Mike's Global Adventure

Road to the Ferry

2011-12-23T23:13:00.001-08:00

I first heard about the Lake Tanganyika ferry from Michael back in Buenos Aires. Michael was a Brit busy spending his pension checks from Her Majesty’s Navy on beer and petrol while traveling around the world in stages on his GS 1200. A year prior he had been in southern Africa and had taken the ferry.

Lake Tanganyika is the longest and second deepest freshwater lake in the world and is shared by four countries- DR Congo, Tanzania, Zambia and Burundi. I would be catching it at its most southern point in Zambia and then taking it up to the chimpanzee country of northwestern Tanzania and just a hair south of the halfway mark between Cape Town and Cairo. A big attraction to the trip is the vessel itself, the MV Liemba, an old German warship from WWI. I have not seen a photo of the ship yet and do not really know that much about it, but do know that the Germans once deliberately sunk the ship at some point to avoid it getting into enemy hands, and later raised it. The ship makes stops along the Tanzanian coast to small remote mostly inaccessible villages carrying passengers and goods. It is a working ferry for the lake with very few travelers on board. From its final destination in Kigoma, Tanzania I will try and secure passage on a cargo ship going to Burundi at the top of the lake. Otherwise, I would have 150-miles on dirt roads into the interior of Tanzania in order to catch the paved road to Rwanda.

In addition to these more obvious reasons, the idea of traveling through at least part of Africa by boat intrigues me, in the spirit of Joseph Conrad I suppose. It may not be a steamship going down the Congo River or in search of the ivory trading post of the deranged Mr. Kurtz, but I am looking forward to seeing how the experience unfolds.

Besides Michael’s personal account of the trip, it has been nearly impossible to find any current or reliable information about the trip. My Lonely Planet book has a meager 1”x1” box about it, stating it leaves every Friday. In Malawi, I heard from another traveler interested in making the trip that she heard it left every-other Friday, not weekly. There is no website or phone number to call, and not much mentioned on the online forums for overlanders, just more questions. My plan, or lack thereof, was to roll the dice and show up at the dock early in the week hoping that it was leaving on that particular Friday.

However, first I had to get to the lake. The logical route is to come up on paved roads from the south of Zambia. But because I went to Malawi and was now well north of any junction to the paved roads, I had two options: I could cut across the most northern part of Zambia on a dirt road or to ride into Tanzania cross over and then drop back down into Zambia also on dirt roads. Problem was, nobody could tell me anything about either of these roads and the rains were coming more frequently now. As my friend Adam would say, “good intel is hard to come by there”. Several times I had mentioned to Peter that I did not have a very good feeling about all this and was more anxious about the crossing than usual. For one thing, I did not like that the Zambian road paralleled so closely to the border (with Tanzania). Border areas can be bad news.

As Peter and I reached Karonga in northern Malawi, we stopped to get some more black market gas, using up what Malawian Kwacha we had before leaving the country, as it is has almost no value anywhere else. I stopped a couple of mature looking local businessmen walking by and asked if they knew anything about the road across Zambia. They said “no”, but did say that road west from the town of Chitipa in Malawi to the border was very bad and very dangerous. “You must not take that road. Promise me.” He apparently just had a friend killed by bandits on that road a week prior. I did not see any reason for him to lie, and he was pretty adamant about me not going that way. “Don’t worry, you only have to tell me once!” Peter and I crossed into Tanzania together and checked into the Landmark Hotel in Tukuyu.

After two nights, Peter and I said good-bye and he took the main road to Dar Es Salaam/Zanzibar and I went only about an hour west to the province capital of Mbeya. I checked into the Mt Livingstone Hotel so that I could get a decent map of Tanzania and some better “intel” on the road conditions going west. I still did not have a good feeling about this, and that in it self was bothering me. With all the recent rains my chief concern was getting stranded somewhere, unable to move forward and unable to turn back due to washed-out or impassable roads. I would also be incredibly vulnerable out there if the roads were bad or wet. Lastly, I did not have any real experience with the Tanzanian people, “how helpful would they be?”

The “bellboy” at the hotel took me to find a map and to a Bureau of Exchange office to change about $100 worth of Malawi Kwacha that I found hidden in one of my bags (what a bonehead!). The hotel manager later confirmed that the road west to Sumbawanga was in fact well traveled and was currently under construction. The Chinese were building a new paved road all the way and the detour road should be passable if it wasn’t raining. He did not know much about the road south to Zambia.

(China’s involvement in Africa has been coined as the re-colonization of Africa. China has been improving Africa’s infrastructure in exchange for access to individual countries’ natural resources.)

I set out the next morning on the paved road that took me down to Tunduma and the main border crossing with Zambia. I would be staying on the Tanzania side and catching the road west that skirted the border for 40-miles or so. It was the most chaotic border scene that I had seen for quite some time, and was very thankful that I was not crossing there.

The road was soon dirt and turned to shit pretty fast with potholes everywhere. The day was cloudy, but no rain in sight. It was Friday, so I still had a full week to get to the ferry dock at Mpulungu, on the south shore of the lake. I passed many villages along the route. There were sections of mud, but manageable.

For lunch, I bought some mangoes from some kids standing by the road and ate them under a tree with an ominous exclamation mark nailed to it. I should have heeded the warning!

The jaw-chattering 140-mile trip took seven-hours and landed me in Sumbawanga and the less than glorious Mbiza Forest Lodge. Not much of a lodge, and with terrible food, but they did serve me grilled bananas. I had seen people grilling them on the street, dry over hot coals, but had yet to try them. Not exactly sure what variety the banana is, but the grilling takes out some of the sweetness and toughens up the texture. The coarse salt you sprinkle on them makes them a savory little snack, great when accompanied with a cold Safari lager.

Under mosquito netting, I woke to the sound of rain falling on the metal roof at about 3-am, and could not go back to sleep again until it stopped about 90-minutes later. I kept telling myself that I only have 64-miles to get to the border. After breakfast I packed up the bike. I guess I could have waited a day to see if things dried up, but this was not a very interesting place to be and it could just as easily rained more. I desperately wanted this day to be over.

I found my turn off outside of town and saw that this road was also under construction. It was Sunday and nobody was working on it so I took the smooth dirt road for as long as I could, but soon enough was forced to use the detour road that paralleled. There were many patches of mud that forced me to stop, pick a line and plow through in first gear. A few people were out walking or on bicycles, but no other vehicles to speak of were out. The sky was now battleship grey and threatened of rain. The air was cool.

As the morning progressed, the one, and really only bright spot was passing through the various villages as church was letting out. Against a dark sky, and their dark skin, the women looked especially nice wrapped in their bold colorful fabrics. On this "day of rest" they clearly wore their best and brightest with matching cotton fabric for their skirt, top and head wrap. I love seeing the women wrap their hair up into the small tower of fabric. For me it is “classic Africa” and adds a sense of elegance to their outfit. On any other day, these are the same women that carry large loads balanced on their heads; large containers of cooking oil, bundles of firewood six feet long, or almost anything else you can imagine, but today, without the usual burden weighing them down, they seemed to gracefully float above the red dirt.

Then I got stuck. I tried to pick a line where there was none and the rear wheel was soon buried. I quickly waved down a man walking up the road with a hoe over his shoulder. He came over to help while I tried digging out. Useless. Not five minutes had gone by before a large truck carrying passengers came up the road behind me, the first other vehicle I had seen since starting out 22-miles ago. They too got stuck on their first attempt, but came over to help me first. We tried several things but ultimately, they just lifted the rear of the loaded bike up over the mud and pushed it out. I wanted to kiss them, but thought better of it. I then went over to help them out. After about 15-minutes of standing there I proved to be completely useless and they said I should get back on the road as it was now starting to rain.

(one long Slip-n-Slide)

I dropped the bike yet again, this time out of fatigue. My already makeshift right mirror broke again and my right pannier was bent out of shape - again. Once more, there was a man walking his bicycle along with his wife that was nearby and came to help. Tanzanians were proving to be very helpful and always at the right place and right time.It rained for the next 15-miles with more and more mud bogs to pass through. Now every pothole was filled with water and at places, water threatened to overtake the road completely. Keeping the bike from sliding sideways or any other direction took concentration and intense focus. It was exhausting. I first dropped the bike after the tires slid out from under me. I was thrown off and laid flat on my back vowing never to leave paved roads again. I wanted to scream and did. A man heard me wailing and came over to help me pick up the bike. At this point, every mile was counted and celebrated: “Half way there!” “Only 25 more miles!” “Now only 23 more miles”, and so on.

Finally, after an incredibly long four-hours, I got to the small and empty immigration office and found the lone officer on duty. Surprised, he asked how I had made it through the rains. I could only shrugged my shoulders.

Upon being greeted at the Nkupi Lodge near the shore of Lake Tanganyika I immediately asked, “When does the ferry come next?” “You are in luck, it comes this Friday” “YES!”

The next day I went to the port office to find out how much my passage would cost and to secure a cabin. Even here at the dock, information was hard to come by and someone had to text the actual captain of the boat. The man showed me the screen of his phone so I could read his reply, “Due to Christmas, the ferry will not be arriving until December 30^th". . . . a ten-day wait!

As the saying goes here, “TIA!” This is Africa!

Map of my route travelled: Map

Map of the ferry destination: Ferry route

Malawi

2011-12-16T06:19:00.000-08:00

POPULATION: 14-million, 65th most populous country

PRICE OF GAS: $14 a gallon on the black market

MONEY: $1 = 164 Malawi Kwacha

NO VISA REQUIRED (or no charge). CARNET WAS USEFUL, REQUIRED?

TIME IN COUNTRY: 11/30 – 12/14/2011

The “warm heart of Africa” needs a cardiologist, STAT! The endearing name of the country speaks well of the Malawi people, but the government might be called the “cold hearted greedy bastards of Africa”. Not as eloquent, but to the point.

When I arrived in Malawi through Chipata, Zambia I knew there was going to be some problems. Immediately upon crossing the border I noticed empty gas stations, one after the other - totally barren. I stopped by one and asked the drowsy attendant sitting on the curb when was the last time his station had any gasoline? “Two weeks ago.” When will you get more? “Today…or any day.” Malawi has not had any real gasoline for about 18-months. What petrol it does have comes in at night on trucks or boats from Zambia and Tanzania and sells for about $14 a gallon – far out of reach for any local. In the larger cities a legitimate tanker truck may occasionally supply a gas station with gas, but rather randomly. Once word gets out, the long lines form. Today, a BP station might get some fuel, two weeks later, it might be a Puma station cross-town. Thankfully, Malawi is not a very big country.

Malawi is a poor, landlocked, heavily populated, mineral-poor country that has been ravaged by HIV/AIDS and government corruption. Its economy is largely dependent on agriculture coming from small rural farms. It has long relied on aid from the World Bank, International Monetary Fund and Britain and United States, but much of that was halted in the year 2000 due to many human rights violations and government corruption. (A recent IMF or World Bank (?) report just quantified that government corruption accounts for 5% of the country’s GDP.)

The reason for the gas shortage is because Malawi no longer has any foreign currency and nobody wants to be paid in its Kwacha currency. The last bit of foreign cash on hand was used to buy a private presidential jet in 2009. No gasoline translates into higher prices on everything for people living in one of the poorest and least developed countries on the planet. In July of this year the people did protest and the police quickly opened fire on the crowds using live ammo, killing 22 people (the people on the street say over 40 were killed).

Anyway, you get the picture.

On the upside of things, Malawi is a stunning country. True, it is a landlocked country, but you would never know it with 3/4 ‘s of its eastern border made up of Lake Malawi. The lake was commonly referred to as “the calendar lake”, or at least until that silly metric system was introduced, because of the lake’s 365-mile length and 52-mile width (at its widest point). The shoreline is peppered with comfortable and affordable lodges that make traveling here easy and very enjoyable. The lake has a lot of personality and changes often depending where you are; Kande Beach, for example, was white sandy beach with still warm waters reminiscent of the Gulf of Mexico. Up north, the rocky shoreline with a mellow surf felt like somewhere in the Caribbean with excellent diving and freshwater tropical fish as brilliant and colorful as any of their saltwater cousins. When the shoreline wasn’t white crystalline sand, it was lined with dense green foliage interrupted only by the Flamboyant trees with their burnt-orange blossoms. Fish Eagles were commonly seen in the tall trees waiting to swoop down on unsuspecting fish. One could spend a lot of time touring the lake never repeating the same scenery twice.

Driving in Malawi was always an enjoyable and tranquil experience – the road never straight or flat for very long. Many people use the roads for foot and bicycle traffic so there is always a bit of “theatre” going on around you (and you have to be very careful). Passing through small villages and rural farmland the waving was incessant. Children would run toward the street and wave so hard that their whole body would wiggle. They really seemed to be getting something out of it and I was always afraid that I would not see a kid waving and pass by with out returning the gesture. On travel days, I must have waved at least 300 times a day. I loved it and it made the day so much fun. “Maybe this is why my shoulder feels better?”

The rumors on the online forums of police shaking down foreign travelers for proof of insurance or made-up infractions was unfounded from my perspective. There were many road stops and the cops did shake down the overcrowded minivan taxis, but I was waved on through or simply asked questions about the bike.

One highlight of my time in the country was my 10-day stay at the Myoka Village resort outside of Nkhata Bay. For $15 a night I had a private thatched roof chalet right on the shore. I swam everyday and practiced my balance in one of the dugout canoes. By the time I left, my shoulder pain was gone and felt strong again. There was an eclectic group of travelers all there at the same time and we often went into town for some curry or *nsima and beef stew at a local restaurant or for a cold Carlsberg at one of the very basic nightspots.

The weather by the lake was hot and humid. The 20-minute walk into town during the middle of day would leave you drenched in sweat. Thankfully, the water of the lake was always refreshing, and not the least bit cold. During the heat of the day, it was best to never venture too far from the water. At night, thunderstorms often rolled in and brought with them a cool breeze that great for sleeping.

Because of these rains and the dense population, Malawi can be quite malarial this time of year and I ramped up my anti-mosquito regiment to include mosquito sprays, burning coils and electrical plug-in deterrents. It was a full-on offensive that will probably knock years off my life for breathing in the noxious chemicals, but it kept the bugs away.

Because I swam in the slow moving waters of the Okavango Delta and in several spots in Lake Malawi, I am at risk of getting biharzia. Biharzia is caused by a parasite from a specific freshwater snail that can enter your body through the skin. It can be awhile before symptoms appear, but can be rather nasty if you wait for them as the “bugs” settle you your bowel and bladder. All of us at Myoka picked up the meds at the local clinic for about $1 and will take them six weeks after our last swim.

Lastly, to round out my time in Nkhata Bay, I visited a local school with a Finnish woman who had been volunteering there teaching English. My plan was to look around and observe for an hour and then get back to the lake, but to my surprise the teacher of the 6^th grade class handed me some chalk and asked if I would teach English for a couple of hours. “What?” The cement block room with window openings, but no glass or screens was hot and packed with over 70-students. The teacher was gone in a flash to grade report cards or something as it was the last week of school. I was lost. I noticed that all the kids had a returned test in front of them so I looked through the questions. Excellent, they had been studying some basic human anatomy. That got me started. Then we moved on to world geography: the continents and oceans. The kids were polite, but unresponsive and quiet. I introduced the spelling game Hangman (but modified it so nobody was actually killed, and simply called it “Spelling Man”). Finally, I divided the class into two teams of their choice; it was to be England United vs. Arsenal. I used the anatomy and geography terms that we just went over for Spelling Man. The kids proved to be competitive and came alive and we all howled with laughter. Outside, other students peered into our windows with envy. When the teacher asked if I could come back the next day I said, “Absolutely!” I had a blast with the kids, though they probably didn’t learn a damn thing.

When it was time to leave I rode off with Peter, from Denmark, who was also traveling on a motorcycle. He had been traveling two-up with his wife Christine, but she had become ill and had to be flown home. Peter needed to get to Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania where he would sell his Honda Africa Twin before flying home. After Myoka Village we spent one night at Kande Beach and then another high above the lake at the old Scottish Christian mission of Livingstonia. The black market gasoline was expensive but always easy to find. I ended up exiting Malawi with Peter and we spent a couple nights in Tukuyu, Tanzania before heading our separate ways.

True to its reputation, the people of Malawi are what make the place so special, that and the lake of course. It is an amazing place with great potential but with the gas problems and the daily power and water outages, I was ready to leave when we did. I hope things turn around for the country soon. The story of corrupt African politicians seems to play on a repeating loop for many of these African countries, and of course a lot of good innocent people suffer for the benefit of the greedy.

*Nsima is a new food experience for me and has since been commonly served in northern Zambia, Malawi and Tanzania. It is finely ground corn meal that is served on your plate looking like a large scoop of mashed potatoes. With your right hand you pinch off a small piece and form a ball. With the ball you use it to scoop up or “pinch” your other food, often times a chicken or beef stew and cabbage salad. The nsima does not have a lot of flavor but soaks up whatever you are eating it with and is of course, quite filling. Luckily too, there is always a bottle of peri-peri sauce, or hot chili sauce on table. Because you eat with your hands, restaurants will bring out a dish of warm water for you to rinse your hands or provide soap and water station somewhere in the dining area.

A video of images of Malawi: Video

The route of my time in Malawi: Map

Botswana

2011-12-01T04:54:00.001-08:00

BOTSWANA

Languages: English, Setswana

Money: Pula, approximately 6 to $1

Gasoline: On par with South Africa and Namibia

Population: 1.7 million

No visa or carnet needed

It’s all about the animals in Botswana. Not being much of a motorcycle country, you would fare much better traveling by horse, boat, or helicopter. The basic road network will get you close to where the action is, but to get into the middle of it all you will need to get far from any pavement. Problem is, once you are off pavement, you are in deep soft sand. My old nemesis!

Botswana is a landlocked-country, but who needs an ocean when you have a sea of diamonds? So much so that the center of the diamond industry is preparing to relocate from the United Kingdom for its new home in Botswana. Because of this wealth, small population, and better management of its resources than most African governments, Botswana is one of Africa’s most stable countries. All this and a good human rights record! Due to this stability and cash flow the country has been able to protect many of its wilderness areas.

As mentioned in the last post, the Kalahari Desert makes up most of the central and southern part of the country and is largely uninhabited. My focus was to be on the northern areas: the Okavango Delta and the Chobe National Park.

The Okavango Delta is the world’s largest inland delta. The waters originate from the Angolan highlands and flood into the Kalahari basin. Due to the heat, much of the water is lost to evaporation and there is a drastic change of water level throughout the seasons. When the water levels are high it attracts some of the greatest concentrations of wildlife anywhere. Currently, the water levels are high and many areas that had been dry for decades are now flooded again. It was just recently discovered how the fluctuating water levels follow a natural 40-year cycle.

I was incredibly fortunate, as I would be staying with some locals while in Maun. My good friend and horse lover Steve introduced David and Robyn Foot to me, from Seattle. Through an exchange of emails, David and Robyn invited to stay with them at their house outside Maun on the Thamalakane River. David’s last email with directions to the house closed casually with “we are just outside Maun on a deep sandy road” ARGH!

After a long hot day on flat straight paved roads from Windhoek I arrived at the house in the dark smelling like an unwashed goat. Harry, their 10-year old son peppered me with questions about the trip while David handed me a cold beer. I was feeling at home within 15-minutes. David and Robyn had prepared a tent for me on a small rise in the yard right above the river. It was a proper safari tent with a cot and folding table with a stainless water pitcher and cup. If it is one thing the two know, it is how to make people comfortable in the bush. After building a successful horse safari business in Malawi, the couple relocated the family and business to Botswana (due to the maladjusted government of Malawi). I have since learned how much David Foot Safaris is respected in the horse community.

With their help I scheduled a three-day makoro (dug out canoe) trip into the reeds and water of the delta, but before that I was on hand for the celebrated first rain of the season, November 16th. (Life at the Foot house takes place on the incredibly tranquil patio facing the river. It is furnished with cozy sofas and the dining table where Robyn serves up some very tasty and healthy meals.) The thunder and lightening was spectacular and the rain came down in buckets. I wasn’t as excited as they were, as the beginning of the rains means something different to me, but I appreciated the fresh smell in the air and the cooling effect that it had. I day later I got to speak at Harry and Julie’s primary school (click here for details).

I ended up as a 5^th-wheel with two young American couples going into the delta. Everything we needed to set up camp on one of the islands was placed into the narrow makoros. The “polers” were incredibly skillful at navigating the waters and managing the load (I would appreciate this more later when I gave it a try in an empty boat). We passed hippos and saw many different bird species. Once camp was established our days consisted of a morning wildlife hike and later a sunset cruise. During the heat of the day we would swim or wade around in the water. There was talk of Black Mambas, Spitting Cobras and crocodiles, but thankfully none ever appeared. We saw zebra, many more hippos and an elephant skeleton during our outings. All in all it was a nice relaxing trip and a way to get a small taste of what this massive delta is like.

Before leaving Maun, I needed to take care of some “housekeeping” and David pointed me in the direction of a friendly tire shop. I had the Michelin Anakee tires installed that I had been carrying since leaving Jo’burg and changed all the fluids on the bike while also adjusting the valves. In the process of all of this I found a crack in the frame – something I had been expecting. The welder on site said he could do it right away. I mentioned needing to disconnect the battery before he grounded out his welder on the bike. He was adamant that it wouldn’t be necessary, but the one thing I remember from Ewan and Charlie’s trip was that a welder fried out the electronics of the ABS system when they didn’t fully disconnect the battery and the bike was left with no brakes. Without Ewan and Charlie’s budget and support crew, I could’ve been stranded and screwed for quite some time. “I owe you a beer Ewan and Charlie”.

After a somewhat sad good-bye, I headed off to Kasane at the border of Botswana, Zambia, Zimbabwe and Namibia – kind of like the “four-corners” area in the Untied States. I saw elephants along the way and some ostriches surprised me by crossing the road in front of me. Once again, I had luck with me and Robyn passed me off to her good friend Cathy who has a large house right on the Chobe River, which conveniently had a vacant spare bedroom available.

Originally from South Africa, Cathy is an established wildlife artist and knows almost everyone in the small “safari based” community. She arranged a day trip into Chobe National Park for me (motorcycles are never allowed in the wildlife parks). Again, I was put into a group of all Americans - this almost never happens. The schedule consisted of a morning boat cruise up the river and then after lunch we would return via land in a modified open-air Land Cruiser. We saw many animals, but no big cats, though they were there somewhere. (Note: There are NO TIGERS IN AFRICA! Embarrassingly this question always seems to come from Americans. Google it before leaving home please).

Chobe Park has one of the highest concentration of wildlife in Africa and probably the largest elephant population on the continent, at over 50,000. Sadly, this poses a problem outside of the park where elephants are also plentiful, and roam around the town. These giants can be very destructive, tearing down moderate size trees and anything else in their path. Cathy has almost a resident family in her yard, though not while I was there. As tourism has grown in the community outside the park, some of the new safari lodges and municipal projects have started putting up stronger electrified fences to keep the elephants away from the precious riverfront properties. Of course, the elephants were there first and they are the whole reason people are drawn to the area in the first place. Residents often use rubber bullets to drive the elephants from there land, and sometimes - not rubber. Interestingly and timely, just this week I read of a new discovery by a South African researcher about how elephants are afraid of bees, simple honeybees, and by building a "fence" of bee hives this will keep elephants away. The bees can sting the inside the elephants’ trunk and just hearing the buzzing scares them off. Click here for the article.

I enjoyed my time with Cathy and ended up staying a third night. We had a few sundowners together and she introduced me to several of her friends. I could have easily stayed two-more weeks, but needed to move north before the rains get too bad.

On November 27th I took the 10-minute ferry ride across the Zambezi River to Zambia.

Here is a map of route through Botswana: Map

Namibia

2011-11-15T07:59:00.000-08:00

NAMIBIA

Languages: English is official. Recognised: German, Rukwangali, Setswana, Damara/Nama, Afrikaans, Herero, Oshiwambo

Money: the Namibian dollar is approximately 7.50 to $1, and matching the South African Rand, which can also used without any penalty.

Price of gas: $5.15 a gallon, or $1.30 a liter (about same as S. Africa)

No visa or carnet required

Namibia proved to be just what I needed to get myself back into “the game”. My idea of a quick in-and-out trip to see the dunes turned out to be a three-week tour of the northern half the second least populated country in the world (Mongolia is first).

I had not originally intended to go to Namibia, but after talking to several people in South Africa, I decided to venture away from my northerly course to see for myself if the dunes of the Namib desert were in-fact just that amazing.

To get to Namibia, I had a 16-hour two-day ride across the Trans-Kalahari Highway in southern Botswana. “Kalahari” is one of those truly African words that invoke a sense of Dark Continent adventure, but in reality, the road was boring as hell. Two straight lines on the map connected with a dogleg turn westward across a scrubby uninteresting desert. The road was good and border crossings straight forward, as SA, Botswana and Namibia share an open trade “agreement”.

The country of Namibia was colonized by the Germans in the 1800’s and thus has a very Germanic cultural influence and continues to draw many German tourists to the area. The country was taken away from Germany as part of the Treaty of Versailles after the First World War, but the influence remains. Independence was later won from South Africa in 1990. Today, it is a young stable country with vast diamond and mineral wealth. Windhoek is the capital city with one main street and few tall buildings, but not much more. There are some restaurants and decent coffee, but the highlight was just walking the busy sidewalks people-watching. Namibians are beautiful people, and friendly. I pitched my tent alongside a pool at a local backpackers (hostel). I caught some live music with some German med-students doing an internship at the local hospital and left the next day.

My itinerary was loose, but I knew I wanted to see the dunes at sunrise in Sossusvlei. The roads in and out of the country and one road going north - south is paved, the rest is well cared for gravel roads. The turn off from the main highway lead me to some fast dirt roads but also to several small “run offs” or creek beds that crossed the roads. I ended up crossing some of the deepest water on the trip, albeit short distances. I don’t know what I would have done if it had rained recently and the water was any deeper. The junction stop of Solitaire consisted of a gas station, bakery and small hotel/campground. I filled up and got a slice of Moose McGregor’s famous apple pie at the bakery. There was evidence behind the counter that Ewan and Charlie had also crossed through these parts. It was over 100-degrees so I chose a glass of cold water to accompany the pie rather than hot coffee. I had two-hours more before getting to the campground.

Luckily, the national park campground at Sesiem had a bar and cold Windhoek Draught on tap. I sat with a group of retired Brits who were drinking gin at the sunset. The ritual of a “sundowner” cocktail at sunset has new significance for me. Since leaving South Africa, the mid-day temperatures have been up around 110F and shade is hard to find. When the sun goes down, often with a brilliant pink sunset, the evening air cools and becomes quite pleasant, and stays comfortable until about 9:30-AM the next morning, when it starts to heat up again. A few beers helped the cooling down process and it was off to bed early.

At 5:15 the next morning, I thumbed a ride into the park with a Swiss couple, as motorcycles were not allowed in the park. A German traveling on a bicycle also jumped in and we explored the dunes together until the heat became unbearable. The most remarkable thing about the dunes for me was the abundance of rich colors. The intense rust red of the sand contrasted beautifully with the clear blue sky, and the soft celery color of the ground foliage complimented the blues and reds perfectly– none of which was done justice by my camera.

Back at the campground, I desperately wanted to rest, but my tent was like an oven and there was no refuge from the unforgiving heat. Actually, the best place to be during the intense heat of the day is on the bike, creating your own breeze. More gas and another slice of Moose’s apple pie, and I took the road toward the Atlantic coast. The road was not as good as the day before, with patches of thick sand and long stretches of numbing corrugations (washboards). I arrived in Swakopmund just before sunset and checked in to the “Bauhausian” Schweizerhaus Hotel for a few nights near the beach and a mellow birthday celebration.

Swakopmund has been described as being “more German than Germany” and gives you an odd feeling of not being in Africa anymore. It is a favorite weekend tourist destination for urbanites living in Windhoek and is the main kick-off point for catching sightseeing flights over the Skeleton coast - a graveyard of rusting hulls of old shipwrecks now half submerged in sand 100’s of yards inland due to the changing coastline. The only other way to get there is to spend many hours in a 4x4.

It was a pleasant little town with streets so clean, they were sterile and a very impressive curb-painting program. The cool ocean breeze, fresh seafood and cold German lagers made for a nice birthday. However, I also saw the local chiropractor everyday I was there for an aggravated neck/shoulder condition - feeling very much my 48-years.

The true Skeleton Coast is further north up the coast, but I stopped by a beached Angolan fishing trawler on my way north to get just a taste of the insatiable coast. Heading east back to the dirt roads towards the mountains, I was now on my way to Damaraland and the ancient rock carvings of Twyfelfontein. I toured the 2-6,000-year old carvings with Günter and Barbara from Germany. The carvings of animals were interesting enough, but what I really enjoyed, was the buzz I was feeling from traveling again. Whatever, I had lost while crossing Brazil, was coming back to me in force. I found myself easing back into a daily rhythm.

One of the most noticeable things about Namibia, besides the solitude, is the sky. Vast cloudless blue sky during the day and infinite stars at night. I was camping every night in organized campgrounds, and though I was often eating canned food from gas stations, I was thoroughly enjoying myself. Gasoline and bottled water were readily available throughout the country, however “Patagonia rules” apply and you never pass a gas station without topping off. More of a problem was forcing yourself to drink 110-degree water, which is about as refreshing as drinking a cup of sand. As a rule, I carried nine liters of water with me and tried to drink four a day. The flies could be tenacious, but as of yet, there had not been many mosquitoes.

Over a couple Jamesons and water at Günter’s campsite, he told me of an unmarked Himba orphanage a day’s ride going north –my whole reason for continuing north towards the Angolan border was to see more of the Himba people. The Himba are a striking group of people, the women especially, that have remained true to their cultural past. I had briefly read about them, but it was not until I saw a couple of them selling trinkets in the street of Windhoek that I became fascinated with them.

There are many attractive features of the Himba women, but it is really how the whole package comes together to create an incredibly exotic visual experience. The fact that the women are topless does not hurt any and I found myself having flashbacks of when I was a 12-year old scanning National Geographics for nudity.

At the core of the “dress” is the practice of crushing the rust red rock, or ochre, to create a fine powder. The powder is then mixed with butter and bush-herbs and smeared all over their bodies. Not only does this change the color of their skin, but acts as a sunscreen and insect repellent. The same compound encases their braids. Himba women do not shower – ever. They create a mild steam room in their huts and then reapply the ochre mixture. Their dress is made up of a head-dress made of an animal hide, an elaborate system of jewelry around the neck, a belt or waist piece, loin cloth of leather softened by the same butter mixture, anklets made of metal wire beads, multiple bracelets and thin leather soled sandals. Almost everything they wear has symbolic meaning behind it.

I found the village and was met by a young man who would be my guide and translator for N$200, and two young boys in braids and loin clothes agreed to watch my bike. It was incredibly hot in the midday sun. There were 35 children at this orphanage started by a couple that have a farm nearby. Six resident women share the responsibility of raising the orphans and their own children. Only five of the children are enrolled in school due to cost and their desire to preserve the Himba culture.

I ended up meeting several of the women there and found them incredibly genuine, very friendly, and even a bit “sassy”. Three women sitting on the ground, one getting her hair done (a two day long process) and one making jewelry, were quick to pester me about not being married. “But why, you are gorgeous?” They could not understand why I was not married, and quickly ask me to choose one of them. Now, most times when I visit an indigenous village like this, the people are withdrawn, shy and rarely make eye contact. These girls, all in their early 20’s “stood tall” and looked me directly into the eye sometimes rather intensely. I tried to be diplomatic and joked about marrying all three, but they would have none of that and prodded me to basically declare who I thought was the most beautiful.

I have learned since that their beauty is the paramount thing in their lives – it is why they get up in the morning. Not just their beauty but also of the children. Their culture is built on this physical beauty, along with the near worship of the cow.

(Their daily diet is made up of about 80% of a yogurt type soured milk drink, and when the rains are favorable, they have dried corn to crush into meal, which is eaten as porridge. Wealth and standing is determined by how much livestock you own. Interestingly, women can have children out of wedlock and own their own livestock, making them quite independent. At the age of twelve the middle bottom four teeth are extracted to mimic that of the cow.)

Later, I had another marriage proposal (one that I briefly considered) and got teased some more, but enjoyed all the attention. They really “buttered my toast”, which made for a nice belated birthday gift. On the drive back to the campground, I could still smell the earthy butter mixture in my nostrils and had a smile on my face. They may be the vainest people on Earth that do not own a mirror, but I liked them. (And oh, I gave the two boys watching the bike a loaf of white bread and a fresh jar of peanut butter.)

It is hard to describe, but this day was one of the best travel days that I have had. It doesn’t happen often, but when everything aligns in your favor it feels as if you have ceased moving, while instead, the scenery starts passing you by - like the world is rotating just for you. As I covered rolling hills and sweeping curves the loose gravel moved beneath my tires. I passed a group of the seldom-seen desert elephants, while around another turn eight ostriches sprung up from the grass and rustled their “Vegas showgirl” plumage as if on cue, seemingly, just for me. Later a jackal crossed the road in front of me. After my time in the Himba village, I capped off the day with a medium-rare T-bone and a cold beer in a campground catering to overlanders. It does not happen like this often, but I sure appreciate it when it all comes together.

The remainder of my time in Namibia never dulled and my last stop was in Opuwo, a town deep in Himba country near the Angolan border. There I camped at the luxurious Opuwo Country Hotel, where I could use their pool and other amenities. I visited another Himba village and then returned to Windhoek on paved roads before heading to Botswana.

Life is good.

Here is a map of my route: Map

Here is a video of images of my time in Namibia: Video

Here is a brief video highlighting my time with the Himba: Video

South Africa: Part 2

2011-10-28T11:55:00.001-07:00

Soweto
Apartheid Museum
Sani Pass
Pilanesberg Game Park

The port city of Durban lies on the southeastern Indian coast of South Africa. Once there, I explored the town with Emily, a grad student from Santa Barbara. We managed to figure out the confusing and intimidating shared taxi system. The city was abuzz with white Toyota minivans going every which way, none marked with a name or route specified. The locals in the taxis were always surprised to see us get in and offered good advice about their hometown once we broke the ice by asking questions. Later we got some take out at a hole in the wall Indian storefront. My favorite was the stuffed roti, or a pizza size piece of naan rolled around a curry stew of your choice, sort of like a big Indian burrito. The other local favorite was Bunny Chow, a ¼ or ½ loaf of white bread hollowed out and filled with beans or a curry stew. Either one was a filling choice for two people and at just over a buck.

The next day I explored some of the city on my own and wandered around downtown until I got lost among the Indian spice markets and other small businesses. The scene was vibrant and the people watching was on hyper drive. “Why do you not come into my store?” I heard from behind me. “Excuse me?” “Why do you not stop in my store?” A small elderly Indian woman was standing in front of a kitchen supply shop. “Well, I don’t cook very much.” “How do you eat?” “I spend too much money in restaurants.” You need a wife, why do you have no wife? You marry me and I cook for you.” “Okay, what time are you off?... alright, I will pick you up at 5:00 and we will go and get married.” Based on the rolling eyes of the man in the background, presumably the owner, he had seen this sales pitch before.

After many hours, my feet were getting tired. As I looked for a taxi going back to my side of town I was aware that I had not seen many white people. No more than a few at best. On my way home, I jumped out at the new shopping mall along the way to look for a Lonely Planet guidebook on Southern Africa. Upon entering the mall, “Ah, this is where all the white people go.” The place was packed for a weekday during work hours. I would later read “malls” referred to as “white habitats”.

The toll road, N3 from Durban to Johannesburg cost me nearly $40 US. Where in many countries motorcycles get a free pass or at least a reduced rate, here they are charged they same as cars. Approaching Jo’burg, or Jozi as they call it, I became more and more anxious - no place has come with so many warnings of violent crime.

I arrived during rush hour traffic and did not find my backpackers until after dark. The place was perfect for shooting a movie about a scary turn of the century mental asylum. It had been converted from an old mansion and the large rooms were now filled with metal beds and nothing else. It was stark and clinical in a third-world early 1900’s kind of way. I feared of a forced lobotomy in the middle of the night and quickly checked out first thing in the morning. My new place was in a converted house with lots of charm and was only a few blocks away from the shops and cafes on 7^th Street in the Melrose district near the University. Much better.

During my transition from Cape Town to Jo’burg, Achmat had turned “my care” over to his buddy Rashaad. Rashaad was also making his way up the continent on his own journey and had just returned from a trip to Tanzania, where his KLR 650 is there waiting for the next leg of his journey. Rashaad was immensely helpful and we shared several dinners together. He also took me to buy a new camera when mine failed and to shop for a mosquito net. At the time of this writing, Rashaad had taken advantage of an impromptu family trip to India and is now riding a rented Ensfield around the Himalayas. He also took me to a presentation hosted by Cytech, a local motorcycle touring company. The presentation was about their recent Cape to Cairo trip.

I received a lot of information there and met a lot of like-minded people eager to travel Africa on big dual-purpose bikes. I met a couple there and mentioned that I would soon be relocating from Jo’burg to the capital Pretoria so that I could be near the embassies - I wanted to try and sort out some visa issues, specifically Ethiopia and Sudan. “You should stay with us, we live there” (words that would later come back to haunt them).

I continued my stay in Jo’burg and had warmed up to the place. I felt plenty safe walking to my favorite coffee shop for morning coffee and free internet (most of South Africa hotels are still charging for internet time.) Every morning I walked by all the houses hidden behind a high cement security walls topped with electric fences and/or razor wire. It was a city of walls. The home security firm ADT roamed the neighborhoods with its own patrol cars manned by agents armed like they were in Afghanistan. I also noticed that not many people walked, jogged, or took their dogs or kids for a stroll. People were pretty much dependent on their cars, like in the States, but maybe more so. Everywhere I went or the places where Rashaad took me, I felt fine and any sense of danger soon vanished. Listening to the news you would hear of bad things happening, but not as much as you would of thought, based on the amount of visible security measures.

After a visit to the Apartheid Museum south of town I decided to take the bike out to the famous township of Soweto (South Western Township). After the gold strike of the 1880’s, Johannesburg suffered a housing crisis. The white Afrikaans in charge decided to segregate the population based on race and developed housing areas where the blacks and coloured people would be forced to live – however not too far away because their cheap labor was still needed to work the mines. As history goes, this kind of segregation continued until it went into full effect in 1948 when the then ruling National Party legislated racism under the name of Apartheid.

Racial classification was the foundation of all apartheid laws. It placed individuals in one of four groups: African, described as ‘Bantu’ in apartheid laws, ‘colured’, ‘Asian’ or ‘white’. -from a museum placard

South Africa was soon cut off from the rest of the world through sanctions and embargoes, and public demonstrations in the townships reached a boiling point in the 1970’s. The most famous of these uprisings occurred in Soweto in 1976, after a sudden change in government policy called for all schools to begin teaching classes in the Afrikaans language rather than English. Many of the black students had just learned English, or were in the process, and to introduce a new language (not to mention that of their oppressors’) overnight was too much. Many of the teachers did not even know the language. The student uprising became violent and many people were killed. One of the first to be killed by police was 12-year old Hector Pieterson. Now there is an impressive museum in Soweto commemorating the uprisings and casualties named after Hector.

Soweto is a huge sprawl of cement block Monopoly game piece type houses. Mountains of the tailings from the nearby goldmines border the township, and on one edge, the new soccer stadium constructed for the recent World Cup competition. A few blocks from the Hector Pieterson Museum is Nelson Mandela’s first house. Down the street from that is Desmond Tu Tu’s old house. It is the only street in the world that housed two Nobel Peace Prize winners.

Both museums offer a sobering and emotional look into the scarred history of this troubled country and it is hard not to form a “rebound” prejudice against the way things are here, but in reality, there has not been a country yet that I have visited that is innocent of committing crimes against it’s people. The thing about South Africa’s secret was that it was always a public secret. It was out in the open. Not that this makes it any more digestible or any easier to understand mind you.

During my time in the country I have listened to how locals old enough to have lived during that era talk about this period, many times it sounds something like “Because of the situation here at the time….” or "due to what was going on here ....". I do not want to speculate on what is said behind closed doors from many, racism still exist everywhere, but all the people I met seemed genuine and eager for even better race relations. It is clearly going to take some time.

The last thing on my Jo’burg “to do” list was to get my rear shock looked at. Yes, the one that was just rebuilt in Buenos Aires. One day in the Transkei, the shock just went “soft”. I found Rob of RD Racing and he rebuilt the shock again, this time to Ohlins’ official specifications. He was nice enough to not to charge me. From his shop in Jo’burg I left for the capital Pretoria to stay with Claire and Euan, the couple from the presentation.

My plan was to take my file of photocopies and collected documents to the embassies in town to try and procure my visas for some of the more difficult countries. Claire dropped me off at the Ethiopian embassy and I quickly learned how fruitless this idea was going to be and soon dropped the whole idea. I will deal with it all later.

Over the weekend, Claire and Euan took me to the nearby game park of Pilanesberg northwest of town. Waking at 4:00-am assured us of some good viewing time while the animals were active in the cool morning air. During the drive I was surprised at how many (platinum) mines we passed to get to the park. This was to be my first real chance to see some African wildlife, and we were fortunate to see plenty; white rhinos, giraffes, elephants, jackals, hippos, and a variety of the local antelope species. From a distance we saw a lioness with her cub and male lion, but it was pretty far away. By about 10:00, the animals started finding shade and soon were no longer visible from the car’s windows (understandably, it is not allowed to get out of your car) and rightfully so because it was getting damn hot, over a 100 for sure.

Claire was raised in South Africa and Euan was Scottish working on the construction of a massive new coal burning power plant nearby. They were married in the UK when Claire was there working. They were gracious hosts and willingly shared their beautiful home with me. As I planned to depart, Euan and I decided to take the bikes up Sani Pass to the kingdom country of Lesotho. It met a trip down back towards Durban, but on roads more interesting than the toll road. Sani Pass is quite famous among overland travelers and it is something to be able to say, "I did it”. The last half-mile of the pass was as technical as anything I had ridden in quite some time. The switchbacks were steep and the rocky ground incredibly loose. When stopping the bike near the top, the front brake could not hold the bike and the bike would slide backwards on the loose dirt. Euan has made up to the top before, but on this trip his clutch burnws out near the top. I made it up, but had a nice surprise when I got back down to the bottom.

(Rather than traveling through Lesotho Euan had to take car (thankfully Claire had followed us up the pass in the Land Rover) down to town and bring back a trailer to get his bike off the mountain. This meant that we were going back to Ken's house for the night, Claire's uncle. I did not mind a bit. We spent the previous night at Ken's and it was an incredible experience for me to stay in one of the typical farmhouses that I had admired from the road. Ken moved his young family to this farmland over 40-years ago. First they lived under an umbrella, and then upgraded into a tent while Ken built the earthen-walled farmhouse from scratch. It has not always been easy, mostly quite hard in fact, but Ken has lived his life according to Ken and I really admire that. Hemingway once wrote of a man knowing "the truth of things", and I thought of this when I met Ken.)

While Euan was making arrangements for his bike. I noticed that my front shock had blown its seal and was now leaking oil. YES, that other shock that was rebuilt in Buenos Aires - $550 completely wasted! YES, I was pissed! This time, Rob was unable to do the job due to some national races going on, so I found a contact from the local BMW dealer. This meant even more time at Claire and Euan’s. I really started to feel bad about being there so long, but I did not know what else to do. It had already been over a week. They were true saviors for me and I owe them an immense amount of thanks. The night before I left Claire put together a nice final supper on the patio with some bubbly.

Finally, the bike was ready with fresh oil and stocked with plenty of water and Biltong -South Africa's version of beef jerky. I would spend 16-hours over the next two-days crossing the hot scrubby Kalahari Desert in southern Botswana on my way to, Namibia.

I enjoyed South Africa very much and feel like I have some new friends there. The cities seemed very much like prosperous areas of the United States and life there is very similar ours. Life in many of the rural areas seem more like life in a developing country but seemingly getting better. Few countries have the beauty and resources that South Africa has and is a wonderful place to visit. Two thumbs up for the modern day South Africa!

Video of images for South Africa 2

Video of the Sani Pass trip.

My route through South Africa, Map of route.

South Africa: Part I

2011-10-28T11:53:00.001-07:00

SOUTH AFRICA

Languages: 11 official languages, but most people speak English. Afrikaans is spoke by many, especially among whites. Xhosa and Zulu are two commonly spoke native languages.

Money: the Rand is approximately 7.50 to $1

Price of gas: $5.15 a gallon, or $1.30 a liter

Miles traveled in country: 3,000

No visa required

After getting the bike out of customs I planned on taking some short trips around the region. I had a great little corner room at The Zebra Crossing backpackers (hostel) that had almost a full view of Cape Town’s famous Table Mountain so it made for a good home base.

I met Achmat through Horizons Unlimited’s community program. The website is for overland travelers looking for current information. The “community” program is comprised of volunteers that make themselves available for advice about their hometown (e.g., I was a community member while living in Bolivia.) I had been communicating with Achmat from Buenos Aires and he had been very helpful preparing me for my entry into South Africa. Over dinner one night at the Eastern Bazaar, a collection of Indian and Malaysian food stalls under one roof, he tells me that his ancestors were from Malaysia and that his family has been in the Cape area for several generations. Back during Malaysia’s colonial rule, political troublemakers were sent off to this area of South Africa. The English did the same with non-compliant citizens from India during their rule there, but sent them off to the Durban area of South Africa. Now you have large populations of Malay and Indian people in the country along with their cultural and, thankfully, gastronomic influences.

(I should mention, during this time I am still having some difficulty having a conversation in English, instead always wanting to answer in Spanish. It is wonderful to hear English everywhere, but when I try to respond I first have to see the word in Spanish and then translate it back into English in my head, creating a lapse in my response, thus making me look like a complete idiot.)

Achmat and I decided on a weekend trip to Cape Agulhas, the southern most part of Africa, and my first glimpse of the Indian Ocean.

During our ride we stopped for coffee in the wine town of Stellenbosch before catching the N2 to Swellendam. It was another cloudless blue-sky day with temperatures in the low 70s. We took beautiful dirt roads south to Arniston - a scenic little fishing village made up of a of simple whitewashed stone houses capped with thatched roofs. The Indian Ocean made for a beautiful backdrop. I sat on my bike as Achmat talked to a local about buying one of the houses for a weekend getaway. As I waited, I sat and watched as an elderly woman slowly made her way to the shore to watched the sunset, occasionally ducking behind a wall to get out of the wind. No luck. Only the locals could buy property due to the fact that they whole village was now a national heritage site.

That night we stayed at a friend of Achmat’s house. In the morning we packed up and headed off to Cape Agulhus. Being the most southern point of the continent, it is also the point that acts as the dividing line between the Atlantic and Indian Oceans. We then took the coastal route on the way home, a route that seemed like a compressed “greatest hits” version of California’s AIA route. Along the way we stopped for a break at one of the many beaches along the road. Sitting there, Achmat told me how he and his high school buddies once skipped school to come here and surf - and ended up in jail. During apartheid this was declared a “Whites Only” beach, and he and his friends were classified as “coloured” on their national ID cards. The “Coloured” classification sat in between the “black” and “white” classifications. He laughed as he remembered his parents picking him up at the police station. I didn't see the humor.

Back at the Zebra, I splurged on a day of shark cage diving and a few trips to my favorite new haute, Hudson’s Burger Joint on Kloof Street. An honest burger and glass of South African’s signature Pinotage wine is hard to beat.

All good things must come to an end, so I set out to leave Cape Town on October 5^th. Achmat was nice enough to head out of town with me as far as Worcester. From there I would make my way along the famed Route 62. The two-lane blacktop reminded me very much of a typical road in the American Southwest. October was ideal time for blooming wild flowers. It was another perfectly clear day. I was told of one landmark to look out for along the route.

In the middle of nowhere lies Ronnie’s Sex Shop. Legend has it that Ronnie decided to take over a dilapidated cottage many years ago in hopes of selling fresh produce to the infrequent passer-by. Maybe not the most thought out business plan, but oh well. One night, some friends, perhaps under the influence (?), decided to pull a prank on Ronnie and painted the word “sex” on the side of the building. Overnight Ronnie’s Shop became Ronnie’s Sex Shop and business has been great ever since. Selling produce gave way to opening a bar, as beer is more profitable than broccoli, and has since become world famous. The interior is decorated with business cards and hanging panties and bras – I suppose the women were just shedding a layer of clothing to contend with the desert heat. It was all very reminiscent of Mike’s Sky Ranch in Baja.

From Ronnie’s, I continued on to Oudtshoorn, the ostrich capital of South Africa -where you can ride and eat the birds all in the same afternoon. From there I crossed over the Swartberg Pass to stay the night in the lace and doily rich B&B town of Prince Albert (see Video).

Skip ahead a bit, and I am further up the coast in the town of Prince Alfred (named after Prince Albert’s son). With the goal of making it to the port city of Durban I have a few more days of riding along the coast to get there. However, whenever I mentioned this route, the Transkei, I am met with warnings; “don’t ever leave your bike”, “gas up before you get to the larger cities”, “don’t stop at the red lights, just keep going”. I was told that all the rural people come into the larger towns on Fridays to spend the weekend to do their shopping or to sell their wares, and it can be a bit lawless and dangerous.

As usual, I found the Transkei the complete opposite and I thoroughly enjoyed it. The countryside was big sky over rolling hills carpeted with cropped green grass. Small homesteads were spread out along the horizon. I would come to learn later that the small circular mud bricked houses with conical thatched or metal roofs were known as Rondavel houses and the people that lived in these parts were of the Xhosa ethnic group. Nelson Mandela was in fact the son of a Xhosa chief from the Transkei. School kids in uniforms walked home from school along the two-lane highway and always returned my wave. I finally felt like I was getting into the real Africa. I did go through those lawless towns and found them bustling with life and activity. Tables had been set up on the sidewalks to sell shoes, household soaps, plumbing supplies, or whatever. The streets were busy with people talking and laughing under the shade of simple umbrellas. Perhaps things get out of hand later in the night, but for now, I was envious of all the fun they were having, but then again, I was busy having my own fun.

Along the Transkei, I passed a slower bike with German plates and with only one pannier. I passed him and pulled over well up ahead and waited. Chris had just completed a Germany to Cape Town trip in eight months and was now on his way to Durban to ship his bike to Australia. We were both heading to the beach area of Port St. John for the night and decided to ride together and camp at a backpacker that he knew about. Over many Castle beers Chris told me of his trip down the continent and of his round the world trip back in the 90’s. He also told me of his two recent ankle operations, one in Ethiopia after a taxi van sideswiped his bike, taking a pannier and almost his foot with it, and the other operation in Uganda to correct the surgical mistakes made in Ethiopia. “Ah, the Germans are always so hardcore!” Hung-over, the next morning we crawled out of our respective tents and watched South Africa’s Springboks get eliminated from rugby’s World Cup by Australia.

Video of images to accompany post: VIDEO

Chapter Two: Africa

2011-10-02T01:31:00.000-07:00

The September 23rd flight to South Africa was nearly nine hours long and moved the clock five-hours ahead from Buenos Aires time. The temperature in Cape Town was a good 15-degrees warmer (85F), people drove on the wrong side of the road, preferred rugby to soccer and spoke English (to me anyway). It was all very different, very fast.

My bike had arrived the day before on a separate South African Airline flight. I was able to ship all my tools, spare parts and riding suit/helmet with the bike for a total of $1,780. I had to remove the windscreen, mirrors and front wheel to make the bike smaller. The battery had to be disconnected and tires flattened (so they would blow up, which is ridiculous) and gas tank empty. Custom officers asked me about what was in the luggage, but never actually looked at anything.

Cape Town is a stunning city, geographically laid out around its famous Table and Lion’s Head Mountains and the Atlantic shore. Everything you need is here, as South Africa appears to be very much be a first world country – depending on where you look. Politically, lines are still divided by the color of skin and the Ferrari and Bentley car dealerships are only a few miles away from sad and neglected townships. These shantytowns are jam-packed with shacks thrown together with corrugated metal and other found scrap material. This view of Cape Town is very much like a third world country. To say that there is no middle-class here is a huge under statement. The “haves” and the “have-nots” are oceans apart. Talking to locals and you sense a lot has changed since Nelson Mandela was elected president in 1994 and the abolishment of apartheid, but it may take a couple more generations of healing and cooperation before South Africa’s beauty is more than just skin deep.

Regarding my travels, Chapter Two, as we can call it, looks something like this: I will travel from Cape Town to Istanbul, Turkey. If I make it that far, I will reassess my options on what is next. One option is to then travel east on the old trading route of the Silk Road with the goal of reaching Mongolia (Chapter 3). From there, if at all possible, I would venture up into Russia to meet up with the Siberian railway to catch a ride to the Pacific coast (Chapter 4). The final chapter would then be a short plane ride to Alaska and a ride down to Seattle where it all began. Or, another option is I get to Istanbul and decide I have had enough.

One thing is certain, if I have any chance of carrying through with the aforementioned plan, timing will be crucial. I am now two-months shy of the summer rainy season in Sub-Saharan Africa, where heat and malaria are at their highest. If I want to continue east from Turkey, it would have to be in the warmth of next spring, and I would then have only until to early September to get to Alaska before the weather make the route impassable, or at least very uncomfortable. What all this means is that I have got to pick up the pace!

Nothing is certain, but I feel fairly sure that I do not have another two years on the road left in me. In fact, I came very close to shipping the bike home from Argentina, rather than to Africa.

Back when I first arrived in Buenos Aires (July 12th), I felt like I had had enough. The 5,000-mile crossing of Brazil and Uruguay left me feeling flat and I felt like I wasn’t getting much out of the experience any more. Don’t get me wrong, the people of Brazil were some of the friendliest on the trip, and the city of Montevideo was a pleasant surprise, but I wasn’t really feeling the love from the road that I once had. In Buenos Aires, I was convinced I was going home and made preparations in that direction. However, with some time to recharge my batteries, I now feel good about continuing. The bike was gone through by Javier at Dakar Motos with parts shipped down from Seattle, and now is fixed and running great.

Just yesterday, I returned from a little two-day shakedown run to Cape Agulhas, the southern most point of the continent. Everything went well and in a couple of days will start my trip north, to Botswana.

That’s about it for Chapter Two page one.

Video of some of South Africa's notorious White Sharks

Next Chapter

2011-09-22T05:36:00.000-07:00

September 22, 2011

Tomorrow I leave Buenos Aires to fly to South Africa, where my bike is waiting. From there, the next leg of the journey will be from Cape Town to Istanbul, Turkey.

Here is a collection of images from my two month stay in Buenos Aires.

On a Mission

2011-07-18T07:11:00.001-07:00

Concepcion

San Ignacio

Concepcion

San Miguel

Concepcion

Majadito

San Miguel

Concepcion

Loop of Jesuit Missions

I needed to see another old church like I needed another hole in my head. However, since being in Bolivia, I have been intrigued by the Jesuit settlements in the jungles of eastern part of the country.

The Catholic Church sent a group of Jesuits to some hellacious “off the map” places some 300-years ago to convert the nomadic jungle tribes to Christianity. During the same period, the Portuguese were also in area and had more "laborious" intentions for the indigenous people. The Jesuits were soon forced out, and boundaries were established between Brazil and what would become Bolivia. However, before their forced exodus, the Jesuits built these amazing missions, or “reductions” as they were then called.

The post and beam construction with thatched roofs utilized materials from the cleared rain forest and the architectural style incorporated a fusion of European design and Indian styles, making them unique to anything else that had been built at that time. The non-supporting walls were made of adobe. Many of the missions on the UNESCO list were restored in the 1970’s.

Now in the thick of winter, the dense lowlands are still very hot and humid. I cannot, and do not even want to try to think how miserable it is in the summer months, or how hard it is to get there. Red dirt roads plagued with huge potholes were the only choice. The potholes were impossible to avoid. Imaging what the Jesuits must have gone through to get to these places, to get through the virgin jungle is beyond my capacity.

The missions survived the exodus/slaughter and the local people that survived continued to use the buildings for worship. The Jesuits famously used music as a tool to attract and convert the “savages”, and this has become an important legacy of the missions. Children are still taught how to play music on “western instruments” on site. I was lucky enough to enjoy an impromptu recital by three young girls on violins at the San Miguel mission.

Due to heavy rains, I stayed a second night in the beautiful Gran Hotel Concepcion for about $25 a night, which included a breakfast of scrambled eggs, fresh papaya and pineapple and a selection of the local variations of empanadas. At night I would walk across the square to the Buon Gusto outdoor restaurant for their Majadito. Typical to the area, Majadito is a rice dish slow cooked with shredded dehydrated beef and seasoning, topped with a fried egg and plantain. The juices from the meat make the dish filling and tasty. Served with a salad and a cold Huari beer, it was good enough to repeat the next night – not there was much of a choice.

Another day spent on the bombed-out roads, viewing five of the six missions listed on the UNESCO list, and I had seen enough. I found a hotel just opened by a Belgian couple in the town of San Jose de Chiquitos and was in bed soon after checking in. I wanted to get on the paved road to the border as early as possible in the morning. However, waking up to a flat rear tire and leaking drive shaft changed those plans. ARGH!!

For a good movie on the topic check out the Robert DeNiro, Jeremy Irons 1986 flick,

The Mission

Ruta del Che

2011-06-05T06:40:00.002-07:00

Going away party
Cake in a box

I left Sucre on Monday June 30th and would have used the slightest excuse to stay another day or another week, but knew that would not make things any easier. On Sunday, the day before leaving, many of the kids from center came by the house to surprise me with a going away party. I had been tipped off a couple days prior but acted surprised when I swung the large wooden door open. Laughing hysterically at what they thought they had just pulled off, the children entered the expansive colonial courtyard. Eleven-year old Edmundo was carrying a cardboard box that when opened revealed a battered store-bought cake. Peering inside I asked if they had dropped the box down a flight of stairs or if it had fallen off the back of a truck. They played embarrassed as they lined up for a slice. I was presented with many homemade cards and a plastic Chinese made wall clock as a going away gift. “Ah, just what I needed!” After some photos, they scurried off to their next soccer game. There were other goodbyes during that last week in Sucre, but that is the one I will remember the most, and the one that made me want to stay the most.

The plan was to head east and then cut up north to the financial capital of Bolivia, the city of Santa Cruz. On the way I would take the dirt roads and follow the Ruta del Che and visit the last stand of Che Guevara. After a brief stay in Santa Cruz, head north on even poorer roads to complete a loop of UNESCO World Heritage Site declared Jesuit missions. The end of the loop would put me a day’s ride out from the Brazilian border at Corumba.

As Fidel Castro’s right hand man during the Cuban revolution, Che Guevara had always wanted to export the revolutionary movement to South America. Forming many of his political ideals on his own motorcycle journey throughout the continent while in his early 20s, he wanted to right the many wrongs he had witnessed. Bolivia, which borders five countries, was to be the kick-off point for the new revolution. However, many mistakes where made from the onset, and things went from bad to worse once the CIA got word of their existence.

My first night outside of Sucre I stayed in the small town of Villa Serrano. The head cold that I had been fighting worsened and settled deep into my chest and I was forced to stay a second night. The following day I headed out on smooth dirt roads with several small water crossings to navigate. Always traveling alone, I did not have any photos of me riding in the mountains of Bolivia, so I spent some extra time in the morning shooting some video (see below). The roads were fast and fun, but as I got higher onto the ridge, the road conditions deteriorated. I should have slowed down. I hit several large rocks and potholes that jarred the bike and me. Around one corner, I heard a muffled crashing sound and pulled to edge of the road. It is a terrible necessity, and overall bad feeling to have to turn over your shoulder to look up the road for parts of your bike. There, about 30-yards up the road was my right pannier. The previous welds made in Sucre, ones that I knew would only be a temporary fix, turned out to be very temporary. Luckily, I was able to re-attach the pannier and continue – though much more slowly.

Che’s ill-fated and ill-planned Bolivian campaign ended when a local villager informed the CIA trained military patrol of his whereabouts. He was captured and quickly killed while his hands where bound in a small mountaintop schoolhouse in the nothing-of-a-village, La Higuera. From there, his body was strapped to a skid of a helicopter and taken to the small town of Vallegrande. There, his body was put on display atop a laundry sink at the town’s hospital – a trophy on display for the international press.

Fearing that he would be viewed as a martyr and that his body would become a symbol for other revolutionaries, a small group of Bolivian soldiers secretly buried his body under the dirt runway of the local landing strip. For 30-years the location of his body remained a mystery, until a group of Cuban anthropologists found him in 1997, and transported his remains to Cuban where he now rests.

After visiting the now historic schoolhouse, I ventured on towards Vallegrande. The weather could not have been better, and other than tired shoulders and some coughing, it was a great day. The vistas were stunning with hazy blue mountains stacked up for as far as the eye could see. I was sad to be leaving the mountains that had become my home.

The dirt and clay roads were deeply rutted from previous rains and had dried hard and rigid, but manageable. I rolled into Vallegrande at about 3:30 and by 4:30 had checked into a $6 hotel, changed out of my riding suit and dropped off the pannier at a welding/machine shop on the outside of town. For $15 an aluminum plate would be welded to the inside panel of the box reinforcing all the weakened areas caused by previous breaks and welds. They would also machine a new mounting part that I noticed was missing from the opposing pannier. They promised the work done by noon the next day, giving me time to tour the sites of Che.

Since crossing into Mexico, Che’s presence has been a constant. His image is omnipresent. Whether it is on t-shirts, taxi or bus windows, stenciled graffiti, key chains … you name it, he is always there. I have tried to find greatness in him, reading his biography and his Bolivian journal, watching the movies, talking to Bolivians and Cubans, visiting museums and I could never really find what I was looking for. He is an icon, a man of his time and a man that was intensely committed to his ideals. He made the most of his life and I believe his intentions were honest - for this I respect his legacy. Seemingly, for a period of time, his stars aligned and he found himself in the right place at the right time and he changed history -there is no denying that fact. He has become an iconic image for college freshman and the oppressed poor everywhere. He represents change, albeit iron fist change. However, it is often overlooked that his vision of the “ideal man” was one that lived under the strictest of discipline and government control.

Last word: Some now call what is happening politically in South America, as “Che’s Revenge”. Hugo Chavez’s brand of government has spread to almost every South American government, wherever the majority of the population is indigenous and/or poor. Although, I would not call what has happened in Cuba and Venezuela a success story. What Cuba can be proud of, and largely thankful to Che, is a quality education and healthcare system. Cuba now trains young doctors from all over the world for free - even though the country cannot afford it. All Cuba asks is that graduates go back to their country and treat the rural poor. In fact, Santusa and Damian’s oldest son, Daniel, just graduated from the five-year medical program, gratis, room and board included. Now a doctor, he is back in Bolivia practicing in a small mountain village, treating people that otherwise would receive no care. Cuba also sends it’s own doctors abroad to staff clinics and hospitals where there is a shortage of physicians. In fact, the irony is not lost on the fact that Cuban doctors now staff the hospital where Che’s body was once displayed.

Here is a short video of my time on the Ruta del Che

Video

Dos Hombres in the Land of the Lost

2011-06-05T06:40:00.001-07:00

6:00-8:00 AM The Departure

We woke at 5:00-AM for a 5:30 departure. We left at 6:00 with enough food to last us two days, thanks to Santusa also waking up with us to prepare some food for the journey. The motorcycle was squeezed through the house gate and loaded up.

I was a bit confused as to why we were to still going ahead with the trip. The night before Damian commented that he could not get in touch with his friend, our guide, on the phone –his number was not longer in service. I asked him if we would be able to find the tracks without a guide. He said no, he had never been there before himself and did not know the way. The hike was to be three hours in and three hours out. In the chill and darkness of the morning I decided not to question our actions, besides, the damage was done I was now wide awake and nursing a mug of instant coffee.

Wearing several layers of clothes, we left Candalaria. The road would be cobblestone until Icla, then dirt to Uyuni, and rocky dirt to our destination. Several creek beds had to be crossed, with and without water, along with pockets of deep sand.

Two hours later I was waiting in the center of the village while Damian looked for his friend’s house. The village consisted of one street about three blocks long sitting at the foot of a wall of red rock. Memories of southern Utah came to me. He found the house, but his friend was not there, only his wife. In the house, a long discussion in Quechua ensued. I did not have a clue what was being said, but it was clear that the woman was not very happy to see us. Before setting off, I tried to park the bike up into their courtyard but could not get the rear wheel up and over the high curb. The crowd of 6-or-7 young boys offered no help.

8:00-10:00 The Beginning

The wife led us to a wide expansive mostly dry riverbed. She stopped there and pointed off into the far distance. It was now clear that we were proceeding without a guide. After the woman was out of earshot, I asked what was going on, “where is your friend?” “He lives in Santa Cruz now and has a new wife”, Damian replied. The tone of the conversation back at the house now made sense, but continuing without a guide did not.

The immediate goal was to follow the riverbed to where it snaked between two mountains. We came across a man with a donkey, then a group of kids in school uniforms, and a couple other men walking towards the village. I couldn’t figure out where they were coming from, where they lived. Damian asked each one for directions, but was not getting the information he needed. Finally, a man in his 30’s stopped and spoke to us, his tone seemed nicer than the rest (all conversations were in Quechua) and when it was over Damian reached into his Chuspa and gave the man a large pinched of coca leaves. “He told me that people do not want tourists coming here, and that is why the other people were not giving me the correct directions”. “GREAT”, I thought, “I just left my bike parked in the middle of a town full of unfriendlies!”

Now, about 9:00 we followed the man’s directions further up the riverbed sidestepping large rocks and boulders while crossing the stream many times. It was already quite hot and I stopped to remove a layer of clothes. (Damian never even took off his corduroy blazer or wool hat.) An hour later, we came across several dogs barking viciously. We picked up some rocks and sticks in preparation. Damian called out to a woman that was walking towards a primitive looking shelter. It took awhile for her to warm up, but finally she too got a pinch of coca. She had her hands full now, so I reached into my backpack for a small baggie of the leaves that I had picked up as a free sample from some coca growers at a coca fair in Parque Bolivar the day prior. It would be easier for her to carry, plus I thought it might be a beneficial gesture if the coca came from the gringo tourist. She warmed up some more.

They talked and she led us past her house, past the goat pen to a smaller dry riverbed. There we waited while she came back with a bowl of boiled corn on the cob, or choclo. She also brought with her two fossilized shells and a hunk of solid copper. She sat and shared some of our boiled potatoes and oranges. It was a needed rest under a tree and we said good-bye, after I agreed to her asking price of 30 Bs ($4.20) for all three relics. I thought how I should have brought my GPS unit, not only to potentially save our lives, but also to sell the coordinates to the Chinese for the copper find.

10:00-12:30 The Ascent

At 10:00, we left the riverbed and started climbing per the woman’s directions. The new plan was that we were going to take a more direct route up and over the mountain in front of us, and then return by using a system of riverbeds back to town. We started climbing, and continued to climb. There was only a goat path to follow and goats do not use switchbacks to ascend, they get from A to B using the most direct path – in this case straight up. Being that Damian must be part goat, and well acclimated to the intense Bolivian sun; he had little difficulty with the climb. I was a different story. While in the riverbed I was able to wet a bandana in the stream and place it under my hat, but the climb had taken us away from any water. It was obvious that I was not prepared or equipped for a hike like this in the heat of the day and at 11,000-ft. By 12:00 I was experiencing symptoms of heat exhaustion. My head under my black cap was boiling and I was becoming lethargic and nauseous and we still did not know exactly where we were going.

The terrain was sparse and rocky with nothing but cactus, scrub brush and a few small pepper trees baking under the midday sun. The rock and ground looked of ancient lava. We came across another goat herder and asked for directions. We were directed to a lone tree further up on the ridge. I told Damian that I did not think I could go on. We agreed to make it to the tree and decide there. Otherwise, the only way down was the way we came, which was steep and of loose rock. The only good thing about the ascent was that when turning around the views were stunning -full of red mountains, lush green foliage along the rivers and a clear blue sky. By the time I made it to the lone tree, well behind Damian, I was completely spent, useless. The high ridge dropped off into a deep crevice with a couple of thatched roofed homes at the bottom with crops of corn.

The wall of the opposing mountain was completely different from what we had seen all day. It was not desolate landscape of lava rock and cactus, but of smooth red rock dotted with tall Palm trees. “Palm Trees?” There was a creek running between the two mountains at the bottom of the “crevice”, the terrain along the water was green and fertile. The quest was over for me, but I had to admit, if we were going to find dinosaur tracks, there could not be a more primitive or bizarre looking setting as this. It was like cresting the ridge and finding the Land of the Lost.

12:30-1:00 Tracks Discovered

I followed Damian down to where the houses were and he told me to rest under the tree while he walked up the trail where the locals said the tracks were. I agreed, and collapsed under a tree. A small boy in ragged clothes stood and stared at me, probably never have seen a dying gringo before, or at least not one so pathetic. Damian came back just as I was dozing off. “The tracks are about three minutes away”, he said. “Verdad?” “Seriously?”

The tracks were definitely impressive, much more than I had anticipated, and along with the surrounding scenery it was truly like traveling back in time. There was even evidence of an old Incan irrigation system carved into the rock next to the spring that was feeding the stream. This water source had apparently been supporting life for many, many years, and there was evidence of this all around us that told the story. With the palm trees and ample shade, the area was quite tranquil. After a few photos, and it already being 1:00, it was time to leave. After more advice from one of the resident families, we were off to follow a system of dry riverbeds until reuniting with the main river. The estimated time back to the bike was five hours.

1:00-5:30 The Return

We followed dry riverbeds for three hours before reuniting with the main river. During this time clouds started rolling in. The relief from the sun was divine, but then the rain started. The nausea would not go away. Once back in the larger riverbed we had to wait out a thunderstorm under a clump of trees at the river’s edge.

5:30-7:30 The Road Home

The motorcycle was how I left it, untouched. The woman came out to greet us and seemed to be in a much better mood. Damian and I agreed not to tell her, or anyone else who asked, that we had found the tracks – their secret would be safe with us. (However, it is just a matter of time before the secret gets out and the tour groups show up.)

We blazed home and arrived back at the house at 7:30, a 13-hour day. Santusa had a plate of pasta waiting for me and Damian and I shared a beer together. By now, we were scrolling through my camera’s photos and laughing as we told the rest of the family what we had gotten ourselves into. Damian even admitted how tough it was, which boosted my spirits and ego some. I give him full credit for finding the tracks and getting us back safely, even if it was a bit longer than a six-hour hike.

Here is a video I made of the trip for Damian, Dos Hombres

Leaving Bolivia

2011-05-02T13:03:00.001-07:00

(top photo courtesy of Steve Nute)

Once back from The Island, I was fortunate enough to have three separate friends come and visit me - two from the States and one from Argentina. There was a celebration of my 2^nd anniversary on the road, and a lot of good meals shared. After the last guest left I had nothing stopping me from packing up and finally moving on.

I have long struggled with the idea of leaving and it has been heavy on my mind for many months now. Ongoing conversations with myself continue daily, about continuing my travels versus the urge to stay put and nurture my freshly sprouted roots. The process has been much more difficult than I had imagined – and I am growing concerned about all the voices in my head.

My situation deserves no sympathy, I realize this and I know how lucky I am to be in this conundrum. I arrived here one year ago almost to the day, exhausted and with my wanderlust largely satisfied. I had gone a year without hearing my name called in public or without being touched in any real meaningful way. In many respects, I had rolled into town on an empty tank.

Things are differently now. I cannot walk across the plaza without hearing my name called, no, shouted at least once. Maybe it’s Angelica selling birdseed in the square or small Ronaldo needing help washing the roof of a truck. And the beauty of it all is that I have the time to stop and help fill bags of birdseed or to wash the roof of that truck. It is my way of taking time to “smell the roses”, and its a daily occurrence.

From my time volunteering with the working kids and just being around for so long I have acquired a large family of little people that supply me with a ton of laughter and affection. Thursdays I take a group of seven to the school for the deaf where we are all learning sign language so that they can talk to a young cousin that is hearing impaired. The outing is an absolute hoot, and I would hate to leaving with such a limited vocabulary.

I have another family in the countryside whose art and way of living fascinates me. I had originally sought out to meet them because of how different they seemed, now their home has become my sanctuary. Recently we have had several conversations about me leaving and my potential return. “Yes, I definitely will be coming back”, I say. On my last visit I was asked when that might be. The only reply I could give, and an honest one at that was, “whenever I feel that my travels are over, maybe one, two, or five years from now”. Speaking in Quechua, but the message perfectly clear, the 82-year old grandmother said that five more years would probably not work for her. The room went silent and it struck me then that it could never be the same again, not as it is now. My little friends would have grown and some of my older friends would be gone.

In addition to my new families, I also have a beautiful, intelligent and loving woman here that wants me to stay. It is has been hard to explain why I am choosing the unknown over her.

During this process, I have had to reevaluate what it is about traveling that is so important to me. I have always discounted the “what are you looking for” comment, and responded with something more like, “I am not looking for anything, its just what I like to do”, but recently those voices in my head have been asking, “why?”

For me, at this point, what I expect from travel is:

a) To experience diverse people and cultures,

b) To learn more about myself, and challenge my limits,

c) To participate in my surroundings, even if in small ways,

d) To allow an adventure to unfold everyday, and

e) Ultimately, I set out to see as much of the planet as possible while still physically capable.

Through the practice of writing this all down, I realize that I am fulfilling much of what's on this list by being here, but it is not complete. Regardless, it feels like a waste to leave. But then again, it feels like a waste not to leave - to go out and see more. “Right?”

That said, I have been actively trying to convince myself to move on, doing everything short of making flashcards of the following:

· As fascinating as the culture is here, it is a reminder of all the other interesting cultures yet to be experienced.
· Yes, these children are gorgeous, gracious and deserving, but so are so many more out there that you have not yet met. What about them?
· The seasons are lined up perfectly for leaving, but there is only short window of opportunity. The time to go is now!
· You gave up everything to do this. You owe it to yourself to keep going. It’s too soon to stop, and,
· You can always come back.

So, at this exact moment in time, the plan is this:

o I will work to shed the extra baggage that I have picked up during my idle time here, both around my mid-section and around my apartment.
o I will read about the travels of others like I did before leaving Seattle, encouraging my mind to leave first - body and bike to follow later.
o I will focus my attention and research on Brazil and Africa.
o I will spend my remaining time here saying good-bye, with full intention of staying in touch.
o I will anticipate a bout of Post Bolivian Depression, but will get through it. I will have new scenery, a new language and new culture to distract me.

Therefore, on May 29^th I will leave Sucre on my way to Brazil. Within four days of leaving I will be at entrance of the Pantanal, the world’s largest wetlands (aka: swamp) where I will dig out my mosquito spray and expired malaria meds. Will proceed next to the capital city of Brasilia to explore the architecture of Oscar Niemeyer, followed by the beaches and bikinis of Rio de Janeiro. From there, down the Atlantic coast through Uruguay ending in Buenos Aires. Once there I will make the decision to make the leap to South Africa, or commit to starting a life in South America.

I suppose the moral of this conundrum, is be careful what you wish for. You might get it!

Thanks for listening, the voices in my head have quieted.

Secret Agent Man

2011-05-02T07:45:00.001-07:00

A lot has happened, and nothing has happened since my last blog entry. I am still here in Sucre struggling to make my next move. But first, an update on my activities since the chime of the New Year:

I spent the month of February on an island in the Caribbean. My girlfriend, Silvia, accompanied me for the first two weeks and flew back while I stayed on for an additional two (the bike stayed at my apartment for this trip). “The Island” had long been on my list of places to visit as all my life I had heard family stories about what had happened there. Back in Guatemala I had bought the appropriate travel guide and started talking to my father about the trip. During our conversations on Skype we would go over Google Earth satellite photos on our respective computers. “Does that look the right place?” “Is that the bridge you remember?” Over a series of calls and sending screen shots of map images back and forth he was finally convinced that he had found the house where his father had died. My grandfather. Dad lived in the house as a 12-years old in 1953, while his father was stationed there with the U.S Army - until the time of this death at the age of 39.

It was an excellent opportunity to talk more with my dad about this pivotal point in his life and learn more about my biological grandfather. I ordered a digital recorder from Amazon so that Dad could reminisce at will and send me his thoughts via email. I was never that close to the grandfathers that I had growing up - I don’t think either of them had ever picked up a baseball, as they just were not those kinds of guys. Though they were loving and had their qualities. As a kid I always envisioned that my “other grandfather” would have been the type to teach me how to throw a curve ball while sneaking in a few bawdy jokes every once in awhile. He would have been that kind of guy.

I was enjoying the conversations with Dad, but at the same time I was in awe of the technology that we were using. Having taken much of it for granted before, I kept thinking about how far things have come in my own lifetime. Not that long ago (okay, quite awhile ago) President Kennedy and his staff were scanning over fuzzy black and white photos from U2 spy planes, contemplating if what they were looking at was a stockpile of nuclear missiles or a truckload of drainage pipes in route to a new road works project. Now, here we were talking clearly, with video, some 8,000-miles away from each other looking at the same maps almost in real time taking a virtual tour of a neighborhood in a foreign country asking, “is that it?” And, it was free!

Once ready, the trip had alluded in Guatemala and once again while in Colombia. I had largely given up on the idea, but then thought my time here in Bolivia would be my last chance before leaving the continent. Finally on the island, and after Silvia had left, I enlisted the help of a local that I had befriended, “my fixer”, and we set out in a 1953 Pontiac taxi to find our key landmark -the long defunct dog track. From there we walked towards the creek along the main double lane boulevard stopping once to ask for directions, showing my Google Map print out, crossed over a small bridge and walked up a typical residential street. There it was, after so many conversations and daydreams about finding it, there it was right in front of me. A house.

Outside of my quest to find the house, I had never really thought about what I was expecting to get out of the experience. Maybe I thought it would bring me closer to something that I had always felt cheated on, or maybe feel closer to my dad, but standing in front of the house I felt nothing more than if I had been standing in the front of the house next door, or if I were to turn around and face that house. I waited, but nothing came. Sure, I envisioned my young father and uncles playing in the creek, or riding the horse that kept in the vacant lot, but no parting of the clouds or bolt of lightning occurred, just a mild sense of accomplishment.

Walking away I noticed a woman sleeping in a rocker on the upstairs porch next door, obviously into her 80’s or more. It was the house were all the kids, my aunt and uncles, were taken when my grandfather collapsed of a heart-attack while loading a moving van - they were in the process of moving to a new house cross-town. Suddenly, there was a glimmer of hope of a personal connection. I had my fixer friend Vivian ask the younger man, assumingly the son, in the driveway how long they had lived there. “Only two years. Why?” Never mind.

It was meaningful project and I am thankful that I was able to go through with it, but it was also another example of the journey outshining the destination.

Mercado Campesino

2011-01-06T05:53:00.000-08:00

Sunday 2, 2011

Adequately caffeinated, I stepped to the curb and hailed a taxi. “Mercado Campesino, por favor”.

There are two markets in Sucre, the Mercado Central near the center of town, and the much larger Mercado Campesino on the other side of the tracks. The central market is rudimentary and authentic enough, but the market for the “country folk” is infinitely more interesting. It covers numerous more blocks and incorporates interior and exterior shop space.

Today’s safari was to buy some clothes for a family of four kids that have adopted me. They have been practically wearing the same clothes since I arrived.

The taxi fair had dropped from 6 Bolivianos back down to 4 Bs since the president rescinded a recent gas hike an hour before the ball fell for the New Year. I asked the driver to drop me off at the Ropa Americana area. There, vendors sell used clothing from the United States. The clothes that you thought were being donated to the poor is often times shipped in containers to Chile, sold to Bolivian brokers in bulk lots and trucked to Oruo where it broken down into smaller lots and sold to individual vendors. From there, the garage sale leftovers and Goodwill surplus ends up on the sidewalks of Sucre, and other towns. The same happens with toys. It has proven to be a good business opportunity for a lot of single mothers.

I walked a couple of blocks, sizing up the competition. Its not just about finding what you want it here and buying it, it is the tact in which you approach transaction - the art of the kill. I stopped at a bin of children’s t-shirts. I found a couple of shirts with beach themes, a mesh athletic jersey for Edmundo, and two fleece jackets for Maria and Anjelica, plus a couple of others plain shirt with Goodwill tags still attached. “Cuanto?” I asked, separating each one in high in the air so she could count. “110”, was her initial serve. Game on! I took off my sunglasses so she could fully appreciate my “are you crazy lady” expression. I volley back with “no, no, no…60!”. She fires back a quick “100”. I put down a shirt and ask for a recount. She counters and we continue to volley. Before breaking a sweat we settle on 70 Bs, or $10. We both smile as I give her the exact change, and bid her a good day. Walking away I see an old Czech made Jawa motorcycle on the corner and walk over to take a photo of it. I hear someone shouting behind me and turn around. It’s the “venadora” that I just haggled with. I had accidently had given her an extra 20 and she was returning it to me. I give her a peck on her right cheek. The tone was set for the rest of the day.

The Mercado stretches for many blocks in every direction. For the most part it is divided up into sections. I would not use the term “organized”, but the fruit people pretty much hang with other fruit people, the toy people stay with other toy people, and so on. The ceramic Jesus people would never be found close to the bootleg DVD people. There are blocks and blocks of fruit, pastas, rice, household goods, blocks of meat separated by whether it moo’d, oink’d, or bok bok bok’d. All the essentials are here – like an outdoor Wal-Mart, farmer’s market and giant flea market all rolled into one.

After an hour I was completely lost, partially by design. I came across some basic but interesting potato and sugar sacks that my dad could try selling on Ebay, then an intricate embroidered tapestry that might make a good Ebay item as well. My Mexican beach bag that I brought with me was filling up. I stopped at a stall of dried toucan heads and llama fetuses. I paused and tried thinking of a good Ebay description, “Rid your home of unwanted spirits. Completely natural, no chemicals necessary” or “Jerky for your cat.” I thought better of it and moved on.

After finding a “tres por cinco” bin and buying three more shirts for 5 Bs, it was lunchtime. A fried chorizo sandwich with a smear of extra grease across the bun would keep me going a couple more hours. Dessert was a fried Churro (fried donut-like dough) with a warm chocolate sauce injected in the middle upon ordering.

Though I made some worthy purchases, the day was really just about walking around soaking in the smells, sights and overall good vibe. Block after block countless vignettes played out before me; the bewildered kid staring at his dropped ice cream frozen in shock, the toothless old woman wrapped in a blanket laughing on a cell phone, the nursing mother jokingly trying to get me to pay 5 Bs for taking a photo of her chilies, the disembodied pig’s head wearing an eternal smile, a woman selling press-on gold caps for your front teeth.

It was a day of cheap entertainment from the other the side of the tracks, often times the more interesting side.

Christmas 2010

2010-12-28T04:56:00.000-08:00

Three days before Christmas the poor started coming to town. Campesinos from nearby mountain villages come to Sucre every year in hopes of receiving food and money from charitable hands.

Women, burdened with a blanket-load of supplies and three or four small children in tow, walk the city knocking on doors or following the stream of people to the next church or organized handout location. Once there, do-gooders dole out individual packets of milk, yogurt, bread or cookies. You can always tell where a “gathering” had taken place from the trash strewn about - the charitable groups never think of bringing a trashcan.

Though Sucre experiences this pilgrimage every year, there would be no facilities waiting for these people. They sleep in the parks or huddled in doorways. To make matters worse, it is now the rainy season and spontaneous downpours are good for washing the urine from the streets, but it does not bode well for those who put it there.

Christmas day I sat in the main plaza and soaked it all in. It was an incredibly sad thing to witness, but at the same time it had a palpable energy to it that was hard to walk away from. Every 20 to 30-minutes a SUV or truck would stop curbside along the plaza. A silent alarm would seemingly go off as children, dirty hungry children, would sprint across the plaza in their Chinese plastic or tire tread sandals to receive what was being handed out. Attempts at forming a line never came to fruition because everybody knew from experience that there would not be enough for everyone – it was first come first serve, survival of the fittest. Within 10-minutes the now empty SUV would close it’s doors and drive off.

I came across a couple young girls that spend time at the center where I volunteer. As we chatted and watched the “well off” kids play with their new Christmas toys around the statue of the city’s namesake, they told me that they were not having a very good Christmas. They did not get any toys, “We never do”, was their very matter-of-fact reply. Not bitter, they were just stating the facts with a smile on their face and a shrug in their shoulders, reinforcing what I have learned during my time here – Bolivians, especially children, accept their fate with great attitude and absolution, a cruel symptom of an ugly class system. They know they are second-rate citizens and matter little. Mid-sentence, they were off, reacting to yet another plaza stampede.

The day after Christmas the Bolivian government announced a 70% increase in gasoline and an 85% increase in diesel fuel. Everything will soon be more expensive. The poor just got poorer. In response to the announcement, the transportation union and drivers announced that they would go on an indefinite strike starting the following day. No micros (small buses) or trucks would be running for the time being. For now, there is no ride home, and when there is a ride home, it will cost twice as much as it did to get here.

Just another day in Bolivia.

(update to post: an hour before midnight, New Year's eve, the president bowed to recent protests and demonstrations and rescinded his fuel hike.)

Class of 2010

2010-11-14T19:12:00.002-08:00

December 9-12 2010

My recent trip to the campo occurred during high school graduation. I never plan it, but I always seem to show up during some sort of festival. This is not a reflection of my good luck, but a reflection on how many celebrations are on their calendar.

It was also well into summer now and the mid-day temperatures were not as pleasant as I had experienced on previous trips. Everyday from about 11-3:00 was spent in-doors reading or sleeping, but Saturday’s graduation would all-day event. Make that an all-weekend event.

Ten boys and two girls stood atop a make shift stage in the basketball/soccer court under the 100 degree mid-day sun. The boys’ wore new grey suits, and the girls a grey skirt jacket combo. The sun was relentless and the boys’ jackets soon became heat shields during continuous speeches. Outside the school gates were tables of cheap plastic flowers and other worthless Chinese made trinkets that are traditional gifts for the grads – stuff that that nobody should ever want or have.

Later, under the cool cover of darkness, I returned to the basketball court. The festivities had continued through my naptime and into the late afternoon. Now, most of the town folk were sitting around tables with a bucket of chicha acting as a centerpiece. (Chicha is the two-week old fermented corn beer that is popular in the campo.) A band was playing (“more drum machine please”) and there was some line dancing by the new grads and some adults. I got an eye full and left, but the party was full-tilt until 2:00am.

The next morning, during my coffee and bread, Damian approach and said that we had some work to do. I pointed to the cornfields where I had done some work with a hoe the day before, and he said no, and pointed in the opposite direction. Santusa came along and we all walked down the street to a neighbor’s house. Today was to be a party and feast in celebration of graduation. I wasn’t clear on the details but it sounded like we were going to prepare a special meal where the graduates would all stop by and partake.

Damian took me out to the woodpile and asked if I could chop wood. It was 8:00 in the morning and this was the last thing I wanted to do. My experience with their dense wood and dull axes was not my idea early morning fun. Also, wearing flip-flops, I didn’t want to have to travel two hours to the nearest hospital with a chief complaint of only having eight toes. I took a couple of half-hearted swings, and that was enough for Damian - I had failed my audition. He abruptly took me back inside the mud-brick courtyard and into one of the small dwellings. There I crouched onto a small wooden “pedestal” and began peeling potatoes with the old ladies. This was more my speed.

I soon poked my head into the adjacent room where Santusa and some of the other women were working. My stomach did a quarter turn when I saw an entire cow dismantled on the concrete floor atop a blue tarp. For a split second, in my brain’s eye, it appeared as though they had spread out of the parts and were trying to reassemble the cow, like you would a car engine or other complex mechanism. Of course the cow was not to be so lucky and within three hours the group had carved up all the “parts” until there wasn’t much left, but a head and a fetus (never figured out this part).

Soon the party moved outside, slicing and dicing onions, greens, tomatoes, and more potatoes – always more potatoes. Huge pots of soup were bubbling and plastic tubs filled with salad. There was no shortage of toothless grins or laughter, both were in abundance. I wish I could say that I saw someone wash their hands sometime during the day, but I cannot. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger", right? Later, I ventured next door where men from another party house were roasting an entire pig in one of the “pizza ovens”. They were standing around the grill shooting the shit drinking corn beer, while the women were inside doing everything else – hmm, just like any BBQ back home.

Eventually the meal was prepared and the receiving room was decorated. The family’s proud graduate appeared in her finest blouse and pleated skirt and it was finally “go time”. I had gotten it all wrong; the graduates did not visit the different houses, the party house hosted a single graduate, usually a family member. The people of the village traveled to each house congratulating the person of honor by pinning money on a “money scarf” hanging around the graduate’s neck. Once the money has been given, you are energetically thanked and presented with a dentist cup of warm herb infused alcohol, some chicha, and a complete meal - whatever they had been preparing during the day.

I was a bit intimidated when I entered the crowded room, not knowing the exact protocol. People lined the walls drinking with music blaring and everyone having a good time. (Sometimes, being the only outsider, I often think that I should leave them alone to their rituals and celebrations, but I am almost always proven wrong and welcomed wholeheartedly.) I approached the table where the person of honor stood. On the wall behind her was a makeshift alter of plastic flowers mounted on a hanging blanket, and her new diploma authenticated by all its various rubber stamps. Streamers of toilet paper hanging from the ceiling completed the shrine. She stood covered in white confetti waiting for me.

Once face to face with her, I suddenly felt like I was at prom, not knowing where or how to pin the money, so I just handed her the 20 Boliviano note ($2.85) and shrugged my shoulders. She motioned for me to come forward and remove my hat, and she “blessed me” with a handful of white confetti over on my head. Her father patted me on the back and thrust a cup of chicha in my hand, as a woman put a plate of food in the other. I found a place along the wall to crouch and soaked it all in. “How cool is this?”, I thought and soon found three more house where my technique improved, but I got to the point of not being able to eat anymore food as good as it all was.

Thanksgiving 2010

2010-11-14T19:12:00.001-08:00

Thanksgiving this year was spent in the jungle. Silvia and I had taken a flight to Cochabamba in order to catch a bus for a three-hour trek over the mountains to Chapare. A long way to go just to sit by a pool, but what the hell it was a holiday.

Cochabamba, Bolivia’s third largest city was hot and humid, and noticeably more green than Sucre’s dry landscape. The presence flowers and lush gardens was a welcome change, but nothing else about the city impressed me. It was dirty and industrial. The next day we arrange for three seats in a Toyota minivan. The third seat was my idea of upgrading ourselves to first class. At $3 a seat for the three-hour journey, $9 secured the whole row for us.

The van did not have air conditioning, and the air coming in from the windows was thick and sticky. In the row of seats in front of us were a young mother and her two kids, and a young girl of about 12-years old traveling by herself. Her mother had sent her off with a couple of bags of flowers that were stowed in the back, and she sat with a floral table setting in a plastic bag in her lap. I suspected that someone was getting married.

Thirty minutes out of town we started to climb. The higher altitude meant cooler temperatures, and once in the clouds, we were closing all the windows due to the chill. I thought of the movie Scarface, because these were the mountains where Tony’s Bolivian connection lived. I caught myself looking out the window for the mansion compound in the dense mountainside, but reminded myself that the drug lord was a fictional character, besides, “the house would not have been visible from the road you dummy”.

The road was terrible, and it was impossible to relax or sleep. The constant switchbacks, road construction and our driver’s obsession of passing trucks on blind corners were anything but relaxing. Our driver did redeem himself when he handed a lone construction flagman his bag of coca leaves, which was a very nice gesture. He then opened his glove box and pulled out one of two other plastic bags of the leaves.

I offered to place the young girls flower on our floor space to get it off her lap, and let her read Curious George (in Spanish) on my Kindle. You could tell that she was not used to traveling alone, but I think the extra attention helped.

What goes up must come down, and what I thought was hot weather before in Cochabamba now seemed like sweater weather. We had dropped down into a completely different ecosystem and it was now 100-degrees with equal humidity. Palm trees, giant ferns, banana and papaya trees, everything tropical and dense. This was also one of the main coca growing areas of Bolivia, or at least the beginning of it. The area is known for its cocaine production, but also as the childhood home of the country’s current president, Evo Morales. He made news about five years ago when he became the first indigenous president of Bolivia. Before his political career began, he was a coca farmer in Chapare.

Part of our two-day stay included a two-hour jungle hike, which took me away from the pool and I could have done without, but what I did find interesting were all the homes that we passed along the way that had coca leaves drying out in front of the house. We also passed many coca plants alongside the road, which were pointed out by the taxi driver, and then came across many small coca fields during our hike in the national park. All of which was on the up-and-up because it was for personal use.

Coca is completely and totally ubiquitous outside the cities in Bolivia, and commonplace enough within the cities. It is used on a daily basis by many people. It is used in almost every religious ceremony, both by chewing it and by using it as an offering. It is used as a medicinal remedy, and to alleviate fatigue and the effects of high altitude. Historically, the Incan elite chewed it, and to chew was to be Incan. It many ways, it was, and still is, the cornerstone of their cultural identity. Recently, a team of international researchers discovered that coca leaves have been chewed by inhabitants of Peru and Bolivia for over 8,000-years!

I have chewed coca leaves many times, and always have some coca tea on the shelf in my apartment. I like it. The stimulating effect is very mild without the jitters you get with caffeine, and I do think it has helped me at altitude. The only noticeable side effect is that your cheek can go slightly numb after awhile. Many people include a pinch off a calcium rich stone that helps release more of the leaves active chemicals. The leaves contain several alkaloids, but only one is extracted to make cocaine, and that is a very complex and difficult process to complete. The everyday indigenous person has zero interest in cocaine.

The point is that the leaves represent so much more here than just the production of cocaine. It is a major part of people’s daily existence, so when a UN agency on drugs reports that Peru and Bolivia should “abolish or prohibit activities … such as coca leaf chewing and the manufacture of coca tea”, it is absolutely and utterly impractical. The UN list coca leaves as a dangerous controlled substance, along with cocaine and opium. That is like putting poppy seeds on that same list.

Now I don’t like the current president here. He is a “Chavez high-fiving, want-to-be dictator”, but he has been able to stand up the US and DEA regarding the eradication of coca leaves. Bolivia refused to follow the US’s demand of spraying herbicide over coca fields. The US cut off funding, and subsequently the DEA and US ambassador were kicked out of the country (there was other finger pointing going on as well).

When I was in Colombia, a country that does spray herbicide from low flying planes, I read in the newspaper several times about indigenous people coming out of the jungles with untreatable skin lesions and dying of respiratory disorders. People in loin clothes with sticks through their noses who have been living peacefully on their own for who knows how long, but now are getting dump on with toxic herbicides, not to mention the animals and everything else that lives in the jungle.

Of course this is an incredibly complex issue, and there are a lot of problems here associated with the drug trade, and wherever the drugs end up, but you cannot eradicate an entire culture and way of life during your quest for a remedy. There is nothing in the American culture that you can compare it to. We have plenty of vices that would be hard to give up, but nothing that connects us to who we are and where we came from like coca does here.

(more coca news)

Stay in the Campo: Follow-up

2010-11-14T19:11:00.001-08:00

Since my initial visit to Santusa’s, we have kept in close contact. I have made many drop-in visits on the bike, even taking friends on occasion, and stayed again for a multi-day visit. When they are in town visiting their son, they stop by to say “Hi”. They are open and honest good people that show empathy towards others, and through them, I have experienced everything that is good here, but also what keeps this country down – prejudice and an archaic class system. Santusa and Damian treat me as an equal, and I them. I would do anything for them, as they would for me. Whenever doubts creep into my head about what I am doing, or if I simply get into a funk, just being around Santusa makes it all better. There is such a positive energy about her, always giggling or laughing, in spite of a difficult life. So, during my last visit when they asked me to be Padrino, or Godfather, to their youngest son I was incredibly touched. In their culture, a Godfather is someone to stands up for a child during the major events in their lives, i.e., graduations or weddings. It is a position of great honor just to be asked, and once you accept, you become part of the family. So, I am now considered their brother, and they are my brother and sister. If I am here next December I will stand up with Carlos during his high school graduation. They know that I may not be here, but with the relationships that I have made since "pausing" the trip, it will be incredibly hard to leave.

Follow-up to the follow-up:

· The pottery pieces were dated from between 1200-1800, which could pre-date Incan times, or not.
· Yale has not returned any of my calls.
· When I went back to the States in October for a visit I was able to sell a lot of Santusa’s textiles at Write Around the World’s fundraising auction (and I brought her back some decent sewing scissors). Now, some of my most favorite people back home also have a piece of Santusa.
· Damian has become accustomed to riding on the back of the bike, and I think sits a little taller now when we enter the town’s center square.
· The black poncho that Santusa made Damian when their oldest son was only two is now one of my most cherished possessions, and keeps me warm on many a chilled mornings while drinking my coffee and answering emails.
· That feeling of contentment is still with me.

Stay in the Campo: Part 2

2010-11-12T08:29:00.000-08:00

Part II

Day 2 continued

Sunsets are beautiful here, but where are they not? Here, there is burst of activity as all the animals are brought back from pasture. It is the closest thing there is to a rush hour. Besides the playground noise coming from the nearby school, the days are pretty quiet. But twilight is a convivial time of socializing before dinner. However, I noticed that Damian had socialized too much and had apparently continued the San Juan festivities throughout the day and was now red-eyed and staggering. Santusa was annoyed but mostly embarrassed. She has plenty of work to do, but now has to also had to take care of an inebriated husband.

As much fun as I was having on my own, the stay was not turning what I had hope for, and I thought about leaving a day early, on Saturday. I knew that they had to be at the Sunday market early to sell their textiles, so I would skip out the day prior and reduce Santusa’s workload by one less male dependent.

When I later mentioned this idea to Santusa, she immediately jumped on it and insisted that I stay, and told me how she wanted me to give Damian a ride to the market Sunday on the motorcycle, on my way home. He was really looking forward to it. I could tell then how much she really loved him. Not because of a ride on a motorcycle but the sincerity in her voice. I will stay I said.

My original intention with the trip was to help out more and be part of things, but in reality it just wasn’t practical. I had tried helping the nephew chop wood, but with the dull axe and cracked handle, I ended up with a bloody splinter in my hand, which Santusa freaked about and wanted to care for. “What a pansy-ass thin-skinned weenie of a gringo”, I thought. I went back to my room to lick my wounds – after I broke the handle of their only axe, ARGH!

Around 8:00pm Santusa came into my room with a bowl of hot soup, chicken based, with root vegetables and pastas. This whole time she would enter my room unannounced and just sit and chat. As a second language, her Spanish is slow and clear and I understand her better than most. She is patient with me – a nurturing mother to her core. I have taken to leaving my door open all the time, for the fresh air and view of the mountains, but also with the hope of initiating more of her visits. On this visit, while I ate my soup, she told me more about her life. How her father left them when she was an infant and how her mother raised three girls in extreme poverty. She managed to only get through the third grade, but continued to study Spanish on her own (her mother only speaks native Quechua). She started weaving at eight years old, but had been spinning wool before that. She is my age of 46, and Damian (one year older) is her first and only love. Moving up to present day, she told me about how her eldest son, of 26 years, will soon finish the medical program in Cuba and will return as a doctor, how her middle son is now in University in Sucre studying music, and her high school senior will be going to University next year to study English. I tried to express what a fine job her mother did and how she in turn has also done a great job with her children. I tried to explain how it is every parent’s ambition to give their children a better life than what they had, no matter where they are from. She asked about my life and my family with genuine concern and interest. Tears welled up in her eyes as she told me how difficult it was for women in her culture living in the countryside. She spoke of the prejudice among her own people, and how poorly she is treated when she attempts to go to a restaurant in Sucre, because of her indigenous dress and darker skin. I thought to myself, "here is a woman putting three boys through college, who runs her own successful business, creates amazing art, and lives a decent and honest life". Others here should be so lucky to live up to her standards.

Day 3 - Friday

Still in bed, Santusa entered my room with a bowl of fresh scrambled eggs and bread, and said that she needed my help downstairs when I was finished. The eggs were damn tasty, as I threw them down as fast as I could.

When I got down stairs into the salon, she and her mother were setting up a new loom. She was going to start a shawl and I was going to be able to see the process from the very beginning. What a great opportunity. This video explains it best.

Later that night Damian and Santusa came in with bowls of sopa de mani, or peanut soup. It doesn’t taste anything like peanuts but is a rich thick soup with a peanut stock and various vegetables, sometimes with chicken. Earlier, I had noticed Grandma crushing peanuts on the grinding stone, but hadn’t thought much of it. I had had this soup before in Sucre, and know that is reserved for special occasions and events, so it was special that they were serving it to me now. The soup was far better than anything I had tasted in the city, everything being fresh and made from scratch it was not surprise. We sat our empty bowls down and laughed over the video footage that I shot earlier that day. Apparently weaving is women’s work and seeing a grown man “flub it up”, was quite comical. We said good night, after Damian agreed to take me on a hike in the morning to look for proper fossils and some Incan ruins. The visit seemed to be turning around into what I had hoped for.

Day 4 - Saturday

We set out after breakfast. Damian carried a small pickaxe and had strips of rawhide wrap around his corduroy blazer. I felt underdressed. We followed the dry riverbed as he pointed out plants and salts clinging to rocks that were used in the production of dyes for the wool. I don’t understand him as well as Santusa, but we get by. Later, we come across an ancient stone bridge, and then remnants of a stone silo used for grain storage, next an aqua duct system originating from the river, all dating back from the Inca times in the 1400’s.

This area was the southeastern corner of the Incan empire back in the day, and the rulers placed some the empires best warriors along this border. They were fierce and fought off many invasions from other tribal people. Today’s Tarabuquenos are direct decedents of these people and they are very proud of their history. In many respects, not much has changed. Seeing these ruins was amazing, even more so knowing that not many other people have had the opportunity to see them.

The sun was intense. I opened up all the vents on my ExOfficio safari shirt, rolled up my sleeves, and put on my floppy sun hat. Damian forged ahead still wearing his wool cap and blazer, and only drinking water after practically forced him to. Before we turned around to start heading back, we stopped to collect firewood. The straps he had been carrying were to bundle dead branches and to haul back over his shoulders. As he ingeniously secured the near 50-pound bundle to his back, with nothing more than a leather strap, I thought how the engineers at REI would capitalize on this and create a specialized wood carrying apparatus available online for $99.

As we walked back, I was started feeling it. The relentless sun and climbing, had taken its toll. I offered several times to carry the wood, but I think he knew, as I did, that doing so would have about killed me. We never found any fossils, and never really looked, but had a good time, and I had finally had a chance at some alone time with Damian.

Closer to home, I was trailing behind Damian and his burden by about 40-feet carrying only my Chapstick and empty water bottle. We were walking through some plowed fields, me with my head was down focusing on my dragging feet, when I noticed some chards of terracotta. I began filling my pockets.

Over a lunch of chicken and rice with a fresh green chile sauce, I proudly and excitedly pulled out some of the pottery pieces and laid them out on the table. I had collected only those pieces that had paint showing on them. Naturally, I was planning on calling the anthropology department at Yale to notify them of my monumental discovery once back in Sucre, until Damian and Santusa shrugged their shoulders and gave me a, “oh, those things”, kind of look. They told me that they are common after the fields have been plowed up. I didn’t care, this was the coolest thing ever – cherry picking ancient pottery off the ground! I virtually begged to go back out there to look for more, almost tugging on Damian’s pant leg. He agreed that after siesta and after we shucked some dried corn that we would go back out. We did, and it was the perfect ending to my “Day of the Inca”. Besides his "hiccup" involving too much San Juan celebrating, Damian proved to be a very kind man, and we eventually connected.

Day 5- Sunday, Market Day

The morning was cold, damn cold, and at 7:00 it was hard to peel back the heavy covers and get started. Eventually, the bike was loaded, which included a bag of old pottery chips, and Damian mounted on the back. At we rolled out, my riding suit was completely zipped up to keep out the cold, while Damian wore a down coat under his long poncho, wool cap, his white wool “shorts” and sandals. Thirty minutes later, we were setting up their spot at the market as the sun finally began throwing down some warmth. I grabbed some street food, said good-bye and headed off on my way home, to Sucre. I had arrived in the campo with curiosity and naive interest, and left with a new set of friends. Friends that would soon become family.

Video montage of my four day stay in the campo.

Seattle Event

2010-10-11T08:08:00.000-07:00

I am now in the States visiting friends and family. I will be returning to Bolivia in early November. If you live in the Seattle area, please plan on coming to our celebration on November 3rd! All are welcome.

Stay in the Campo: Part 1

2010-09-14T06:01:00.000-07:00

Wednesday June 23, 2010

Today I am leaving to spend four days in the campo (countryside) with my new weaver friend Santusa and her family.

DAY 1

I got a late start (not sure if I have ever gotten an early start), but only have an hour and a half to travel, and all on good roads. Before leaving I went to the market to buy a frozen chicken, sausage, and various groceries as an offering to my hosts. I also brought my own stash of food and water to keep with me, as I don’t really know what to expect.

From the brief time I have spent with Santusa, I know her to be incredibly kind. In almost any other situation I would feel awkward showing up at a near stranger’s house with my bags asking to stay. Not only are we strangers on a personal level, but culturally, we could not be more different. Right? I was excited about the opportunity, but couldn’t stop thinking; what will we talk about - how would we talk? What will I do all day, and more importantly, how will I avoid being an complete and utter annoyance?

Her village is fourth on a string of five along a stone road. The village consists of about 25 small houses scattered along the foothills and dry riverbed. There are no shops or restaurants, only a school, small church and the remnants of the old hacienda that use to own and manage all the land in the area.

Upon arrival, Santusa came out to greet me. She insisted that I park my bike inside their walled courtyard. I had to take off the panniers to squeeze in through the courtyard door but made it. I unpacked the bike and moved into my upstairs room. I would be staying in Edgar’s room, the son that was going to University in Sucre. I gave her the chicken, along with the frozen sausage, some canned fruit and a box of Fruit Loops. She seemed pleased. We had a lunch of vegetable soup and Coca Cola together in the salon and she showed me a couple of artifacts that they had recently found nearby on their property. (Her husband Damian was working in the fields, and here mother was up in the higher pastures with the cows and sheep.) After lunch, I got out a book on the local weaving style that I had purchased at the textile museum in Sucre. Several of Santusa’s pieces were in the book, and she knew everybody else’s work by sight, so she wrote their names down in the book for me (it irritated me that the publisher did not give credit to any of the artists, but she had now remedied that). We then looked over a couple of her recent weavings; the large matrimonial piece that she was working on the last time I was here, and a smaller calendar that she had done. Both were beautifully detailed and full of color.

I decided to take a walk and stretch my legs, and let her get back to her chores. I knew that she must have a lot to do and I did not want to interfere. I picked up a cow path near her house and followed it. I passed an adobe brick production site, and soon came across three young boys collecting firewood from the dried shrubs scattered about the dry landscape. They did not know what to think of this gringo walking around in their “neighborhood”, and took their time quietly sizing me up. I broke the ice with a couple of basic questions, which provoked them to laugh at my Spanish, which was followed by goofing on me in their native Quechua language. I acted angry and chased them around with a stick- my interpretation of the village idiot I guess. They laughed, and taunted me even more. We had fun. Before heading I back I learned a couple new Quechua words, and that “Don Julio” was slang for penis. I guess boys are the same everywhere.

Meanwhile back at “la casa”, a neighbor was firing up the outdoor adobe oven. I had seen these stand alone igloo-looking ovens throughout the campo, and I took to calling them “pizza ovens”. Eventually, the neighbor’s wife and daughter started bringing over discs of dough on wooden planks. I wanted to help, but also tried to stay out of their way. We filled several large baskets of hot bread, enough for both families for weeks. After all the bread was finished, Santusa’s son Carlos made a pizza out of the bread dough, some canned tomato sauce, and the sausages I had brought. “So it is a pizza oven.” By now the whole family was together and we sat on the floor eating pizza. (The bread did not have much flavor, but was dense and filling.)

The evening air was comfortable with nothing more than long-sleeves and with a moon two-days shy of being full. It was also the eve of the catholic holiday, Day of San Juan.

After dinner, Damian opened a beer and then poured a clear alcohol out of a five-gallon plastic jerry can and into a small empty water bottle. Along with a nephew, who was about 22-years old and back visiting from working the vineyards in Mendoza, we gathered some dried reeds and walked a bit until we got to an adobe stable of sorts. There, us men, started a fire and past around plastic dentist cups of the beer and “hooch”. Damian passed out coca leaves to pack in our cheeks as well. Before drinking, Damian would mumble a couple of words and then pour a couple of drops of the beer or alcohol onto the ground. I gathered that it was for Pachamama, and not for his “fallen homies back in the hood”. Pachamama is the Quechua name for Mother Earth, and is the cornerstone for their pagan-like beliefs. Tonight was a good example of how the Catholic practices forced upon the Incans by the invading Spanish have remained interwoven with their traditional beliefs. But at the time, I was not thinking of any of this, my immediate concern was whether I was expected to also poor some hooch out onto the ground? It was obvious that I was an outsider, so would I be mocking their beliefs by doing the same, or disrespecting the occasion by not following along? I compromised and didn’t pour, but later started giving an offering –which made no sense at all. I eventually asked, “es esto para pachamama?, and he replied yes. He did correct me once when I happened to have both the Dixie cup of beer in one hand and the herb-infused alcohol in the other. “It is bad mojo to have drink in both hands. It is a sign of abundance and hence bad etiquette” (I am paraphrasing).

Once our fire was out, we headed back to the house. On our way we found 86-year old grandma sitting by her adobe sheep shack with her own fire going. She is adorable, and takes on a Jabba the Hutt type appearance when she squats down to sit. Her black amilla dress takes on a shapeless form, her body somewhere beneath and her black leather montera, or Spanish helmet influenced hat completes the effect. As she sat in the glow her wrinkled face was always smiling, and she had Damian and the nephew cracking up with the stories she was telling in Quechua. Eventually some other neighbors ventured over, and I bowed out. I loved being witness to it all, but also felt like I was intruding a bit. I had several more days and didn’t want to wear out the welcome on the first night.

DAY 2

I had just gotten up and was writing in my journal when Santusa appeared with a bowl of baked squash for me. The squash was mildly sweet, like a spaghetti squash and cooked just right, not overdone and mushy. Soon after, she brought in an electric kettle, a bucket of water and some bread. My coffee dilemma had been answered, and I unpacked my jar of Nescafe. I ate in my room, but later came down the stairs to find all the adults huddled around Grandma’s wood burning “kitchen”: two adobe walls and a corrugated metal roof. Although, there is more modern kitchen, they prefer to be outside on the ground huddled around the fire. I also noticed a few dried out gourds in the pizza oven. Apparently, the night before a couple young neighbor girls brought over some of the vegetables and placed them whole in the oven to slowly bake over night. The firing of the stove had proved to be a very communal event and every bit of heat was used from the precious firewood.

After breakfast I decided to go for another walk through the village and explore in another direction. The morning was brisk and it felt good to get moving in rising sun. It wasn’t long before I was spotted by two older women in traditional dress. I blended in like a …., well, I didn’t blend in. If it would have been a lone woman by herself, she would have looked down and avoided all eye contact, but as a pair they were a bit more bold. As I approached, I gave a “buen dia” and smiled. Just as I had passed one called out to me. She wanted to know if I wanted to see her weavings. (I have experienced this in other villages, walking through the main street word gets around, and by the time of your second pass women or children invite you into their homes to see their textiles, hoping you will buy. It is a great opportunity to visit different homes, but also puts you in the position of rejecting their offer, although I have purchased several things this way.) As we sat on her concrete floor, she brought out only a few things, some of which were items of clothing obviously in use. I graciously declined.

From there I walked by the old Hacienda. It was the house and compound of the primary landowner of the area, where all the locals worked his fields and filled his coffers, before agrarian reform. The wife of the original owner was still living in the house, though the land has since been divided up.

Lunch was ready when I got back and Santusa had made a delicious picante de pollo, baked chicken in a red chile sauce over a bed of noodles. She is always busy, spending most days alone managing the household. We ate together and talked some. Afterwards, I went up the street to an area where she told I should look for fossils. Sitting in the dirt amongst a scattering of rocks I realized how much I was enjoying myself. I was a world away from my conventional life, and absolutely loving it. Not knowing it then, but this was what I use to sit in my office and daydream about; different cultures, new experiences, and a slow peaceful pace. I found a couple of rocks with some shell imprints, but mostly just sat in the sun. Content.

The Road Home

2010-08-23T05:41:00.001-07:00

I decided to try a different route for the trip home. I would try the more eastern, and quieter border crossing of Bermejo, and then stay the night in the Bolivian city of Tarija. I would be making the trip back in two days, rather than the more relaxed three days I took to get down.

The border crossing was in fact much easier and faster and I was able to roll into Tarija at dusk. The next morning was bitter cold. I did not have the luxury of waiting around while it warmed it up, and there were no guarantee that was going to happen anyway.

What I did not know was just how cold it was going to get. Within an hour outside of Tarija I was climbing over a dirt road mountain pass with thick fog, snow and freezing rain. I couldn’t see more than 15-feet in front of me, or the cliff’s edge to my right. I was limited to about 25-mph. Trucks, however, had no problem going much faster around the hairpin switchbacks. I was losing valuable time and body heat. Finally, I crested the clouds while topping out at 12,500-ft. Once above the storm below, the sun was warm and revitalizing. I turned up the iPod and the throttle. I would be home by dark!

While loading up the bike earlier in the morning, I had talked to one of the hotel owners. He mentioned that there was now a road blockade in Potosi and that I would not be able to get through. Road blockades are popular here, and it is the chosen way to get the desired attention from the federal government when things are not to their liking. In this case, the miners and other workers were protesting the lack of work projects in the area and a border dispute with the neighboring district of Oruo over mining rights. Blockades stop all traffic coming in and out of the targeted city, cutting off food and gasoline supplies – cutting off everything until their demands are met. The good news is that the blockades are usually peaceful and everybody has learned to live with them.

No worries for me though, I had found a small road on the map that would by-pass the city of Potosi and connect with the asphalt road to Sucre. I would avoid the strike and save time by cutting off a significant chunk of unnecessary road.

The dirt road north was filled with zigzagging detours due to road construction, a real time killer. The only town along the route with a gas station was completely out. There was no way I would have enough fuel to get all the way to Sucre. I bought a warm Coke and a pack of knock-off Oreos and took a break. It’s all I would have to eat for the day, and I didn’t finish either.

I made it to Puna, where I would catch the small dirt road – again, no gas. The shadows on the ground were getting longer. It would be dark in a couple of hours and I need to get to the paved road before that happened.

My “small dirt road” bypass turned out to be a bombed out disaster of a trail filled with craters, large rocks, and pockets my favorite talcum powder-like Bull Dust! The only thing worse, would be trying to do this in the dark. I was now exhausted, my shoulders felt like cement, and I was completely fatigued. The cold, altitude changes, and the already 8-hours on the dirt had taken it's toll.

I had no choice but to push hard and race the setting sun. I was standing up on the pegs and going as fast as I possibly could go. On my GPS I could see the thick red line going west to east across my screen and me, the arrow atop a perpendicular thin blue line heading north. I was so close. Once I reached that red line, it would be 80-mph to my front door, an ibuprofen with a scotch chaser, hot shower, and straight to bed. It was all I could think about. Meanwhile, there was no avoiding the potholes and rocks. On several occasions, after a bone-jarring impact I made a mental note to check for bent rims when I got home. Then BLAMO, another deep hole – “also check for cracks in the frame”.

Coming to a fork in the road in the middle of a small village. I stopped to ask a man for directions. He pointed out my direction, but mentioned that I would not be able to get through. “Por que?” “Bloqueos”, he replied. That’s not right, I thought, and headed out again. I asked someone else, and they said the same, and suggested I use a walking trail. No thanks. I kept going, but the news started to sink in. I was so tired. Then it happened. I entered a long patch of bull dust going too fast. I fought it for as long as I could, but eventually with the front wheel “swimming” in one direction, and the rear wheel seemingly in another, the road won and I went down (thanks to Adam for adding “drama” to the above photo). I will never admit to wanting to cry, but I was completely and utterly frustrated. I was so close, but the carrot dangling in front of my face was now fading from view. I somehow managed to pick the bike up without unpacking it.

Eventually, I hit a patch of paved road that connected to the main highway but I also started coming across people walking in the opposite direction. I started asking every other person about the situation. ARGH!, the blockades where not just in the city of Potosi, but the whole department (or State) or Potosi. Again, I had no choice to continue.

It was now dark and I was the only vehicle on the road. It was a creepy feeling. Finally, I reached the first roadblock, a line of rocks across the road. In the photo above I had turned from the crowd of people mingling in the road behind me to snap the photo. I got off the bike and tried to talk to a couple of guys about getting through. I could see a gas station down the road and ask if I could go there. Nobody was in charge, and these guys were just standing around, so of course they said “yes, it was okay”. What did they care? I crept by, but could feel the glares. I made no eye contact with anybody. At the gas station, naturally, I was told that they were all out. I asked if I could just stay there and sleep next to the bike in the parking lot, it seemed like the safest option, and I was down to only one bar on my gas gauge. He told me that I could get through to the town of Betanzos where there were a couple of hotels.

The road was strewn with boulders and people milling about, from either being stranded or because of the “excitement” of the event. Once in town I was pointed to a hotel. They had a room for $3 and I could bring my bike in through the front door to park in the back. Oh, and the owner of the hotel had a few liters of gas that he would sell me in the morning. That was the good news. The bad news was that my bike was not going to fit through the door, and up the salmon ladder-like flight of stairs. I would have to unload the bike and take off one pannier. I loosened my mirrors and fished my handlebars through the doorframe and powered up the stairs, while both bar-ends scraped each wall. I looked to the hotelier see if he minded the scratches, but he just nodded.

The hotel was full of stranded workers already in bed at 9:00. I locked all the gear to the bike and pulled the cover over it. I took only my remaining cookies and water up the two flights of stairs to my room. I had two more cookies, stripped down to my Capilenes (long underwear), relieved my bladder into an empty water bottle, and fell into bed. Usually, after a hard day of riding, there is always a sense of accomplishment, but on this day I had none. I couldn’t remember being this tired.

At the crack of dawn, the Mrs. of the house said that I would be able to get through the blockades. I loaded up the bike and bought 10-liters of gas out of a jerry can. I followed in the direction of the crowd of people. Again, I was the only vehicle moving, I thought there would have been a line of cars and trucks wanting to get out. As I passed the people walking I started to hear disparaging remarks being shouted at me, it was a tense scene. Then I approached a line of men, four deep, standing across the road. It sure didn’t look like the blockade was over, but I was not going to stop to ask. With my feet, I paddled the bike up to the crowd in first gear, the choke still on. I couldn’t let the bike stall, or to get pushed over, I just needed to move through the crowd slowly, never allowing the bike to come to a stop. Men instantly gathered around the bike. It was obvious that many of them had been up all night drinking. Many started grabbing at the gear on the bike acting as though they were taking something, shouting who knows what at me. Thankfully, the crowd continued to part and once there was no one in front of me, I hit the throttle, half hoping that I was dragging someone behind me.

Since being home the blockades lasted another 16-days, with tourist being trapped the whole time. The town was seriously close to running out of all food and drinkable water. I was lucky, my inconvenience was minor compared to what others had to endure.

Currently, there are blockades throughout the department of Ouro.

Salta

2010-08-23T05:39:00.001-07:00

On July 19^th, I somewhat reluctantly left Sucre during a window of good weather to head down to Argentina with the sole purpose of initiating Bolivia’s arduous visa extension process. Bad weather had been passing through on a weekly basis, and there had been a road blockade a week prior in the southern Bolivian district of Tarija.

However, once I was on the bike I was fine. The day warmed up and I was reminded how good it felt to be “going somewhere”. I would also be traveling on familiar roads and stopping in familiar towns with familiar hotels, which offered a since of ease about the trip. Once in Argentina, I would be meeting up with some past acquaintances that I never thought I would see again.

The road to Potosi was paved and clear, the weather perfect, south of there it would be dirt roads and construction all the way to the border. I would stay the night in Tupiza in the same hotel as I did back in October. It had ample parking and was poplar with overland travelers and jeep tour operators so it would be a good place to get information on road and weather conditions from the northbound travelers.

Do to recent rains, many of the riverbeds had some "flow" to them. In Bolivia, the usually dry riverbeds are incorporated into the road system. Nothing was too deep, but I did get stuck while crossing one riverbed. I just so happened to be wearing my GoPro helmet camera when it happened and was able to film it (video). It was not the most dramatic video ever shot, but what it does show, is how fast and friendly people come to your aid, even without asking. I always ride alone, but in many respects, I am never really alone.

The next day I crossed the crowded border of Argentina a La Quiaca. From there I had two hours of driving in the open plains battling some pretty strong crosswinds. Once in the mountains, I crossed the Tropic of Capricorn for the 5^th, 6^th, or 10^th time (?) and entered the town of seven colors, Purmamarca, for a repeat visit. The next day would be an easy three-hour ride into my destination of Salta.

I had passed by the city of Salta on two previous occasions, writing it off as a congested larger city (Argentina’s 8^th largest) that I thought best to avoid. I was wrong. Salta is one of the better-preserved colonial cities of Argentina, and has loads of charm. It was founded in 1582, and was a major hub between Lima, Peru and Buenos Aires, when the Spanish would transport their gold and silver laden loot from Peru and Bolivia (Potosi) in caravans to the Atlantic coast. The city is said to be the most Spanish of all Argentine cities. I thought it very reminiscent of Seville, with it’s main-square encompassed with orange trees, colonial buildings, and outside cafes. I liked it!

Friday, I got my passport stamped without incident.

Rubber Stamping Conquistador

2010-07-19T09:56:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow, July 19^th, I leave Sucre for a 2-3 day journey to Salta, Argentina. My original plan was to leave today, but due to a cold front that came up from Patagonia, the weather here and in Argentina has been terrible - with road closures because of ice and snow. According to weather reports I have a one-week window of good weather before the next front hits.

I must be out of Bolivia by July 25^th, the end of my initial 90-day period. Based on Bolivian logic (a contradictory term in it’s truest sense), I must leave the country in order to apply for an extended visa, before being allowed re-entry. My suggestion of, “Why don’t I pretend to leave Bolivia and fill out the paper work here?” did not go over so well - with the immigration officer looking at me like I was the idiot. So, I am traveling two days for a rubber stamp. Of course, I am screwed if I am denied re-entry (anything is possible here) because I am leaving a lot of important belongings in my Sucre apartment.

Once I have the sacred stamp in my passport, I will have 30-days to complete the visa application process. This will include a city tour the medical and bureaucratic establishments of Sucre. I will need; blood tests, chest x-rays, fingerprints on file, bank account reports, police background checks, two different letters from an attorney, a letter by an notary, a letter from where I am volunteering, and tax and utility records from my landlord (who, like most people here, does not claim the income and is unable to furnish the tax information. I will have to worry about this later.) On my best day in the States, I would not wish to tackle this mission, but here it’s going to be a completely different “sport”. Once I have the visa, I am good to stay in Bolivia for up to one year, and will be able to leave the country and return as I wish – enabling me to go home for a visit.

Within two-hours of leaving Sucre, I will be passing through Potosi to pick up the dirt road heading south. At 14,000-ft Potosi is one of the highest cities in the world. I have traveled on this particular road twice before, and in exactly the same spot both times I have encountered a hailstorm. Bizarre, but I have heard the same from other travelers. I could be wrong, but I am convinced that the spirits of the over eight million men killed in the nearby Cerro Rico mines are sending an unwelcoming message to gringos that get to close, and who can blame them. (Yesterday, this portion of road was closed due to snow.)

The longer I am off the bike, the more anxious I am about getting back on it. I don’t know where this comes from, because once on the bike I am always reminded how “kick ass” the experience is and how much I have missed it. I have always felt safe and confident on the bike, and have enjoyed every mile (well, enjoyed some more than others), but for some reason I get a little apprehensive. To overcome this sensation, I go through a process of psyching myself up, so by the time I need to go I am “jones-ing” for the road. Usually, just the process of packing the bike with some old Stones on the iPod will do the trick, other times it takes a little more.

This trip is going to be damn cold, so I have needed a bit more motivation getting back into the saddle. After watching the movie “1492” yesterday while keeping warm under the covers, I have decided to go with the visualization of a Spanish conquistador preparing for battle. This should do the trick, and because I always cheer for the home team, I have vowed not to slaughter or pillage during this particular trip. My Gore-Tex “armor” has been reinstalled inside my riding suit, heated electric vest has been dusted off, and winter gloves are laid out and ready to go. My stallion has fresh oil and the seam in right pannier has been welded shut again. Ready for battle!

Tonight, I will offer up some coca leaves and rum to those 8,000,000 spirits and see if I can get a little help deicing the roads.

Tarabuco and Beyond

2010-07-04T08:27:00.001-07:00

It can take as little as 10-seconds to pass through many of the roadside villages in Peru and Bolivia. Many times, just a blur, but I have always wondered how people live in those places. The ground is dust, the road dirt, and the houses are of bricks of earth (adobe). Donkeys and cows meander through the streets at will, and dirty kids run around barefoot. No stores, gas stations, restaurants, only a small church or school if they are lucky, nothing more. I never had much reason to stay longer than my 10-second “fly-by”, but I was curious.

During my initial visit to Sucre back in October, I was introduced to the textiles of the area, and I wanted to learn more upon my return. Every once in awhile during my “10-second tours” through the dusty villages, an old woman would appear in a brightly colored shawl, or a man strained with a load of firewood on his back would be displaying a brilliantly designed poncho. These images would always stand out against the monochromatic dirt background. The people seem to have compensated for their rather drab environment with color, texture, and artistic expression.

So, since being back I have read as much as I can about the textiles of the area, visited the local museum several times, visited the textiles shops, and on Sundays, visited the market in Tarabuco.

Tarabuco is a small town about an hour southeast of Sucre, and is connected by a beautiful twisty road through the mountainous countryside (or campo) making “the getting there part” half the fun. Once there, you walk through stalls and stalls of goods sold by the indigenous people for the indigenous people. It is also where the local craftspeople take their wares to sell to visiting tourists. Of course, this is also the social event of the week where people from neighboring villages meet, and because of this, they don their best traditional clothing. I thoroughly enjoy the trip every time I go, always seeing something different, and return well fed from the traditional food stands, and with a cheek full of coca leaves.

During one of my Sunday visits, I came across a woman whose collection of weavings was just a little bit better than everybody else’s. An American woman, Alisa, was sitting there with her. She was here doing research for her masters program from the University of Florida on Bolivian women in the textile industry. We talked for a while, I bought a small weaving, and we made plans for me to visit the family she was staying with in a small village about two hours from Sucre.

Later that following week I ventured out to find their home. The town was not on any map, (GPS or paper), there would be no road signs, and due to some road construction, I would have to take a detour. My landlord was familiar with the area and drew me a small map, which included one dry river crossing. After my fourth dry river crossing, I knew that I was lost. An hour or two later, I finally found the rock-paved road that I was looking for (see video).

It was a great visit and I immediately hit it off with Santusa and her husband. I was able to watch her weave for a while and ended up buying a red wool shawl (or manton) in the traditional Tarabuqueño style. The 80-year old grandmother made some lunch, and then Alisa took me for a walk to visit some of the other weavers in the area.

It was a great introduction to village life and I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it. I asked Santusa and Damian if I could come back and stay for several days or a week once Alisa departed for the States, when her room was vacant. They seemed as excited as I was and we agreed to touch base later. It was a beautiful ride home at sunset, now knowing the way “out”. I was filled with a sense of wonder and satisfaction, and could not wait to come back.

Video: "Do You Ever Get Lost?"

Sucre, Bolivia

2010-05-18T05:49:00.001-07:00

I have now been in Sucre for two months, and I am preparing for the process of obtaining a yearlong visa. So, I guess you could say the gamble paid off. I am not sure if I will stay for the entire year, or maybe even longer, but I am focused on life here and not thinking of moving anytime soon. I know what you are thinking, and no, the trip is not over, and no, nobody is pregnant.

So why here? Well, I could recite the list offered by the guidebooks:

· The city is an UNESCO World Cultural Heritage site, and political capital of Bolivia.

· Sucre is picturesque sitting in a bowl at 9,000-ft surrounded by mountains.

· At 9,000-ft the weather is comfortable with warm days in the upper 70’s and cool evenings in the 50’s.

· You are guaranteed a clear blue sky almost everyday.

· The city core is completely walk-able and there are several green spaces throughout the city, giving it convivial energy.

· The population of 250,000 is neither too big nor too small, and assures enough services to make certain you get want you need.

· There are two universities here, the oldest dating back to 1624.

· There is ample history in the region, with the signing of the country’s Declaration of Independence after Simon Bolivar kicked out the Spanish – starting in Venezuela and ending here. Che Guevara was captured and killed not far from here.

· Sucre is centered in an area rich with indigenous cultural tradition, offering a chance to travel back in time.

· And, it is damn cheap.

All of these things make Sucre an enjoyable and very livable place. However, there is something else here – there must be, because I have been to other livable places, and had no problem moving on, i.e., Medellin and Mendoza. I am not the only one either, many travelers that were originally passing through either stayed, or soon returned to live here permanently (whatever permanent means). So, there is a vibe or energy that attracts certain people and to ignore that attraction seems unnaturally to me at this point.

Of course, it could be me too, or the combination of Sucre and me? Once I reached the bottom in Ushuaia and began my journey back up, I vowed to have a different kind of trip. I stowed the travel guide and made up the trip as I went along – no longer a tourist. I had no expectations, and I wasn’t going to chase down any more “attractions”. No more “must see” sites. If the tour buses went right, I would fake right, and go left. It was liberating, and I could feel the trip changing.

I arrived in Sucre on April 27^th tired. I knew I had spent too much time in Patagonia, and the cold winds and dirt roads had taken a lot out of me. My body, had held together long enough to get here, and then shut down. I knew it was coming, and should have paid more attention to the warning signs, but it was almost like it was inevitable – I needed a “shut down”. So, after a few days in a hostel popular with “overlanders”, I moved into an apartment and remained in bed for four days. It was the sickest I had been on the trip and was eventually forced to take a course of antibiotics, which did the trick.

With time, I seem to have found a groove here. A typical day for me is to wake and have coffee on my patio (I found a great apartment in the French Consulate building with a large patio and views of the nearby mountains for $250 /month), and on good days I do a little yoga on an old camping mat before showering and heading out - always walking. On my way to Ñanta I walk through the Mercado, which is always bustling with activity. There I pick up a salteña ($.25) from a street vendor (an empanada like food popular for breakfast here; filled with beef or chicken, kalamata olives, hard-boiled egg, raisins, peas, potatoes, spices (a bit sweet), and if I have time, I will stop at one of the many juice stalls and custom order fresh fruit smoothie (.75) and try to get through some of the local newspaper that is always on hand. I love the energy in the market and try and pass through at least twice a day.

Once at the center, I collect my two kids and walk back towards the market to the dentist’s office. The dentist is a good example of how the more fortunate here understand the strife of many of their countrymen and try to help out when they can. She has reduced her prices and allows special times to see only our kids. The office is nothing fancy and I may be asked to help out during a particular difficult extraction, manning the water and suction devices, or handing the doctor tools that I do not know the names of. This is all part of the Bolivian experience – expect anything!

Back at the center, we work on homework or art projects. The kids go to school in shifts so there is always children there working. I may stay and have lunch with the kids or start back towards town and stop for lunch at one of the local “tipico” cafeterias.

Lunch is my favorite meal here. Most places will have a small blackboard posted out on the sidewalk with the day’s two course offering. There is always a soup, usually of chicken stock, rich with potatoes and vegetables, with rice or pasta. Some places offer a choice of two main courses, but in most cases there is only one entrée offered, so you just sit down and the food comes – no wasting time looking over menus. The main course is usually chicken or beef over a bed of rice, and more potatoes. (The Incan’s were the first to cultivate potatoes, and it was their gift to the rest of the world). Sauces are usually a bit “picante” and have a little kick to them. The drink is usually a Kool-Aid type mix. I have only been surprised once, when two chicken feet surfaced in my soup bowl, but those were easy to work around. Lunch is always 10-Bolivianos, or $1.40.

After lunch, I have two hours of Spanish instruction with an attractive woman who is equipped with patience and a good sense of humor – both necessary if you are going to try and teach me anything. Every Friday we have class on my patio and end the session by cracking open a bottle of Bolivia’s finest, which isn’t always that bad (Bolivia’s wine and fruit region is about four hours south of here).

Evenings are cool enough to put on a sweater but not much more is necessary (July and August is at the height of the winter here), and walking through town has changed moods with all the white colonial buildings illuminated by up lights mounted in the sidewalks. The parks are filled with families strolling before a late dinner, and the vibe is sociable and always safe. (I have never felt threatened here.)

There is a large international contingent in Sucre, so dinner can be as interesting as you like it. German, Dutch, French, and others offer their culinary influence and a four-course dinner with wine and espresso- for two people can be had for around $30. It’s a good place to pretend you are a big spender.

There are plenty of bars and discos, and Bolivians cannot be far behind the Japanese in their love of karaoke, however, it is not for me.

Weekends, I often times take the bike out to one of the nearby villages, or I am involved with an outing with the kids from the center.

I am not sure when I will leave, and I realize that time here is exhausting resources that will ultimately take away from the total length of the trip, but I also know that I am not ready to leave South America. And for me, Bolivia offers what I like best about the continent, and at a value. I have seen much of South America, and to a degree, experienced it, but this is an opportunity to get off the bike and "live it". Experiencing it in a way that is impossible when only staying a week or two somewhere. I am making friends and relationships that I will carry with me when I leave, and memories that will last a lifetime, which has always been the whole point of the trip.

Desert Relief

2010-05-18T05:48:00.001-07:00

After leaving San Pedro de Atacama, I continued north through the desert. Not as hot as you would think as long as you kept moving, but dry ... very very dry. The scenery was anything but interesting, after the first 30-minutes of riding, it was like someone kept pushing the replay button: sand, power lines, more sand, roadside trash, even more sand, trucks carry ridiculously large tires, followed by sand - repeat. The road was essentially a truck route for supplying the many different mines of the region. Thankfully, I had motivation to keep going. I knew that by the end of the day, I would be sitting on a beach dipping my toes into the cool Pacific.

Iquique, Chile is an odd juxtaposed place, sequestered from the rest of the world. It is one of the few places in northern Chile where the rugged terrain gently meets the ocean, rather than the inapproachable seaside cliffs. You would never suspect that there is an ocean nearby until you cross that last set of mountainous dunes. Then it’s a crazy set of switchbacks down to the water.

I found an aging mid-century hotel that had lost its original luster but sat on premium real estate at the edge of the natural harbor. My two days there turned into four, doing nothing but walking on the beach, eating fresh seafood, and having the lapping of the waves lull me to sleep.

It was all very relaxing, but Bolivia laid heavy on my mind. I was a half-day’s ride from the border and two days away from my goal of finally reaching Sucre. I was feeling tense. What if Sucre couldn’t live up to my initial impression made back in October? What if my memory of the place was being too generous? I had driven 1,000-miles out of my way to follow a hunch, not to mention another two weeks riding down through northern Argentina for a third time if it did not work out.

After four days of R&R, I loaded the bike up with two 4-liter jugs of extra gas. It would take me less than four hours to cross the entire width of Chile and enter Bolivia at the sleepy border crossing of Pisiga Bolivar. I say “sleepy” because at 3:00 in the afternoon the Bolivian border guard was still taking his nap, and answered my pounding on the door with annoyance, sleepy eyes, and “bed-head”. I met his annoyance with a double dose of my own. I am usually more patient, and do not expect anything that resembles competence at borders, but I was only halfway through my day’s ride, with only a quarter of a day’s sunlight left, which was not enough to get me to Ouro before dark. There was a lot of dirt road to cover and no place to stop before there. I sat down at his desk, with no less that 18-different rubber stamps on display – I kid you not.

By 4:00 I was back on the road, still wondering, “would I like Sucre?”

The Up and Over

2010-04-21T14:09:00.001-07:00

April 21, 2010

Forgive me for my lack of blogging lately. I have had terrible luck getting quality internet access, plus have not had a lot of time to write. In the meantime, here is a quick update:

I now find myself in northern Chile in San Pedro de Atacama. I crossed over from Argentina at Paso de Jama two days ago and sent a new altitude record for the trip at 15,810-ft. I also set a new "descent record" on the other side, losing over 5,000-ft in less than 15-minutes- on a long straight road coming out of the sky. I thought I was landing a plane! It was a windy chilly up-and-down day, but the transition has introduced spectacular new landscapes. I did okay with the altitude, having taken the advice of a local before leaving and keeping a cheek full of coca leaves during the trip.

Since being in San Pedro, I have taken day trips on the bike to visit salt beds, lunar landscapes, and flamingo filled lakes. The air is dry and crisp and it is hard to stay hydrated, but nothing is unbearable, and the stars that pop out at night make it even that more special and worth it.

Today, I accomplished another proud first. I changed my front tire all by myself! (something Ewan never had to do.) The 100 degree heat probably helped soften the rubber, but it didn't do me any favors.

If the wheel stays on, I will be traveling north tomorrow continuing up on through the Atacama Desert, the driest desert on Earth, entering Bolivia in two days and apartment shopping in a week's time in Sucre. I am excited to stop for a while, and catch up on things. Life is good, not always easy, but good.

I hope you all are well.

Mike

Video: The Up and Over

Nancy's Cabin

2010-04-20T14:34:00.000-07:00

Nancy’s cabin is not Nancy’s at all.

Nancy and I had met on the cruise to Antarctica and she invited me to come visit her at her home in the Cordoba province of Argentina while on my trip back up north. A month later I was knocking on her door.

She had lived much of her life in the United States born to an American mother and Argentine father, but her heart had always been in Argentina. So, when it was time to retire, she bought a house with some land in the foothills outside the small town of Villa de Los Rosas. It was a tranquil setting among olive trees and vineyards. Via email, I had accepted the generous offer of sharing Easter weekend with her and visiting family members. Because of her guests filling her house, I would be staying a small house owned by an out of town neighbor at the end of the secluded dirt road – a half-mile from her house.

I had thought that this time at her house would be a good time to get some work done. I wanted to schedule a conference call with the Write Around the World board members for a long overdue meeting, while also preparing plans for re-entering Bolivia. I had just changed the bike’s oil, swapped out a new rear tire, and had a crack in one of the aluminum panniers welded back in Mendoza, so the bike was ready to go. I was in TCB mode –takin’ care of business!

When I got to the cabin, I realized that there wasn’t going to be any conference call, or hot showers, or cooking. It was rustic. Prior to my arrival, Nancy had cleared the cobwebs, swept the floors, and hung a fresh towel. The place had been locked up for awhile, and needed some fresh air. The tall overgrown grass full surrounding the place was full of moths and other flying bugs. This was going to be quasi-camping – I would need to changed modes. I didn’t have any real food with me, so the plan was to have dinner at Nancy’s, and wake up and ride into town the following day to get some provisions.

The day ride from Mendoza to Cordoba had been hot…real hot. Four of my prior six days in Mendoza had broken 100F, and the ride here was seven hours on a mind-numbing stretch of linear asphalt. My body is no longer acclimated to that kind of heat. I was beat. After dinner at Nancy’s, I rode the bike back to the house and fell straight asleep on the made-up day bed, but woke hours later from a chill coming from the open window. I got up and closed the window and walked out onto the back porch to view the sky – clouds were coming in and lightening was flashing in the distance. The weather was changing.

The next morning I walked to Nancy’s for coffee in the waterproof jacket that I bought out of necessity in Punta Arenas. The road tunneled through a blanket of heavy fog that obscured the treetops. It was a Nick Drake kind of day, and that’s what I was listening to when a car stopped to pick me up. I was really enjoying the walk - the smells brought out by the dampness, the old church peering out of the haze, the emptiness of the road - I didn’t want to accept the ride, but did not want to seem rude by refusing a ride in the rain.

Nancy made some strong coffee and served fresh fruit, which was a welcome reprieve from the typical Argentine breakfast of bread and dulce de leche (a sweet caramel type spread). She offered up her car so that I could go into town but I declined, favoring to take the bike once I got back to the cabin.

Once I got back to the cabin the skies opened up, and they opened wide. The day had started moist, but now was soaking wet. Within minutes, the uphill portion of the dirt road became impassable and unwise to attempt, let known a mess of a trip. The trip to town was out of the question. Nancy had commented on how it always, without fail, rains on Easter weekend, and I returned with, “Yeah, like our 4^th of July’s in Seattle”

(It’s not always easy to slow down, to smell the roses, to look up at the sky, to sit still. It takes a conscious effort, sometimes even a forced one. Since this trip began, the stopping has not always been the easiest part for me. Among other things, it requires you to contend with the loneliness. I avoid it when I can, but in situations like this I am forced to…uh, relax. (I am not expecting any sympathy here J)

I went through my bags and found a can of pressed “pork bits”, a can of tuna, and some tea bags. On the shelf in the open kitchen I found an unopened package of crackers. Going into town was no longer necessary. I set up my camp stove, made some tea out on the back porch, set up a lawn chair, and opened up my Kindle and started Malcom Gladwell’s Outliers. I can enjoy this I thought.

Later, in the afternoon, the rain slowed to a continuous drizzle. The hummingbirds resumed making their rounds, which prompted me to get out of the chair and move. I decided it was time to bury the dead fox that I had come across in the drained swimming pool while exploring the property the day before. I had also discovered some shovels and picks in the open shed attached to the house. Not a task that I was eager to tackle, but knowing that it was there, prodded me to get it over with. It turned into a proper ceremony, unknowingly at first, but the activity had taken on a special meaning for me. Earlier that week, I received news that Lisa had finally lost her battle with ovarian cancer. I would be burying a fox but saying good-bye to a friend.

The remaining five days at the cabin were more than enjoyable. The rain finally broke a couple days later, and I enjoyed more meals with Nancy, visited an olive oil production house, and attended the Saturday morning artisan market in the square. Nancy and I said goodbye and promised to stay in touch. I left feeling calm and rested.

Lisa Thompson

1966-2010

Chaiten

2010-03-17T14:04:00.001-07:00

March 15, 2010

I could never get the straight scoop on Chaiten. “It’s a ghost town”. “No one is there, they all left”. “Chile is going to bulldoze it and be done with it all”… and “No, there is no longer a ferry running out from Chaiten to Chiloe Island”.

For the past week now I have been traveling up the Carretera Austral, a curvaceous dirt road that runs between the Pacific Ocean and The Andes Mountains. The road weaves between many glacier fed lakes, and the glaciers that feed them. It is an incredibly beautiful ride and very famous with overland travelers because of it.

Chaiten is small coastal town at the northern dead end of the road, or where Chile has yet to find a way to continue the road due to the many fjords, lakes, and the “squeeze” of the nearby Argentine border. With such a small population base it does not seem to make sense anyway. Therefore, the importance of Chaiten is that it has always been a hub for the ferry going to the island of Chiloe and the continuation of the road (the Pan-American Highway actually ends at the south end of the island), leading to the mainland at Puerto Montt. However, in 2008 the neighboring Michinmahuida volcano blew its lid and annihilated the town. Two days ago, in Coihaique, I bought I ferry ticket leaving from Chaiten, so here I sit.

Walking around the town could not be more eerie. It would all make sense if a film crew were to round the corner with Wes Craven or David Lynch directing from the arm of a crane, but the only activity on the streets are two police trucks constantly patrolling the grid. It appears that people left in a hurry with doors locked up, but that’s about it. A few people have come back, and there has been an effort to bulldoze the ash and sand from the streets, but it is far from welcoming. The hum of generators is omnipresent – there is no electricity here. There is a gas station and a couple of basic market stores, but only canned and packaged stuff – no refrigeration. I approached two different hotels thinking they were operational –they looked open complete with a hanging “Abierto” sign in the window, but approaching the door, the dust covered windows and faded posters of nearby attractions is the only indicator that their clocks stopped a long time ago. The fire station still has the ping-pong table set up with two dusty paddles atop, one with a ball wedge underneath it, ready to play. The produce market still has veggies on the shelves although a bit wilted. The travel information office still has its computer monitor atop the counter ready to book a sightseeing trip.

I did find a small cabana for rent (the only hotel in town) and the ferry dock is not far away. During another time my room with a view of the Gulf of Corcovado would have offered a pleasant sunset, but now it is a rather distressing view.

I don’t know the current politics of rebuilding or demolishing, but the town has an aura of being forgotten (not helped by the recent earthquake up north). However sad that may be, it may be the right thing to do, because the smoking gun that caused all of this is still smoking.

Videos:

Hanging Glacier

Carretera Austral

A Year on the Road

2010-03-17T13:51:00.000-07:00

One Tuesday a year ago I woke up, had some coffee, pulled out of the driveway and drove south - a year later, I could go no further.

The Logistics:

Over 21,000 miles (20,960 from Seattle to Ushuaia).
Four complete tire changes
Six oil changes
Approximately 150 trips to the gas station
14 different countries traveled
Three continents visited.
20 border crossings (9 involving the Argentina/Chile border, and not including Antarctica)
Reached the most southern point of the trip (I think) at Longitude 65. 50'S.

March 10, 2010 marked my one-year anniversary on the road. If the plan sticks, I have four more left. On this particular day I found myself in Coihaique, Chile as I was navigating the dirt roads back up north. I have thought a lot about this date and what it would mean to me; what I have experienced since leaving, what I have missed, and how will I proceed. These are some of my "reflections":

Reflections:

I have not answered a phone in over 11-months.

I have not received one speeding ticket nor been harassed by the police. For the most part, they have been my biggest fans – always interested and wanting to help. It is almost disappointing.

I have ridden almost every mile alone (the exception being a week in Central America). I do not object to riding with someone, but do admit I like traveling solo. However, it would be nice to have dinner with someone after a long day.

Adventure travel is an odd beast; you spend time poking around looking for trouble, while at the same trying to avoid it. The saying, “It doesn’t get interesting until something goes wrong”, contradicts your actions of constantly trying to prevent things from going wrong.

My peripheral vision has improved. I continue to keep a diligent eye on my belongings and on myself, but it seems to occur more naturally now, taking much less energy and stress to perform. I believe it is another one of those natural instinctive reflexes that we lose living in a safe and secure environment - the reflex simply goes dormant. Although, a stealthy dog attacking from the side can still scare the sh** out me.

The writer Paul Theroux once said, “Travel is not a vacation, and it is often the opposite of a rest.” With this in mind and when the opportunity presents its self, a day spent in bed watching cable is cherished and looked upon with great admiration.

The odds of running into someone that wants to help you are far greater than running into someone that wants to harm you

Warm places beget warm people.

The laptop remains to be a tether to the “outside world”. Sometimes I think I am missing out on a greater experience by having it. At this point, however, I am going to stick with it. I am not convinced that holding on is such a terrible thing.

Physically, my low back has been my weakest area. I can usually stay on top of it by doing my basic routine of back and abdominal exercises, although, I could be more consistent with them. Nothing has ever gotten too bad, but I have had some slowing moving days.

No matter how tired I am at the end of the day, my mind continues to race at 80-mph after the bike stops. I need to stop and chill for a bit - a cold beer can help. It’s a time where I unconsciously process day - the thousands of images and scenes that have played out, the smells, the temperature, the faces – everything. Sort of like “viewing the dailies” in the movie business, but incorporating all the senses.

The trip itself has been infinitely easier than the two years of preparation before leaving. I believe that this is in part to my thinking that the preparation would be so much easier than it was, and in contrast, had visualized the journey being so much more difficult and troublesome than it has been.

I consider this past year a great success, in many ways, but nothing compares to what we have been able to do with Write Around the World. A small group of friends started this project from scratch, not knowing anything about operating a non-profit corporation, raising funds, or how to ship goods to a third world country – nothing. Yet we managed to ship over 1000-pounds of needed school supplies (duty free) to Guatemala this past year, and have established ourselves to do more this year. I have never been prouder of anything and owe it all to Amy, Erin, Michelle, Debbie, Kelli, and Ray back home.

I think of Africa almost everyday. For me, Africa is the trip. It will be my biggest accomplishment and my biggest challenge. Everything I have done up to now has been in preparation for Africa.

If I had to sum up everything to date in one sentence, it would be this:
I have a long way to go.

What’s Next ?: My Social Experiment

Now that I have attained my goal of making it to the bottom, and with a trip to Antarctica as icing on the cake, I want the trip back up north to be a different kind of experience. I want to return to what I liked best about South America. I have enjoyed Chile and Argentina, but they are a bit too well off for me. I know it is incredibly selfish to say, but I miss the struggle of the countries up north. There is something raw and honest about life there and an energy that appeals to me, attracts me even. It's also where ancient cultures continue to thrive. It’s not as though I enjoy seeing the poverty, it is incredibly sad and I hope for its betterment, but I also feel that I could be somewhat useful there. Not entirely sure how I could help, maybe just being there will mean something. Therefore, I am making my way back up to Sucre, Bolivia where I hope to volunteer at Write Around the World’s second project, enroll in Spanish classes, get in shape for Africa, and find a way to become self-sufficient through some sort of employment. I will get an apartment and plan on staying for several months. I have proven to myself that I can move a motorcycle from “A to B”, but I want to see what happens when I stop. I failed miserably in Punta Arenas, but this will be on my terms. I want to try and be part of a community again.

Finally, I will leave you with this: Seldom, when I think that all this wind and sun, bad food and cheap hotels, road grime and exhaust may be accelerating the ageing process, I read this quote from George Carlin that I keep with me….

Life’s journey is not to arrive at the grave safely in a well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, totally used up and worn out, shouting ‘… man, what a ride!

Antarctic Chill

2010-03-17T13:50:00.001-07:00

I almost didn't go. It was a big expense and I had just gone through the costly delay in Punta Arenas, which itself would have paid for the Antarctica cruise. My downfall was reading Ernest Shackleton's memoir "South" on my Kindle. Just like your 4th grade teacher used to tell you, "reading can make history come alive". I then moved on to other Antarctic explorers, like Scott and Amundsen - it truly was the last continent on Earth left to explore and it had not changed much since they were there.

By that time, I was emotionally committed, so the value of the trip kept increasing as the price stayed the same. I had to go. My experience in Patagonia had been "good", but I was fairly certain that I would not be down this way again anytime soon. This was a opportunity not to miss.

All the cruises to the white continent leave from Ushuaia, Argentina. I had shopped around, but the season was coming to a close - the weather was changing and the penguin chicks would soon be old enough to leave their hatcheries for the open water, so I had to choose from the ships that had mid-February departure dates. I chose the Antarctic Dream.

When I say cruise, I don't mean onboard casinos, poolside lounge chairs, or climbing walls. Our cruise of 55 passengers was aboard a refurbished 1957 ship originally built for the Chilean Navy for the purpose of servicing the country's scientific bases in Antarctica. She was a true battle-axe reinforced for heavy ice, but proved plenty comfortable for our purposes.

It is hard to sum up the experience of visiting Antarctica, but in this case, absolutely a trip of a lifetime within a trip of a lifetime. The combination of unobstructed wildlife, historical adventure, and being the world’s premier sculpture park make it one of the most unique places on Earth. I had high expectations, and was not disappointed in the least.

Below is the ten-day itinerary and link to the video that coincides with it:

18 Feb 2010, Ushuaia 54º 48’S, 68º18.1’ W, Departure

The Antarctic Dream was docked alongside the pier in Ushuaia waiting for everyone to embark and start our journey to the Antarctic Peninsula. We boarded and started getting familiar with our new home for the next ten days to come. We participated on our first briefing introducing the expedition staff and the ship’s crew and we sailed just after 6pm. We watched Ushuaia from the outer decks at departure, our last view of civilization for ten days. After that we met for the safety drill and joined our new friends for a welcome cocktail and our first dinner onboard. We sailed the Beagle Channel and around 11pm the Argentinean pilot disembarked and we were underway towards the Drake Passage.

19 Feb 2010 – Drake Passage, Day at Sea

The weather conditions on our first day on the Drake Passage were very good. Throughout the day we had presentations on the natural history of the creatures we are most likely to see during our crossing of the Drake and at the Antarctic Peninsula as well as one introduction to Antarctica.

20 Feb 2010 – Drake Passage and South Shetland Islands

Our crossing of the Drake Passage continued smoothly. We started the morning with lectures on penguins and mammals, and we were briefed on the IAATO regulations and landing etiquette.

21 Feb 2010 – South Shetland Islands, Aitcho Is. 62º32´S, 59º47´W (Tº: -5ºC) , Half Moon is. 62º36´S, 59º55´W (Tº: -3ºC)

Our first landing! The morning was very cold. We disembarked on Barrientos Island, one of the Aitcho islands. During the visit we walked a short distance along the beach and had excellent views of Gentoo penguins sitting on their nests, guarding the chicks. We also saw a few busy Chinstrap penguins going to their nests, located on the higher side of the island. We continued walking on sand, snow and mud to reach the higher side of Aitcho, where we visited an elephant seal’s wallow, where they stay together while they moult their fur, helping each other keep warm. During lunch time the ship repositioned at Half Moon, an area formerly used by sealers, where the Argentinean base Cámara stands today. The Captain skilfully manoeuvred the ship into the bay and soon the zodiacs were on the water to start taking us ashore. We walked along the island until we reached a Chinstrap colony, and we spotted a group of Antarctic Fur seals basking on the beach. We returned aboard and sailed South on the Bransfield Strait.

22 Feb 2010 – Gerlache Strait, Neko Harbour 64º50´S, 62º33´W (Tº: 4ºC), Dorian Bay, Wiencke I. 64º49´S, 63º30´W (Tº: 5ºC)

In the morning we sailed towards Andvord Bay for Neko Harbour. Our intention was to set foot on the Antarctic continent. We started with a hike to a viewpoint, were we enjoyed a view of the whole bay, with its high mountains and glaciers. Then we slid down. At the landing site, the hotel staff was waiting for us with champagne, so we made a toast to our continental landing. Then we sailed to Wiencke Island, and we landed after lunch. The weather in the afternoon was very nice and clear. We climbed the hill, and we had a beautiful view of Dorian Bay, Goudier I., and Jougla Point.

23 Feb 2010 – Lemaire Channel, Petermann is. 65º10´S, 64º10`W (Tº: 6ºC), Pleneau 65º06´S, 64º02´W (Tº: 1ºC)

This morning we sailed through the Lemaire Channel aiming for our southernmost point of the expedition. We started the day with a visit to Petermann Island. Nesting on the island there were Blue-eyed shags, a small colony of Adelie penguins and the southernmost colony of Gentoo penguins. For the afternoon we went on another zodiac cruise, around Pleneau Island, and we enjoyed the beauty of the icebergs. We went further into the bay and found Leopard, Weddell and Crabeater seals, as well as Minke whales very close to the Zodiacs. The icebergs grounded in the vicinity of Pleneau had all sort of shapes and colours, each one a unique sculpture. We returned to the ship and prepared to abandon the Lemaire channel, this time returning north, and after dinner we anchored at Port Lockroy.

24 Feb 2010 – Gerlache Strait, Goudier Is. Jougla P. 64º49´S, 63º30´W (Tº: -2ºC; 7ºC), Dallmann Bay 64º20´S, 62º55´W (Tº: 1ºC; 10ºC)

In the morning, the weather conditions were not good for landing, so the captain decided to cancel the visit to Port Lockroy. So, we continued our trip northwards to Dallmann Bay. The weather at Paradise Bay was better, so we could visit the Chilean base Gonzalez Videla. There, we sent postcards and visited the photographic museum and the base’s buildings. In the afternoon, we entered Dallmann Bay in search of wildlife. The Captain cruised slowly into the bay allowing us to have great views of the seals resting on the ice floes. Then the sun appeared and it was the perfect time to enjoy the magic of Antarctica. We found Humpback and Minke Whales, and a big pod of Orcas.

25 Feb 2010 – South Shetland Islands, Deception Island 62º57´S, 60º38´W (-3ºC; 6ºC)

In the morning, we navigated through “Neptune’s Bellows” into the caldera of an active volcano: Deception Island. Once inside we could see the bay, the conditions were good, so we landed in Pendulum Cove. After a nice walk along the beach, most of us swam in the steaming waters. We sailed away from Deception and at 5pm we exited by the Nelson Strait into the Drake Passage. As soon as we left from the South Shetland Islands we found a nice Drake Passage

25 Jan 2010 – Drake Passage At Sea

In the morning, the Drake conditions were quite good and we could observe birds like giant and cape petrels, wandering albatrosses and others. We continued with the lectures of Antarctic history and the discovery of Penguins.

26 Jan 2010 – Drake Passage – Beagle Channel At Sea

During the night the waves weren´t so mellow. The day continued with some improvements as we approached the Beagle Channel.The Antarctic Dream finally entered the Beagle Channel. In the afternoon we enjoyed the presentation of the final log and a slideshow that the expedition staff prepared. The conditions were excellent,making possible for everyone to fully enjoy our last dinner onboard and get prepared for our disembarkation the following day in Ushuaia.

Antarctic Chill Video

Fin Del Mundo

2010-03-03T13:29:00.000-08:00

Photos: top, the famous sign at the end of Highway 3. Commerson's Dolphin from ferry crossing onto island of Tierra del Fuego. Flag tree. Shipwreck along Strait of Megallen

02/12/10: Life is good again. I am back fighting headwinds, but not because I am just trying to walk across the street, but because I am finally on the bike again. I swear I have never blown out of a place with such enthusiasm as I did with Punta Arenas. By the end of the day I will reach my goal of making it to the end of the road in South America. However, I know not to celebrate too fast...

While I was in Ushuaia at Christmas with Kristin, we invited a biker from Canada to join us for lunch at our table at the Irish Pub. Because the highway ends in Ushuaia, it is the destination for many overland travelers, and a tradition to be there on New Year’s Eve. Over lunch he was telling us of a recent mishap that took place involving a female motorcyclist. As he told me more, I began to ask questions. The woman he was talking about was Annette!

I had met Annette back in La Paz, Bolivia. We were staying at the same hotel and had shared a dinner together. She was from New Zealand, and was in the midst of riding her Suzuki DR650 from Prudhoe Bay, Alaska (the beginning of the road) to the end of the road in Ushuaia. When I met her, she was in a bit of a slump and was questioning whether she wanted to finish the ride or not. We talked quite a bit and we have been “friends” on Facebook ever since. The news was not good: She had just woken up in a hospital after three days in intensive care only three hours north of Ushuaia, in Rio Grande. She was found along the road with several broken ribs, a punctured lung, broken wrist, facial lacerations, and severe concussion, and her bike nearby in shambles. She had no recollection of what had happened, but everyone that has ever ridden that portion of paved road along the Atlantic coast will tell you that the crosswinds coming off the western plains feel like they are going to blow you into the ocean. Even with your bike leaning 20-30 degrees into the wind, it can still blow you sideways. If your bike drifts enough and reaches the shoulder at speed your front wheel will be swallowed by the soft gravel and, well, “lights out”.

Thankfully, Annette is fine now, and she made it to Ushuaia, but unfortunately, only to catch a flight back home. Disappointing yes, but for someone who had barely ridden at all before this trip she has an amazing adventure to tell.

The Patagonian winds in general are unrelenting and tiresome to say the least. Gusts can make you feel like a powerless ragdoll, but on the day I crossed the island of Tierra del Fuego, the angry wind gods must have been sleeping because I made it to the end of the road without incident. With my ultimate goal of reaching the top and bottom (via roads) of all our major landmasses, this was my the first check off that list.

View my video of my ride to the real end of the road.

Idle Days in Patagonia

2010-02-01T10:47:00.000-08:00

Photos: from top-1909 shipwreck on Straits of Megellan in Punta Arenas, waiting for ferry Christmas Day, cramped quarters on ferry, journal writing at the Shackleton Bar, "cormorant's fork" in Punta Arenas, Port Williams, Chile.

I limped into Punta Arenas on December 16^th. The leak in my front shock had recently started gushing, and I was starting to wonder exactly how much oil could be in there. The winds outside of town, along the Straits of Magellan, were brutal and I was waiting for the shock to fail completely, turning the frontend into a pogo stick. Luckily, it never did.

Punta Arenas is a windblown maritime township on the shore of the famous Straits of Magellan in southern most mainland Chile, only a day’s ride from my goal of reaching the end of road in Ushuaia, Argentina. I was to meet my friend Kristin in Punta Arenas, and we were going to explore the area off the bike. I was pleased to be there, and happy to have someone to spend Christmas with.

We toured the nearby penguin island, the cemetery, and the French Baroque mansions of the early sheep ranching magnates. It did not take long to exhaust the short list of sites in Punta Arenas. So, Kristin researched and found a working ferry that traveled through the fjords of Tierra del Fuego eventually docking in Chile’s most southern town, Port Williams. It was a 36-hour voyage with seating that made any airline's coach seats look luxurious. Each morning a cardboard box full of sandwiches (two slices of white bread, butter, and one slice of processed ham or cheese) was dropped off in the room of 22 backpackers, along with a jar of instant coffee packets. The 13-inch TV that was mounted in the front of room played ‘80’s German music videos and dated Spanish sitcoms, from a mysterious source somewhere else on the ship- we had no control over it. If it sounds tortuous, it was…initially, but then it became fun, kind of a parody of backer packer travel. We were fed a proper lunch and dinner, and began passing through some amazing scenery. Snowcapped peaks and glaciers were around every corner, and you couldn’t help but feel like a bearded explorer in tights searching for new lands and a passage out of the maze of islands.

We made it to Port Williams on a crisp clear Christmas morning. After a short walk around P. Williams, we found a water taxi to take us to Ushuaia. The ferry was to leave at 1:00 pm, and we were to be at the marina at 12:45. The ferry left at 7:00pm. No worries, we had two bottles of wine, cheese, and crackers. We drank, and got sunburned on the deck of a wrecked steamer that acted as the marina’s dock house. Not a bad Christmas at the end of the world.

Kristin flew out of Ushuaia on the 28^th and I took a 12-hour bus trip back to Punta Arenas to deal with the wounded bike. Before I left Seattle I had a tougher suspension mounted on the bike to handle the heavy load and bumpy dirt roads. Ohlins, a Swedish company, has a solid reputation and builds competition shocks for track and dirt bikes. The fact that my front shock seal had failed AND that my rear shock had begun to leak was not sitting well with me. My knee-jerk reaction was to have a used BMW front shock sent down to me from Seattle so that I could at the very least, get out of here. I would deal with the bigger problem later while in Buenos Aires or Santiago. However, after doing some more research and due to the fact that I wanted to take some tougher, more technical roads going back up north, I wanted complete confidence in my suspension. I decided to do the right thing and have the shocks, both front and rear, sent to the Ohlins’ dealer for Chile per the company’s website for a complete rebuild. It is something that needs to be done periodically anyway. I made contact with the rep and was assured a quick turn around time.

I got the shocks back five weeks later.

I will not bore you with the excruciating details, but will tell you that I did not handle the situation very well. I knew this time would come, and knew that I would not be able to choose where and when it was to happen, but nonetheless, I was not prepared for the boredom. I learned that I am not yet the laidback, easy-going, “c’est la vie” kind of guy that I was hoping for, but still the same uptight white guy that left almost a year ago. In my defense, it is one thing if someone tells you that you are going to be stuck somewhere for five weeks - you can adjust and plan, but when you are told “one more week”, “four more days”, “sorry, parts where lost in the mail”, “parts are stuck in customs”, “this has never happened before, maybe two more days”, well then you start to go a little crazy. Depressed actually. In a town that suffers incessant winds and erratic weather patterns and a cool populace that keeps to them selves indoors, it becomes burdensome to try and fill the long days (it is only dark five hours a night this time of year). Sound bitter?

Meanwhile, I found some salvation working out at the gym in the swanky new casino nearby, trying every restaurant in town, and reading. I was able to get through Paul Theroux’s “Old Patagonian Express”, Greg Mortenson’s “Stones Into Schools” a book of Patagonian history, and after catching the Antarctica bug in Ushuaia (all the Antarctica cruises leave from there) I read Ernest Shackleton’s memoir “South”.

During all this downtime, I had also been communicating with two travel brokers in Ushuaia that handle cruises to the Antarctic Peninsula. Of course, I could not commit to a date, so I had to sit by and watch as many “last minute” deals came and went with each departing ship. At first a frustrating inconvenience then a source of a new stress – the Antarctic season ends with February. I was starting to wonder if I was going to make it.

Eventually the saga came to a close and I was able to leave for Ushuaia on February 12^th. I would have to deal with cruise matters once I got there.

I know its part of travel, but I don’t have to like it. The time and money wasted really set me back, and I am not sure that I will ever get use to gross incompetence. I learned a lot, but knowing what I knew then, I would have done the same thing all over again.

Heading South

2010-02-01T10:32:00.001-08:00

The plan was simple, I would continue south on the paved Ruta 3 along the Atlantic coast all the way down to Tierra del Fuego, and take the more adventurous dirt roads of the famed Ruta 40 on my way back up north.

Leaving the Valdez Peninsula on December 8th I made a series of stops as I traveled down the coast:

The penguin refuge of Punta Tombo was my first excursion. Over a half million Magellan penguins come here every year to lay their eggs. The park is unique in that you can walk amongst the birds, while staying on designated walking trails.

Back at the highway junction, I had to decide if I wanted to continue south under the darkening clouds, or backtrack north a bit and get a place in the city of Trelew.... Once in Trelew, I easily found a hotel and enjoyed a beer in a joint where Butch Cassidy once stayed.

Continuing south on my way to the Glacier National Park in the El Calafate, I stayed my last night on the Atlantic coast in Puerto San Julian. Not much of a town, but rich in history: Magellan wintered his fleet here before discovering the passageway that bears his name, Charles Darwin ventured about while the Beagle was anchored in the nearbay bay, Sir Francis Drake stopped over here while on his circumnavigation of the world, and it's where Mike Lewis lost his Spot GPS sender. Also, earlier that same day, I noticed that my front shock was leaking fluid. Not a great day.

The Perito Moreno Glacier in Glacier National Park is unlike anything I have ever seen. It is like a living breathing sculpture. The ice has filled the mountain valleys since the last ice age and the ice flow continues to move down towards the lake. The ice is ever cracking and creaking, breaking off, and reflecting hues of blue. You can't stop taking pictures. I went on a day hike on top of the glacier using crampons. It was a beautiful day, and exhilarating to actually be able to get on a glacier.... before they all melt.

On December 17th I crossed the Argentina/Chile border for the third time on my way to Punta Arenas. I was meeting my friend Kristin, who I had met in Guatemala, and who I would thankfully be spending Christmas with. I am not to the bottom of the continent yet, but very close.