stuff

So I decided to go on this crazy year long bicycle journey to Brazil with Mestre Acordeon 2 weeks before the thing started. Yes, I know it may have been better to plan this a little longer. Or not. If you are new to this blog you can check the ridicolous chain of events here and here. The first inkling of what I was getting myself into was an excel sheet that I received from Bebum - "why do today if you can do it tomorrow". It was a monster of an equipment list that the B2B crew had put together to ride to Brazil. I also needed to get a bike.

Clearly a bike that only a guy standing on his head would think is fit to ride to Brasil.

It was, in one word, intimidating. I stopped counting at 200, and started thinking of what I could do tomorrow. But it had to be done so I'd go to four different shops and buy… exactly none of the items. Insect repellent, biodegradable soap, water purification methods. Stove, pot, which fuel to use? 500 and one things for a medical emergency (!) kit, clothes, sleeping bag, tools, patch kit, replacement parts. Bear spray, dog whistles, bike bell, reflectors, pepto bismol. It had no end. Though at least it did not recommend diapers for Montezuma's revenge.

I don’t know how (thank you, helpful friends), but two weeks later as I lined up on the first day of my new lives with all the other crazy riders I managed to have everything packed in my panniers and strapped to my ridicolous Recumbent Bike. I was prepared! Nothing could harm me or my trusted steelhorse from here on out.

Sorry, not authorized to go to Brasil!

Of course on that same first day Bebum and I camp out on the beach in San Francisco and the rest, especially Bebum’s bike, and gear and half of my stuff were, as they say, history. I still wonder what the bum did with my greencard. I mean, if he is one thing, he is legal to be a bum in the USA.

So after being robbed of all our stuff Bebum had nothing but his tent, sleeping bag, Chapul's Cricket Bars and some cash left while I had been liberated of my wallet including some cash and all my cards, my clothes, sleeping bag and bike stuff. Fate is an ironic bitch. On the day we left Bebum probably had as much stuff as fellow B2B rider Tora. A day later, not so much. You can read how we stayed positive throughout that crazy second day here. We did not have access to any real resources until my replacement cards came, which was four weeks later in Los Angeles. We could not buy clothes, gear, or tons of food. The little money that Bebum had was spent on a bike for him and fixing it. So we made do. And making do we learned that we didn’t need most of the stuff that was on that monster list. For a month a used Trader Joe's re-usable plastic shopping bag was my second panier. It was a pain in the ass. It worked. I also went shopping with my big ol' five Dollars at Goodwill.

Didn't buy this ridicolous hat.

This one seemed much more stylish at the time.

M. Mago clearly approves.

Before I left my swankily located yet sparsely inventoried apartment to sit my butt on a bike for a year I did not own a lot of stuff either. I had been moving around the world since high school, twenty years by now. Naturally, if you are moving from Austria to Australia as I did, you don’t bring more than what Quantas allows. When I moved to LA a six years later I had two medium sized bags to my name. Another twelve years, five cities, endless road and world trips later I packed up all the belongings that I wanted to keep after the year I was planning to be riding bike. Everything else I gave away.

I remained with two bags of clothes, a bunch of books and a blender. I seem to have an essentially functional relationship with stuff. I need to wear stuff, I like to read stuff and I blend stuff since I recently found out that I can’t eat most things normal in a western diet.

How much stuff someone needs to be happy varies widely from person to person. Some of us need more stuff to be comfortable, some of us need less stuff. Since it was me, not a horse, not a dog, not a woman or a slave carrying my stuff, I was rather sensitive about how much stuff I had. And yet, over the course of a year of riding bike stuff accumulated, again. It's as if stuff, like mana, magically appeares out of thin air. Periodically, I would have to go through my stuff and, you guess right, give stuff away. If you are tired of reading the word "stuff" a lot, you can stuff it.

That fourth t-shirt that a really nice capoeirista gave you in San Salvador? Sorry, donate it, you only end up wearing one to three shirts. Remember him in your heart instead. The biodegradable soap? Donate it, its lighter to use normal soap. Stop washing your hair. The third pair of sports undies? Donate them to Sondermüll. The headlamp? Donate it, you have a bike lamp that miraculously gives light too. Toss the cutting board, are you kidding me? Toss the tent, get a hammock. Keep the knife, stove, pot and your girlfriend’s spices. Keep the sleeping bag. Keep two of every clothing item. Keep your bike tools, a sowing kit and electric device chargers/adapters. Go ride. Still getting to many flats because your bike is too heavy? Throw some stuff out.

The lighter I got the easier I felt.  Bike riding is not only a gloriously meditative and healthy see and smell the world activity. It’s also a direct feedback loop on why possessions are bullshit. Because, like you, I ask myself: Other than clothes, food and a place to sleep what do I really need on a bike? And to take this to a logical conclusion, is my normal life any different?

So, get rid of stuff. Move into a smaller house. Be Dutch. Channel your inner Japanese. Live small. Do what you love, instead of wasting time on work so that you can buy stuff you think will make you happy but that you never use because you have to work so much to pay for it. Work 30 hours instead of 50 and hang out with your kids more.

For those of you who already do this >> great stuff. For those of you, who want to tell me fuck it, I like stuff, that's cool too. Everyone is different. Tora had every item under they sun, just in case. He spent two hours every day organizing his stuff - and it made him happy. I on the other hand did not have so much, went for many swims, did unnecessary bouldering, played flute, wrote some crap that nobody wants to read and watched that grass grow or that small mexican city plaza flow - and it made me happy. Bebum had a didge. And two bikes more than all of us.

I am not the keeper of your spare time and Tora is not the judge of your effectiveness. I can not tell if that 20th pair of jeans really made you happy and Tora doesn't know if that snake venom remover kit should have been in my bags after all. We all are the makers of our own happiness.

That being said. Get rid of some stuff. One day you might have to carry it.

adventures of a cycling hunter-gatherer tribe

Quietly he sneaks up on the little hamlet on a dirt track just of the main road. It helps to have your gear tied down and oiled up when you want to be quiet. You never know if you should let the potential host know you are coming, or be prepared to quietly escape from a bad situation. What will be the better strategy? All we need is a space out of sight so we can sleep in peace and not worry about our bikes too much. If we are able to cook some of us usually go vegetable hunting. Others would rather gut a goat.

All of us had expectations when we started the B2B journey. We thought we would become capoeira super heroes  – sorry, nope.  We thought we would learn how to compose Berimbau Symphonies – not likely. We thought it would be a grand honor and lifetime opportunity to ride with a Capoeira legend like Mestre Acordeon – ok, of course. Impressions of lands and peoples are countless. Any of us could probably go on for hours about all the things we have seen. Some of these expectations were over rated, some of them were true, and some other things we just did not expect at all. As we say in German “Erstens kommt es anders, und zweitens als man denkt”.

For example what it means to live in a modern day hunter gatherer tribe. Not an experience most of us expected to make. Let me describe our normal to you.

After having found save sleeping quarters, cooked and eaten whatever food we managed to find we sleep until just before sunrise. Often we are in a large shared room, at a fire station, at a municipal building, in a gym or in a jail. I miss sleeping on the beach.

 

 It’s hot in Central America, we sleep on the hard floor with a sarong as a blanket or in a hammock, most of us have gotten rid of mats, tents or sleeping bags. We rise from our makeshift beds and start making one or another type of breakfast, packing and cooking simultaneously. Usually there are groups of twos or more that share cooking. Depending on mood and availability we share our different foods. Everybody keeps an eye on Mestre’s progress - that’s how we know when we leave. When we move our steel-horses out on the road we tie down our saddle bags, check the hoofs and the lube and start riding out into the very early morning. Usually, we are the first ones on the road riding through fog and wood fire smoke, past slowly waking up fields and animals. Picture this quiet caravan, gently rolling through verdant landscapes. We ride all day and only take breaks during the heat of mid-day.

We have been doing this for nine months. We have shared food, bedding, hardship and the risks of the road less traveled 24/7. We all know each other’s habits like who you can chat to before they have had their cup of coffee and who is functional at what time of the day. How fast and far we can ride and who does better in the heat or in the cold. For better or worse we are as close to a modern hunter gatherer tribe as you can find. One with service-less cell phones and sporadic internet connections.

What does it all mean? Do we groom each other's pelts and munch on each other’s fleas? (uhm, only a couple of us) Do we have a dominant male and everyone else tries to take his place? (yes and no) We don't fight over our two females, they are in good hands. How do group dynamics function and do we display changed behavioral patterns compared to our previous US west-coast background? 

This changed way of life changes us. Almost naturally our emotional connections have taken on a subconscious strength. We more and more resemble cultures with less individualistic points of view. Because of our shared capoeira back ground we may take to this group life more naturally. We also always try to flow with the circumstance, stay present. We don’t know dates or days of the week. Sometimes we are even in the wrong month. When we are confronted with the real world’s schedules and deadlines we are startled.  We wonder why it all doesn’t just flow in a common and sense making rhythm, hopefully according to seasons and the moon.

When we meet other bicycle touring people they are often surprised that we manage to keep the peace amongst so many of us. They are used to either being loners or democratic ways, majority rule for all decisions. We don’t have this problem. Mestre Acordeon looks for our input but in the end makes the decisions alone. Why is it so easy to accept this? None of us seem to have an issue with not having any real say about where we go, how long we stay or other common travel conflict points. All we care about is food, sleep, capoeira and keeping moving towards our shared goals. This is a marked difference to our daily existence back home where our days are filled with indivuality and constant decision making processes.

I personally did not think it would be so beautiful, easy and even peaceful to fall back into pack mode. To know each other’s strengths and weaknesses. To move as one and rely on each other. Are these instincts so close to our emotional surface, still, after all these millennia of civilization? Would we be happier to live this way even today instead of in our highly individualized cultures? In a tribe of our choosing, of a good size and with not too much gossip?

Do you miss your tribe without knowing it?

Panamerica

You live in the best country in the world, right? In your country you feel at home. There are special places there, places that you can't find anywhere else, that you feel emotionally attached to. Your food is completly tasty (ok, not if you're a Brit) and you would never visit a doctor in a foreign country unless you had to. Even if you suffer corrupt leaders or environmental degradation it is hard for you to imagine a better place to call home.

Have you asked why?

We are all subject to a constant stream of patriotic image creation. Your country's government directs this strategy early on in school (pledge of allegiance) and media outlets all over the world happily continue to feed the nationalistic beast. One or another entity constantly spoon feeds us how we are supposed to think about our selves, our neighbors, our homeland - sometimes the spoon is golden, sometimes its a ladel, sometimes a cudgel. Plenty of historical memes help us interpret our reality. It is easy to base our understanding of our place in the world, our selves and how we relate to people in other countries on these thought patterns.

We all think we come from the best place in the solar system, and the sun specifically shines her rays on our dog's ass.

In the USA people are convinced that they have the best life style in the world. The richest, most developed and monied place in the world. Yet, the USA just kicked off the worst economic crises since below. The healthcare system is a joke and a significant part of the population is excluded from this wealth-creating, resource-consuming machine.

In Austria we base our self image on a long, storied history. We are small now, but we used to be big. Vienna was the original melting pot of the world long before New York or London. Just look at a Viennese phonebook, you will hardly find any german names in there. We used to create art that the world appreciates to this day. We live in a grand, golden past and struggle with the present.

It is difficult for us humans to see this reality because we are group animals. We are used to rolling in a pack. All packs have rules and in exchange for following these we receive the benefits of being part of a group - protection, support and social interaction. I have only discovered one way to counteract this, leaving my leetle Austrian pack. As opposed to The Terminator, I probably won't be back.

I have been silly enough to move myself from one continent to another three times. From Austria to Australia, then to Japan and finally to the USA. Silly, because only people who don't know any better keep doing this. Each time you must build a new life, find a new pack. For some reason I have enjoyed this so far.

Now, because I am following a crazy old man, I get to ride through a string of countries on my bicycle. B2B, Mestre Acordeon's project to document the development of Capoeira in the Americas, affords us insights into countries, societies and cultures that I never dreamed of.

Panama is one of those countries. A nation at the mercy of international politics for centuries and one that, like all the other Central and South American countries, suffered Spanish Conquistadores and the consequences of being a colony. A small country can only fall in line with the powers that be. After having supported Panama's secession from Colombia the USA obviously made sure to keep its strong influence here in order to control the Panama Canal.

The country lies at the skinniest part of the two Americas, forming a thin connective tissue between two continents. This alone produces a meme of connectedness and international relations.  The Canal only adds to this creation myth. Now Panama is not just the hugely important north-south connection, in fact it is the entire world that flows through her gates. The only other place that has similar powers of inspiration would be the land bridge of the Bering Straight. But who would want to deal with the temperatures of an ice age? You'd probably have to hunt Mammoths and fight Saber Tooth Kittens too.

Panama built an image of itself as a connector between worlds, cultures and trade. Panamanians appreciate their melting pot way of life. I can't count the times that I saw a Panamarica/Interamerica store of all varieties or an America Import store while riding. Of course this country imports things from all the Americas, even if its just coming from Costa Rica or Nicaragua.

Whats that say on the bottom right?

Before the recent US-brokered freetade agreement Panama did not trade very much with Colombia. The two states have a complicated history. In a Politics 101 nutshell: once Panama realized that they can make a good living on their own with the about-to-be-built canal they split like hell from Colombia and started their own little fiesta, with the support and protection of the USA. This of course is quite the quit pro quo, hence being beholden to the powers that be. You can imagine that Colombia is none too pleased about losing control of this cash cow.

Awesome Panama Canal

Perhaps as a consequence of the complicated history no roads connect Panama and Colombia. The Darien Gap, a stinking reptile and drug dealer infested mud hole makes it impossible to pass on a bike, on foot or by car - still the preferred mode of transportation. Except if you are this guy (I can't recommend enough for you to watch this grainy video, its true explorer stuff). The country that thinks of itself as the connective tissue between two continents is physically cut off from one of them.

But that's no biggy, you can just run a bunch of ships. Tons of them. Just like you are used to doing anyway with that other gigantic global umbilical cord - The Canal. Oh, you dont do that? Really? No ferries, no freight ships, no joy rides? Nada? Nunca? Only random private boats that ship lost backpackers and crazy cyclists through the San Blas Islands from one country to the other. If you have a car, or OMG, you are trying to ship some Bananas from one side to the other you are, as they say, rather far up the shitty creek. Which happens to be island paradise. Not that we at B2B are complaining. Tranquilo.

Lost sail boats and the rather authentic Kuna populate the San Blas

So, if you have an impassable piece of real estate on your southern border and there are no scheduled ships going around it, how can you consider yourself the world's top continent connector? Containing multitudes. A land bridge containing and communicating multi-cultural influences and tastes. An istmus even. A hot international property in the process of tossing off theUSA's yoke for good.

This makes Panama a fairly straight forward example of why it is important to travel so that we may understand our patriotic assumptions for what they really are. Assumptions. Propaganda. Or as Pirata would say - Bullshit. It is easy to defend your opinions about the USA or about China. So many factors influence the images of these countries that, as with some religious texts, there is much room for interpretation. This is more difficult for Panama. You either connect, communicate and melt in a pot, or you don't.

So let us all happily profit and learn from Panama and try to examine our assumptions about our patriotism, about our countries' good and bad sides. Maybe we would discover a bit of humanity under all the vulgar propaganda. The stuff that connects rather than seperates us. Like a land bridge. An istmus even.

the power of capoeira

What if Slavery did not exist? What if this human evil never was? No African slaves in the Middle East. No Arabic eunuchs in historic China. No slaves in the Americas. No sex slaves in today’s Asia or central Europe. No slave-like work conditions in under developed countries around the world. No slavery. Period.

A beautiful thought. An alternative universe. Someone should write a novel about it. Yet it is risky to handle a topic that carries such heavy emotional weight. One very big geopolitical question immediately arises. Would the West have developed its current dominance without milking the colonies using slave labor? This question is of course interesting, in particular considering the countries B2B currently travels through, but for now I would like to concentrate on the “somewhat” less controversial connection to Capoeira.

Only one very simple, yet powerful question remains in this context. Would there be Capoeira? Would Capoeira, this art form that allows people everywhere to express themselves freely, that forms such strong communities wherever it goes, undergo this powerful diaspora out of Brazil?

You may believe that Afro Brazilian slaves fought their overseers using Capoeira, or that Capoeira developed much later in the harbor towns of Bahia. This complicated history is shrouded in undocumented mysteries. We mostly just don’t know. In the end what matters is that Capoeira’s roots reach back to Mae Afrika. The people who practiced Capoeira in Brazil, the way Capoeiristas move and the rhythms all point to that far away mother land.

When you ask a Capoeirista why they dedicate so much of their time to it - what makes Capoeira their home - it will not be long before they mention community and love. The group that supports them. The sisters they look up to as role models. The parents they had lost. The family. The Roda. Because of this community forming power and because many Capoeiristas discover new approaches to life through their practice we speak of Capoeira’s extraordinary ability to transform lives.

In Capoeira we travel to our brother and sister groups to attend their events, and they come to ours in return. During these events we treat each other like one big family. We don’t put them up in hotels and let them fend for themselves, the way it is if you attend a sports tournament. We ask them to sleep at our places, we cook for them, we pick them up from the airport and drive them around all day long. We show them the town, take them to cool night spots and try to meet all their needs. And we beat the stuffing out of each other in Capoeira workshops, eight hours a day. Do this for a few years, and suddenly your Capoeira family extends across the continent. Many of us can go to five different cities in the country and have people to hug and a place to stay. B2B in particular is blessed this way. There are no words that can describe the hospitality we receive on our journey. “Mi casa es su casa” simply does not do justice.

Yet the biggest transformation that Capoeira affects is not on a personal level. It is to transform a great human evil into a great human force for love, for positive change. Capoeira comes from slavery yet today spreads joy, art and community.

Born out of hatred, forged into love.

Even though Capoeira to this day is often carried to new shores via the dark and dangerous ghettos of Brazil, it arrives carrying a message of community and love. Maybe it is the pressure from the new environments that forces our Mestres to let the more martial aspects of Capoeira go. But we can not deny the all-enveloping family that these leaders attempt to create.

Inside of Capoeira we know this. It is our daily bread and salt. If you dedicate your life to our art you will end up spreading the good word to whoever will listen. You will start your own Capoeira school somewhere and hope there is fertile ground for it. If you are from Brazil you will pack your bags, move to Austria or Russia and bemoan your freezing bones. You will follow your dream to the USA, or to Australia and Asia, and you will wonder at the cold, distant nature of the strangers around you. Yet, you will start with a little seed of a germ of a plant of a tree of a Capoeira Akademia. You will BBQ and make Caipirinhas with your students, you will help each other move. You will be best men and brides maids at each other’s weddings and help raise each other’s children. Small communities will form around your Akademia. Every day you will sweat, kick each other and learn together. You will feel the power of focused synergistic human energy in the roda. Your group will become your tribe.

Born in shackles, forged into freedom.

Capoeira has room for all. There are as many styles of jingas as there are Capoeiristas. Although your Mestre will try his best, and for years, to teach you his correct version, in the end he will tell you that your Capoeira is your Capoeira. And that the way you express it is your freedom. It is a simple yet difficult to understand concept. The easiest way would be to watch a Roda and pay attention to the intention of the players. Their personalities emerge quickly. Don’t be distracted by the flashy moves and the backflips. Some smile constantly, as if something is tickling them. Others seem to be very playful but it is only a mask. Others yet again play very direct and to the point. For women, the great advantage of Capoeira is that they do not need to rely on pure strength for the effectiveness of their game. Speed, flexibility and use of space are just as valid a weapon. Some will never hit you, while others can’t wait for the chance. Know a person’s Capoeira and you will know them. And in that variety we all find our own personal expression, our freedom. Our opportunity to be ourselves in a much too straight-jacketed world.

Whatever race is yours, whatever creed you follow, whatever levels of individuality you adhere to, if you enter a Roda boa you will be a part of it for the rest of your life. It addresses a basic human need to be part of a kin in a deeply ritualistic and yet realistic manner. The process of making music, of focusing our combined energy, the sweat and blood we spend each day, bind us together. Why? That is probably better answered by ancient knowledge or simply through being human. The good thing is that you do not need to believe it to experience it. All you need to do is play.

And follow one of the Mestres eking out a living trying to get people to sing a damn song in Portuguese. So that there may grow a small seed of love in a barren concrete ghetto, in a soul-less school of drones, in a world that too easily forgets our tribal human roots.

Mestre Xuxo, in what must be an Austrian ball room

Maybe you are lucky and are in one of the 5 different Akademias across 4 different states in Austria that Mestre Xuxo teaches in and drives hundreds of kilometers to every week. Maybe you are an alumni of Mestre Pelourinho who managed to convince the United States of America immigration Agency, a notoriously flexible bunch, to give this amazingly bendy and impressive, big haired Brasilero a visa that enables him to teach both in Tijuana and San Diego on the same day.

Mestre Pelourinho in San Diego and Tijuana

Maybe you are part of one the tens, if not hundreds, of small capoeira groups across Central America who yearn for a Mestre but only have Mestre Youtube or themselves to learn from. Or you are Professor Arame, a stringy beanstalk-like Mexican Capoeirista, and you move to Lebanon and teach Capoeira to refugee children and battered, abused girls in NGOs across the Middle East.

Bidna Capoeira and Prof. Arame changing lives in the Middle East.

What these Capoeiristas all have in common is an astonishing appreciation for their students. They make their daily struggles worthwhile. As one they tell you “I do this for my students. I love to see them grow, change their approach to life and finally become Capoeiristas. I don’t need money, I don’t need fame. What I need is my family. And my freedom.”

capoeira – an offer you can’t refuse?

Banano in Chacauha

If Capoeira is an expression of anti-stateism, of anti-authority, of anti-rule, of anti-slavery, how does this mesh with the near monotheistic adoration of individual figures within our cult? This article looks at the role of Mestres in the world of Capoeira how they exert influence over their groups and how some short-comings are often overlooked by us. Yes, this is all about sex, drugs and Rock’nroll. And some Capoeira.

Capoeira Mestres inhabit a unique space. They are the living embodiment of an art form rooted in some mystery. An art form that defies classification constantly evolves and has little international organization. Mestres bear responsibility for Capoeira’s practice and development. Through continuous involvement they must ensure that Capoeira’s inherent freedom does not lead to a dilution of the art and vice versa, that a necessary conservation of traditions does not result in a curtailing of a central basic idea of individual expression. Capoeira takes a lot from the individuals who mean to walk its path. On a life-long journey of this kind the opportunities to err by far outnumber all those perfectly white grains of sand on Copacabana Beach.

Yet when we are witnesses to our leaders’ errors we still put them up on our pedestal. And keep them there, though we hold ourselves and others to higher standards. What is this zeal born out of? This sect-like behavior. This inadequate examination of our voluntarily accepted commanders in chief. Is it because they can easily beat our ass anytime they want? A return to rather basic behavior patterns. Or do we mislike judging our judgement? Once we made a call we don’t want to admit that we were wrong. Maybe it is because deep inside we know s/he owns the roda that we play in and therefor also our Capoeira. Or do we just happily soak in this inexpensive letting go? We live in a world in which we are always supposed to be in control; of our selves, our family, our career, our emotions, our country. Or else that tree will be watered with a patriot’s blood. In this world it may just be plain nice to give in to an age old comfort of not being responsible. More positively and maybe realistically put, of being part of something larger than yourself. But if humanity’s behavior patterns are based on clearly established lines of command, what does it mean that those have mostly disappeared outside of the dictatorship we call work? Maybe following certain leaders in a religion, in a cult or in a martial art is a natural expression of needing a place in a pecking order.

Be that as it may, it is fascinating to watch Capoeira Mestres do their thing. If you are lucky enough to interact with many of them it stands out even more. It is extremely interesting for me (Don’t want to know how many Martellos that will earn me) to watch Mestres exert their influence over a group of people who don’t usually follow anyone’s orders unless it is within the context of that dictatorship thingy.

Most of us are usually too involved in our own closed system (read: daily grind) to examine ourselves and the people closest to us. We don’t see the forest for all the trees. And we are also too busy just keeping our lives straight. But maybe it is easier to try to examine your Mestre, since they take up so much space anyway. Think of your Mestre as just another person that you may see walking down the street. S/he doesn’t do backflips or randomly rasteras people, right? No lethal speed and strange interlingual philosophical depictions that somehow often seem to make complete sense, you just don’t know how. Would you think the person walking down the street is steeped in an ancient, heavily ritualized art? Would you think that they can open a place for you, inside of you, that you can not reach without help? In an unfinal analysis we are all complex human being, and it may be difficult to grasp a remotely complete picture of a person unless you spend years with them.

But sometimes we are allowed glimpses into other people’s worlds. Often those pass us by unnoticed. We are too full of living our own lives. And these other worlds can be too similar to our own to warrant closer attention. TV on the other hand, the story teller of our age, takes up a lot of our time. TV provides insights into other people’s realities. It fulfills a basic creative human interest for new food for thought. For seeing some greener grass on the other side. This is legitimate, right? We are surrounded by those who are much like us. And we are also pattern recognition machines. Made to recognize, file, store and ignore repeat inputs. So we constantly want new horizons and we tend to ignore repetitive inputs. All those ignored inputs make room and time for extraordinary events. It saves bandwidth for dangerous or cool shit. Basically, we are set up to be bored by life. Unless you go find cool shit.­

We can trick ourselves. We can put ourselves into situations that provide higher doses of outside input. Maybe our thirst for traveling is a result of this. On the road, we seem to become more in tune with the world around us. Less auto-piloted. Often this is jarring, yet rewarding. More so, if born with a smile worn. Also some professions are afforded a somewhat gratis fly-on-the-wall status into other people’s lives. Somewhat, because each must pay their particular price for the privilege of being a voyeur. Be you a paparazzi, a shrink or a priest.

I get to roll with a first class legend in a should-be Olympic sport that’s got a Public Relations problem worse than that thing on ice with a slow moving rock and some strange fellows rubbing the ground with brooms in front of it. B2B, Mestre Acordeon’s project to document the history of Capoeira’s development in the Americas and Capoeira’s influence on people’s lives is an amazing thing to be a part of. On so many different levels; the work of the documentary, capoeira, friendship, culture, personal journeys, meditation by bicycle. People tell us it’s the most amazing (loco) thing they have ever seen. And still they think we are a troupe of dancers.

To help with a better understanding of a Mestre’s world I could write up a quick long list of what happens in a Mestre Acordeon day, but like on TV you can see all that in the B2B videos, our pictures on Facebook and in our blogs. Instead it would be much more interesting to hear what you think a day as Mestre Acordeon on B2B is like. Here is a chance to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes. And if you want to get really crazy you can do this little mind experiment with the opening sentence of this article in mind. So write us some lines, make a video, or paint a drawing (however you or your kids like to express yourselves). You can do it here, drop it on Facebook or tell it to your pet hamster. It all counts. In any language.

mexico & capoeira

We have heard from tons of people about Mexican Capoeira. We have watched a bunch of Mexican Capoeira. We’ve played a couple of games here and there since we have been riding through Mexico for nearly three month. We have listened to Mexicans talk about Mexico, and about Capoeira. And about Mexican Capoeira. We are a Capoeira train with a super charged twin turbo diesel engine. What I am trying to say is that there is a lot of Capoeira going on for B2B in Mexico City. For those of you new to this adventure, B2B stands for Berkeley to Bahia. By Bicycle. It is a project of Mestre Acordeon - a crazy 70 year young (apparently) Capoeira Legend who has set out to discover the roots of Capoeira in the Americas. 14.000 Miles on a bicycle. This journey will result in a documentary, a music CD and a book. We get to roll with Mestre, through the Californias, Mexico and all of Central America. Have I told you that I love riding bike?

One thing stands out. If you want to think about Mexican Capoeira you can’t just separate the two entities. You have to consider both Capoeira and Mexico. You can take a taco guy out of his taco truck, but you can’t take the taco truck out of the taco guy. Even if he becomes a salad guy, he will toss your salad as fast and full of flair as if he was still making tacos.

So what is Capoeira in Mexico City all about? There is certainly a lot more than we thought. Maybe a few Professors, CMs and Mestres making a hard living teaching Capoeira in the USA are already thinking the same. Pack your bags. Forget your Greencard. The USA is not the promised land. Move south of the border. Yeah, I said it. There are 40-50 odd groups here. Where is that density in the US? Yes, Mexico City is a town of (a few uncounted) millions, but people with five or less years of Capoeira start groups here. And manage to make a living of it. We have seen the same in smaller towns all over the north of the country. Messy, mixed, mongrelized, Mexican. Happy. Maybe it is because many people in lots of countries do not have the luxury to choose between right and wrong, they choose between work and no work, food and no food.

Yes, some of these groups may seem commercial, zumba-ized even. They may not know the music. Or that the tocas in your roda are the tocas of your life. Tocas that can’t not be followed. But, as Capoeira grows, in the nooks and crannies of this dense and denser humanity, should we prefer some Capoeira, or should we accept all? Are we the judge of which Capoeira is worthwhile? Considering that none of us know an absolute truth of origin, do we have the ability, the right, to know the destination?

And how can Mexican Capoeira find its base? When Mexico itself has been working, justly, for centuries to know its own, to find its own and to accept it. If Capoeira is an expression of anti-colonialism, of anti-authority, of anti-rule, of anti-slavery, then how can it mesh with Mexico’s history? Or should it be a perfect marriage?

Two indigenous cultures on the tip of the spear of western, barely post-medieval society. A ruthless, greedy and blind society. A society that was surfing the accidental waves of geographical fortune and technological advantage. Raping and pillaging along the way, it left continents of confusion in its wake. Suddenly all power came from the barrel of a gun and the center of a cross. Each country eventually revolted against foreign rule, as did the Estados Unidos . Each revolution in its own way, leaving a legacy of historical influence, of deeply ingrained cultural memes. Do you wear feathers for equinox or are you from a quilombo? Are you a minute man or one of the child heroes of Mexico? Where is your past located and how does it impact your present?

Whenever you live these two narratives leave a lasting impact. It's beyond my experience and understanding to interpret this impact. As usual I only have questions for you. Does modern Mexico's self-image allow room for Capoeira, which is part of another nation’s creation myth? And do these two cultural constructs (big words, yes) complement/conflict? Someone could probably write a book about this.

One of the statements we heard about Mexican Capoeira is that players don’t speak to each other in a jogo. To speak one’s mind one must first know it, know one's foundation. And so, it may be that this stasis of expression remains caught either in a game of mutes or a fight. Mais nau um bom jogo.

Crossing our Rubicon

One day we are in paradise, the next in a border waste land. Disneyland is your paradise? That is where we are. At least we think of California that way, considering the difficulties that we expect in Baja or Panama. We keep discussing how much water we should carry each day to go through the desert. Is one gallon per day enough? Do you know how much a gallon of water weighs? Should we carry two gallons per day, in case we or the support vehicle get lost? Or in case we have a mechanical issue that we can’t fix ourselves. Or in case Mestre gets hit by a car. Any number of horrible scenarios go through our heads. Issues of sharing and carrying of resources arise. It seems that roles are not entirely worked out. But we have months to do so.

There is nothing better than crossing from one country to another on foot - or on bike in this case. In our age of jet planes every airport around the world feels the same. The same artificial air. The same crap on sale. The same officious immigration officers. You don’t even feel like you are traveling anymore. It’s convenient. And it sux.

Crossing this border is intense for us, but not because we are doing it on foot, but because we are leaving our B2B family behind. Or rather, they watch us go. I hope there are no pictures of me because I was crying like a little boy. It’s a melodramatic twist of my personality. Must be the German in me, the one I am trying to deny – the German, not the crying. Mestre Mago, Contra Mestre Fabio, Professor Mniska, Instrutora Come Come and Peixao turn their backs and head back north. The film crew tags along into Mexcio. Mariano is missing. Later we find out that he went with the support car to support Amber’s crossing into the strange new world.

We are all heartbroken at the prospect of separation. You may laugh at this, but you go ahead and share bread, travel, joys and hardships with your tribe. And then they are gone. For good. Or at least a really long time. There is no “I’ll see you in a week”. Or “I’ll visit around Christmas”. Nada. We will see our friends in a lot more than a year. Probably.

One thing stands out. Mestre is bouncy, even jauntily liberated. As if breathing the air of Mexico has lifted the chains of a white people’s yoke of his shoulders. It’s relatively easy for an Austrian to integrate into Sunshine State culture. Apart from the seemingly superficial friendliness that is best accepted and enjoyed, people associate Austrians with the Governator, or the Kindergarten Cop. What’s not to love, right? Even the Terminator became a traitor to Hollywood perp-dom. I am not sure how ­­that plays for a Bahiano from Salvador, Bahia. I only know that you are taking someone from paradise and dropping them into a rather hyper capitalist California. A place of warm beaches and cold hearts. Yes, I am talking shit about your state. If you are from somewhere around the equator, palms and beaches ‘n things, you know that the white world can be pretty tight. Uptight. Those things wear on us as time goes by. We yearn for a little chaos. Some unplanned adventure. A journey of discovery even. Could we really discover anything new if everything was already planned down to the last Pandero clamp?

You think waste land is too strong a term. Yet you may imagine all of Mexico is a crime-ridden, illiterate desert. With some jungle thrown in here and there. Best used for cheap labor. This is an assumption. It is wrong. As most countries Mexico does not concentrate his power, wealth and culture at his border. And certainly not in the slightly inhospitable and arid north. The border areas are a background to Estados Unidos appetite for cheap profits, sex and drugs.

Fly into Mazatlan and come up into the Sierras to Guanojuato. Road trip of a life time. That way you can make up your own mind about this amazing country full of interesting history, amazing beauty and some of the warmest, most hospitable people you have met. You could also do it on a bike.

Reise nach Afrika

Reise nach Afrika - Journey to Africa. This song takes me back to my childhood days. Rolling around the Vienna of the 70s as a kid. My pops with flared pants, patched in whack places because we were broke and he always rode bike and mom always patched our pants. My mom with short hair and flowery hippy dresses. They would take my brother and I to these hippy commune houses. Big ol' central European apartment buildings, 4 stories high, lives living in the memory of thick brick walls. Walls that keep you warm when its cold out and cool when its hot. Summer concerts in square, jungle green court yards with hippy bands singing meaningful songs against nuclear power and for love. You'd have to be a monster to disagree with that sort of sentiment, no?

There are not many things that I bring along from my past. I have a beany my mom made me 25 years ago. I still have a belt I bought in 1992, because I like it. These childhood memories, these pasts, live in our minds. I pay as little attention to them as possible though so that I may be present. Maybe that is why I carry little. An attempt to match the mind to earthly possessions. Or vice versa.

But music stays with us. And few songs stay with me as the ones about traveling and freedom. Arik Brauer is a distinguished constant in Austrian post World War 2 art. I can only think of one thing more important than his work in painting, writing and music; his sweet, harsh tongue lashings for the fat cat in all of us. The envious, stingy and arrogant self. The one that we hopefully battle every day. Do you stick your head in the sand? I know I have to pull it out frequently.

Yet Reise nach Afrika is apolitical and sweetly politically incorrect. And when I find open road this past in a song rings out in joy. I want to sit my butt on a bike and start riding without turning around. I want to keep seeing what is beyond the next turn I want to drink from all the rivers of this earth. That's what the song is about. Riding a bicycle to Afrika, past the Bedouins, through that dark, mysterious continent, riding so far that only the dirt keeps us corporeal. An escapist dream.

The song went on autorepeat in my music players after I sent my application letter to Mestre. It stayed there. On the prettiest B2B downhill joyrides it bursts out of me. When I leave good new friends behind these words comfort me. Straight ahead is the road. It is today. It is now.

California Capoeira

Capoeira is not big in the USA. It has been steadily growing for 30 years. But anyone who is trying to run a Capoeira Akademia will tell you that it is difficult to survive in this business. We don't have the national and international organizations that help other martial arts and sports with promotion and visibility. Crossfit is a good example. Individual gyms profit enormously from the marketing and advertising output of national organizations. Everybody in the States knows what Crossfit is.

Ask someone what Capoeira is. Most people don't know and the ones that try, make us cringe with attempts to classify a martial art as a dance. But it's not them, its us. What it comes down to is that we have many Capoeira small schools fighting to survive in an ocean filled with international Karate, Crossfit and Zumba sharks, who are all out to claim the few fitness dollars a person is willing to spend.

But California is different. Here we have UCA and Batuque. Two of the first Capoeira groups in the USA. Founded by Mestre Acordeon and Mestre Amen. Open Rodas everywhere. 'nuff said. Of course there is also Capoeira Brasil, of Mestre Boneco. But although the group is huge and international it is not of California.

So when we travel down the California coast line, while its not Bahia, we still find a lot of Capoeira. And because we have this crazy group of really good Capoeiristas we play a lot of Capoeira. On the side of the road, in parking lots, on the beach, in akademias, in parks and at Batizados. Its totally amazing and I feel incredibly lucky to be here. And its also extremely frustrating. How can that be? Its Capoeira heaven.

Because I can't play. My hip flexor has been acting like a rusted jackknife, although the biking is fixing it. I injure my wrist and the biking is making it worse. But more importantly, I am a confused Capoeirista. Why? I train with Professor Fenix and Candeias in Seattle. We practice a different capoeira than UCA does. Our Jinga is different. Also with only three years in Capoeira I am, and will be for a long time to come, a big capoeira baby. At some point, rolling down the coast on my ridiculous recumbent, I realize that this is a 24/7 batizado environment. I'm a nerd, I over-function. Bebum tells me to STFU and just play.

You know how when you go to another group's batizado you feel like a beginner? In a workshop you learn a kick and rastera combo but it just doesn't compute for you? This happens to everyone and it is why its so important to travel in Capoeira. I have seen instructors looking like total noobs trying to figure out the timing of a rastera option because they have not practiced that particular one all their lives.

Of course this is great. It shows that we are all human and we are always learning. It shows the willingness of our instructors to be beginners over and over again. It teaches us versatility and improves our games. It enables us to go home to our own group and beat someone's ass with a move they haven't seen before. It keeps us real because we know there is always someone out there who is not necessarily better or faster, but who will still be able to put you on your ass. And finally, it continuously challenges us. An important ingredient for my own personal happiness.

All of this is great at a Batizado, but when it is for a month straight... not so much. I let it make me into a confused Capoeirista. Should I do this jinga all bouncy now, so that I can accelerate off my backfoot better? Should I try that esquiva at a martelo even though I feel like its going to get my head taken off? And how the hell am I supposed to do anything without my wrist? The one and good constant that remained was "Arms up Pirata"! I ended up watching a lot of games. And listening. Which is entirely appropriate and not because I got to watch Mestre Beiramar and Mestre Mago go at it every day. Although that's pretty badass. I learn the first of many things about Capeoira on this journey.

"Learn by watching other people play" - not something we like to do. Not something we are often told to do. We are told to play, play, play, because the Roda is where your game really develops. But there is a lot of value in watching other people play. Good players, bad players, everyone. Watch them with your capoeira eyes and learn. No pride, no envy, no stinginess. Capoeira is one of the most complex things anyone can attempt. It behooves us to learn by watching because that's what babies do. I won't really learn anything by playing Mestre Beiramar, other than that I am able to easily bore the shit out of him. Nothing that he wouldn't rather have someone else teach me. But I sure as hell learn a lot by watching him.

I was still confused until I talked to Mestre about it a couple of weeks ago. He said "Well... you can't be confused". Weirdly, probably more to me than to him, that's all I needed. I'll just STFU and play.

leaving town - part 2

While we camped out happily on the beach the more important main group experienced flat tires, broken chains and didn't call it a day until 2am. They wondered briefly about our absence and probably decided that Pirates on funky modes of transportation can be keeled and Bebums can run into poles all day long. We  tend to agree.

A typical San Francisco morning greets us with fog so thick you can wrap it like a cozy blanket. The wood is still wet, but we also still have pounds of crickets to keep our spirits hopping happily. We think we need to make 50 miles today, because the plan puts us to Pigeon Point on the second day of our journey. We move quickly, pack our overnight gear and head back to our bikes. It's a quick hike and we look forward to getting our gear ready, but not the hike up the sand path.

Everything was gone. Bebum's bike and trailer with everything he owned. The saddle bag I left behind, with my tools, clothes and my wallet (yes, I kept it there. Keel me) was gone. At least Bebum had his cash on him. Because the last time he slept in Golden Gate Park he had 1500 stolen out of his bag. That small nagging voice in my head last night was not loud enough when it whispered that it may be a good idea to sleep next to your bike in a bum infested city.

What was still there was my recumbent bike. Remembering the embarrassment of falling over in front of all the cute Berkeley Brazilian girls, twice, at least, I feel conflicting emotions of empathy and anger. TAKE MY FUCKING BIKE, I may scream inside my head. I guess the thief was smarter and didn't bother with it. Or tried and fell on his ass.

Bebum and I go into beast mode. But following bike tracks, calling the police, canceling credit cards leads to no trace of our stuff. The police is out of its jurisdiction, tells us to call Park Services and proceeds to get his pig cruiser stuck in the sand. We offer to call Park Services. One aims to please. The bike, the gear, the wallet, the green card, the tools remain gone. What is left is an 80 year old hippy on his morning walk who offers to take us poor saps to his house to regroup.

David and his peace shirted hippy wife Sherry let us take showers, feed us, commiserate about the evils of the world and lend us their interwebs.

We can a carton of pears with them. Their 92 year old mom comes over, full of chutzpah and admiration for the two crazies riding to Brazil on their bikes. She brings us home-made bread and tells her daughter to offer us pickles made with ancient Austrian kosher recipe. We don't feel at home at all.

I remember Craigslist Joe and ask for a little love in the General Community section. Nada. Not until a few days later when it was too late. But we do find a cheap whip (Bebum speak for rig, or bike). In this global megalopolis-sized city we buy it around the corner from David's place. He takes us in his pickup to pick the bike up.

Mission accomplished he drops us back to the beach and... finally, we get to ride. We link up with Mestre and group at Halfmoon Bay campground and thank the supreme being of your choice for a journey well started.

u-turn

His glasses are like the bottoms of coke bottles. The old kind. The ones you can only get outside of USA. The ones with real sugar. None-regulated and highly caffeinated.

"Que hace este pendejo en bicicleta en medio de la pinche calle en la noche?" He thinks as he yells at the Gringo to get into his pickup and toss his bike into the back.
Gringo from the central cold steppes of the Ukrainian planes does as told.
"Quieres una cerveza?" the weirdly physically oxymoronic 50something yells.
"Si Compadre, Si" says Cantador, polite international traveler that he is, and grabs the two beers offered.
"Quieres fumar mota?" and offers the joint he just dragged on. Cantador wonders if the dark pinche calle might not be the safer place to be right now. But then again, this is his only way to reach our campsite, another incredible natural wonder along the Bahia de Conception on the Sea of Cortez.

We all start checking the broken down Pickup truck as it approaches. Then Cantador, two beers, one case of beers, a reefer and four delicious fish that Cantador organized for all the B2B Riders emerge. He must have forgotten his wife Diana somewhere along the way. Before we start grilling we need firewood. U-Turn offers his, way too many (all) of us jump into the back of his tailgate-less truck. Maybe looking for U-turn making adventures. Would you rather be Sean Penn or Jennifer Lopez? Billy-Bob Thornton is taken.

U-Turn jabbers a million miles an hour as we rock past the beach and the gringo trailers at the end of it. I know that kind of jibber-jabber. The Shabu does the talking. Embracing the world and everyone in it, for days on end. The paranoia comes later.

perfect pix thx Balao

Stops at a gate to open it, drives on his on personal beach to his trailer. The stars stream their light in perfect silence. Geese and Chicken chill on the beach. Unbeknownst to us hordes of bloodsucker lick their chops at the fresh white meat. We help him unload his truck after he turns on his generator and Christmas lights, offers two joints, drives us to his firewood, yells at us about the pinche corrupt Mexican government, drops us off to our campsite and disappears into the night after he invites us out to his place for whenever.

We need to be friends with U-Turn.

B2B grills with the help of Diana and Cantador. Little do we know how good they are at Seafood. He trains with Mestre Mariano in Santa Barbara and moonlights as Evolutionary Biology and spear fisher. Yes, Cantador is a badass. We all pass out with food coma. Arroz con Leche over Campfire with Cinnamon lastet shorter than U-Turn's supply to build a Palapa.

The next day most of the crew rolls to catch up with Mestra and Mestre after a good Capoeira session on the beach. Mariano, Bebum, Cantador, Diana, Pirata as well as Yola ride out to U-Turn' s beach.

We ride to his RV. Shockingly his coke bottle bottom glasses are gone. What? He doesn't look like he will shoot and feed us to his pigs anymore (not out of malice, but pure sense of economy, you understand).

We want U-turn back.

He lets us have one of the Palapas and goes back to leveling half his ground BY HAND! En el medio pinche dias caloroso. Which he was also doing last night after he dropped us back. Soon he will have the flattest flat on the block.

We set up and Mariano and Cantador head over to pay him a visit and invite him to lunch. They return with a full set of spear fishing gear.

And "Man, his name is Marco  He used to be the Chief of Staff for the President. For 17 years. Then they framed him for murder, threw him in jail and the key away. He just got out last year after 10 years. And bought this place to get away."

The level of crazy in this desert is quite outstanding, even by desert standards.

U-Turn!

"And, he said all of that after he invites me into his funky Tarantino like trailer - light streaming through fucked up blinds 'n shit - then tells me to find his spear fishing gear somewhere in one of the closets and proceeds to smoke crack out of a light bulb right in front of me and Cantador while we go through all his shit."

Two hours later

Exhibit 1 for Badass (Cantador)

Life is like Capoeira.

We go back to borrow a grill for the two Halibut etc that Herr Badass acquired in the bay, and come back with a grill and lemons. U-Turn is still leveling. And he won't be eating any time soon. We settle in to sleep after a righteous meal and our host swings by to drop of some mosquito coils. He was taking a break from leveling. But not for long. Two of his friends show up and they go to twork until sunup. At which point the spread is flat. And so is U-Turn's earth. Or so we think.

Despite his tweaking days and yelling ways, he is another example in a long list of voluntary local Mexican hospitality that we are forced to compare with the local gringo kind, which usually goes down like this:

"Hey, that's great you guys. What a journey, to Brazil, huh? Is there anything you all need? Can I help with anything?"
"Hmmm, no we are fine... Well, maybe some eggs?"
"Oh... how many are you thinking?"
"Up to you."
"We juuust came back from the store, well, we have some, but..."
-
"You guys look like survivors, you'll get on. Yeah, sorry, no can do."

No matter how poor, no matter how deported, no matter the motives of the locals for helping us consistently it seems that Mexican hospitality is rather outstandingly great. The B2B crew has an ongoing discussion about this, trying to figure out if its us, our story, the locals, the gringos or any combination thereof. What do you think?

Finally, U-Turn is apparently not another crazy Mexican dude mad at the govern'mint. We googled him - and the interwebs never lie. His name is Marco Antonio Daccarett Habib. He did get thrown into jail for murder and seems to have been involved in a murky real estate transaction back in the day with government officials. Far be it from us to know who is guilty of what, but in prison everyone is innocent. You would be too.

Should we be glad we had the spear in our campsite over night? Hindsight is like wearing glasses the size of coke bottle bottoms. The old kind.

i saw a Mestre cry today

I saw a Mestre cry today. A man who has taken life’s full measure and came away humbled yet spirited. Mestre Acorden, more symbol than man, who tries desperately to remove himself from people’s greedy eyes and the emotions they attach to their idea of him. So desperate that he will sit his weary ass on a bike for one year. To get away. To find himself once more. And to connect to a past he may have lost long ago.

Mestre Acordeon shed tears of regret and missed opportunities, reading "The Making of a Mestre" to a bunch of kids. We can not adequately describe what it feels like to witness this openness of spirit, this living with your arms stretched to the horizons. Sucking the marrow out of each moment given. Each moment of truth, of sadness and happiness, of failure and accomplishment.

What was this story? This power? This allegory and evaluation of one person’s life? What moved Mestre so much that he spent an evening exercising his human right and duty to simply feel? No matter what the circumstance. No matter who the audience. No matter how much water had flown under the bridge of Mestre Bimba’s life and death.

Do we attach undue greatness to a moment of public introspection because to us Capoeiristas it is as if the President spoke of meeting the Pope - and regretted not having washed his feet towards the end? Maybe the greatness of the moment is a natural result of the greatness of the man living that moment? Or is there really nothing special about this at all - just an old man considering the pages of his book?

For us B2B Riders many questions remain in our overcycled and dehydrated minds about this moment. Questions that Capoeiristas and others may be able to answer one day in a far away and hopefully wiser future. For our pasts recede from all of us.

The Making of a Mestre” pg. 131 in Mestre Acordeon’s book “Capoeira, a Brazilian Art Form”.

one year before B2B

One year ago I barely grasped that Capoeira might not be just another martial art. Mestres keep talking about how Capoeira is like life, life is like Capoeira. But when I tried to esquiva (a dodging maneuver in Capoeira) my next deliverable at work my boss just laughed at me. Right now I try to remember every day that I know nothing. Which is probably a good starting point for any human endeavor. 

Saying that Capoeira is like life and that life is like Capoeira draws two kinds of responses from an audience. Head-nodding agreement and blank stares of incomprehension. Now I know that this will happen most times when Capoeiristas and none-Capoeiristas discuss Capoeira. But The Now is not the topic of this topic Herr Tolle. Instead you should know that back then I did not think that I could just join a journey such as Mestre Acordeon's. You would be justified to expect Mestres, Contra Mestres and players with their books written full of stories about life and Capoeira to be polishing their bikes, packing their survival gear and reading up on how exactly Montezuma's revenge affects the digestive tract of white people.

So I looked on in envy how Mestre and his group started to prepare. I even knew one Capoeirista out of Salt Lake City who was going to try go on the trip. Bebum, who trains with Mestre Jamaika at Volta Miuda. Every day I trained my butt off with Professor Fenix's Grupo Candeias in Seattle's International district to become better in all aspects of this complex art form. Every day I went to a job that had become stale, not because the work or the group I was in was bad, but rather because I seem to require constant fresh and interesting input. Most jobs don't provide that. Once you figure them out, you go on auto pilot.

I had moved to Seattle on another Software Localization Contract, my 5th,  in 2009 right after a six month trip around the world. I was hoping to go to Marocco for at least as long afterwards. I thought I was going stay 8-12 month before going to Africa but then the pesky world economic crises made me face reality for once and I decided to take the full time job that Microsoft generously offered while Paulson called the Hammer down on 99% of us. You want to know about the fulltime job? Mom was happy. I was feeling old. I did love the challenges of working in that Type A personality zoo called Microsoft. And settling into Seattle was like traveling to a new country for me because growing roots was definitely a new experience.

Seattle grew on me like moss on a rock. Tim Robbins, a native, provides ecclectic if slightly whack imagery if you'd like some nice descriptions of that rather moist part of the world. I liked it. It seemed, for a short while at least, that it could break a certain rythm that constant moving had established. After I went to Australia from my homeland Austria in 1995 to attend University for three years I flew to Tokyo on a one-way ticket with 50 bucks in my pocket and ended up staying for two years. Met a girl there and moved to Hawaii in 2000 before finally arriving on the West Coast and living all up and down that amazing part of the world. I had been a waiter, a barrista, a night club party organizer, a bar tender, a florist, an event planner, a stage builder, an orchid small business owner, a translator, a computer localization tester, engineer, project manager and finally in my last job a Release Manager on the Windows Phone Team. Only in America is it possible to move from working a 4AM to noon minimum wage job in the Downtown Los Angeles wholesale flower market to working a badass job in one of the most successful companies in the world. The USA, like most countries, has many good and bad sides. But it is uniquely great in that sense. 

Yet still, it is not enough. I really wanted to go ride bike.