Santa Ana's municipal building reminds of the opening of a James Bond movie for some reason.

...

Hanging out with friend always seems to invovle a lot of eating – which is a very fine pastime.

I love a fish.

(Photo: Lindsey Elms)

Lindsey has somehow wrangled free accommodation by Lake Coatepeque in a government run worker’s resort.

Lake Coatepeque is not quite as impressive as Lake Atitlan but it's still a pretty nice place to while away a few days.

The lake is close to El Salvador's two largest cities but is nonetheless a fairly sleepy relaxed kind of place.

We have our own little cabana - absolutely free of charge - ...

...which we quickly fill to the brim with our sundry belongings.

My tent fits almost perfectly on the bed. (Photo: Lindsey Elms)

The insects are diverse...

...and extravagantly large.

The flowers lush and tropical:...

...constructed out of strange components.

There are odd structures by the lake.

A bottle of Slivovice reminds us of Prague.

...

On the weekend the place fills up, presumably with workers, and our antics are viewed by an ever present audience. (Photo: Lindsey Elms)

A strange vegetable entertains us for several days...

...with its pathetic attempts to escape from our makeshift vegetable receptacle.

...

Everything at Maya Pedal is all about the bike.

From the safety screen of the roof top terrace to the kitchen fitting, it is...

..parts,...

...parts,...

... and more parts. The order, sometimes, is more aesthetic, perhaps, than practical...

...and sorting through it all takes time and patience.

My bed is a small patch of clear concrete on the roof top amongst it all.

However, Maya Pedal is also all about the people.

Carlos is the main man...

... but a constant stream of volunteers from all over the world keep the place ticking over. Bruce, an excellent bike mechanic from New Zealand, spent something like 5 months at Maya Pedal.

Maya Pedal is a logical pit stop for Pan-American cycle tourist. Vincent and Mike(?) are a couple of other tourers passing through.

Another Anna, is putting her newly acquired welding skills to use making a new shelving system together for the kitchen.

Colin, sharpens machetes for some local kids.

And, of course, it’s also about the machines.

Anna, again, models a machine.

Something about 'bici maquinas' seem to bring a smile to peoples faces.

I make the most of the opportunity to spend a day in a well equipped workshop with knowledgeable people around to work on my bike. Under the expert eye of Bruce, I manage to get my gears changing way, way more smoothly than they have for a very long time.

Bruce taking my newly serviced bike for a quick test ride.

Vincent, working on one of his wheels.

But I’m not. It pains me considerably to rupture the friendships that are forming, despite themselves, with the people at Bio Itza.

Reginaldo, my Spanish teacher, arrives at my last class with the present of a book from his quite extensive - I have good reason to believe - personal library. We had spent the previous two weeks discussing all manner of things: politics, society, community, our personal histories, our various hopes for the future. I found Reginaldo to be a very inspiring both as a teacher and, simply, as a person.

Reginaldo invites me to eat with him and his family on Friday night and then the following day Paula, the school director, invites me to lunch at her house and so it’s not actually until Sunday morning that I finally manage to drag myself away.

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.