Mexican Motorbike Prophecies
February 21st, 2009My entire life I´ve been accused of being Mexican. Since I was about ten years old the “Dirty Mexican” persona has followed me around with varying degrees of accuracy and cultural insensitivity. The claim´s accuracy took a blitzing step forward at puberty when I gained the ability to grow particularily terrible facial hair. Now at the age of 21 one would think that things have improved, however my moustache remains tenuous and disconnected from my “beard” which appears to be loosely modelled after the Hawaiian islands.
I will now dispose of your wonders and fears by stating the truth. I am not Mexican, nor latin, nor chinese as once thought by a kid I met at the wave pool. My background is Ukrainian and English. By some mystery of human genetics I ended up with olive skin. I am a proponent of the human genome project for this reason: I hope that it will some day explain how my olive skin came out of such a white family. Insert milkman joke. Regardless, I ended up with olive skin and people´s jealousy has led to many Mexican falsifications related to my ethnic origin.
In high school I learned of the phrase “self fulfilling prophecy”. This occurs where one behaves according to his or her or others expectations. In a social situation where prejudice exists toward a minority, oftentimes the minority can begin to take on more and more elements of the prejudice and a self fulfilling prophecy is born.
Being a risk taker who really wants to take things up a notch, I’ve decided to bring myself to a whole new level of self fulfilling prophecy by actually attempting to become latin. On Feb 6 2009 I left Calgary, Canada with a motorbike and dreams of riding it to the southern tip of Argentina. Tales from my quest for latin-ness will be posted right here on the profoundly epic gnarstars.com.
This is the point where I should introduce myself. Of all my previously assigned names I can’t choose just one, so throughout my stories the following names may be used interchangeably: “dirty mexican” “sexy mexy” “forrest” and my personal favorite “gorilla christmas”. If you have an obsession with being old fashioned you may come across official records referring to me as “Andrew Benjamin Osadetz”.
Like all travel stories, mine will fall under one of many categories that include, but are not limited to Incompetence, Encounters with Members of the Opposite Gender (or same gender whom have endured many painful yet fulfilling surgeries), Cultural Idiosyncracies poorly Understood by Descendants of the British, Meeting Incredible People, Heeding the Advice of Alcoholics and of course Instances of Crime and/or Corruption. It will also be denoted UP FRONT whether the said events occurred within or outside of a strip club.
Being the diligent and thorough person that I am, the first part of my trip has explored the category of incompetence in unprecedented detail. A cousin of my friend Rob gave me a ride to Phoenix, AZ. With our motorbikes in the back of Greg’s Toyota Tundra we cruised down to Phoenix with his Aunt and Uncle welcoming us into their amazing home about two days later. Big thanks to Rob, Greg, Carol and John Thompson for all their help with the first part of my trip! We did some riding in the phoenix area with the intention of breaking our brand new bikes in. Our accidental decision to ride 60 miles of mud track definitely broke our bikes in. By that I mean I almost broke my bike. And in doing so displayed my complete lack of skill. Over the course of about 5 hours I dropped my bike into the mud about four times. I was lucky to escape with only a bent licence plate and a missing bolt from the side fairing. Greg rode the whole trail with no crashes, finished before me and laughed histerically when I showed up at the highway dirtier than the owner/operator of a 24 hour roofing business. Did I mention I had dirt tires and he had street tires?
My bike was working, I was ready to go. I took off from Phoenix, AMPED. 600km to Boulevard, 40km North of the Mexican border. I had trail mix and potato wedges for dinner before pitching my tent in the parking lot of the Golden Acorn Casino. After a night in freezing temperatures beside a massive electronic gambling billboard, I expected to awake tired. Not this day. This was the day it would finally start. Everything I dreamed of over the last 2.5 years was to culminate as I crossed into Mexico.
I did it. Everything came together that day when after crossing the border I stepped into Mexican Customs to purchase a tourist card. Upon opening my passport and handing it to the official my heart fell into my stomach.
“I’m in Mexico with Greg’s Passport. Where is my passport?”
They let me into Mexico without checking my passport. Crossing back into the states was different. American Customs was surprisingly laid back in Tecate. We even started chatting about hockey. When I hurried to get out of the way to keep the line up moving the officer said “Don’t rush man, most of the Americans behind you don’t pay taxes.”
After braving high winds and 140km/h semi trucks to Phoenix and back I was finally in Mexico again on Feb 12 2009. I had officially tallied an extra 1200km by playing the passport courier game. When we crossed from Canada to the US I had put the wrong passports in the wrong passport holders. Incompetence.
I decided to spend some time in San Miguel 100km South of the American border to get set up and hopefully turn my luck around. My luck made two abrupt turns in a row when I randomly found a guy who welded a surfboard rack for my bike for $12.00. Immediately after he started working it became clear where my luck was really going. Once he was finished welding I would be going to the internet cafe and phoning a registry in Calgary. My licence plate was lying on the highway somewhere between Phoenix, AZ and San Miguel, Mexico; 700km of road I certainly didn’t want to drive again, especially to look for a licence plate that had almost certainly blown away in the wind.
The game plan was simple. My mom would pick up a new plate and give it to my buddy Curran so he could send it DHL directly to downtown Ensenada (close to San Miguel) where I could pick it up. In the meantime I would get a killer deal on a surf board and surf every day until my plate arrived.
The waves were unreal my first day of surf. I caught about five before I got a little too close to the edge of hypothermia. Getting out of the water seemed like a simple process:
1 - Paddle to the shore
2 - Stand Up
3 - Walk
However when cold, disoriented and well. . . incompetent, waves tend to make one fall over and algae tends to make one slip. In the process of falling and slipping one tends to throw surfboads at rocks.
I was finally on shore walking towards warmth when my buddy Tim asks “Any dings in your board”.
It would take $30.00 and two days to replace the fin that ripped out of my board. I was frustrated that I had no board and nothing to do while waiting for my new plate, but when I came down with a fever and couldn’t surf anyway I felt much better. It’s strange how things tend to work out.
After finding out that Curran’s car is broken my mom finally sent the plate out on Friday Feb 20 2009. I should definitely send out a huge thank you to my Mom for getting the plate organized! Once the plate is here my exploration of incompetence will hopefully be complete. The beginning of the end will be inaugurated by making sure I have put my plate screws on forward instead of backward.
The best kid to have on your block is Tim West. I want it to be clear that he’s no New Kid on the Block because he actually plays an instrument and is not fruity like Mark Walberg’s brother. Also he is roughly 20 years younger than members of the boy band and his definition of washed up involves surfing rather than a dwindling entertainment career. Tim has taught me everything I need to know about surfing, let me stay at his place free of charge and even cooked a meal or twelve for me. If you’re in Half Moon Bay, California, you’ll see Tim charging the massive Mavericks surf break. Keep an eye out for him on the professional big wave competition scene and in big wave surf films. There’s some epic Tim West footage on youtube! Most importantly he’s someone you can count on to be reliable, helpful and generally a dopamatrix individual. And dopamatrix isn’t a word that I just throw around. If you need a complex sprinkler fitted in your building, he’s your man. Thanks Tim for all the help!
All things said, the trip has been delayed and bumpy so far, but that’s all part of the game. I’ve got a surf board, a rack, a motorbike, maps of 16 latin american countries and some new friends. All I need is a rectangular piece of metal with some orange letters and numbers on it and I’ll be cruising. I have plans to close my research on incompetence but unfortunately without it I would have nothing to write about. If there were a nobel prize for incompetence I feel right now that I would be in close competition with Jack Leyton.
If anyone wants to meet up somewhere in Latin America or just wants to say hello. Give me a shout at andrewosadetz@hotmail.com. I hope everyone is forever keeping it gnarly.
- Andy Osadetz




