South Africa: Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(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.