossing ideas around in cyberspace for a couple of months now and we want to check out the city and then climb a few volcanoes. David has a special interest in earthquakes and disaster which extends to all geological events, including volcanic activity.

The Mexican flag flying high over the Zocalo in Mexico City.

My sister, refusing to concede defeat and allow me to travel the world poorly dressed, has sent the little black dress that I finally divested myself of in Zacatecas – by including it in a package of Mexican goodies that I sent to her in Sydney – back to me using David, who is also a friend of hers, as a courier. So after David has recovered somewhat from the 30 hour journey from Australia, we make our way to Coyoacan in the south of D.F. on the practically compulsory pilgrimage to Frida Kalho’s house, both nattily dressed in black.

Frida Kahlo is a cultural figure that requires celebration no matter what one thinks of her art work and we spend a happy day in the Blue House discussing life and politics. David is keen to start an un-australian political party and we decide that Central Mexico seems like it might be a perfect place to set up headquarters.

Hanging out at Frida's house: no visit to Mexico City should fail to include a visit to the Blue House. (Photo: @dvrodgers)

Me and Frida. (Photo: @dvrodgers)

David's eccentric footwear makes it a trifle difficult for him to pass unnoticed on the streets of Mexico City.

After a few days in the city, we set off towards Nevado de Toluca, the first of the volcanoes we intend to visit. Since David doesn’t have a bike, we decide to travel by a combination of buses and hitch-hiking, a state of affairs I have very mixed feelings about. However, despite any misgivings I might have, we leave D.F. on a comfortable bus, complete with movie screenings and the possibility of wi-fi. Arriving in Toluca, a couple of hours later, we catch another much more basic bus towards the mountain, which at around 4700 metres looms large in the distance.

I rode past this mountain only a week ago and so I am familiar with the terrain but as the rattletrap old bus heads west and starts to climb  we are deep in discussion and completely miss the point were we should get off the bus to enter the national park. Eventually we realise that we are descending the mountain again and, after hastily leaping from the bus, we have to hitch hike back to the entrance of the national park.

The un-australian hitch hiker. (Photo: @dvrodgers)

It is late afternoon by the time we find ourselves climbing the mountain on foot and we only walk an hour or so before setting up camp in the forest just below the snow line. The mountain is quite high and a night’s rest is probably a good idea in order to acclimatise ourselves to the altitude – especially for David, who was at sea level only a couple of days ago.

Late afternoon sun on Nevado de Toluca.

Sunset on the mountain.

The morning brings bright sunshine and a biting icy wind blowing relentlessly over the snow covered mountain top. We walk along a well made gravel road, passing communication towers and a meteorological station before reaching a mountain hut, where we leave our bags, and make the final ascent of the mountain. By the time we reach the top we both have splitting, attitude induced, headaches and we huddle down behind some sheltering rocks to rest for a while before making the descent.

In the morning we set off up the mountain. Not much real climbing is involved in getting to the top of Nevado de Toluca - there is a well made road and in summer it is possible to drive all the way into the crater. (Photo: @dvrodgers)

Looking down towards Toluca from the mountain top.

The central crater is a stark fantastic landscape.

Eventually we stumble down the mountain again and set up camp in the forest near the entrance to the park and fall asleep without even bothering to eat. In the morning we hitch a life back to Toluca, sharing the back of a pick up truck with an inebriated rural labourer, who sings dubious songs to David and I, in between questioning us thoroughly as to the exact nature of our relationship and swigging away on the unidentified contents of a plastic bottle. I think this man proposed the idea of marriage to me but his lack of teeth and my uncertain grasp of the Spanish language make it hard to be absolutely sure.

Back in Toluca, we board another bus to Morelia, the capital city of the state of Michoacan. I am pleased to the have the opportunity to visit this city, with a pretty well-preserved historical centre, which I missed on my previous travels in Michoacan. We arrive in Morelia mid-afternoon and wander the city for a while trying to find a hotel far enough from the touristy historic centre to be reasonably priced. The tourist information kiosk has no advice to assist with this endeavour but after a few false starts we stumble across the perfect accommodation on a lively square a kilometre or so from the Zocalo.

Window: the hotel in Morelia more than satisfies an exacting aesthetic criteria developed over years of watching road movies.

Courtyard tiles.

Courtyard washing.

Green walls in the entrance hallway.

During my visit to the butterfly sanctuary at El Capulin, I met, by chance, a Mexican cyclist activist and astro-physicist called Andres, who lives in Morelia, and so I contact him and we agree to meet for a drink. Walking through Morelia, we pass a square where an annual church festival is taking place. An elaborate kinetic, pyrotechnic sculpture has been installed in front of the church and we decide to return after dark to watch the display.

Kinetic firework structure.

Home-made pyrotechnics.

Eventually the structure is lit up...

... and wheels...

...and hearts start to spin......

... until, in the grand finale, a giant crown takes off flying high above the church towers.

After the pyrotechnics we return to Andres’ house where we meet Dona Cleta, a giant puppet, who will take part in tomorrow’s Critical Mass ride in Morelia. Unfortunately, I am bikeless for the moment and, as David and I are intending to set off towards Paricutin, our second volcano, in the morning, I regretfully decline to participate myself.

Meet Dona Cleta. (Photo: @dvrodgers)

Keeping the peace in Morelia: in Mexico the police always travel in large numbers and with masked faces.

In order to reach our next destination, Angahuan – a small indigenous settlement close to Paricutin, we decide to try our luck with a more extended hitch hiking adventure. The journey goes in fits and starts – the rides are short, interspersed with long waits by the roadside in the bright sun – and by late afternoon we have made it only to the outskirts of Uruapan, a mere hundred kilometres or so away from Morelia. We give up and jump on a local bus for the final stretch to Angahuan where we are fortunate enough to be given, what turns out to be, an excellent recommendation for accommodation as soon as we get off the bus.

We make our way through the dusty village streets accompanied by a strange relentless soundscape of multiple loudspeakers emitting rising and falling chants in the local indigenous language. We follow the white pick up truck that was pointed out to us by our informant at the bus stop to an unmarked gate where we are soon led by a woman, in the full skirts and lacy petticoats of the local indigenous costume, to a building sitting on the hillside in an expansive garden. We are shown our room which has an open fire place where we cook a much needed hearty dinner of lentil and vegetable soup over a wood fire.

On questioning our hostess about the ubiquitous broadcasting in the village, she informs us that these spoken word works are, disappointingly, but perhaps unsurprisingly, merely advertising. The morning brings a renewed aural assault when the noise emitted by the loudspeakers is accompanied by a brass band roaming the streets of Angahuan, pursuing a wedding party in a scene reminiscent of the opening of the movie, Underground.

An excellent place to stay at Angahuan - lovely simple rooms with open fireplaces. (Photo: @dvrodgers)

The roof tops of Angahuan - the village is, sadly, a relentlessly noisy place.

We prepare for our visit Paracutin, a journey that entails a twelve mile round hike from the Angahuan. Paricutin is only a small volcano but it has the distinction of being one of the youngest in the world. The volcano emerged from a local corn field in the 1943 growing to a height of close to 400 metres within a year and spreading ash and lava over an area of 25 square kilometres over the next 9 years of activity. Two local communities, Paricutin and San Juan Panrangaricutiro, were inundated by the eruptions which ceased in 1952.

I spend some time before we set off attending to shoe repairs: my shoes have taken a bit of a beating over the last nine months. (Photo: @dvrodgers)

We leave the village, evading the horse touts, and make our way to the buried village of San Juan. The path is uncertain but the church tower rising out of the lava field provides an unmistakable landmark.

Church towers rising from the lava field offer an unmistakable landmark.

Shrine.

Buried church - it seems that the second tower hadn't been completed at the time of the volcanic eruption.

After wandering for some time around San Juan, we are ready to make our way to volcano itself but finding our way from the ruins to the base of the volcano starts to look a little more challenging than expected. We have also been further discouraged by a story Andres related in which he spent a day searching fruitlessly for the access path to the volcano despite the mountain’s obvious presence on the horizon.

Eventually we strike a compromise with a guide who offers to accompany us to the start of the path crossing the lava field for half the fee of the complete trip. He sets off through the scrubby forest and fields of volcanic ash at a cracking pace with David and I trailing behind. When we reach the edge of the lava field he issues some vague instructions and we are left to our own devices in attempting to cross the 3 or 4 miles to the volcanic cone.

The going is slow over the rough ground and abrasive surfaces and we constantly lose the path struggling over volcanic boulders but gradually we creep closer and closer to the cone.

The volcano peeping over the lava field.

The last section is a desperate scramble up the volcano’s steep ashy sides. Having gained the summit, however, we are very happy to admire the incredible landscape.

Looking back down on the visible remnants of San Juan Parangaricutiro.

The view from the top of the volcano.

The volcano is a monogenetic volcano, which means that it will never erupt again, but, despite its status as extinct, puffs of steam emerge from the ground which is too hot to sit on for any length of time.

Un-australian on the crater. (Photo @dvrodgers)

Puffs of steam emerge from the ground around the crater.

Denizens of the volcano.

Volcanic creature.

The general atmosphere is sultry and humid and slightly inhospitable.

Steaming ground.

We descend the cone and struggle back over the lava field, following in the footsteps of a fellow hiker who is, unaccountably, carrying a mountain bike over the volcanic boulders and return exhausted to the village where we spend another night.

We wake in the morning ready to tackle our next mission which is to hitch hike to the coast of Michoacan, about 250 kilometres to the west, where we intend to spend a few days relaxing on the beach. There are two routes to the coast available to us and we decide to take the slightly more convoluted one. It turns out that this decision means we are on roads that see little traffic and we make very slow progress. After covering about 100 kilometres, as darkness falls, we flag down a bus which takes us to the town of Coalacoman, where we spend the night before continuing in the morning. Again our attempts to hitch hike end in defeat and by mid-afternoon we arrive at Maruata by bus.

Maruata is a Pacific dream – a sleepy fishing village on a wild rocky coast populated with abundant wild life. Pelicans wheel ceaselessly over the waves and plummet headlong into the water in pursuit of fish.

Maruata is a relaxed fishing village on a rugged, beautiful coastline...

... waves crash onto its craggy beaches...

... and pelicans hurl themselves at the water in pursuit of fish...

..., ceaselessly,...

..., without restraint.

We spend the days relaxing under shade structures and wandering along the beaches where whales swim just off-shore, leaping periodically from water.

Shade structures line the beach and for a few pesos it is possible to pitch a tent under them.

The simple construction and biodegradable materials are inspiring.

Life can be a beach.

After dark, giant Pacific Black Turtles make their way up onto the beach and perform their labourious nesting rituals. The females haul themselves across the sand and then start to dig, initially with their front flippers, to clear a large area of loose material and then, painfully slowly, they excavate a smaller deeper cavity with their rear flippers. Once the hole is prepared – and sometimes they dig several before they are completely satisfied with the result – the turtle lays a clutch of up to seventy eggs before burying them and dragging herself, exhausted and sighing, back down to the sea.

Maruata is one of the turtle reserves that line the Michoacan coast. The threatened Giant Pacific Black Turtles nest here. A female is digging a hole to lay her clutch of eggs - a process that takes up to an hour to complete. (Photo: @dvrodgers)

Around 50 to 55 days later, the results of this labour emerge. Tiny babies, absurdly miniature versions of their giant 100 kilo mothers, emerge from the sand and scurry about, in wild disarray, trying to find their way to ocean. The youngsters clearly are a little lost and disorientated and the last baby turtle to emerge from the nest we observe has a deformed back flipper -  as it struggles across the sand falling far behind its brothers and sister the urge to help is incredibly hard to resist.

More midnight activity: baby turtles, emerging from the sand before scuttling down the beach to the water.

It is the week before Easter – semana santa (holy week) – the major annual holiday in Mexico, a period in which almost everybody attempts to be at the beach and preparation for the influx of visitors to Maruata are well underway. People are extending the shade structures of their enramadas and a ramshackle funfair appears in the village square.

Beachside fun fair.

Dodgy mechanics.

Carny life.

I could happily dream my life away at Maruata but after a couple of days we decide to take advantage of a fortuitous lift which will take us all the way back to Mexico City with Armando and Eduardo, a couple of fellow campers. After an epic twelve hour journey, we find ourselves back in the seething metropolis.

Mexico City metro.

Barranca de Muerto - the Canyon of Death - nice name for an underground railway station! The symbol is two vultures in flight.

The return to Mexico City provides us with a variety of peculiar entertainments.

While we are enjoying beer and fish at a cantina, we are approached by a shady character with a strange machine and we submit ourselves to mild electric shocks for a small fee.

The game - a man charges 15 pesos to pass a electric current through his customers. The idea is to see how much voltage you can bear. (Photo: @dvrodgers)

A Sunday afternoon wrestling match proves to be a theatrical pantomime event with an appreciative and very participative audience, consisting of large numbers of children. People – and they are not only children – arrive wearing the masks of their favourite wrestlers and, despite the injunctions to refrain from using obscene words, chant virulent abuse at those they despise. My repertoire of Spanish insults increases considerably during this event.

A number of excursions into the areas east of the Zocalo reveal a range of shops selling cheap versions of absolutely anything at all.

Zacatecas - a bustling lively town, with great markets.

Victor lives near the centre of town in a tiny semi-derelict house. Amazingly, the limited space Victor has at his disposal doesn’t prevent him from unquestioningly offering four cyclists accommodation. Victor is a member of one of Mexico’s only reggae bands and his house appears to be something of a hub of alternative social activity in Zacatecas. The main room downstairs houses a drum kit and equipment for band practice.

Once our four bikes and all our gear are also installed there is little room for anything or anyone else. Victor gives up his tiny bedroom to accommodate us and goes to sleep at a friend’s house while the four of us squeeze in where we can, spreading out our sleeping maps on the bare concrete floor. I opt for bedding down in the closet. When the morning reveals that the bathroom doesn’t boast running water, Cass is the first to crack and flees for a hostel.

Victor, our first couch surfing host, in his student digs.

Jeff, Jason and I spend a day exploring the bustling markets around the centre and then wander up to La Bufa, the hill overlooking town, to investigate a museum on the history of the Mexican Revolution. The photos are fascinating but I leave without feeling I understand much more of this confusing episode in Mexican history.

Pancho Villa: Viva la Revolucion!

A girl in the market attracts Jeff's attention. She is selling an intriguing array of products to address any number of ailments and problems...

... including an odd collection of herbal teas.

After another night with Victor, Jeff and I opt to move in with another couch surfer for a few days, in the suburbs between Zacatecas and Guadalupe. Monica, and her daugher Andrea, generously put us up in their very comfortable home, where there is ample outdoor space for us to do some much needed maintenance work on our bikes and repair various items camping gear. There is also a sewing machine that Monica kindly has repaired and  Jeff dedicates a couple of days to finishing his frame bags – a ongoing series of sewing projects that started back in Silver City.

The days at Monica’s are very well spent but after a short time in the suburbs we are keen to meet up with Jason and Cass in Zacatecas again.

The aspirations of the middle-class in Mexico.

The dirtbag gang is reunited at Hostel Villa Colonial, a relaxed hostel overlooking the cathedral, but Zacatecas marks the end of an era – my way diverges here from that of the rest of the gang; the boys are keen to strike out for the coast and I am heading towards Puebla.

The view of the cathedral from the roof of the hostel...

... and a detail of the hectic facade.

Cowboys in town - Zacatecas is still cowboy country but it is, apparently, something of a border zone and further south the culture starts to change.

Zacatecas is a town of curiosities.

So, after another day or so organising themselves, Jeff, Jason and Cass head off toward Guadalajara and I am left alone in the hostel dormitory. The next day heavy rains fall and I stay a few extra days in Zacatecas, contemplating my future as a solo traveller again.

Travelling with a knowledgeable and observant companion has meant I have learnt a lot about some things which I previously knew nothing. The following is a list of some of the birds that I have seen, some of which I may, hopefully, recognise if I see again.

Great Blue Heron
Western Tanager
Scarlet Tanager
Black-chinned Hummingbird
Broad-billed Hummingbird
Black Phoebe
White-throated Swift
Painted Redstart
Canyon Wren
Vermillion Flycatcher
Ash-throated Flycatcher
Acorn Woodpecker
Northern Cardinal
Phyrruloxia
Baltimore Oriole
Elegant Trogon
Violet-green Swallow
Belted Kingfisher
White-breasted Nuthatch
Northern Flicker
Shrike (unidentified)
Western Bluebird
Least Sandpiper
Mexican Jay
Stellar’s Jay
American Kestrel
Red-tailed Hawk
Swainson’s Hawk
Peregrine Falcon
Turkey Vulture
Black Vulture

Painted Redstart. (Photo: Jeff Volk)

Red-tailed Hawk. (Photo: Jeff Volk)

Ash-throated Flycatcher. (Photo: Jeff Volk)

Acorn Woodpecker

Yellow-headed Blackbirds.

Altamira Oriole.

Vermillion Flycatcher.

Black Vultures.

We ride in gathering darkness, into a headwind, uphill, out of Silver City on the highway, covering around twenty miles before turning off onto a gravel road. We make a hasty camp without the comfort of a campfire and dive into our tents. It rains during the night and by morning the precipitation has turned to snow. We huddle in the tents until mid-morning hoping the weather will improve, eventually setting off, still into a stiff headwind, this time on heavy wet sand. We are supposed to be losing elevation but whatever downhill gradients might exist are not discernable in these conditions.

Jeff, rugged up against the icy wind, studying notes from an out-of-date guide at an uncertain intersection.

A piece of wood on the ground provides a missing clue that sets us straight.

Our destination is Hachita, some fifty miles away, a virtual ghost town, which none-the-less has a functioning Post Office where Jeff is expecting a food box. We spend all day battling the icy gale and arrive in Hachita at sunset and set up camp beside an old water tower on the outskirts of town.

Water tower on the outskirts of Hachita.

Camp at dawn. Jeff favours a tarp over a tent.

In the morning the sun rises and the wind has dropped. Jeff sets off to the Post Office to get his parcel and spreads out his goodies on a group of picnic tables to organise. I wander the town, checking out abandoned buildings and the detritus of human settlement.

The cafe and store clearly hasn't been open for some time.

An abandoned house.

Love this old bike.

The Saloon is also closed.

The astute reader might have noted that I mentioned that I was meeting three guys in Pie Town and only two have been introduced so far. Jeff’s brother, Jason, is the missing member of the team. He has spent the last couple of weeks visiting a friend who offered him some temporary work in Albuquerque. Jason is intending to rejoin the ride in Hachita and we are also expecting Cass to meet us here in time to cross the border together the tomorrow.

Some time towards mid-afternoon we are all assembled and organised and set off towards the border which is around fifty miles away.

Everybody is finally assembled and almost ready to go. Cass, in the foreground, Jeff, in red, and Jason, in green.

Jeff and Cass race over the mountain to try to catch the store before it closes at 4.30pm while I follow at a more sedate pace. I arrive just before 5pm to discover the guys deep in conversation with Klara, the manager of the Gila Hot Springs camp site. Jeff had arrived at 4.20pm, ten minutes before the store closed, to find the doors already locked and the store owner not disposed to reopen them despite our dire foodless predicament. Klara, the store owner’s sister-in-law, obviously a far kinder soul has raided her larder to provide us with ground elk meat, pasta and a tin of tomato sauce for Jeff, who is vegetarian. Dinner assured, all that remains is for us to set up camp before submerging cold, tired, aching bodies in natural pools of hot water.

"Here you are!" "You are here!" Read it as you wish. I am pretty glad to be here at Gila Hot Springs.

We ride down to the campsite by the pools and hurriedly put up our tents. I am first in the water and it is only hunger that drives me out a couple of hours later. After a fine elk bolognese with pasta, I am back in the pool until after midnight. The water is warm but the outside temperature is well below freezing. Finally I fall into my tent and sleep but I am up long before the sunlight spills over the rocky bluff to the east and back in the hot water.

Hot water! Pure bliss. Jeff soaking it up.

I could have spent a long long time at the Gila Hot Springs. Photo: Jeff Volk

Lying in the water looking up at the rocky cliffs and rustic wooden structures. Photo: Jeff Volk

Whimsical artworks surround the hot pools at Gila Hot Springs. It was beautiful place in every way.

More art work surrounding the pools. Photo: Jeff Volk

Hot springs.

Warm in the water but still icy out...

...an icy seat waiting for me.

Sadly, I cannot stay soaking in hot water forever. The frosty prospect of packing up an ice encrusted tent lies before me. However, Klara, very kindly, has offered us a lift to the top of the mountain we crossed yesterday and we are all grateful to be spared the prospect of a 2000 foot climb, with severe grades, on our bicycles to get back onto the road to Silver City. We pile our bikes precariously on the back of her husband’s flat bed truck and enjoy the luxury of motorised transport for a short while, feeling that life doesn’t really get much better than this.

The road seems innocuous, certainly no rougher than many of the gravel tracks I have followed since I left the coast, but within an hour of leaving I find myself sprawled on the ground, tangled up with my bike,  panniers strewn untidily about after coming around a corner at speed and hitting a patch of deep sand. It takes me a while to pick myself and the bike up and get back in order. The front pannier rack is seriously bent, the front brakes a mess, my left knee grazed and my right leg is clearly going to be black and blue in a day or so. Cass and Jeff are far ahead and there is nothing much to be done but keep going so that is what I do.

The force of my crash bent my front rack quite seriously but nothing a few zip ties can't fix - at least temporarily.

And the other damage - my bruises after a few days have passed. Photo: Jeff Volk.

The rest of the day passes uneventfully enough. We ride until after dark, trying to cover some ground, before setting up camp beside the road. The next morning we wake to showers of freezing rain.

Leaving Pie Town the clouds are heavy. We pass old ranch buildings.

Cass and Jeff stop for a photo break.

Before too long the predicted snow arrives.

The first flurry of snow. Our friends in Pie Town told us that we would only get a dusting but this looks like it might get serious.

Storm clouds brewing.

It's cold out here...

...and the sky is looking more and more ominous.

The snow is nothing, however – mud is what really slows us down.

Jeff and I have to take our mud guards off and even after this procedure, the only option is to push the bikes on the grass parallel to the road. Photo: Jeff Volk

Jeff's chain snaps under the press and so we take a break for mechanical repairs.

My bike starts to disappear under snow.

My brand new drive chain is already taking a beating.

Snow, overall, is a surface that allows us to make more progress than the mud.

A snowy road is better than a muddy road.

Anna and Cass cycling over the plain. Photo: Jeff Volk.

It is very cold and finding a sheltered place for a lunch break is something of a challenge.

Cass trying to find somewhere a little sheltered to take a lunch break.

Packing up after lunch to set off again.

Cass cycling across the icy plain.

It is slow going, though, and we only make about 30 miles before the sun set and we make camp in a small snowy canyon to the side of the road, building a huge fire to warm us and melt snow to supplement our meagre water supplies. Having company changes the experience of an evening out in the wilderness – there is far more potential for campfire philosophising on topics from the sublime to the banal.

Cold but beautiful. Dawn at camp.

Tents in the snow.

I am still excited by snow and how beautiful it is - despite any discomfort or inconvenience it causes.

Jeff cycling across the snowy field from our canyon campsite.

The next day the road get seriously mountainous. We have three major climbs over mud, snow and ice. Towards the end of the day a man in a pick-up truck passes an hour or two before sunset and warns that a blizzard is heading our way with up to two feet of snow predicted. We try to reach the tarmac but the terrain is difficult and after a few spills in the dark on icy descents with precipitous drops to the side we decide to make camp and leave the matter in the hands of fate. The night is cold but we wake to clear sunny skies. We have a long descent to a tarmac road which leads to the Gila Hot Springs.

Cycling in the forest. Photo: Jeff Volk

Down the hill. Photo: Jeff Volk

An alligator juniper. In between the storms the sun shines and the mountains are a beautiful place to be.

There is no place I'd rather be. Photo: Jeff Volk.

It is still raining and icy cold. I have a huge hankering for pancakes and I need to restock my food pannier. Tusayan is big enough to fulfill both these needs and, on arrival, I head straight for the first café that I see to order a stack of pancakes. With wi-fi an added café bonus, I check the weather and discover that snow and night time temperatures of -9 to -12 Celsius are predicted over the next five days. I linger in the café for as long as I can and then move on to the general store.

The produce is limited and overpriced but I grab what I can. I have spread my purchases out on the ground to organise and pack them into my pannier when a girl passes by.

“Are you camping out in this weather?” she asks.

“Yes!” I reply.

“You can come and stay at my house,” she offers.

I look up from my packaging.

“I’ve got the day off and I’ve rented some videos – I’m going to spend the afternoon watching them. It’s 67 degrees (around 20 degrees Celsius) at home.”

I’m almost sold.

“We call it Casa de Cougar. It’s a trailer in the RV park – we all work as trail guides. Just turn right up there. You can’t miss it – it’s at the end of the road and ours is the only one with bikes.”

How can I refuse? I tell her I’ll be there as soon as I’m organised; a warm comfy house, within striking distance of the Grand Canyon, filled with people with an intimate knowledge of it seems like a stroke of good fortune that would be extremely foolish to refuse.

I soon join Jess on the couch and spend the afternoon watching videos. As dusk draws in Jess suddenly exclaims, “Have you seen the Canyon yet?”

I admit that I haven’t.

“Well, let’s go and see the sunset then!”

We jump in the car and effortlessly drive the seven miles to the edge of the Canyon. It is cold enough that there are only half a dozen people to be seen on one of the most visited points on the South Rim. I have forgotten my camera and so I watch the sun set without distraction.

My second glimpse of the Grand Canyon - the following morning.

We shop for food at the Grand Canyon Village store and head home to make dinner. Tank, another member of the household, arrives and we eat, drink and talk. Tank has maps and advice about day walks and I resolve to get up early and explore.

In the morning, as snow drifts gently down, I set off on my bike to ride fourteen miles to Hermit’s Rest at the west end of the South Rim for a eight mile return hike to Yuma Point.

A dusting of snow in forest on the way into the Grand Canyon National Park.

The road to Hermit’s Rest hugs the rim of the Canyon and I stop constantly to admire the views.

Grand Canyon views.

The wind is icy and I am glad to descend into the Canyon where it is sheltered and the temperatures are warmer. I met a few weary people on the Hermit Trail, making the ascent, but once I turn onto the Yuma Point there is not another soul to be seen all day.

Heading down into the Canyon.

It's big!

Walking in the Canyon is strenuous but very worthwhile.

I was particularly taken by these plants...

...from all angles.

Loads to see on a small, as well as grand, scale...

Lichen in every colour.

The Canyon is mesmerising and I walk further and further, glancing from time to time at my watch to check I have enough time to make the ascent before dark but pushing back my deadline, time after time.

The Colorado River runs far below - beckoning... but that's a walk for another day.

Eventually I turn back, motivated by the fact that if I get caught out after dark my new-found friends will have to come out and look for me.

I make the ascent as the sun sinks spreading golden light over the rock faces.

Golden light at the rim of the Canyon.

As I reach the rim of the Canyon I re-enter the icy gale and stand waiting in rapidly coagulating darkness for a shuttle bus to take me back to Grand Canyon Village. Once there I still have the seven miles to ride back to Tusayan and as I haven’t managed to replace my headlamp yet I realise that I will have to ride on the highway without lights. The bus driver drops me off at a strategic location in the village and gives me directions for a short cut to the highway.

The roads are totally unlit and I can’t see anything at all unless a car passes me from behind. Cars coming in the opposite direction blind me completely and the cars can’t see me at all. I stop when I reach the highway and decide to try my luck hitch-hiking. After several pick-ups speed by I get a lift with a some Native Americans and sit huddled with my bike in the tray of the truck freezing but safe for the seven miles ride to Tusayan. I reach the house at about 8pm, just about the time when people start to worry but before anybody was motivated to come looking for me.

Tank, a Canyon guide and resident of Casa de Cougar.

Tank pointing out the Jackalope.

Three days pass: walking, talking, eating and staying warm at night. Jess tells me I can ride to Flagstaff on forestry tracks and so I go to the Ranger’s Office in search of maps and information. The man whose job it is to sell me maps is enthusiastic about the idea and spends twenty minutes making photos copies to save me $10. He gives me a compass, as well.

I could happily stay at Casa de Cougar for a long time but eventually I manage to repack my belongings into my panniers and load my bike. Tank cooks a huge breakfast to send me on my way and and then I set off into the forest towards Flagstaff.

A mega breakfast to send me on my way - a big fry-up of eggs, potatoes, sausage. My first experience of Southern biscuits and apple butter. Yum! Good cycling food.

Judy, Greg and Clare are kind enough to let me slip into their busy lives and I become one of the family for the duration of my stay in the Bay Area.

On Friday night, in the interests of my cultural education, and in order to gain a deeper understanding of American life, I attend a high school football game with Judy and Clare. Clare is one of the cheerleaders who braves icy winds in a short skirt to give moral support not only to the team but also to the moms huddled under blankets on the sidelines during the three hour game – which in this case is a total rout of ‘our’ team. Judy and I defect in search of dinner and end up sipping mojitos and eating tapas in a stylish Cuban restaurant in the local suburb of Alameda.

High school football game.

Cheerleaders giving it their all...

...and more.

Saturday morning, I contact Sam, a friend I met when we both were living in Prague. Sam, a sociology professor at Berkeley, happens to live in Rockridge, about ten minutes away from where I am staying and so we agree to meet in a local diner. While we catch up on the last year or so of news, I partake in my favourite American indulgence – a stack of pancakes for breakfast.

A classic American diner.

The Saturday morning crowd.

Sam, a friend I initially met in Prague.

Sam playing it cool over brunch in Rockridge. (Note the trusty bike visible just out the front door.)

I cruise past the Berkeley Farmer’s Market where I wander about looking at the boutique vegetables. They are certainly all very beautiful and stylish.

Amazing produce at the Berkeley Farmer's Market.

Heirloom tomatoes are all the rage. America is a feast for the privileged.

Next stop is an excursion to the Bike Kitchen, a community co-operative bicycle workshop staffed and run by volunteers in the Mission district of San Francisco. For a small sum, annually, you can become a co-op member and use the workshop whenever it is open. As a casual passer-by, I can pay a donation of five to ten dollars for a day membership. Nobody is turned away for lack of funds and it is possible to yourself earn a bike, built from parts donated to the organisation, by volunteering for a certain number of hours.

I arrive an hour or so before closing time on Saturday afternoon and the place is jam packed, inside and out, with an incredibly diverse group of people working on their bikes. I chat to some of the volunteers and work out the best time to return to give my bike a thorough tune up and service.

The Bike Kitchen - a community co-operative cycle workshop staffed by volunteers.

The Bike Kitchen is an excellent place to work on your bike yourself if you need access to tools and good advice.

On Monday, I go to Emeryville, also in East Bay, to spend a few days with Stella, a friend of an old Australian friend of mine, from the days when I was an acrobat and performer. Stella is an artist, a member of the Flaming Lotus Girls, a group that create large scale pyrotechnic sculpture installations at festivals such as Burning Man. She is also an art and play therapist and I stay in her consulting room, which houses a large collection of plastic personages, to keep me company during the night.

Old ladies.

Analyse this.

Stella and I try to avoid the torrential storms currently drowning San Francisco. We chat over cups of tea and then, braving the tempest, go to a yoga class around the corner. I impulsively sign up for the three class newcomer’s special so I am now committed to a yoga class a day for the next three days; this surely can’t be a bad thing – it is not only my bike that needs a service and tune up!

In the morning, Stella goes to work and I avoid doing the dishes by heeding the admonition above the sink. I take photos of the dishes, rather than washing them, and then have to run off to my next yoga class before they are done. Later, I return to the Bike Kitchen, in the Mission, for the evening to work on my bike.

On the way to the Mission, a couple strike up a conversation with me on the BART and when the man hands me his card I am absolutely thrilled to discover that he is the director of SETI, the Institute for the Search for Extraterrestial Intelligence, at Berkeley. I ask him if he has found any extraterrestial intelligence and he suddenly looks terribly tired.

“I promise that I would tell you”, he says.

Art before dishes.

And I'll say it again - art before dishes!

The next day the rain finally stops and Stella takes me on an expedition to find a new sleeping bag. My twenty year old bag has had me sleeping in all my thermals and my down sweater on cooler evenings recently and, as I’m hoping to head out of San Francisco over the Sierras, I think a new sleeping bag could be in order. REI are having a sale and Marmot sleeping bags are 25% off so it seems a good opportunity to upgrade but all the local stores have sold out.

We take the opportunity to do a driving tour of San Francisco Bay Area and eventually end up in the Castro to visit Stella’s partner, with my brand new, and super lofty, sleeping bag in hand. Tori’s Castro garden provides me the opportunity to satisfy my constant urge to hunt and gather. Stella and I spend a happy hour climbing trees, foraging for apples and quinces. Stella says she will roast the quince with sweet potatoes, which sounds pretty good to me but I would make them into quince paste myself, if I had the opportunity.

Even in the Castro my urge to hunt and gather can be satisfied.

Stella, a proud quince hunter.

Quinces.

Quinces and apples - urban bounty.

The Castro is the heart of San Francisco’s gay community and rainbow flags fly in place of the ubiquitous stars and stripes. A pretty mosaic outside the Harvey Milk Civil Rights Academy preaches tolerance and respect and other worthy ideals.

Worthy ideals espoused on the mosaic mural on the Harvey Milk Civil Rights Academy in the Castro.

Ginko leaves turning on the streets of the Castro. I couldn't help including this - simply gratuitous prettiness.

The next day I return to Judy and Greg’s house and set off in search of a haircut. Getting a hair cut sits somewhere close to a visit to the dentist in my personal hierarchy of stressful life events and this long-time phobia has been somewhat exacerbated by two and half years living in Prague where ‘fear-of-the-Czech-haircut” is a well known phenomena among expats.

I finally settle on Cuttin’ Up on College Ave where the price is reasonable, the decor stylishly idiosyncratic and the staff friendly in a no-bullshit kind of way. Mary-Anne, who I entrust with my ‘do’, is flabbergasted that someone can ride from Alaska to San Francisco and regales the other staff and customer with relayed accounts of my adventures.

Enticing window dressing.

She has style, for sure.

Mary-Anne: Trust me, I'm a barber!

Friday, I have an opportunity not only to show off my new ‘do’ but to finally wear the black dress that I have been hauling with me for the last 6500 kilometres, just in case I ended up with a dinner date. Stella and I go to an exhibition opening of some Gothic inspired art appropriate to the Halloween season and have fun dressing up for the occasion.

Dressing up to go out to an exhibition opening. The black dress I've been carting for 6500 kilometres finally comes into its own.

We finish off the evening eating the wicked chocolate mousse that I learnt to make from Danusia in Whitehorse.

Chocolate mousse - according to Danusia's recipe.

I spend the last few days in the Bay Area devising the next section of my route. My preference is to cross the Sierra Nevada and head east from San Francisco over the Tioga Pass in the Yosemite National Park and into the desert. The far less exciting alternative is to continue down the Californian coast and turn east at a lower mountain pass further south. However, the recent storms bringing rain to San Francisco have meant snow in the mountains and resulted in temporary closures of the Tioga Pass and the weather is currently uncertain.

Greg and Judy tell me cautionary tales of winter misadventures in the mountains but Greg, an experienced winter camper, seems supportive, overall – and, after all, it is still only October! We discuss my onward journey over various family meals and I start to make preparations for the mountain pass. Even though the road is closed again by yet another storm, the weather forecast for next week seems promising and might provide a small window of opportunity in which I can squeak over the mountains.

*Not everybody is lucky enough to have a fairy god-mother, but I am, and it often comes in handy.

MAPLE ROASTED QUINCES AND SWEET POTATOES

• oil
• 2 large quinces peeled, cored, cut into cubes
• 1 red–skinned sweet potato (yam), peeled, cut into cubes
• 1 tan–skinned sweet potato, peeled, cut into cubes
• 2 teaspoons coarse kosher salt
• ½ cup maple syrup, divided
• 1 tablespoon chopped fresh sage

Position rack in centre of oven and preheat to 220°C. Grease a large rimmed baking sheet with your favourite cooking oil. Cut quince and potatoes and combine with ¼ cup of maple syrup in large bowl; toss to coat. Spread in single layer on the baking sheet. Roast quince and potatoes until tender and beginning to brown around edges, stirring occasionally and turning sheet around in oven halfway through roasting – about 40 minutes. Transfer quince and potatoes into a serving bowl. Mix in sage and remaining ¼ cup maple syrup. Season with pepper. Serve warm or at room temperature.