Mountain Biketastrophe in Honduras

It took a mountain biking accident today to inspire the revival of the weblog (almost assuredly a short-lived revival). The plan for Saturday was to head up to Parque la Tigra, the first national park in Honduras, in the mountains about 22 km outside of the capital of Tegucigalpa. I was there last weekend with some friends, and took my new Honduran mountain bike along to bomb down the steep road from the park. I would ride up while my three friends took the truck, we'd hike in the park for 5 or 6 hours, then we'd come down from the mountain, again me on the bike and them in the car.

This photo doesn't really fit this part of the narrative, but who wants to read a blog post that starts with four paragraphs of text and no pictures? I know I don't.

The road is like many rural roads in Honduras, made of rock, dirt, and gravel, and wide enough for one car, where passing is only possible in certain places or if one car goes into the ditch. It makes for some excellent off-road biking, with stunning mountain views and all the dogs and chickens you could possibly hope to narrowly avoid.

This week, I had carefully conditioned and prepared myself to not only bike down from the park, but also on the way up to the park (the strict training regiment mostly involved abstaining from generous helpings of Honduran beer the night before the ride). The road is quite steep in many places, with loose gravel contributing to tire slippage. It's about 12 km to the top, with the last 3 km being particularly steep and loose -- the sort of riding where you put it in granny low gear, spin like crazy, and inch up the hill praying that it will flatten out a little around the next corner. Anyway, this week I was determined to get to the top to earn the reward of the downhill after our day hiking at the park.

About 2 km from the park came the last big descent before the steepest and longest hill leading all the way to the park entrance. It was a pretty long, straight, and steep descent with a corner at the bottom. I had been feeling good all morning and was carving the corners pretty well, so I probably carried to much speed into this one, maybe 25mph. As I got close to the corner and looked for a place to brake, the road got looser and had some nice ruts in it. After binding up the brakes, it became apparent in a split-second that I was going to eat it. Despite hours spent on the bike, my inner ear has never been my best quality, so fortunately for me I have crashing just about down to an art at this point. I went down on my left side, hitting my knee then hip then elbow as I tucked and rolled onto my back where I rode out about a 10-ft. slide down the hill.

Here's a photo that Alan took of me as they were approaching in the truck after my crash. I had just been passed by a school bus full of tourists.

Upon coming to rest in the middle of the road, I knew immediately that I wasn't seriously hurt and nothing was broken. Sweet. If I had stuck out a hand or foot to break the fall it might not have turned out so well for the respective limb. My cyclocross instincts kicked in and I hopped up quickly to haul my bike and body out of harm's way to the ditch on the side of the road. I sat down to wait for my friends following in the truck.

I knew I was in a little pain, but I hadn't had a chance to assess the damages yet. At this point, was still entertaining the idea that I could continue to the park in the truck and go hiking with them, or at least hang out at the visitor's center while they got their sight-seeing in. I knew how much Alan was looking forward to the 5-hour hike to the park's famous 40-meter waterfall that we hadn't had time for the weekend before. I took a peek at my throbbing knee, an noticed that there were some pretty deep and dirty lacerations with the skin flayed back. Blood was already pooling on my sock. I poured some of my water over it to clean it a little, at least superficially.

Now my friends are closer, and they can start to see that I'm hurt and not just sleeping in a gutter after too much tequila.

Being the pragmatic sort that I am, my thoughts quickly turned to what I had done wrong, and how I could prevent the same outcome in a similar situation in the future. I identified three tactics I could have employed.

• First and most obviously I could have started my braking further up the hill where I might have found better traction. If I hadn't come into the corner so hot, it could have been easily negotiated. Chalk it up to hubris.
• There was a small grassy patch on the outside of the corner with a fence behind it. If I had steered that way I wouldn't have made the corner, but I probably could have found a way to decrease my velocity and find a softer patch of ground to land on. I might have been able to just dust myself off and keep riding after that.
• I don't have video of my crash to analyze, but I will almost guarantee that my weight was too far forward -- a nasty habit I have when braking on downhills. This puts all the weight on the front wheel and causes the nasty fishtailing that led to my crash. If my butt had been hanging out over the back wheel where it should be in that situation, I might have stayed upright. 

When I got home later in the afternoon, I decided to consult an expert source.

To my dismay, I learned that my crash was not caused by any of the isolated faults listed above, but something more troubling: a lack of belief in myself. This is a not a problem I was aware that I had. Could this lack of belief manifest itself in other ways to undermine other endeavors? Has this condition led to shortcoming in other facets of my life, unbeknowst to me? If so, how long has this been going on? Months? Years? And most importantly, is there anything I can do to resolve this issue?

Fortunately, after pausing the video and writing the above paragraph, I continued on to learn that the solution was to "just keep practicing". This tactic can lead to many desirable outcomes including:

• getting the hang of it
• getting better and better at it
• knowing how to ride a bike
• feeling happy of myself
• thumbs up for rock and roll

After getting to the side of the road, all that remained was to relax as much as possible and wait for my friends who were following along not far behind in the truck (because of how rough and curvy the roads are, most stretches can actually be navigated more quickly on a bicycle). My friends wisely talked me into returning to town to get checked out and cleaned up. I still feel really bad that they didn't get a chance to make it up to the waterfall, but now there'll be another reason that Alan has to return to Honduras and work with me again in the future (haha! I sure showed him!).

After the initial impact on my knee, my back and arm took the brunt of the fall as I slid down the hill. It was just like sledding, except I got a 25 mph head start, I was on my back and upside-down, and the snow was made of rocks.

I'm lucky to have such good friends, who cleaned my wound with water, bandaged it with their T-shirt, and got me to the clinic where I got my abrasions and cuts cleaned up. The doctor told me he would have to put two stitches in my knee to close the wound. One of my friends gave me 3 sticks of gum to chew on during the process, and I got a tight grab of a pillow with my good arm. My friends told me that it was OK if I needed to cry, because we are all friends, and they wouldn't tell anyone. I was very touched by their support and understanding in these circumstances. But I didn't cry, because what kind of sissy little bitch to you take me as?

As the doctor stitches up my knee, I try to imagine the most soothing and comfortable scenarios I can, like heavy narcotic usage in the bedroom of my childhood with the dinosaur blankets.

I got some local anesthetic, so the stitches didn't hurt too bad. I ended up needing four in total. The worst part was when the doctor grabbed my knee and twisted it all around from side to side to make sure all my ligaments were intact. My ligaments responded by saying, "Ow, stop yanking on us, you jerk". Then he did the same thing to the good knee, just to make sure both were equally responsive and uncomfortable.

And that's pretty much it. Fortunately I have two days to recuperate before getting back to work on Monday.

The end.

On the Djibouti Road

During my stay in Ethiopia, I got to venture out of Addis Ababa for one day to visit Adama. Addis is the capital and largest city in Ethiopia (population ~5 million), and is sometimes referred to as the “the political capital of Africa”, as the African Union is headquartered there and the city holds cultural and historical significance for the continent. It was welcome break from the smog, the traffic, and the hustle for one day. But most importantly, it was a relief to get away from all the bustle, which had grown particularly tiresome.

Some mountains and rural countryside in the Great Rift Valley.

Adama is the third largest city in Ethiopia, about 90km to the southeast of Addis. My driver was a true professional who used to work for the extravagant Sheraton Hotel, preferred accommodations for international dignitaries and NGOs in Ethiopia. Now he drives international travelers strictly on a referral basis, and he once drove President Clinton on one of his visits to Addis with the Clinton Foundation. The drive to Adama is two hours each way. During the four hours on the road I had the chance to learn a lot about Ethiopia from the driver, who showed immense patience with my thorough lines of interrogation.

An Ethiopian Orthodox church in Adama.

The Djibouti Road took us through the Rift Valley to Adama through some rural countryside. The road is so-called because it connects Addis to the port city of Djibouti, Djibouti, roughly nine hours away. Ethiopia is landlocked, with three bordering coastal countries to the east: Eritrea, Djibouti, and Somalia. Relations with Eritrea and Somalia are strained, and in the case of Eritrea’s, there has been border disputes going on with Ethiopia since Eritrea split away from Ethiopia in the early 90s. Consequently, all of the international goods imported into Addis come in via the port of Djibouti and the Djibouti Road. The road will accommodate roughly three or four lanes of travel in most places, but there is no barrier separating the directions of travel, and in most places no lines either. Passing sometimes resembles a game of chicken, and there are many auto accidents on the road, especially at night.


This is some video I shot while we traveled down the Djibouti Road. It gives a pretty good idea of the typical road width and passing conditions.

Contributing to the danger on the Djibouti is the pressure many drivers are under. Nearly all of the trucks used for transporting produce are not refrigerated, so if perishable goods have to make a lengthy trip in a hot car, it behooves the driver to deliver the cargo to a refrigerator in Addis in a timely manner. Many of the drivers who are transporting the perishables drive a particular model of Isuzu pickup truck, so my driver let me know he has to be on guard for aggressive or “greedy” driving from these cars.


Not all of the produce in question is fruits and vegetables. One of Ethiopia’s major exports is khat, a leafy shrub. When chewed, it acts as a stimulant with mild narcotic properties. It is legal to grow and use in Ethiopia, though it’s not legal in the US, Canada, and some other countries. It’s popular to use in numerous countries, including Ethiopia, Somalia, Yemen, and the UK, where some legislators have been working to ban the drug. Growing and selling khat as a cash crop has certainly helped Ethiopia’s economy in some ways, though it has some drawbacks, including additional danger on the Djibouti Road. Drivers will often move the crop at night, as it is perishable and the roads are less crowded at night. Sometimes they chew the khat to keep them awake at night, and the khat can keep them awake on the road for up to four or five days straight to move more cargo. The problems can arise when drivers without proper rest eventually fall asleep at the wheel, leading to dangerous accidents that can claim lives and slow down trade on the Djibouti Road, the artery of Addis Ababa.

What is the male equivalent of a ladyfriend?

I recently took a flight from Cairo to New York. Now, on solo domestic flights I generally make a point of avoiding conversation with my seatmates. Experience has shown that there is at least a 70% chance that the person is from a Great Lakes state and that they are visiting their (great aunt / second cousin / parakeet phone pal) on account of the recent (birth of their third child / refinancing of their home / loss of their tooth). Not only that, but by replying, “Fine, thank you” to their “Hi, how are you?”, you may have unwittingly invited a lengthy recounting of their thoroughly unremarkable family history. Best to have a book handy. When the hilarious exploits of your seatmate’s house pet become tedious, the conversation can usually be ended with a brief sideways glare and something to the effect of, “What was that? I’m sorry, I was having trouble hearing you over this fascinating book I’m reading.”

On this particular day, I suppose I was feeling generous and friendly, because I did indeed enter a dialogue with my seatmate. After all, I figured the risk was reduced, as most people can’t afford the upkeep of international parakeet phone pals (to say nothing of the language barrier). My seatmate was a pleasant American woman, probably in her 50s, and incidentally from the Seattle area, so we had something in common. Given the circumstances, there were the natural questions about what had brought the other to Cairo. I told her I was sightseeing on the way home from a business trip, and she told me that she had been traveling with her . . . partner, the final word said not with a literal wink and nod, but with an intonation that implied it. Not being familiar with the established insinuations of her generation, I was at a loss. What could be the meaning behind this bizarre emphasis of a perfectly ambiguous word? Was she referring to a business partner, or was this more like a “pardner”: an ally in times of cattle-wranglin’, whiskey-swillin’, and six-shooter-shootin’? Was she trying to tell me that she was gay? The word choice had left me confounded.

Fortunately, I had the good sense to keep my confusion to myself. I was able to deduce from the continuation of the conversation that this particular usage of the word could be defined something like this: partner, n. [pahrt-ner]: A gentleman bachelor, close in age to the woman, with whom she is romantically involved.

Here, dear reader, is where I beseech you for your advice and assistance. We must find a word with a more specific definition to be used by ladies in the situation of my seatmate. This word must grant her the ability to better communicate the nature of her human relationships to louts such as myself.

I’ve put some thought into this, and have yet to come up with a satisfying solution. For more mature persons, it’s understandable why the terms boyfriend and girlfriend might not be preferred. Fortunately for the seasoned and sophisticated man, there is always the option of referring to his female counterpart as a ladyfriend. After all, a girlfriend may be cute and flirtatious, but a ladyfriend is experienced and knows what she wants. Rawr.

But what is the male equivalent of a ladyfriend? The obvious response would be a gentlemanfriend, but that doesn’t roll of the tongue. Also, the term manfriend is right out, for reasons I can’t quite put my finger on. Guyfriend, maybe? That’s still sort of boyish, but maybe could work. I dunno, I’ve got nothing else. So I’ll put it to you, standardized test analogy style:

Girlfriend : Boyfriend :: Ladyfriend : ???

(This should go without saying, but I better not hear a suggestion of “lover” or any phrase with “lover” as part of it. That term just makes me cringe, and it’s a word you just don’t want to hear come out of anyone, unless it’s Will Ferrell in an SNL skit.)

Addis Ababa photos

A picture says 1000 words, but takes considerably less effort to post on a blog. In the spirit of laziness and appeasing those clamoring for photos, let's proceed to the slide show. Scroll along with me, won't you?

Here's a photo of me with my boss, Melissa, in front of St. Mary's Ethiopian Orthodox church on the summit of Mount Entoto.

This guy has probably never heard of Mont Sleets, the legendary innovator of celebratory hand gestures, but he still gave me a high five at Mount Entoto.

This is the view from the summit of Mount Entoto, around 10,000 ft. The weather's a little hazy, but you can make out Addis in the valley below (elevation ~7,400 ft.).

Here's a little better photo of downtown Addis from the balcony of my hotel room.

The Sheraton I'm staying at in downtown Addis is just a little nicer than the Motel 6's I'm accustomed to staying at in the U.S.

That's it for now -- I'll try to post another story later this week.

Addis Ababa

I begin my first post from Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, in a transparent attempt to appear cultured and worldly.  Did it have the intended effect, my dear reader?  What's that you say?  "Stop being an obnoxious ass, and get the hell on with it."  Oh.  Right.  Very well then.

So as I was saying, I arrived in Addis last night on business. Things have gone very smoothly with my travels, other than the part where my luggage decided to hang out in Amsterdam for an extra day.  (But it's cool, luggage.  Take your time, it's not like I wanted to change my underpants while I was in Africa.  Hope you enjoyed the red light district, jerk.)  The luggage should be arriving in an hour or so, and I'm staying up past my bedtime to blog about it before heading to the airport to retrieve it.

(UPDATE: So, apparently the bags decided to not show up tonight on the flight from Kenya.  Totally not cool, bags.  I can’t believe you stood me up like this for the second night in a row.  Know what bags?  We’re over.  All I can say is you better not come crying to me, begging me to take you back after I have a sleek new suitcase with a hard body and wheels that ain’t busted.  Oh yeah, one more thing, bags.  You can say that zipper “extends your storage space” all you want.  Let’s quit beating around the bush and call it like it really is: you’re fat.  There, I said it.  I feel so much better now.  I just need to learn the Ahmaric phrase for “how much for these new tighty-whiteys?”)


(UPDATE #2: The bags finally showed their sorry selves around 2am this morning.  They didn't even bother to offer an excuse.  We're still not talking.)

The advantage of getting in on Saturday night is that I had a whole day today to do some sight-seeing around Addis with my colleagues.  First day's impression: Addis is a delightful and charming city.  We visited Mount Entoto, the highest point in Addis at an elevation of around 10,000 ft.  On top there is a museum with artifacts from the founding of Addis Ababa in 1886 by Emperor Menelik II, and Empress Taytu Betul, who named the city Addis Ababa, Amharic for "New Flower".  I wish I could tell you I remembered all of the facts from the previous sentence and subsequent paragraphs from the wonderful tour, but truth be told, I had some help from Wikipedia.

On the summit of Mount Entoto, there was a stown hewn church and surrounded by the emporer's palace, eucalyptus trees, fantastic views of the city, and a Sunday school.  The church and school belonged to the Ethiopian Church, a branch of Christianity related to the Coptic Orthodox church.  The Sunday school happened to be in session as we were touring the mountain, and the most rockin' part of the day came when we got to visit the small one-room school.  There were probably 30 to 40 kids in the school singing, clapping, and playing drums.  The music was beautiful and the kids were adorable.  I hope I'll be able to post some audio and video soon.  The students were around 4-10 years old, with their instructors probably not any older than their late teens.  The instructors led the prayers and songs, and for each song one of the younger girls would take a turn hoisting the huge drum onto her shoulders to keep time for the song.

After the mountain, we drove down to a festival celebrating "honey wine", aka mead.  In Amharic, it's called "tij" with a short "i" sound (not sure on the spelling, but I do have a liter to bring home). At the festival, I also split an order of goat meat with our driver, Elijah. Interestingly, my colleagues who were leery of the goat meat and did not partake were the same ones who gave me grief on Mount Entoto over my reluctance to see a hyena in the wild. Seem logical that one's anxiety over eating an animal would be less than the anxiety about being eaten by an animal, no? During the snack, I was entertained by a view of the man behind the counter using a hatchet to chop the leg off of another goat that was hanging and drying. I’m not sure if this qualifies as entertainment, of if anyone else was enjoying it, but one thing I don’t see much of at American restaurants is butchers who double as food servers. Maybe I just don’t go to the right places.