They Can't All Be Good

As days go, these weren’t very good ones.

I had decided to stay a fourth day in Cafayate, a quaint little town at the north end of the Argentine wine country. Even though it is early in the summer here, the mid-day temperatures were already breaking a 100, and I was perfectly content sitting by the pool drinking the regional white wine specialty, Torrontes.

When Monday rolled around I decided it was time to get back in the saddle, besides, the wine was only going to get better the closer I got to Mendoza. I stopped in the town plaza on the way out of town to get some money out of the only working ATM. After waiting 20-minutes in line I inserted my card, and waited for my cash. I reached for the cash door when I heard the clicking of the cash counter roll out my bills. With my hand suspended in front of the drawer, the screen flashed “Transaction complete. "Would you like another transaction?" “Where the hell is my money?” That was almost $250, or 900 pesos’. With people waiting, I crossed my fingers and re-inserted my card and asked for a lesser amount. It worked.

Once on the road, I headed south. I had pavement for the first hour, then rocky, sandy roads thereafter. I was able to average about 35-mph on the dirt, so the roads weren’t too bad. As it approached noon, the temperature was climbing, and the winds were getting hotter. One hundred and thirty miles into the day, I was doing all right. I had Mick and the boys trying to take my mind off the questionable ATM transaction - it would be days before I would be able to get back on the internet to see if I was charged. Out of nowhere, I started to hear a “clicking” coming from the engine. I pulled over, paused the iPod, and listened. Sure enough, there was a loud knocking coming from the valves – like the engine was low on oil. I knew that was impossible because I had just topped off the engine before going out onto the Salar (salt flats) in Bolivia, a week earlier, and had checked the oil level several times since.

I turned off the engine, removed helmet and earphones and put the bike onto its side-stand. I bent down to look into the BMW’s oil view window to check the level. Nothing was there. I waited a minute to see if the oil needed to settle back down into the pan, but with the bike leaning toward the same side of the view window, I knew that the window should be displaying solid black. What the hell was going on? I looked around the ground to see if oil was dripping from anywhere. It wasn’t. Then I noticed that my right boot and pant leg were covered in fresh oil – “UH OH”. I held my breath and slowly walked around to the right side of the bike “OH, MY GOD” The entire right side of the bike was covered in oil, absolutely drenched. The driveshaft housing, the brake rotor, the rear brake, the pannier, everything from the right cylinder head and back was dripping of oil. I noticed too that one of the four outer cylinder head bolts was also sticking out about two inches more than it should’ve been. Apparently, for the last mile or so, I had been unknowingly dumping oil like a drunken tanker captain. I was speechless, and slightly sick to my stomach, but I instantly knew what had happened.

Standing there, my bike’s engine now as dry as the desert air -I was screwed! I did have an auxiliary oil canister strapped to the back of one of the panniers, but I had used all the reserve oil in Bolivia. I looked at the map to see how close I was to the next town. (Luckily, I had bought a new detailed map of Argentina at a bookstore just two days again. It listed almost every little village, and told you what roads were paved, which were dirt.) I flagged down a young kid on a dirt bike and asked him how far to the next available place to get oil. “About 30-minutes.” I was close. I tried driving slowly, turning off the engine and coasting on the down the hills, but I couldn’t take the hideous noises and the risk of possibility of causing permanent damage to the engine. Besides, the bolt kept vibrating back out of its hole, allowing even more oil to pump out.

I killed the engine and put it up on its center stand. I had only one option- I had to plug the hole and get some oil into the engine before moving another inch – end of story. I took off my jacket and dug into my tools and spare parts, looking for something that could be used to stuff into the leaking hole of the cylinder head, while at the same time keeping an eye out for passer-bys.

The first to pass was a newer small truck. The truck passed me by, but then stopped and reversed. It was three young women - I then understood why they had hesitated to stop. I approached the driver’s window, but made sure I left a non-threatening distance between the car and me. They didn’t have any oil but signaled that a town was close by. They were nice, but I wasn’t catching everything that they were saying. I bid good day.

I found an extra tire valve for my tubeless tires that would work to fill the hole. I would have to carve the cone shaped rubber piece at it’s base before it would fit, and of course wait to see it if it would hold up to the vibration of the dirt roads. Thirty minutes later, another car. This time, a couple in their later thirties with a 4 to 5-year boy in the back seat of a new Peugeot compact. They had no oil either, but they were eager to help. The man stopped an approaching pick-up truck to ask for directions. They were obviously visiting the region, and didn’t know the specifics of the area. Argentine Spanish is much different than what I am used to so I was even slower than normal to understand what all he was saying, but what I gathered was that while I was asking him to please drive to town and buy some oil for me, he was offering to drive to town to buy some oil for me.

I had plenty of time to finish carving up my rubber plug, and it stuffed into the hole the best I could. I then started to repack the bike. After everything was put away I went to strap down my duffle bags. While tightening down the straps, the plastic buckle of the Rok strap shattered. The bags then had to come off and I emptied out my one pannier to dig out my back-up strap. (My head was boiling at this point – I should have been wearing a hat.) The buckle on this strap was already compromised from previous use. Everything packed; I went to tighten the strap. It too blew up too! Maybe my recent rush of adrenaline had given me superhuman strength? If so, it was unwelcomed and not helping my cause very much. At this point, I was kicking up a lot of dirt and screaming some choice words. Again, I unpacked and packed, now using a strap that the BMW dealer in Ecuador had given me to strap down my spare tire.

Soon after securing the bags for the last time, the Peugeot pulled up. They had bought me two liters of 40w oil. He wouldn’t take any money from me. I was so thankful, I had already forgotten about the busted straps. I had now been out in the hot sun for over two hours now, and it was time to get out of there. I thanked them over and over again, and repeatedly patted my chest over my heart with my right-hand. I think the guy was afraid I was going to start trying to kiss him if he didn’t get out of there when he did. I so like good people.

Not trusting my current state of luck, I cut my day short and got a hotel an hour away in the next town. I bought some liquid dish soap and a heavy duty scrub brush and cleaned up my riding pants. I wiped down the bike and filled up the engine with oil. The plug seemed to be holding.

Nothing beats a new day for starting fresh, eh? It was a slightly overcast day, actually getting a little cool as I followed the road up and out of the valley’s floor. Skynyrd now had the task of helping me to forget the prior day’s events. An hour into the day, I was feeling better. Everything considered, it all worked out pretty well. The only solace in the whole matter was that I had created the problem – the bike didn’t fail me, I failed the bike. It wouldn’t happen again.

The vibration caused by driving on the rough dirt roads can cause nuts and bolts to vibrate loose. Therefore, it is important to go over the bike every once in awhile and check for loose nuts and bolts, before things start falling off. The night before leaving Bolivia I had checked some of my usual weak spots. The right valve cover bolts had been loose several times before, sometimes quite loose. However, this time I had obviously tightened them too much, fracturing the one bolt that eventually broke free on the dirt road and allowed all the oil to blow out. So, I screwed up. I was now on my way to Mendoza where the bike would get serviced and all would be well again.

I wish I were making this next part up:

Of course the next day, I could not stop looking down at my right boot, making sure it was still dry - that the plug was still holding. About an hour into the morning I happened to look down to see if my new Che pin was still attached

to my jacket’s left pocket. It was then that I happen to notice some splatter spots on the left breast of my jacket. “Those aren’t from yesterday?” I slowly swiveled my knee out of the way and looked down. “ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!! MY LEFT BOOT AND PANTLEG WERE COMPLETELY SOAKED IN OIL. I pulled over in absolutely disbelief. Not believing what was happening, or what I was seeing, I walked away from the bike speechless, and “took a moment”.

The oil cap had simply come off somewhere along on the road. So once again, I was spewing oil “like a tanker captain on a bender”. All the oil from the engine had now exited from the left side of the engine, within 24-hours of exiting from the right, and it was all completely unrelated. This time I had plenty of oil and a back-up oil cap, but as Dino would’ve said, “Oh, ain’t that a kick in the head!”

Lake Titicaca Video

Here is a short video of my stay at the lake.

Lake Titicaca

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8TNkbEQzsLo

Enjoy!

Things I Have Learned

I crossed into Peru on September 10^th, exactly six months from when I left Seattle. Since then I have tried to reflect on what I have learned during the past 12,000 miles. Seeing that I surpassed my longest motorcycle journey by the third day of the trip, and that my longest prior vacation had been on the short side of three weeks, I had a lot to learn about living on the road (and still do). To date, this is what I have come up with:

• The world is not a dangerous place, but actually a very friendly and welcoming place.

• People are no different from anywhere else: They love their children, and want to them to have a better life than what they had.

• I used to think that life was sometimes “a struggle”, but now I see what a true struggle it is for so many people, and how their tomorrow guarantees nothing but the same.

• Family is paramount! It is all most people have, where we have so much we no longer have time for family.

• People don’t covet or envy what I have has much as I originally thought they would, but instead are genuinely interested in what I am doing and are happy for me. However, they always asked how much the bike cost.

• Everyplace I travel is better than the last. I do not always care for the first impression I get of a place, often coming in through the the back door I see the worst first, but by the time I leave, I often times find it difficult.

• I enjoy meeting new and interesting people. It’s one of my rewards.

• Saying good-bye all the time is hard.

• There are people out there doing some amazing things. My trip pales in comparison to what I see others doing.

• There are alternate ways of living. The American way is definitely not the only way.

• You have many more options once you “give it all up”. I use to think that I needed to hang on to what I had, and what I did, because it was my only option. Thinking, “What else do I know?” What I have learned is that the world is full options, and they have always been there. You just need to create an opportunity to see them.

• Mosquitoes don’t like me as much as they used to. I like this.

• I thought I was finally to the point where I could eat almost anything. Until last night.

• I absolutely love being on the bike. It is unconditional freedom – as long as you have gas in the tank and air in the tires, which I guess are conditions.

• I can rough it for only so long. The “living on 50-cents a day” thing is not for me: I can share a bathroom for only so long. If the trip is shorter because of my extra spending on “luxuries” then so be it. I need to do this on my own terms.

• I use travel guides for the basic layout and history of a place, but not the specifics. If the area is prominent enough I refer to the search engine of the New York Times Travel section. I can’t usually (read “never”) afford their hotel recommendations, but do appreciate their general direction when it comes to the arts, food, and entertainment of an area. Their opinion appeals to me more, and it gets me off the backpacker trail.

• That said, I have been able to stick to the budget better than I thought I could.

• As much time as I spend by myself, I still need my alone time off the bike.

• Never leave “home” without the point-n-shoot camera.

• People travel for different reasons. You can’t automatically assume that if someone else is traveling on a bike that you have a lot in common.

• There are not a lot of people my age (45) traveling like this. For the most part, it is younger backpackers or older retirees. I wish that were different.

• I prefer to ride for no more than three days straight before staying put somewhere for at least two nights. This is easy - there is always someplace interesting within a 3-4 day ride.

• I can now ride comfortable for eight hours, rather than the previous six.

• I am not on a vacation. This is what I do. There is no need to try and keep up with travelers trying to see everything in two weeks.

• Destinations are often times not as rewarding as the getting there part.

• I have finally learned why I needed to do this, or at least how to express it better. My life had gotten to the point where there was no more wondering what it was going to be like. Not that the rest of my life had been figured out, but large portions had been.

For years now, without realizing it, I have been systematically eliminating wonder from my day-to-day existence, perhaps confusing it with risk. Indeed, there is safety in knowing what you will be doing tomorrow, next month, next year, and for the rest of your life, but it comes at such a great cost. For most, raising children guarantees wonder on a daily basis, but as much as I love kids, I have never had a strong desire to have my own.

We spend much of our childhood wondering what our lives are going to be like when we grow up. Who will we end up becoming? As adults, we learn soon enough that we cannot all become racecar drivers and astronauts. It’s a tough pill to swallow, but a reality. Even so, I cannot stop thinking of what it would be like sitting down with my 12-year old self and explaining to him how our life turned out, “Well, we work a lot”, and how his shoulders would slump.

We simply needed more wonder.

Casual Wanderings In Ecuador

Well, you can’t do it all. I confess that I hadn’t done a lot of research on Ecuador and planned on fast tracking through the country. Nothing personal mind you. I had just spent over a month in Colombia and had to be in La Paz, Bolivia by October 5^th, with Peru’s Machu Picchu caught somewhere in the middle. Sacrifices had to be made.

I crossed into Ecuador on August 27^th and headed straight to Quito. I found a hotel in the New Town district. A hotel that had seen better days. The staff was friendly and I was able to secure a double room for $25 a night, with decent bike parking. I stayed for a week resting up, while also acclimating to the 10,000 ft elevation. Quito is the second highest capital in the world, second only to LaPaz, Bolivia. With its proximity to the equator and the altitude, the weather is like a perpetual spring.

While going through the usual border song-n-dance, I met a young Ecuadorian couple returning from a vacation in Colombia. They were returning to their homes in a suburb of Quito. Cristian was mesmerized by the bike and had many questions for me. His dream was to ride around South America on his own motorcycle that he someday would have, and by the caliber of his questions, he had already done some research. We exchanged email addresses.

After a few days into my stay I was ready to pick up the bike from the BMW dealer. I had new brakes put on front and rear and a new front tire mounted. I also purchased a rear tire that I would carry with me and mount at the very last possible moment, getting every last bit of rubber off the current tire. After the purchase was finalized, I found out that Ecuador is not the place to buy tires. Just recently, President Correr had dramatically increased the taxes on many imported goods. The same tire back home cost me $130, in Guatemala $210, and here $340! I would’ve been better off buying the tires in Lima, but I had been hearing scary stories about the availability of my specific tires. It cost me yes, but I had the tires

I got a ride to the dealership on the back of Chris’ bike, with August following behind. I had met the both of them at the hostel in Panama. We have crossed paths several since. We would pick up the bike and then visit Mitad del Mundo, the equator monument. I was now in the Southern Hemisphere.

I had made arrangements to meet my border friend, Cristian at his college campus and then to his parents’ house for lunch. His English was no better than my Spanish, but his girlfriend showed up to translate. He lived in a prosperous suburb, where I saw the first strip malls since leaving home. His mom was making a traditional Ecuadorian dish, and had obviously been working on it all morning. Cristian mentioned that it was a stew made with “cow’s leg”. Didn’t really understand, and let it go. Sitting down with his two brothers, girlfriend and mom, “soup was on”. They acted very pleased to have me there, and I was honored by all the attention and hospitality. The stew was tasty, but I couldn’t quite place the texture of the “meat”. As I chewed and chewed, my mouth started to get a bit “pasty” feeling. Finally, his girlfriend chimed in, “It’s really good, but it get’s a little gluey after awhile. It’s made of cow hooves, you know?” Oh, “cow legs”? Now I get it. I did my best, but couldn’t finish.

The next day Cristian met me at my hotel and we toured the old town together, including the Presidential Palace. President Correr is, unfortunately, following in the footsteps of the lunatic dictator Chavez and the country seems to have a long road in front of it’s self.

I had a wonderful afternoon and vowed to stay in touch and to help with any trip planning that he might have in the future.

Once on the road again, I backtracked north to visit the town of Otavalo. The town is famous for its Saturday market, and I would be getting there at about 3:00 on a Saturday. Many of the indigenous people of the region come here to sell and trade their wares. Not so much a tourist market but a living vibrant local market. What I didn’t know was that they had also just kicked off a weeklong city festival. It was a colorful and lively place for sure, and I enjoyed new and interesting street food – such as a boiled fig and cheese sandwich. That night I went to a local nightclub for a concert by a popular Latin American acoustic guitar artist, Juan Fernando Valasco. Based on the screams by the young women in the audience, he is quite popular.

The next day started with a headache. I had made plans the night before with a new friend to visit the Parque Condor. It was a nearby shelter for birds of prey. (I have really gotten into birds since getting into South American, and even Central America. I keep meaning to pick up a good bird book.)

One of the beauties of Ecuador is that it is so small, but packs a powerful tourism punch. There is an amazing coastline with surfing and whale watching, rainforest, magnificent volcanoes, and desert all in close proximity to each other. And of course, don’t forget the Galapagos Islands. Back on the road, I covered some ground, or least it seemed that way due the generous scale of the map. I enjoyed a beautiful day driving through the Avenue of Volcanoes on my way to the city of Banos.

Banos is small mountain town that is overrun with tour operators peddling outdoor adventures. If you want to rent a 4-wheeler, bungee jump, river raft, go canyoning, etc… then there will be five tour operators vying for your attention (or so it seemed). I spent some time in the natural hot springs, took a short hike, and got a pretty decent massage during my two day stay there, but otherwise wasn’t very impressed. I did schedule a paragliding trip, but cancelled when the clouds started dropping water.

One more overnight, in Ecuador and then I would be at the Peruvian border. I spent two weeks in Ecuador and really enjoyed myself, but admit, the country deserves more attention.

(*Casual Wanderings in Ecuador was a book published in 1923 in New York, by Blair Niles. I like the title and have decided to borrow it.)

Ecuador Border

JOURNAL ENTRY Morning 8/28/09

I crossed into Ecuador yesterday at about 4:30pm - spent about 1-1/2 hours at the border (no problems, no costs), but had trouble finding a hotel away from the border afterwards. It started to rain. Around 8:00 I saw the lights of a cathedral, and took the San Gabriel turn off. Not much of a town, but big enough to have a cathedral and square. I circled the plaza, still raining, and got directions to a hotel a few blocks away. It was full. I drove around for another 30-minutes, no luck. I tried the square again. Saw a “Residencia” sign that had somehow eluded me before. Got a room for $5 and parked the bike inside the open-air courtyard. The room wasn’t worth a penny more. In the private bath, you could sit, shave and take a shower all the same time – while trying to avoid a shock from the electrical wires feeding the showerhead heating “system”. The next shower will have to wait until Quito.

I have been dragging for the past couple of days and now have an annoying dry cough. The ride to the border from Salento has been literally up and down. Deep into the desert valleys, the temperatures would reach triple digits, and at the top of the mountain passes, the elevation reached five digits. It got chilly. It got sweaty hot - only to do it all over again. A lot of fun but I have been wiped at the end of each day. Haven’t been sleeping so well either, maybe it’s the altitude? I guess I am a bit grumpy too. I will be able to rest up while the bike is in the shop in Quito getting serviced. My front tire is toast, and my back tire has only about 1,000 miles left on it. Tires are going to get harder to find from here on out. I should get it now.

Breakfast was a thin T-bone steak on a bed of rice, an egg, fried plantains, fresh papaya juice, and instant coffee all for $1.50. Gas is now $2.00/gallon (a break from the $4.50 + in Colombia). Its cheap here. Because Ecuador uses the U.S. dollar for its currency the $100 taped under each of my boot’s insoles will be plenty to get me settled in the capital.

I have still have the chill from last night.

JOURNAL ENTRY 09/02/09

I picked up my bike today from the dealer: new brakes front and rear, valves adjusted, and another12,000-mile checklist completed. I learned the hard way that Ecuador has very high import taxes on some items, such as motorcycle tires. I desperately needed a new front tire, and would need a new back tire soon. The dealership didn’t have the tires, but told me where to get them. If I picked them up myself I would save myself the additional markup that the BMW dealership would apply.

“Dios Mio!” I knew the tires would be more expensive down here, but not this much. The same rear tire that I bought in the States for $130, and in Guatemala for $210 was now $340! I could’ve saved some money by waiting until Peru, but I could not be sure that they would be in stock there - then what? I had BMW install the front tire, and I will carry the new rear tire with me, until the very last possible moment. Only 5% of roads in Bolivia are paved, and I want to spend at least three weeks riding there. I need fresh tires.

Zona Cafetera, Colombia

I am not a religious man, spiritual yes, but there are few things that I worship. False idol, or just another monkey on my back, the coffee bean happens to be one of those things. I blame it on living in Seattle for 15-years. Yes, I know Seattle sells more milk than coffee, but there are a few passionate artisans in the city roasting and serving Seattleites some excellent coffee (please, don’t even mention Starbucks). Therefore, the thought of a trip to the coffee region of Colombia was like a pilgrimage for me.

I left Bogota on Saturday Aug. 22^nd. I had applied for more time in Colombia, but was denied, so I needed to start making my way towards the exit. It would be a day trip to get to the town of Salento, in the state of Quindio, aka, Zona Cafetera (coffee district). Once there, I would spend three days exploring the area, before making a dash for Ecuador.

Along the way, I wanted to make a stop in the town of Pereria, at the northern entrance of the Cafetera. For one, there was a statue of Simon Bolivar (the liberator of Colombia from Spain). True, you could throw a rock blindfolded in any one direction and hear a “clink” from hitting a bronzed Bolivar, but this particular interpretation was unique, and bold. The artist, Rodrigo Arenas Betancourt, decided to portray the nation’s hero riding bareback into to battle – naked! How he got away with it, I don’t know, but I needed to see it. The other reason for the stop was to see a cathedral I had read about, made out of the local variety of bamboo, Guadua.

While in a coffee shop in Bogota, I came across an article about a Colombian architect who was raised in Colombia’s coffee district, but who now lived and operated out of Bogota. He has spent much of his professional life advocating the use of bamboo in local construction. Interesting enough on it’s own, but Simon Velez also happened to be the architect that designed the pavilion for the, Nomadic Museum, which houses Gregory Colbert’s Ashes and Snow photography exhibit. Together they compose one of the most impactful and beautiful displays of art I have ever experienced. Currently, in Mexico City, I saw it years ago in while it was in Santa Monica.

Because this area of Colombia is prone to earthquakes and tremors, the flexibility of the Guadua bamboo, and it’s regional availability, make the relationship seem ideal. In 1999 an earthquake struck the area and over 1,000 people were killed. Most of the deaths were attributed to the collapse of cement-based structures, while almost all of the structures constructed with bamboo survived. It’s as if Mother Earth is telling man, “Here, use this material, its here for a reason”. However, sadly, Colombia turned a deaf ear to this voice when it adopted many of Los Angles’ seismic regulations and building codes. Bamboo is not ingenious to California, and therefore is not mentioned the building codes. Per the codes, Colombia builders and architects can only use what is listed. It seems as though the regulators chose to ignore the vast differences of the two geographies, and simply took the easiest way out. Colombia could be an international leader in the use of sustainable “timber grass”, but instead chose to follow.

Once in Pereria, I pulled off the street right onto the brick-paved Plaza Bolivar. I flagged over a “Minuto Girl” so I could make a call to the hostel in Salento. I wanted to reserve a private room for the next three nights. In Colombia, if you want to make a call, and you don’t have your own cell phone, you can pay one of these girls, usually wearing a bright colored vest with “MINUTOS” printed across the chest and back. You pay to use one of their several cell phones - like human phone booths really. Meanwhile, a small crowd was starting to form around the bike. (The call didn’t go through.) People were asking the same questions I always get; How fast does it go? How much did it cost? How big is the engine? Where did I come from, and where am I going? Still sitting on the bike, I am having fun with it all, and having some laughs with everyone. I show them the picture of the bamboo cathedral. Several say that it no longer exists. I ask a gentleman who knows a bit of English if he will take my camera over to the Bolivar statue and take a couple of photos for me. There is no way I can leave the bike at this point with the now 20-25 people encircling me. As he walks away I felt some of the others look at me with a, “what kind of idiot are you?” sort of look. It felt like the time at the Nicaraguan border when I gave a young guy a $100 bill (for my border expenses), my passport, and bike title, and told him if he came back within the hour, I would give him a $10 tip. “What kind of idiot am I?”

I kept an eye on my roving camera, and he did come back (just like the kid in Nicaragua did), proud as punch with three pictures of the naked (and emaciated) war hero. Just then, it started to sprinkle and I remembered my Flip video camera was still attached to the light bar – I was shooting the ride that morning along the Autopista del Cafe. I reached over to unscrew it from the mount before it got wet. It wasn’t there. Gone! My mood turned. All of my new found friends were now suspects. I felt betrayed. The camera was shielded from my view by the bike’s handlebars, so I couldn’t see it from where I was sitting. I suspected the Minuto Girl- she had moved to that side of the bike, and now was backing away. I gave her the evil eye, but didn’t verbally accuse her, I couldn’t, I wasn’t completely sure. I wanted out of there. I put my helmet on, zipped up and left. Thinking it over the rest of the day, I should have handled it differently. Next time I will.

I rolled into Salento a bit dejected, but ready to put the camera incident behind me. Six months on the road, and this was my greatest loss to date – not that bad really. The Plantation House hostel was full but I found a small hotel with a large room and private bath for $25 a night. It had a fenced-in lot next door for the bike. Through the hostel, I was able organized a morning tour of a small coffee roasting operation, followed by a hike through the Cocora Valley.

A group of eight of us piled into the old Willy Jeep at 9:00am, two standing on the back bumper, and took the 30-minute drive up to the valley’s entrance. Once on the hiking trail, it meandered up the valley, over log bridges, into rainforest, and finally up into the cloud forest. On the way down, we pasted green fields speckled with Colombia’s national tree, the Wax Palm. Walking into the open valley, the 200-foot tall palms were spectacular, creating a bizarre and prehistoric setting. Equally impressive as the tree’s spindly height, was its random and spacious placement. Like it was purposely landscaped with that intent in mind. Along with my hiking mates: a couple from Dublin, and another from London we saw hummingbirds, an unknown furry critter, and a worm that could give an anaconda a slither for its money.

Back in town, cold beers were passed around before dinnertime. My favorite spot for dinner had become Lucy’s. The “tipico” menu was a three-course styled meal typical of the area, made up of the typical cuisine: A soup starter of usually a chicken broth base with chicken and root vegetables, a choice of fried trout, grilled chicken, or thinly sliced flank steak, beans or fries, a salad, fried plantains, a small dessert and a glass of the fresh juice of the day – all for $3. The food was fresh and comforting – good home cookin’ – sort of. This style of eating has been my favorite since hitting Central America.

Immediately after getting into town I began visiting the different coffees shops, sampling the goods. For the most part, I hadn’t been that impressed. The trendy espresso shop around the corner pulled a shot that was not hot enough and had a bitter finish. The day before hitting the road I stuck my head into a narrow little shop at the edge of town, and instantly got a good vibe. The man behind the counter was humming along to an old jazz standard, and moving his hips ever so slightly. I ordered, “tinto, por favor”. In Colombia, black coffee is called “tinto” (as is red wine, i.e., “vino tinto”,) which stands for dark, and oftentimes comes already sweetened. Not speaking any English, he asked how strong I wanted it. I flexed my arm hard, slapped my bicep twice, and answered, “muy!”. He ran water through a filter in a large chrome canister (?) He offered me a form of sugar that was a dried powder from a sugarcane reduction (I am guessing), which proved to be rather mild, and nice. The small cup of black coffee was nutty, rich, with a smooth finish – finally! He poured himself a cup and we both sat in silence in some old theatre chairs along one wall. He read from a paperback, and I from my Kindle. It was peaceful…nice. I ordered another.

The next day I stopped by with the loaded bike on the way out of town. I sat down with my GPS unit, working on the day’s destination with my cup of tinto. Pedro came over with the same exact model of GPS, a Garmin 60CSx. I was a bit surprised. He showed me a nearby area speckled with the “waypoints” that he had saved. (Waypoints are stored positions on the unit, so that you can find your way back at a later time.) Speaking only through my broken Spanish, and a photo album of his, I came to learn that his that his coffee is WILD. He, along with friends and family, pick his coffee beans from naturally growing wild bushes in the neighboring mountains. He washes, pulps, dries, mills, and roasts the beans himself, along with his volunteers. The beans are even gathered in handmade woven baskets made by the ingenious people living in the area where he picks his beans. He packages the small batches of beans and sells to restaurants and individuals under the name of, “Café Reserva Sachamama”.

I stayed much later than planned. Not speaking a common language, we communicated rather well I think. We “talked” about my trip, and his love of books. We took some photos by the bike, and he proudly presented me with a CD filled with electronic books that I could read during my journey. We have emailed several times since (Google Translate has been invaluable on this trip).

Colombia, you will be missed.

Video:

(correction: Salento is not at 8,000 ft, but only 6,500 ft - it just felt like 8,000)

Music is the Allman Brother's "Little Martha"

Cafetera

http://gallery.me.com/mlewis30/100770

Colombian Cow Country

Video:

Here is a short video that I put together after a Sunday morning ride.

La Ruta Leche, Colombia

http://gallery.me.com/mlewis30/100763

(music is by Eddie Vedder)

Photos:

Here is the link to my unedited MobileMe photo gallery, in its entirety. (Parental discretion advised!)

Mike's Photo Library

Getting to Colombia

Jeff and I had been riding together for a week, and had planned on shipping the bikes into Colombia together. From there we would part ways: I would stay behind to experience more of Colombia, and he would move on towards his goal of Lima, Peru. Unfortunately, do to matters back home that needed his attention, he suddenly had to abort and return to the States. I was back on my own.

I continued with the original plan of shipping the bike out of Panama City with an air cargo company to the capital city of Bogota, in the center of Colombia. Reviewing the map, Cartagena was a “must see” on my list, but was up north on the Caribbean coast. The necessary backtracking, and the fact that the cost of air transport had dramatically increased, led me to seek out other shipping options.

There are three viable methods of transporting a motorcycle into South America:

-Air cargo, which means you drop off the bike at the airport with battery disconnected and fuel tank drained. You then buy a personal plane ticket for a later date, while checking all your gear as luggage. Downside: Its expensive, you are separated from your bike, additional fees can suddenly materialize, and a myriad of papers need to be rubber-stamped.

-Cargo boats, usually banana boats, can get you over the border, into Turbo, Colombia, but you personally have to switch boats before reaching shore, because cargo ships cannot transport passengers. Downside: you are separated from your bike, there can be many unforeseen variables to contend with, and little interest in going to the port city of Turbo.

-Sailboats are the third option. The cruise takes five days to complete and includes three days anchored in the San Blas islands off the coast of Panama snorkeling. The final destination is the colonial fortress city of Cartagena, on the Caribbean coast. As good as that sounds, I had heard and read many horror stories regarding this method; Drunken captains, poor food and/or shortages, additional fees once out to sea (“your bike scratched my boat, that’s another $200 that you must pay before I will unload the bike”). Downside: cannot chose your shipmates, at the mercy of the captain’s every whim and personality misgivings, and precarious bike loading and unloading methods.

A day after sending out a handful of emails, I received a response from Mark of Freshair Charters. On the day prior, I had found a couple of leads on the “go to” websites for adventure motorcyclists, Horizons Unlimited and Adventure Rider. Mark had just pulled into port earlier that day and still had two large bikes strapped atop the deck of his boat Melody. If I liked, I could come out the following day to watch the unloading process and meet the bikes’ owners. Mark, “Cap’n Marco”, has been doing the trip for nine years and takes an average of 16 bikes a year. The one-hour ride from Panama City to the Portobelo harbor to meet him and Melody convinced me, and I handed over a $100 cash deposit. Now, I just had to wait five days for his next sailing, while he found other passengers to fill the berths and restock supplies. The cost was $370 for me, and the same for the bike, $740 total (I had to supply my own alcohol or soda.) Food and lodging for five days, and transport – not too bad. And, I could sleep next to my bike if I wanted to, never to be out of my sight.

I stayed at Hostel Wunderbar in Puerto Lindo while I waited for my boat. Days were filled with “hammock reading” or wasting time on the beach on Isla Grande - a short water taxi ride away. Everyday at the hostel brought a fresh supply of backpackers who had either just disembarked from a trip or were crashing for the night before their morning departure. Soon enough, I was up to speed on all the local gossip, and realized how important it was to get onto the right boat. Some boats were known as party boats, where drugs and mayhem ruled, others had you bring your own food, or worse, fed you spaghetti and hot dogs the entire time. As people came and went, I kept wondering whom I would I have to share the five-day cruise with.

A week later I was breathing through a tube and taking steady aim at a gilled target, some ten feet in front of me. Like a Revolutionary War era musket, you get one shot with a spear gun, before having to forego the laborious reloading process. I had already missed twice early in the morning with some smaller fish, and felt like this Triggerfish was my day’s last chance. He began swimming away from me. From behind, the wafer shaped fish does not offer much to shoot at, so I calmly followed . . . waiting. And then it happened. The fish abruptly turned left exposing one of his two broad sides. His change of course would prove fatal. I released the spear from the gun dubbed, “Hemingway”, and absorbed the full recoil of the three retracted elastic bands. Direct hit!

The following day the captain’s Colombian wife Paola, served us all delicious Triggerfish tacos for lunch, as I recounted the battle to my captive audience, “it was either him or me”. The rolled eyes belonged to a young couple from London, college student from Texas, and two recent grads from the Air Force Academy. All of which, I now consider friends. Paola made many excellent meals during the trip culminating in a full-tilt Christmas styled turkey dinner with all the trimmings (don’t know how she did it). Cap’n Marco (who doesn’t drink) made sure we went to bed exhausted every night, by filling our days with - snorkeling, fishing, and visits to the nearby Kuna villages – the indigenous people that rule and inhabit the autonomous chain of islands. When he asked if any of us would mind staying an extra day before beginning our 36-hour crossing of the Caribbean due to rough seas – it was unanimous.

We pulled into the harbor of Cartagena a day late on July 20^th, Colombia’s Independence Day.

Video:

Getting to Colombia Portobelo, Panama to Cartagena, Colombia July 15 - 20 , 2009

© 2009 YouTube, LLC 901 Cherry Ave, San Bruno, CA 94066

Sailing to the Next Continent

Yesterday I secured my passage into South America, or at least I think I did. On either Saturday the 11th, or Wednesday the 15th I will strap my bike to the mast of the steel-hulled sailboat "Melody" and take off on the five day voyage through the San Blas islands, and across the Caribbean Sea to Cartagena, Colombia - leaving from the old pirate haunt and UNESCO World Heritage Site of Portobelo, Panama. The alternative was to ship the bike via air into Bogota, and myself on a separate flight. I am guessing the trip on the Melody with be more adventurous, and a whole lot less luxurious.

The problem of getting in into Colombia from Panama is a 54-mile section of jungle that separates the two countries, called the Darien Gap. The Pan American Highway is the longest motorable road in the world, with the exception of this "gap". The road, otherwise, spans from Prudhoe Bay, Alaska to Ushuaia, Argentina. The idea for the road took shape in the early 1920's and each country completed it's own portion at various times. The Darien section proved especially difficult due to problems associated with the jungle terrain, insects, foot and mouth disease, and conflicts with the indigenous tribes of the the area. Many of the diseases are no longer a major concern, but the project was never resumed. Today, it is a dense and lawless jungle.

I am very excited and anxious to start the next leg of the journey. I have thoroughly enjoyed Mexico and Central America, but I question whether they have enjoyed me? Things seemed to go my way, but my host countries didn't always fare so well. Looking back at it now, I seem to be the only logical common denominator in a series of bizarre events: Mexico - international flu pandemic breaks out soon after I arrive. My first week in Guatemala the president and first lady are accused of murder by the dead man in YouTube video (you can't write drama like this!) and threatens peace of the nation. The day before I get into Honduras, all the branch heads of the military quit and threaten a coup d'etat. The day after I drive through the capital, the coup takes takes place. The country remains in turmoil.

Now, I could take the blame for these events, and turn myself in, or consider this: "things just happen here". As the guy sitting next to me in the Honduran bar said, (while watching the president speak on TV) "Ah, we're due for a coup, it's been years since our last one".

Or, I could just keep moving :)

End of the Road

Today Jeff and I reached Panama City. That means that I get to retire another map (Central America), and that is a mighty good reason to celebrate!

Today was a beautiful day of riding- hot, but clear open roads all the way into the city. I did, however, finally have my first run in with the police. We had heard that there were a lot of cops on the road, and had already seen several, but old habits die hard - I was clearly speeding. It all went down just has I had rehearsed it (in my head): I could pay a $18 fine in Panama City or pay $16 right now. I showed him my last $5, which was honestly all the money I had on me, but asked if I could take his picture in front of my bike, and if he would PLEASE take a photo of me on his bike. A new friend was made, and the ticket was "dismissed".

Tomorrow I will start looking into a ferry that is supposed to run from Colon, Panama, through the canal, to Cartagena, Colombia. The alternative is flying the bike and myself on separate flights. I would rather play pirate for a few days.

Unfortunately, it looks like Jeff is going to have to cut his trip short, to return home to deal with some personal matters. It's really too bad because I know how much he has been looking forward to South America. Its been a nice break riding with someone this last week. He will be missed.

Off to the casino up around the corner to "retire the map" :)

Warmly,

Mike