A foreign land.

From the mountains, fiords and glaciers of Patagonia, my next trail building contract took me to the barren desert of Northern Mexico. In this totally unfamiliar environment I realised how much I took for granted back in New Zealand, and it dawned on me that maybe Fred Dagg was right when he sang "we don't know how lucky we are, mate."

"How much further to the top?"

It's Dan, I can tell by his voice that he's only a few metres behind me but a wall of thorny branches blocks him from view. "Well, surely we must be at least half way up by now." My reply sounds less reassuring than I intended.

We are in the middle of a steep, tight canyon choked with thorny bushes, in the desert of Northern Mexico. We encounter these ferocious trees every day while cutting trail and have dubbed them "piranha bushes". Usually there's space to manoeuvre around them but here they bristle all around us, their thorns grinning.

What an alien place this is, so different from anything I’ve experienced before – in terms of the environment, Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego aren’t massively different from parts of New Zealand, but here, this is like another  world. And the differences don’t stop with the environment. 

Two months ago, in a bike shop in San Antonio, Texas, when I told the attendants that I was going to cross the border to build trails in the North of Mexico they couldn’t believe it. “Are you crazy man?! It’s super dangerous down there.” I dismissed the comment as a typical American over reaction - close minded Texans who have been exposed to too much Fox News fear mongering. I took my new bike and wheeled it out the door, leaving them shaking their heads behind me. Turns out I was the ignorant one.

Because the truth is, a war rages in North Mexico. A war fought between drug cartels that battle for control of supply routes into the US. In the past five years almost 40,000 people have been killed. The police here are the most corrupt in the world (while New Zealand’s, apparently, are the least), the politicians, if they’re not in the cartels pockets, are too scared to make a stand, those who do are often gruesomely executed, as are the journalists who are brave or foolish enough to tell the truth. The criminals are the ones in power here, and they rule with terror and ruthlessness, attacking super markets, churches and even pre-schools to instil fear and maintain control. Can you imagine living in a place like this?

Working at Rancho San Enrique - a cluster of unassuming buildings adrift in a sea of sand and cacti - 5 hours drive from the closest town, we are able to carry on blissfully ignorant of the war which crackles and burns around us. Our main concerns out here are the bike trails we are building, what the weather is doing and how many beers are in the fridge. The only obvious sign that things aren’t completely stable in these parts is the military check point we pass through to get here and the giant machine gun mounted Humvee which occasionally rumbles down the road, packed with young soldiers armed to the teeth.

For the past two weeks we have been cutting a track in the shadow of Taco Canyon, a huge rift cutting deep into the sun-baked mountains which define the Northern border of Rancho San Enrique. Often, while leaning on my rake (discussing work of course), my eyes drift up to the head of the sheer sided valley and I notice a big crack in the cliffs. It looks like a good way to get up to the tops, from where there must be some amazing views out over the desert.  Dan, Kieran and I decide to give it a shot one afternoon. Our plan is to walk up the canyon to the bottom of the crack and then see if we can use it to access the top. We jump in the Kubota, a small 4wd buggy, and drive it down the long sandy road. Cacti whip the windscreen as we go.

We follow the road straight to the gaping mouth of the canyon then plough into the soft and slidey gravel of the valley floor. Soon boulders like giant, pale dice block our path. We leave the Kubota ticking in the shade and, taking our packs of water and snacks, continue on foot. We clamber over and around these massive, smooth, cool grey rocks, tyring to steer clear of the thorn bushes which snarl and scratch from the cracks. After about an hour we reach the base of the gorge, the sun high and harsh in a burnt blue sky, and we gulp back more water.

 

Apart from the obvious military presence, there are other, more subtle signs that life here in North Mexico is far from easy. One day I was talking to Louis, one of the local labourers who I became friends with, we were outside the house watching  the sky blaze with another stunning sunset, chatting about nothing in particular, when I asked him whether he had ever seen any gang violence in his home town. I can still remember how his eyes glazed over, as if hardened with some memory of his past. He suddenly became evasive and made an excuse to leave. As he walked away I had to wonder at what those eyes had witnessed.

It was then I realised how different we were, Louis and I. No matter how much we got to know each other, there was always going to be this invisible barrier between us. Our histories were just too different.  I had grown up in one of the most peaceful countries in the world, somewhere where you can trust the police, where the violence on the TV news takes place in another world, far away over miles of ocean. For him it was right outside his front door.

The going doesn't look easy. It´s a steep and narrow ravine, tangled with thorn trees and boulders. From here we can see to the top and it looks a long way off. Wouldn't it be nice to go back to the ranch, get out of the sun, put our feet up and crack a cold beer? Certainly, but we can't go back and tell the 12 other boys that we didn’t give it a shot can we? No way Jose.

We slowly work our way up and once amongst the boulders it's a matter of guessing which thorny alley-way will take us the furthest. The walls creep closer and closer on both sides as we climb higher, until the sky is just a narrow ribbon above our heads. We look in envy through the sweat in our eyes at the clear and open blue space. A jet black raven passes in front of the sun, his shadow sweeping over us.

"How much further to the top?"

I have no idea.

The more I think about the situation with Louis and I, the guiltier I feel. What did I ever do to be blessed with this life - getting paid to travel around the world building mountain bike trails? Do I really deserve it?  Here I am, a tumble-weed gringo blow in, earning ten times as much money as him and riding around on a bicycle that he could never afford, while he toils and sweats under the harsh desert sun for peanuts, hundreds of kilometres from his wife and kids. For me this is just a short stint, a small taste of life in the desert, something to brag about to my mates when I get back home. This is his reality.

As we push through the bushes, the thorns tear at our skin, snatch at our hair and clothes. I never expected things to be this hard. For a long time it seems we are making no head way at all. We are getting tired and running low on water. But then the piranha bushes begin slowly to thin out, the river of sky over our heads widens and suddenly we emerge, scratched, sweating and dirty, onto the mountain tops.

I remember one evening when I was having another chat with Louis. The sun was low on the horizon, dousing the craggy and barren mountain range behind us in electric golden sunlight. I was telling him about a hike I did in Tierra del Fuego, trying to explain the strange landscape of frozen lakes and glacier covered peaks. Shaking his head in wonder, he asked me questions about the cold, the ice, the wildlife. Then he asked me if I was going to continue travelling after my stint here. I was kind of reluctant to tell him, I didn’t want him to resent me for having these opportunities he would never have. In the end I told him my plans to travel south through Mexico and into Central America, then fly to Europe to work and travel over there. His eyes lit up, I could see how excited he was for me. He was saying how cool that was going to be, and how he would love to go to Europe. There was no resentment or jealousy, just admiration and excitement.

From up here we can literally see for miles. An ocean of desert laid at our feet, dissected by dead straight roads heading determinedly into oblivion. In the distance we can see spiralling chimneys of dust tracing their toes in the sand, heads swaying like cobras. Great pale faces of rock rise sheer out of the earth like icebergs. Dan, Kieran and I stand in silence, surveying the foreign land we find ourselves in. Three kiwi lads surrounded by a harsh wilderness of scorpions, coyotes and rattle snakes, marooned on an island of peace in the midst of a war we will never fully understand.

 

Louis' unexpected reaction made me think. In life everybody is dealt a different hand, and it’s seldom a fair deal, but what really matters is how you play your cards. I have been blessed with a good life, and I can’t let shame or guilt stop me from playing my cards the way I want to. Seeing the way people live over here has opened my eyes to a grim reality – it’s a cruel world – but it has also made me realise something else, that to not make the most of each and every opportunity is not only an injustice to you, but an injustice to all the people who will never get that opportunity themselves. If Louis knew I had passed up on seeing the world because I felt guilty for receiving the opportunity, he would think I was an idiot.
When I return home, I will definitely appreciate our green and tranquil little country that much more. But for now I think I will wander a bit further, open my eyes a little wider and see what more I can learn from this crazy, cruel but wonderful world. After all, I’ve barely begun to scratch the surface.

Us against Patagonia.

A Kiwi takes flight to South America      

On a mild spring day in September 2009 I left my home town of Dunedin, New Zealand to spend 3 months in the wilds of northern Patagonia – Chile - building mountain bike trails with seven other kiwi lads. Here, 10,000 kilometres across the Pacific ocean and with 17 hours time difference between us and our beloved country, is a typical working day at Lago La Paloma (Dove Lake).

I wake to the sound of a load of fire-wood clattering on the laundry floor across the hallway. Through the window I can see the early morning sky slowly dissolving into day. It’s clear out there for the time being but who knows how long that will last, this is Patagonia after all. I swing my feet onto the cold hardwood floor. I have to move quickly before all the good cereal and yoghurt is devoured by my hungry house mates.

I follow the smell of freshly baked bread down the hall way and into the warmth of the dining room. The breakfast table has been set by the maids the night before. That’s right, we have maids, three lovely señoras - Janette, Luce and Sandra - who, despite the language barrier, become like mothers to us all. Breakfast this morning is a bowl of corn flakes and strawberry yoghurt, chased with a super sweet glass of apple juice. After that we pack our lunch – home-made rolls filled with tuna and avocado, a few packs of biscuits to share, muesli bars and some floury apples.

Then it’s on our bikes for the one hour slog to work up, up, up towards the mountainous peaks. As we ride up the hill dark clouds clog the valley to the north, a sure sign that there’s weather on the way. But for now blue skies dominate and the lakes glassy surface reflects the mountains which crowd around it. The trail to work meanders up through old farm land, cleared years ago by fire. We pass through the shadows of giant shells of trees, bare as bone, gutted by flames - memorials to the once thriving forest.

We arrive panting and sweating to the work site and lay our trusty bikes down to rest, a cold breeze blows down from the snow covered mountains. I shiver as I feel the wind bite through my sweat drenched T shirt. I start to sharpen the chain saw. The other boys sit or lie down in the grass to rest for a moment. We talk and joke about last weekend’s visit to Coyhaique, the nearest town. Who danced with which chica, who threw up in the bath room, who almost got into a fight. We are a mixed bunch from all over New Zealand, ranging in age from 19 to 30, common in a love of mountain biking, girls and drinking beer. We have grown close over the past few weeks. Of course there’s been conflict, but being so far from the safety of home, in a foreign land lost in a foreign language, we have to be able to trust each other, to help each other out and have each other’s backs. It’s us against Patagonia.

We cool down quickly after the up-hill ride so pick up our tools and get to work. Everybody has his own spade which they sharpen and maintain themselves and God help anybody who mistakenly uses somebody else’s.  I know it sounds silly, but I’ve become quite attached to my spade, the way it fits with the callouses on my hands, the grooves and nicks like battle scars on the handle, the weight and centre of balance have all become familiar to me, so that when I pick up a different one it just feels wrong.

We work hard, and when it begins to rain, we pull out our wet weather gear and carry on without a word. I quickly get into a rhythm, clearing the vegetation, leveling the ground, removing any large rocks. It has become so I no longer need to think about it, just plug my head phones in, and swing my lovely spade. We leap frog each other, moving fast along easy terrain, until we reach a point where the land falls away below us and we need to build a retaining wall, and for that we will need some timber.

I grab the chainsaw and wander into the nearby forest. As I survey the trees I get the sense that they avert their gaze, not wanting to be the one to feel the tear of the chainsaws teeth. I find a tree, long and straight, not too fat, and with a clear path to the forest floor. I watch the tree sway in the wind for a minute, trying to gauge which way the weight leans. Sorry buddy, but you’re perfect. I check the fuel, the chain, the oil, this is definitely not a time for haste. The closest hospital is 3 hours away by bike, boat and then car. With that in the back of my mind I crank up the saw, it jumps in my hands as I squeeze the trigger. The scream of the engine rips through the curtain of silence. I move close to the tree, running my palm over the rough bark, brushing off the moss, deciding where to make the first cut.

As I cut the scarf, sawdust spurts out forming a rooster tail behind me. The rich smell of two stroke exhaust and fresh tree sap fills my nostrils. The noise reverberates throughout the valley. With the scarf finished I move to the back of the tree to make the final cut. I watch with some relief as the tree starts to peel slowly away from the trunk. Then, with the most satisfying creak, the tree starts to fall. It groans and cracks, then, after a moment of silent free fall, crashes to Earth.

Later, as we sit eating lunch, gazing over the deep blue lake laid out like a mat at the feet of the brooding, snow-capped mountains, condors paint slow sweeping circles in the clouds above our heads. We decide that this weekend we will attempt to climb one of the peaks we can see on the opposing side of the valley. We trace our eyes over the forested, rocky and steep terrain, searching for the best route to the tops.

Our lunch is cut short when it begins to sleet. We trudge back to work and reluctantly pick up our tools. Soon the air temperature drops and the sleet becomes snow. It settles almost immediately on the ground. We carry on working in near silence, breathing on our hands to keep them warm. The monotony is broken when a couple of the boys spy a massive boulder perched precariously above a steep slope plunging into the lake far below. Why wouldn’t you push it off? They clamber up to the rock and, after a few strained swear words, get it to roll. We all watch mouths agape as the rock tumbles maniacally down the mountain side. Gaining momentum it obliterates everything in its path before leaping 20m into the air and smashing into the lake surface, exploding like a depth charge in a mushroom cloud of water. Yea Boy!!! We take a moment to appreciate the ripples spreading throughout the lake. It’s little distractions like this which help pass the working day.

Throughout the afternoon the wind gradually drops, the snow lessens and before we know it, sunlight is spreading like a yawn from behind the clouds. It lights up the thin layer of snow draped over the ground like a crisp, fresh bed sheet, and it begins to melt. We hang our jackets and wet gloves like scarecrows on branches to dry. As the weather brightens so too does the mood, and the rest of the afternoon passes quickly. Soon comes everybody’s favourite part of the day – the ride home.

       

The first thing we do after kicking off our muddy boots at the door is head to the lounge where the señoras have laid out some afternoon snacks for us. Today it’s deep fried caramel filled donuts and hot chocolate with cinnamon, who can say no to that? Sometimes I wonder if they're are fattening us up for Christmas dinner.

After a shower the evening is spent with feet up and beer in hand, I gaze out the window down the length of Lago La Paloma, now as still as a painting. The lounge slowly fills with the smell of salmon being cooked in the kitchen. I watch as the sky once again darkens into night, the full moon’s pale face rising over the jagged ridgeline, towing her reflection slowly across the water’s surface. How’s the serenity?

Then comes the call for dinner - “Chicos!” – and the spell is broken. There’s a mad dash for the dinner table. Tonight we have fried salmon steaks, boiled potatoes and fresh tomato salad, followed up with a bowl of marzipan flavoured semolina pudding. Delicioso.

With plates empty and bellies full we waddle back to the lounge to play cards and watch a mountain biking movie. After another cervesa my eyelids grow heavy so I say buenas noches and head to bed.

Laying in bed, waiting for my body heat to warm up the duvet, I think about how blessed I am to be here. Patagonia – the word has always conjured feelings of mystery, adventure and wonder, even before I knew where in the world it was. And now, by some odd twist of fate, I have the opportunity to explore this awe-inspiring wilderness. With a flutter of excitement in my chest I think about the possibilities waiting for me over the next two years. After this contract I have three more doing the same thing in the deserts of Northern Mexico, the rolling country side of Portugal, and the jungle of Jamaica’s Blue Mountain.  How will they compare to this place? How could they? I roll over and try to sleep, I guess time will tell.