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.

A uniformed man is sleeping soundly on the other side of the counter, leaning back on a chair, his feet propped up on another. Snores reverberate around the room competing with a television mounted on the wall that is blaring out some forgettable programme that clearly hadn’t retained the immigration officer’s attention either. I wonder if I should discretely withdraw but I really do want to get my passport stamped.

The man is quite charming and slightly bashful on waking. He stamps my passport and queries me about my journey. He discovers that he doesn’t have the change to finalise the financial side of our business. I have some shopping to do so I offer to leave my passport there and return but he graciously allows me to take my stamped passport with me. I don’t think he gets a lot of work at this time of year.

I do so like a relaxed official attitude to border crossings and the Mexicans seem to excel at it. Friendly, charming and helpful; perhaps they could offer some training sessions to US, UK, Canadian and Australian immigration bodies.

In the morning, I pack up camp and head to the boat landing not long after dawn and, after negotiating the best price I can, load my bike and my panniers onto a long narrow blue and red, a small thatched shelter in the middle providing protection from the elements.

Bike on the boat for the border crossing.

The river is turbid, the water brown and swirling. The boatman skilfully negotiates what appear to me ominous currents and eddies and after half an hour, travelling up river this time, deposits me and my belongings in Guatemala.

Travelling to the unknown...

There is something special, I decide, about a river border crossing with ferries that, as in fairy tales and myths, take us to another realm.

Bethel, a tiny village, is still waking up. People are sweeping  and making other preparations for the day. The local shop changes the last of my pesos into quetzals and I then there is only immigration to attend to before I am ready to ride into Guatemala.

The immigration office turns out to be a few kilometres down the road and if I had bothered to go into the building and seek somebody out there is nothing at all to stop me simply cycling into Guatemala, my presence there unrecorded. The Guatemalan official is, like his Mexican counterpart, friendly and charming and speaks excellent English but I don’t find myself trusting him completely. He tells me he grew up in the United States. We chat about different things while he processes my passport and hands it back to me. He then casually informs there is a charge of five US dollars to enter the country and I give it to him without thinking. I realise as soon as I hand it over that he has gyped me but I am too embarrassed to ask for it back or pressure him for a receipt.

Welcome to Guatemala! It's been a long time coming...

The Guatemalan immigration post also appears unmanned at first.

Leaving Puebla is not hard.

Mexico is full of abandoned building projects. I like the scuptural steel forms of this example, spotted while passing through a village just outside Puebla.

The day is long and the road unwinds into a arid valley bounded by dry rocky hills covered with mesquite and Joshua trees in flower. The nopal, too, is blooming, each paddle fringed with bright red blossoms while the agave cactus send giant spears shooting into the sky, green shiny heart shaped pods, bursting into bright yellow clusters of flowers.

Can anyone tell me if these really are mesquite flowers?

Suddenly, as I come around a long curve a hill comes into view thick with towering columns of tall straight cactus.

Incredible vegetation.

Cactus valley.

The day is hot and I have to rest in the afternoon under a rare shade tree and it occurs to me that maybe I have done this all back to front, traversing the mountains in the north in winter and now heading towards the desert peninsula moving into high summer.

When I finally find a place to camp – to the side of the road hidden from view of passing traffic by a long mound of earth – I eat a left over piece of Spanish tortilla, cooked the night before in Puebla.

The stars appear one by one and it is so long since I have camped out in the open that they have shifted and the sky appears unfamiliar to me. Orion is low in the north-west. In the south, hovering just above the horizon the Southern Cross appears for the first time on my journey. I watch it and during the night when I wake it is still there in the same position – the axis the world is spinning on – but I can’t locate Paleides and Taurus in the new alignment and I am bereft. I wake again just before dawn and Orion, too, has vanished.

In the morning I continue to ride among incredible cactus. Before long a mountain ranges looms ahead.

Fat cactus.

An impressive cactus tree... I wish I knew the names of these plants.

I'm heading towards those there hills...

I wake on the second morning out of Puebla having camped by the side of the road, just out of direct line of the car headlights and so hidden by darkness, but exposed once the sun has risen, clearly visible with a simple sideways glance. I am up quickly and gone without breakfast. Thorn bushes cling, tearing at my bare legs, as I push my bike back to the road; everything hard rough surfaces, spines and prickles.

A few kilometres brings me to Teotitlan where I must choose between heading south into the heart of Oaxaca or east towards Vera Cruz. The eastern route is slightly more direct and, with my visa clock ticking, I decide to go that way. Turning off the more travelled route I begin, without preamble, to climb. The sun rises behind the mountain range I am ascending and so I am, at least initially, sheltered from its rays.

Rising, slowly, out of the desert valley, I watch the mountain range on the other side. The road winds higher and higher, snaking in and out of the folds of the mountain ridge. I top a crest and the road follows the top of the ridge for a while rolling up and down before rising steeply again. The mountain tops are less barren than the valley and lower slopes and there is some tree cover but now the sun has risen the heat is intense.

Looking back down into the valley during the long climb upwards.

I drop down into a another valley to face another long brutal ascent to the township of Huautla – a grim settlement strung out along a ridge, tin shacks spilling down the precipitous slopes. People stare – there are no smiles here – the atmosphere is uncomprehending and hostile. I feel like I might be the first tourist to ever stray this way but I discover later that the place is famous for its magic mushrooms and sees its fair share of foreign visitors.

Huautla - a sprawling ugly town strung along a mountain ridge. This one of the only places were I have felt genuinely uncomfortable simply riding down the main street but maybe the 30 kilometre climb in 35cxvx degree heat was a contributing factor.

I rest in an internet café, venture to the tiny market behind the square to buy supplies and go on. Incredibly, after a brief descent, I start to climb again, up and up.

The sun sets over mountains such as I have never seen before, lofty peaks marching endlessly into an deep blue haze. I camp just outside a small village in another of those half built construction projects, the only level ground to be seen – hanging over the edge of the deep valley.

Sun goes down over the mountains at the end of a hard day's climbing.

When I wake, I finally begin to descend, speeding through villages, barely awake, the inhabitants – poor folk in indigenous dress – wary and amazed to see a gringa tourist whizzing past on a bicycle at dawn.

I drop out of the sky and into jungle. The world has been remade over night, here the air is warm and damp and multitude of unknown birds scream in the trees. I stop to watch black birds with yellow tails tend to their Christmas stocking nests, hanging from the trees, stuffed with hidden treats. Two of the raucous bickering birds tumble towards the ground locked together, breaking apart just before hitting the ground.

I continue descending but I soon stop again, amazed by a toucan which takes off in flight from a tree beside the road before landing on another tree lower on the slope. I watch until the bird takes off again chased by a shrieking smaller bird. With its massive clumsy yellow bill, how the creature manages to stay airborne is a complete mystery to me.

Pure jungle magic but hot, oh, so hot!

And on the other side of the mountains, a humid sunrise...

It is is a different world here.

I am pleased to be on my bike again after such an extended break but riding out of Mexico City doesn’t ease me back onto the road gently. After escaping the octopus clutches of the city, I have a long steady climb to face while ominous clouds hang heavy on the mountains ahead.

Mexico has a continuous string of volcanoes running across it from east to west. After a long climb out of DF, I have a perfect view over the valley to the west along the volcanic chain.

A little volcanic cone, long extinct, on the horizon as I finally leave the sprawling, clinging tentacles of DF.

Next, I drop back down into the valley before climbing again to Paso de Cortes, a mountain pass at 3700 metres, which lies between Iztaccihuatl and Popocatepetl. Popocatepetl is one of Mexico’s more violent volcanoes and access to the summit has been heavily restricted, since 1994, when the volcano commenced its most recent bout of activity, prompting mass evacuations of the surrounding areas. Today, the volcano is quiet and shrouded in clouds but I catch the occasional glimpse as I edge closer and closer.

Popocatepetl, at 5500 metres, looms large in the distance, shrouded by clouds.

Passing through the township of Amecameca, I turn towards the volcano and start another 24 kilometre climb. Evening draws in and I stop to set up camp about 8 kilometres before I reach the pass. During the night the storm clouds let loose and I wake to lightening, thunder and wild rain but happily the morning dawns clear and bright.

The morning brings clearer weather and, half way up the pass, Popocatepetl creeps closer.

An impressive peak: no smoke today, which is probably a good thing, as I'll be getting considerably closer.

And on the other side lies Iztaccihuatl, the sleeping woman. Can you see her?

Before long, I reach the pass and, after a moment of confusion in which I try to make my way through the barriers which block access to Popocatepetl’s active crater, I whizz down the other side of the mountains, first on an unpaved road of clinging fine grey volcanic ash, a surface not at all unlike sand, and then on 35 kilometres of tarmac into the city of Puebla.

I am armed with detailed maps, obtained from the Secrectaria de Comunicaciones y Transportes, of the states that I will pass through next. These maps are the only ones I’ve seen that detail secondary roads and dirt tracks with any degree of accuracy but acquiring them is a feat that requires some patience and persistence. First, you must be in a state capital and then you face the challenge of finding the appropriate SCT office amongst the many that perform various functions. Next you have to get there, paying attention to the idiosyncratric opening hours of government agencies. Once there, in the office, you can only hope they have the maps that you are after because their collection is by no means complete. Having selected the appropriate maps the staff are supposed to print a form which you then take to the bank to make the payment before returning to the office with the receipt in hand to collect the maps.

At the office in Guadalupe, near Zacatecas, the computer system was down when I visited and so it was impossible to print the form that I was supposed to take to the bank. Confusion ensued but, after much discussion, the women in the office decided it would be possible for me to give them cash which they would deposit at the bank themselves later when the computer system was functioning again. However, just as we were about to complete this transaction, a superior appeared and when he was appraised of the situation he looked looked very stern.

The man sat me down and explained that government offices were not allowed to accept cash because of the temptation to corruption that cash poses and, for a second, I thought I would have to walk away empty handed. I pleaded my case to him, explaining that I was travelling on my bike and that these maps were essential to my well-being, and finally he relented on the condition that I provided him with an address to which he could send the receipt which would prove the honesty and transparency of the deal. I dutifully wrote down an address in London which I haven’t lived at in over three years, handed over my 160 pesos (approximately $12) and left, gratefully, with my maps.

Maps notwithstanding, getting out of Zacatecas/Guadelupe proves something of a challenge and it isn’t until around 4.30pm that I find myself turning off the highway leading out of Guadelupe towards Aguascalientes onto a dirt road, south, in the direction of San Luis Potosi. I ride in the afternoon sun through rolling hills dotted with joshua trees and prickly pear on a viciously corrugated gravel track, glad to be back on the road.

Leaving Zacatecas in the afternoon sun.

I only ride about 20 kilometres before setting up camp in a field amongst the cactus and thorn trees.

Dawn.

Camp.

In the morning I set off again, on the road which winds through a series of small villages until it emerges in a sizeable town.

Back on pavement for a while. My route is cobbled together, on the basis of the information provided by the SCT maps, with the aim of riding on as little pavement as possible. Two curious girls on their way to school on a scooter stop to ask me where I am going.

The terrain and the climate is much milder than the more mountainous northern states I have ridden through in Mexico so far. Spring is in the air and as I ride, I note that some of the joshua trees are flowering.

A flowering joshua tree.

Back on dirt, passing through a village. A little girl with a big bike.

Travelling alone again, I find that the kind of attention I attract and the people who speak to me when I pass through villages are very different. Suddenly the world seems full of women and children, all of whom smile and wave at me and stop me to ask where I am going, offer me food, and invite me into their houses.

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.

We while away time restocking our food panniers and eating at our favourite Guachochi eateries. Pollo provides us with seafood treats at his restaurant and amuses us with intriguing anecdotes about life in Guachochi. He points out members of mafiosa and explains that the police and the mafiosa have to take it in turns to have lunch in his establishment. Incredibly, he informs us that one of his choice dishes, a spicy prawn soup, is flavoured with ant poo.

A soup with fresh raw and dried prawns in which one of the principal flavouring ingredients is, apparently, ant excrement. I thought it was pretty good, myself, although Jason and Cass were a little squeamish about it.

Pollo gives a bag of the ant poo seasoning for the road. A quick internet search reveals little information about this unexpected food ingredient but Pollo said the Tarahuama harvest the substance from the trees which a certain species of ants travel over. He insisted it was ant poo.

The local tortilleria’s machinery for turning out thousands of corn tortillas daily fascinates us.

The noise and smell in this place was incredible - a rattling, squeaking carcophany producing aromatic fresh corn tortillas. Yummy!

Piles of tortillas come churning out of the machine.

The staff at the tortilleria seemed as entertained by and as curious about us as we were by their tortilla hardware.

We find a burrito stand that has an excellent array of salsas and topping to add to burritos hot off an in-house tortilla press.

Jason waiting for his burrito. Burritos are excellent food for hungry cyclists and this place was stand out with top notch fresh tortillas hot off the tortilla press, stuffed full of tasty fillings, with an array of delicious salsas and toppings to add at will.

Salsa heaven.

When Cass finally arrives, the guys lose no time at all in starting to rebuilt their wheels. Our already crowded hotel room is transformed into a bike workshop. Cass, who knows almost everything there is to know about bikes, ingeniously recommends taping the new rim to the old one and moving the spokes across one by one, after gradually loosening the tension on them – a method that seems to work very well.

Wheel building workshop in the hotel room.

Putting the bikes back together in the cold windy hotel car park.

We finally set off from Guachochi, without many regrets, late in the afternoon, with all bikes in reasonable order. Our next major destination is Zacatecas, where our plans start to diverge. The boys, optimistically, in my opinion, think we might reach Zacatecas in a couple of weeks. However, Jeff, Jason and I have been dreaming about a hot spring near Guachochi we have heard rumors of and which has grown more and more fantastic in our imagination during our enforced stay in the town. The information we have been able to gain from local informants about the place has been vague, confusing and contradictory but we are determined to visit it, even though we believe it to be around 20 to 25 kilometres off route.

We camp by the highway the evening we leave Guachochi and hope to reach the hot spring the following day but, as often happens in Mexico, things turn out a little more complicated.

Thirty-five kilometres from our campsite, we turn off the highway onto an unmarked gravel road which we are told will take us to the springs but we still have no idea exactly how far away they are. The road turns out to be somewhat more difficult than expected and each person we stop to talk to, as we ride, tells us a greater distance when we enquire how much further we have to go. It starts to seem rather Alice in Wonderlandish, in that the more energy we expend trying to get there the further away we end up being.

A Tarahumara family on the road. The road leads through a series of small Tarahumara settlements. The indigenous Tarahumarans are extremely camera shy and very wary and uncommunicative with outsiders.

We appreciate being back on dirt...

...but there are lots more steep rough surfaces to deal with...

...which even has Jeff pushing in places - a rare sight.

A cowboy trains his horse in the field.

We ride and ride and ride and as darkness falls we are still uncertain of exactly where the springs are and of when we might expect to arrive. We get lost in the dark amongst a confusing tangle of unmarked tracks connecting small settlements. The Tarahumara villagers stare at us but provide us with no coherent information, even where we manage to get them to respond to our inquiries at all.

Eventually we give up and camp in a field on top of a hill long after dark. The next morning we back-track slightly to confirm we are on the right track. We ask a cowboy, who seems convincing, and he assures us that we are only 4 or 5 kilometres away from our goal and so we continue, returning past last night’s campsite, and ride down a steep rugged gorge. After about 12 kilometres, we finally reach our destination.

The road goes on and on...

I’m so glad I chose to struggle across the rough dirt tracks to experience the vast emptiness of the desert away from the highway and traffic. Soft sand clutching at my wheels, washboard corrugations rattling my bones – it’s all a gift and I am very reluctant to leave. It is rare to find a wild place where you can sit a whole day and not see a trace of human presence, where so few people come there is no litter at all.

The first night I was here in the valley I stood far from my tent in the middle of the silent desert and turned a complete circle. Not a single human light to be seen and a silence that made me wonder what are all the sounds that I usually hear – running water, birds, insects, the wind in trees – there is none of that here. Even when the wind rose during the night, the only sound I could hear was the flapping of the tent.

The junction gravel road on the left, tarmac to the right. Which would you have choosen?

At the end of the sandy road, where I rejoin Highway 127, I rest for a few minutes. I am surprised by the mysterious appearance of a flock of six birds that settle in the middle of the road. They are stately and tall, long legged, white with black wings. They look like wading birds, oyster catchers with long beaks. Their cries are reedy and thin. They stand in the middle of the tarmac strip running through the desert and stare about them before stalking gracefully up the hill. I stand and they are startled, flying off but they circle the sky before returning to the same spot, sentinels of the intersection, perhaps? They are distinctly elegant birds and they look like waders – incongruous in the desert, testament to its hidden waters.

Regretfully, I take off towards Baker on the smooth tarmac surface of Highway 127.

I had toyed with the idea of passing through Los Vegas but when I arrive in Baker, a strip town of maybe one hundred and thirty people, it is enough of shock to the system after a week in the desert. Who knows Baker’s reason for being, it consists of half a dozen stores, a few gas stations, a restaurant called the Mad Greek with the sadly exaggerated claim of selling the world’s best gyros.

The Mad Greeks in Baker. Bright lights after a week in the desert.

Sadly, not the world's best gyros.

A constant flow of cars traverses the highway and people stop for an ice-cream and a cold drink.  Everybody in the place looks like they are on tranquillizers – disinterested, vacant, slow. It is hard to attract anyone’s attention for long enough to finish a sentence. Wanted posters on the window of the store sit alongside a list of rules and regulations for the use of the local recreational area in the dunes which suggest discharging firearms and explosives are inappropriate behaviour. The people emerging from the passing cars are the kind of people I have only ever seen on TV before; a blonde women with gigantic silicone implants in ridiculously high heels totters past, a snappily dressed African-American with a huge diamond encrusted pendant proclaiming his name – Ray – peruses my bicycle.

It is almost nightfall and Will’s Fargo is a roadside motel that looks picturesque enough for me to enquire if they would give me a special deal for the night. White and blue with a swimming pool advertised – I could imagine myself in a road movie. The man lounging in reception staring vacantly at the TV is clearly unimpressed by my proposal and so my hopes are dashed.

I retreat to the desert, to an area which I hope is not the local recreation area where people are probably discharging firearms and explosives, and set up my tent. Cars stream away on the interstate towards Vegas through the night. I watch from afar the moving lights sucked relentlessly toward the brooding red glow in the night sky to the east.

I retreat to the desert to comtemplate the sky.

Car lights on the interstate - a constant stream rushing towards Vegas.

I set off towards Yosemite with the status of the Tioga Road still uncertain but the weather reports are good and so I’m confident that by the time I get there the road will be open again. It takes me a couple of days of riding to arrive at Yosemite National Park and as the elevation increases it starts to get pretty cold. I am happy to have my new sleeping bag.

Vapor trails in a frosty dawn sky as I approach Yosemite National Park.

I’m relieved when I finally turn onto the 120 to discover that the Tioga Pass is open. In fact, I’m so excited that I turn onto the Tioga Road and ride a few miles before I decide that since I am here in Yosemite I really should go to the Valley.

I'm really excited to see this sign. It's a long way to ride from the Bay Area if I had to find another way over the Sierras.

Yosemite is a place that has been part of my mental imagery ever since my rather reluctant vicarious participation in the world of climbing many years ago. Ansel Adams helps with the imagery, as well, I guess. So, sacrificing about 2000 feet of hard won elevation, I turn around and coast down into the Valley in the mid afternoon sunshine.

My first glimpse of the Half Dome as I drop down into Yosemite Valley, sacrificing 2000 feet of hard won elevation.