Journey to the Bottom of the World

Three Months To Go!

Thanks for taking an interest in my trip!  Now that the departure day is less than three months away, the journey encompasses every waking thought that I have.  Therefore, putting this site together is the closest I can get to starting the trip without actually heading south.  As I make this website public, I thought that I would answer some frequently asked questions, and give some background information on the trip to anyone who may be interested.

Why?
The simplest answers would be, "Why not?" and "It's going to be a great time!".  But, to get to the heart of it, this is the most challenging, overwhelming, and exciting thing that I have ever planned to do in my life, and I'm incredibly fortunate to even have this opportunity.  It's far from attempting to climb Mt. Everest, and it's not circumventing the entire globe on a motorcycle (which many people have), but it's still more than a quick run to the store for a gallon of milk.  For these reasons alone, this trip is not only something that I want to do, but something that I feel I have to do, for my own personal satisfaction and sense of existence. 

You're going by yourself?
There are both benefits and trade-offs to traveling independently.  On the upside, you are completely free to travel at your own pace, and simply let the journey take you where it may.  Traveling alone also makes you more approachable in the eyes of the locals, and in a sense, forces you to seek out interaction.  On the downside, it is generally safer to travel in groups, and there will definitely be some lonely times. (Emails from home are always something I look forward to!)  Yet, when I look back on the other times I've traveled alone, I have never found it difficult to meet locals or other travelers.

Isn't that dangerous?
Riding a motorcycle any amount of distance has inherent risk.  Fortunately, a lot of that risk can be reduced by not riding at night, keeping speeds reasonable (thankfully reasonable is a subjective term), and wearing appropriate protective gear.  Of course you cannot stop a car from rear-ending you, but that risk is the same in the US as it is anywhere else in the world.(I think)

Both Central and South America have a nasty reputation for crime, but I think that reputation has been blown out of proportion.  With 24-hour news showcasing only humanity's worst, it's not surprising that many people have begun to fear everyone from their neighbor, to entire populations of people that they have never met, in countries thousands of miles away.  I'm not denying the existence of crime or terrorism, and I would be foolish to think that this trip is entirely safe, but I'm unwilling to write off entire parts of the world as inaccessible or "evil", simply because the government and media tell me so.  I think that by having reasonable situational awareness and by listening to the advice of locals, a lot of the risk can be reduced.

Counting Down the Days

As my spring semester comes to a close, and only three weeks stand between me and the road, the reality of the trip is finally starting to set in.  I've been planning, saving, and thinking about this trip for so long, that I almost forgot I'd have to get on the bike and actually do it!  It's a welcome realization, but it's still hard to wrap my mind around living off of a motorcycle for a year...not to mention the whole riding to the bottom of South America part of it.

The prospect of the journey ahead is incredibly exciting, but with that excitement comes a growing amount of apprehension.  All of the "what ifs?" that I've quickly shrugged off in past months, suddenly bear more weight and linger in my mind a little longer.  To add to it, a recent spill while riding off-road provided for a humbling reality check into how quickly things could turn for the worst.  As I lay in the dirt, thankful that I had narrowly avoided breaking my leg on one of the panniers, I immediately thought of what would happen if I hadn't been so lucky, and I was on a desolate road in Central or South America.  On the upside, I learned a valuable lesson; It's better to fall on your leg than have a pannier rip it off.  While riding safely will always be on my mind, I know that most of my other concerns will fade once I have negotiated a border crossing and have ridden some miles south of the border.

From a logistical standpoint, preparation is almost complete. I've received all the required immunizations, acquired a stockpile of malaria medications, as well as a bottle of antibiotics for when my stomach turns against me.  There isn't too much paperwork involved in the planning stages, but I've sorted out my travel insurance and purchased the required liability insurance for Mexico.  I still need to make multiple copies of my motorcycle registration and title, and put together a couple high-quality copies of my driver's license that will hopefully pass for the real thing. 

After several futile attempts to fit my original packing list on the bike, I had to concede defeat and start removing stuff from the list. Who really needs three boxers anyways?  Two is more than enough! Although coming up with a packing list sounds simple, the capacity and weight restrictions make it a more involved process than you would think.  It's hard to determine what is actually "needed", when I don't know what to expect.  The fact that I'm new to bikes and unsure of parts availability along the way, makes it even more difficult.  Fortunately, since I'm not in any sort of a rush, I can always chill out for while and wait for a part to be shipped.  At any rate, the bike is packed and that brings a sigh of relief.  I'm probably still over-packed, but I can always toss out a pair of boxers along the way.

For those interested, here's my packing list:

Download jeffs_packing_list.xls

And I'm Off!

On Friday, May 16th and with 3,667 miles on the DR's odometer, my journey to the bottom of the world finally began!  The weather on the first day was far from what I had envisioned it to be.  With temperatures in the low-50's, and with a blinding downpour that accompanied me for most of the day, it quickly became apparent that this journey was not going to be easy.  While the weather was less than ideal, the excitement of finally being on the road kept my spirits up; even when the shivering caused my knees to uncontrollably slap against the fuel tank.  

 

The first day brought me to Hummelstown, PA, where I stayed with friends of the family.  I want to thank the Foxx family for their warm hospitality.  The following day I continued to Washington, DC, where I stayed with my friend Rob.  His hospitality wasn't as good so I'm not as grateful. Just joking Rob.  My trip in and out of DC went startlingly smooth.  Anyone who has ever driven with me in a city (or to any new place), knows that a fit of rage, followed by a quiet reflection on my navigational incompetence, is almost always guaranteed.  The next several days took me down Skyline Drive in Virginia, to the Blue Ridge Parkway.  I continued on the Parkway until I reached Great Smokey Mountain National Park in North Carolina.  Along the way I camped in a very picturesque backyard in Charlottesville, VA and I had my first Couchsurfing.com experience in Blacksburg, VA.  While in Blacksburg, one of my couchsurfing hosts brought me to the preschool that she teaches at for a show and tell, which was alot of fun once the kids got used to the weird looking guy in the space suit.

 

 From Great Smokey Mountains, I headed North to Knoxsville, Tennessee, via US Rt. 129, also known as "Deals Gap" and "The Dragon".  That road is what motorcycling is all about!  There's over 300 turns in a 10 mile stretch of road!  I was finally able to scrub my tires to the very edge: well there's about a quarter of an inch on each side that's untouched, but it was my first time through.  I arrived in Knoxville on a Wednesday afternoon and had planned to leave the following morning, but my host from couchsurfing.com suggested I at least stay until Friday, so that I could enjoy the Thursday night concert.  Every Thursday throughout the summer the city has a free concert that attracts 12,000 people.  The Presidents of the United States (known for "Lump" and "Peaches") performed while I was there and the atmosphere of the whole thing was awesome.  I'm now in Bowling Green, Kentucky, and will be checking out Mammoth Caves National Park tomorrow, and the Corvette factory on Sunday.  More to come soon....

Colorado

My visit to Kentucky was shorter than I had originally planned.  After visiting Mammoth Caves National Park on Saturday, I found out that the Corvette factory was closed for the weekend.  Apparently, the UAW takes issue with working holiday weekends.  So on Saturday evening, I made my way west and stumbled across Kentucky's "Land Between the Rivers", a National Forest that's located...you guessed it...between two rivers.  There's a huge state park and campground there that was at capacity when I arrived.  Thankfully, the people that manage the campground offered to let me set my tent up on their site.  As grateful as I was for a shower and a place to sleep, the night was far from the long awaited respite I had hoped for.  A screaming baby, and a loud dog with an even louder owner, kept the forest alive until 1am, when I think they all finally became tired and called it a night.  The next morning I woke at 7am to the uplifting and soul-soothing sounds of a gospel folk cd being played for the whole world to hear.  You can imagine how blessed I felt. 

The journey continued up through Missouri, where I had an exciting evening that I reflect on in the video posted on the right.  From there, I quickly made my way through Missouri and into Kansas.  To my surprise, the stereotypically flat and boring state of Kansas offered the most excitement I've had on the trip thus far.  Around 7pm, while riding west through farm country on route 24, the sky turned black and a lightning storm ensued that was unlike anything I had ever seen before.  The winds began to rip across the road and the rain began to fall horizontally.  I soon found myself completely surrounded by lightning.  There were flashes throughout my entire field of view and in my rear-view mirrors.  I think what set this storm apart from any I've seen in New England, is that in Kansas you can see each bolt travel to the ground, as the flat and barren terrain offers little in the way of depth perception.  In result, each bolt appears to be danger-close.  As I struggled against the wind to stay in my lane, I desperately hoped to find some form of protection from the storm, but I was really out in the middle of nowhere: no gas stations, no stores, and not even a house to beg for shelter.  I didn't dare stop and put on my rain gear, so I pressed on, crouched as low as I could possibly get on the bike, and opened the throttle up; all the while laughing hysterically at the thought of my trip ending with a zap. 

The mile markers to the next town finally indicated that I was making progress, and about 10 minutes after I pulled out of the storm, I arrived at a gas station in Beloit, Ka.  As I entered the station, five locals were glued to the TV set listening to the latest reports on the storm.  As the door-chime announced my arrival, they simultaneously turned to look at me:  Four of them shook their heads in disapproval, while the fifth kindly poked fun, suggesting that it wasn't the best day to be on a motorcycle.  We had a quick laugh, and the locals suggested that I stay in a hotel for the night rather than camp.  As the storm withered down, I made my way to the Beloit Super 8. 

With all of the lightning I've experienced over the last couple days, I was very happy to be inside for an evening.  While stripping out of my wet clothes, I found a couple friends that had hitched a ride from Missouri: Four deer ticks had embedded themselves in my shoulder, abdomen, left butt cheek, and my right nipple.  It's bad enough finding one tick, but when you find multiple ticks it's hard to convince yourself that you've found them all.  Even after contorting myself in front of the bathroom mirror for over an hour to inspect every inch of my skin, I still felt like I had things crawling on me, and I must have climbed out of bed 10 different times to inspect myself over and over again.  The last thing I needed on this trip was to come down with Lyme disease. 

In the hotel lobby I met Larry, a guy from Oklahoma who was in town to visit his late wife's family.   Larry's one of those instantly likable and funny people who you meet and feel like you've known for years.  After sharing breakfast and a conversation in the lobby of the motel, Larry gave me a top that he had made by hand, and a quick lesson on spooling the thing up.  As simple as the top was, it's probably one of the most meaningful gifts I've ever received.  He truly wanted to share with me something that obviously meant a great deal to him throughout his childhood and his life.  Meeting Larry was the best part of my time in Kansas.  As I pulled out of the motel and headed west, I couldn't help but feel like I was leaving an old friend.

 

I'm now in Boulder, Colorado, and having a great time.  I spent my first night here in a hostel.  The following day, while changing my oil in the parking lot of a local motorcycle store, I met Dave, a 23 year-old guy who will be heading to South America via motorcycle this October.  Dave invited me to crash on his couch, so I've been here for a couple days now.  Yesterday, we took a ride to Rocky Mountain National Park, which was incredible.  It's definitely one of most picturesque national parks I've been to, second only to Glacier National Park. 

Today offered a complete change of pace.  Dave's a carpenter and his boss needed a couple extra guys on the job-site today, so I went to work with him on house a couple blocks from his apartment.  Both Dave and his girlfriend Aisha have been incredible hosts and a lot of fun to be around.  I thought that I may leave tomorrow, but they encouraged me to stay and go on a hike up a canyon with them. 

   

I think I've finally adjusted to the idea of being on this trip.  Although I haven't purposely been in a rush, I think I've finally adopted the mentality of having nowhere to be.  It may be the incredible beauty of Colorado, or the amazing hospitality that Dave and Aisha have shown me, but either way it feels good, and I'm glad it only took two weeks on the road to get to let my mind completely relax.  Adopting that mentality sounds easy to do, but even I found myself feeling like I always had to get to the next place.  With that being said, I think I'll be leaving Boulder on Sunday, and will head to the Southwest portion of the state.  That's all for now, thanks for reading!

Leaving Boulder

On my last Sunday in Boulder, Colorado, Dave and I went riding for the day. Our ride took us to Rollins Pass, Moffat Tunnel, and several other dirt roads that climbed up the mountains in that area. Many of the roads were not yet open for the season, so the ride had somewhat of an adventurous feel to it. This is the type of riding that my bike was made for, and I had even more fun getting wet and plowing through snow then I did riding through Deals Gap in North Carolina.

I feel that the week I spent with Dave and Aisha was the beginning of a lifelong friendship and I really hope to meet up with Dave somewhere in South America. Their friendship and hospitality made it hard to leave Boulder. The night before I left, Dave offered to let me stay another week and work with him if I wanted to. I seriously considered the offer, then realized that I may never leave if I did that. I can definitely see myself living in the Boulder area when this trip is done.

On Monday, I finally said goodbye to Boulder and my friends Dave and Aisha; twice actually. About an hour and a half into the ride during attempt #1, I realized that I left my cell phone and charger at Dave and Aisha’s. Thankfully the drive out of town was scenic with lots of twisties, so the trip back wasn’t that bad. After grabbing the cell phone, and about 5 blocks into my second attempt at leaving Boulder, my trip came terrifyingly close to an abrupt end. As I made my way out of town, cruising at a comfortable 35mph, a white Honda civic gradually overtook me on the left. Once the Honda was about a car length ahead of me, it abruptly swung a hard right across my lane, while simultaneously hitting the brakes, in order to make it into the all-important parking lot entrance on my right. I immediately locked down on my brakes, putting the rear tire into a skid. I was able to keep the back-end under control though, and I swerved as hard as I could to the left. With the rear tire screeching and the front tire on the verge of breaking loose, my right pannier narrowly missed the Honda’s rear bumper as I skidded by. While the scene seemed to play out in slow motion, it all happened in under 2 seconds. As I made my way to the parking lot’s second entrance, using those few seconds to try and comprehend what had just happened, I locked onto the white Honda in the parking lot. As a I approached the driver’s side door, with my body trembling from the massive shot of adrenaline, I was greeted by an 18 year-old-looking girl that seemingly had no idea what I may have been so upset about. How she could have not seen me before, during, or after the event borders on a malicious form of divine intervention. In hindsight, it’s probably better that she didn’t see me. If she had, she probably would have locked her brakes while in the turn and I would have taken flight. Secondly, I’m thankful that it was a girl behind the wheel. Otherwise, I would undoubtedly be in a Boulder jail, charged with assault and battery, and writing this journal entry on a piece of toilet paper.

As I made my way down Rt-93 and Rt-6 for the third time that day, I continued to replay the event in my head, running through all the what if’s and I was still completely baffled by how I did not hit her or wreck the bike. An hour or so later and with a clear mind, I made my way west across Colorado on I-70. Throughout the trip I’ve tried to avoid interstates like the plague, but I-70 is a must-see. The views are spectacular, and just like the rest of Colorado, every turn reveals a view that trumps the last.

Last Stop Before Mexico

Since my last post, I've continued to travel west and then north to Salt Lake City, where I stayed stayed with my girlfriend's family.  After spending two days in Salt Lake, I made my way south to the town of Moab, Utah, where Arches National Park is located.  The ride from Salt Lake to Moab was especially enjoyable.  I had planned on taking a dirt road that cut across the desert to make the ride a little more interesting.  As I pulled off onto the dirt road, I found myself in the middle of a vast expanse of nothingness.  Not expecting the scenery to change much for the rest of the ride, I couldn't have been happier when the road began to drop into canyons that I hadn't know existed in that area.  As I continued to head southeast along the road, the scenery became more and more spectacular and the cliffs and rocky outcroppings seemed to double in size every couple of miles.  I was especially surprised to come across a petroglyph painted on a perfectly smooth sandstone wall.

I eventually emerged onto the I-70 and headed east and down to Moab.  While in Moab, I visited Arches National Park.  The park is incredibly picturesque and a place where I could have easily spent a whole day, but I'm content with what I was able to see during the couple hours that I was there.

Waking up the following morning, I hit the road early and made my way back into Colorado. (I think it's obvious that Colorado is my favorite state)  The mid-southwestern portion of Colorado is exactly what I had always envisioned the Rockies to look like.  Unlike some of the browner portions of the range I've visited, the mountains in this area are covered with lush green forests.  The town of Durango itself has a lively atmosphere and a great small-town feel.  I want to thank Lynn, Hal, and Marie for inviting me to dinner and showing me around town.  I had a great time in Durango and in Colorado in general, and I can see myself spending a lot of time there when I get back from this trip.  I road on to Lake Powell in Arizona, where I spent a full day and two nights with the other half of my girlfriend's family.  It was a relaxing two days, and it was different to see a lake surrounded by desert, rather than with trees and houses like back in New England. 

My ride from Lake Powell to Tempe, Arizona, was the most interesting day of riding throughout the last week.  To start, while fueling up at a gas station near the Lake, a brief conversation with a guy there landed me a job as a courier for the day.  The deadline for submitting hunting permit applications was 7pm that evening, and the guy needed to have several applications delivered to the fish and game headquarters in Flagstaff, AZ.  He was originally going to make the 180 mile drive himself, but after finding out that I would be passing right by the place, he handed me the applications and gave me $25 for my troubles.  But the best part of the day occurred later that afternoon while heading south on I-17.  While riding along an empty stretch of road, I was suddenly hit in the chest and face by some unknown object.  I originally thought that the zip-lock bag that holds my maps in the map pouch, had somehow worked it's way out and rocketed up into my face with the 70mph winds.  I pulled off into the shoulder and found that all of my maps were still on board.  Baffled by what the UFO could have been, I rode up the shoulder back to where it all happened.  I turned around again and creeped down the shoulder scanning the road and the grass to my right for the mysterious object.  I happened to glance back to my right, and was shocked to see a coyote coming at me in full sprint and only 30ft away.  I gunned the throttle to put some distance between us, but this guy was determined.  The coyote continued to sprint down the shoulder of the road, darting into the scrub brush off to the side from time to time.  I figured I'd see how long I could get the coyote to follow me, so I stayed in the shoulder and enjoyed the chase.  As I saw another car crest over the hill behind me, I can only imagine what the driver must have thought when he saw what was happening.  Finally, as the car approached us, the coyote darted out into the left lane of the two-lane highway, and narrowly avoided getting hit by the car.  As I shifted my attention to the road ahead, the coyote had disappeared by the time I looked back.  I continued down the road to Tempe with a huge smile on my face.  To start, I was glad I saw it when I had, because seconds later I would have had a passenger on board.  Second, what are the chances, and how cool is it, to have been chased by a coyote down the shoulder of a highway?  Well, I think it's pretty cool at least!  By the way, after two mourning dove flyby's on the same stretch of road, I concluded that it was probably a mourning dove that gave its life for me to have the coyote encounter.

¡México Mañana!

I've had a great time over the last two weeks in Scottsdale, Arizona!  Soon after arriving at my friend Ryan's apartment, my friend Charles and his friend Andrew came out to visit for a weekend.  (is that enough "friend"s in one sentence?)  We did what most people do in Scottsdale; hibernate indoors during the day, and go out for a couple...dozen beers at night.  A couple of days later, my girlfriend Kali flew into town.  Her stepfather lives here, so I moved to his house while she was in town.  She and I also did what most people do in Scottsdale; except we came out of each days hibernation to enjoy incredible food that her stepfather treated us to.  Kali's visit was a last minute idea, and it was great to see her.  When I left Connecticut in May, I thought that it could be upwards of nine months before I would get to see her again.

After Kali left on Wednesday, I moved back to Ryan's apartment and waited for some motorcycle parts I purchased online to arrive.  I've fitted new tires, changed the oil, rewired a turn signal that melted earlier in the trip, adjusted the valves, and cleaned the air filters.  While all of that work should not have taken more than a day, once you add in Murphy's Law and my own incompetence, it's surprising that I finished it as soon as I did.

Tomorrow morning I will hit the road around 5:30am, in an attempt to get a head start on the overwhelming midday heat.  I'm heading south to Nogales, where I will cross into Mexico (hopefully), and begin the real adventure.  While I've enjoyed the time and company here in Arizona, I'm in desperate need of a change in scenery.  Aside from the overwhelming heat, I can honestly say that Scottsdale may be the last place that I would ever want to live in the States.  As my friend Ryan put it when he was telling me what to expect when I arrived, "It's like one big strip mall, sprawled out over 900 square miles."  I'd like to add that the 900-square-mile-strip-mall is relentlessly congested with holiday traffic; and yes, I do realize it's June. 

The thought of tomorrow's border crossing is both exciting and slightly nerve-wracking.  While my ride through the States has been fun, I've known that without fail, there will be a Wal-Mart, a half-dozen fastfood restaurants, and that I will be able to converse with anyone that I may meet.  In other words, while the scenery has been incredible, all the other aspects of the trip have generally been known.  While I'm thrilled to be leaving the Wal-Mart's and fastfood restaurants behind, it's intimidating to think about the language issues I will encounter, and how I generally have no idea what to expect from this point on.  Though it may be intimidating, it is also the best feeling in the world, and it's the reason I am doing this trip.  It's exteremely difficult to verbalize the excitement I feel, and at the risk of sounding too overdramatic, it's as if everything I've done for this trip over the last two years, all comes down to this. 

I want to thank everyone for following my Journey.  I thouroughly enjoy receiving your comments and emails, and you've made maintaining this site a lot of fun!  Until next time...

First Days in Mexico

Driving from Scottsdale to the border of Mexico was not the most exciting ride I´ve had.  The entire route was through barren desert, and the only noteworthy site was a huge quarry about 20 miles from the border.  After reading more about border crossings, I decided to cross at Douglas, rather than Nogales.  Crossing the border was not nearly as intimidating as I thought it would be.  The Douglas border post is small, with only two roads going in each direction.  If I were heading 20 miles or less into Mexico I could have simply driven right through, but since I´m heading a bit further into Mexico, I had to import both myself and the bike.  Following signs for the temporary importation office, I pulled off under a shaded parking lot, where a man began cleaning my panniers before I had even taken my helmet off.  After saying, ¨No gracias,¨ I made my way into the office, where I was greeted by a surprisingly friendly border official, who directed me to the different desks in the office.  About two seconds into our one-way conversation, I realized that learning Spanish has to be a top priority.  Even without understanding 98% of what he said, I was in and out of the office in less than twenty minutes. 

So here we go!  From what I´ve heard and read, there´s an out-of-control drug war on the Mexican side of the border.  I figured that if I kept my eyes on the mirrors to look for a tail, and lay on the throttle for the first 70 miles or so, I may just survive the first day!  Driving through Agua Prieta, the Mexican border town, I was rather disappointed, but disappointed in a good way.  No cars pulled out of their strategic roadside position and followed me out of town, and I didn´t witness any gun battles; let alone drive through one.  Instead, I was greeted with waves, smiles, and a few curious stares.  Agua Prieta is a small town and I was out of town and back in the desert in less than ten minutes.  Heading South on Hwy 17, there wasn´t much to see.  I passed a couple road construction sites, where I was also greeted with waves, but aside from that; nothing.  The sky was becoming dark to my west, with the occasional bolt of lightning causing me to take a quick glance to the right.  I had no idea how long it would take me to reach a town that had a hotel, so I sped it up a bit.  Hwy 17, which is nothing more than a two-lane road, meandered through some hills and occasionally passed through small towns that didn´t warrant a stop.  The storm crept closer with each passing minute, but seemed to be keeping its distance.  As I arrived in the town of Moctezuma, there was a small, five-room hotel, located on the edge of town, where I decided to call it a day.  The nine-hour day had taken its toll, and there was no reason to push on to the next town that may not have accommodation.  The hotel owners were very friendly and taught me a few words of Spanish.  Dinner was pan-fried chicken and refried beans, and I called it a night not long after the last bite.  I knew I had a long day ahead of me.

I woke early and had the bike packed and on the road by 8am.  I was heading to Creel, a town near Copper Canyon.  Looking at my map, there were two ways I could get there.  The first was a southerly route where I would eventually head due east to Creel.  The second, and the route I went with, started off heading east, then Southeast, and then the road ended; giving me a chance to fill in the gap with some creative navigation.  The road heading east was gorgeous.  It passed through everything from desert, mountains, and fertile river valleys.  I think one of the great things about motorcycle travel is how the smells and temperature changes add so much to the experience.  As I entered the first river valley, I was instantly bombarded with humidity and the smell of grass on a hot day after an evening´s rain.  It´s not that the humidity or smell of vegetation is in and of itself spectacular, but it gives you a sense of being; that you are actually there and apart of the world around you.  I think alot of that is lost in the comfort of an air-conditioned car.  Winding up through the mountains, I reached my southeasterly turnoff.  It was a dirt road, and a brief conversation with a construction crew confirmed that it was the road I thought it was.  About three miles down the road, a huge smile came across my face, accompanied with the realizations that I was actually in Mexico, that this was really happening, and how awesome this whole adventure is! 

 

The road meandered through desolation, but the cattle guards in the road let me know that someone lived in the area.  The road passed through two unremarkable and small towns, and brought me to an unmarked fork on the outside of the second.  Neither road was on my map or on my GPS.  So I went with my gut instinct and took the road toward the right. I followed it for several miles to a barbed wire fence and a locked gate.  Serves me right for following my gut instinct!  So I retraced my way back to the fork to give the other road a try.  Thankfully, that one brought me to the town of Nacori Chico, just like I had hoped.  My fuel was running low, and it definitely wasn´t enough to cross the Sierra Madres with.  So I pulled over and spoke with five men who were working on a busted radiator in their truck.  After first offering me a beer, they pointed me to ¨La casa de gasolina¨.  Not a gas station, but a gas house.  A family has plastic barrels of gasoline stored at their house, which they transfer to jugs and funnel into your tank.  Very cool!  I´ve definitely never seen anything like this before!  With my tank full, I sought out a road that would lead me through the mountains to a road on the other side, which I could pick up and head south on. 

This was the gap in my original plan that I had to fill.  Was there even a road that did that?  My own exploration lead me down several dead ends.  Nothing is marked or named, and the roads certainly don´t show up on my map or on my GPS, (which is acting as nothing more than expensive compass).  I took several roads that after a couple miles would lead to a dump, a gate, or just end.  Wandering on the outskirts of town, I came to a fork and this one came complete with signs.  Unfortunately neither town was on my map or GPS. Grrrr.  So I went with the opposite of my gut instinct and was wrong again.  Backtracking again, I went with the other route and it started to look promising.  It was trafficked alot, heading due east, and straight into the mountains.  I did it!  I found the road to Chuhuichupa!  Before the smile had left my face, I rolled up to an open gate with a ¨Private Property¨ sign staring back at me.  But this had to be the route!  I went through the gate and followed the road for about a quarter mile.  As I rounded a turn with two horses in the road, a sizeable house appeared, and I knew that anyone there would most definitely see me ride by.  The house was actually too big and nice for comfort, especially since this is the heart of Mexico's marijuana crop.  I turned around and made my way back to the town. I asked a local man if he knew the road to Chuhuichupa, and he said yes and quickly added that it was really dangerous.  During the day I should be OK, but at night it is very bad.  I was unconvinced that the road he was directing me to was different from the one I had just been on, and I strongly doubted there were two roads going to the same place.  It was nearing 3pm, and there was another storm coming from the east. I thought about the situation and decided that taking a dirt (soon to be mud) road, through the heart of drug country, by myself, all while testing the enforcement of Mexico´s trespassing laws, was more of a recipe for disaster than for success.  Defeated, but content with my decision, I made my way back to Moctezuma, where I had started and where I spent the previous night.  I was disappointed that 10 hours of riding hadn´t gotten me anywhere, but I had a lot of fun and wouldn´t change a thing.

 

My second attempt at getting to Creel was even more exciting, and in hindsight, I wish I had the discretion I had the day before.  The first half of the day was uneventful, with my ride taking me along the Mexican version of the Blue Ridge Parkway.  Eventually a storm forced me to pull over and have a coffee and eat some enchiladas.  The waitress confirmed that the road I wanted to take to San Jaunito existed, and that it would take me about an hour and half to get there.  Eventually the rain slowed and the lightning passed and I decided to have a go at it.  It was around 4:30pm and I could easily make it to San Juanito by dark; maybe even Creel!  I stepped outside and the sky over the mountains was still ominously dark.  I asked the waitress how much a room in the hotel attached to the restaurant was, and she quoted me $25, which is what I had paid the last two nights, and which was also over budget.  I knew I could find a place in Creel for $10.  So being cheap, I decided to have a go at the road through the mountains. 

As I pulled onto the dirt/mud/stone/gravel road, a sign indicated that San Juanito was 87km away.  Huh, that seems kind of far. Oh well, I can make it!  The road began it´s meandering climb through the Sierra Madres.  The condition of the road slowed my pace down considerably.  About 20 miles into the pass, round two of the storm hit.  My visibility dropped down to nearly nothing.  At highway speeds, rain blows off of your visor, but at 10 to 20mph, it clings there until two drops team up and slide off.  It was getting dark quick, although I couldn´t tell if it was dark from the storm or from the sun setting.  I soon realized that I was in the exact situation I had turned back to avoid the day before, but I decided to press on today.  Around the 30 mile mark, or the halfway point, I even had myself a little worried.  I definitely was not going to make it in an hour and a half, and this was not where I wanted to be when the sun set.  The rain finally let up, and I picked up the pace, taking full advantage of the straight-aways.  What the hell am I doing here?  I´m such a ____ idiot!  The sun was officially down, and I was clinging to the last bit of light that made it down through the clouds and trees.  A few pickup trucks had passed me from the opposite direction, but now that it was dark, I held my breath each time I saw headlights ahead.  I thought to myself, Everyone has adamently insisted that I don´t ride at night.  So now that it´s dark, how long after dark does all the bad stuff happen, and how?  Do they run you off the road, set up road blocks, stop in front of you and jump out guns blazing?  Oh, and What the ___ am I doing here?

Soon three vehicles were coming from ahead.  I hadn´t seen three vehicles together since I´d been in Mexico.  This wasn´t looking good.  I went back and forth between having my tinted helmet visor up and down, in an attempt to see the vehicles approching without having my eyes filled with bugs or the stinging rain.  Closer they came.  My mind was racing at whatever speed is fast for a mind to work at, and as the first truck passed, I felt my body tense-up as I waited for muzzle-flashes to come from the windows.  The three vehicles passed without as much as a honk, and I let out a huge sigh of relief!  Obviously, this wasn´t the best place to be, but were my fears a little unfounded and was my mind taking things too far?  I decided to debate that later, and focus on getting down the road as fast as possible.  Unbelievably, I hit pavement!  Fresh stuff too!  Grading equipment lined the road, and I opened the throttle up, looking only for cattle in the road.  Arriving safely in San Juanito, I realized that there was definitely not a hotel in town, so I continued 30 more kilometers to Creel.  Phew, I actually made it!  I found a hostel in town and just as I had thought, it was only $10.  I just saved myself 15 bucks! 

As I entered the hostel, a Mexican family vacationing in Creel greeted me and the father looked at me with a hint of shock on his face.  He spoke English well and wasted no time telling me that I was a very lucky man and that being out on the road that late in the evening was not a good idea.  Like everyone else, he reiterated the risks of traveling at night in this region and insisted that they not be taken lightly.  I guess my fears weren't unfounded.  Ok, I need a beer!

Update from Zacatecas

I ended up spending a couple days more than I had expected in Creel.  The town itself was nothing to get excited about, but I decided that something had to be done about my boots.  They were unbearably potent to say the least.  Not in a stinky feet kind of way, but in an ammonia / decomposing-carcass kind of way.  I can almost live with stinky boots, but the smell was being absorbed into my feet and into the bottom of my legs.  Even after two days, and having scrubbed my feet on three separate occasions, they still stunk.  Not a good way to make friends in a hostel.  So I filled my boots with a diluted-bleach solution and let them sit in the shower for a while.  When I finally rinsed them out, it had already began to rain and it continued throughout the following day.  Judging by the various growths and discolorations on my feet, I thought that a full-days ride in wet boots would not be a good idea.  So I waited out the rain and the sun on the following day dried my boots.  Now my feet, and anyone within 100ft of my boots, could not be any happier.

I set off early on Saturday morning to see Copper Canyon from an overlook in Divisadero.  It´s a popular stop on the famous train ride into Creel.  Although it was a bit hazy, the view was incredible.  I´ve never been to the Grand Canyon, but Copper Canyon is supposed to be larger and/or deeper.  In my opinion, the view was nice, and well worth the detour to check it out, but it was nothing compared to what I would see that afternoon.

After checking out Divisadero, I made my way south to Batopilas.  It´s a small town with a pop. 1,200, and it´s located at the bottom of a 5000ft canyon.  I had seen pictures of the road that leads down to the town, but pictures do not do the place justice.  The Canyon itself is huge.  I can´t even begin to guess how wide it is.  The road was unlike anything I have ever seen before.  There are enough switch backs, white-knuckle narrows, and blind-turns wide enough for one vehicle, to keep even the most easily distracted driver fixated on the road.  I was completely exhausted at about the half-way mark.  It became hotter with each switchback, and the road seemed to go on forever.  The heat, combined with my body ´´adjusting¨ to the Mexican cuisine (read ¨stuff coming out of both ends¨), made the trip a real struggle against dehydration.  I arrived in Batopilas around 5pm and found a quaint hotel for $10 a night.  Still battling a headache and with my stomach "adjusting¨, I skipped dinner and called it a night around 6pm.

The ride out of the Canyon was much more enjoyable, since my stomach let me drink water again.  I headed east to the state of Durango and spent the night in Hidalgo del Parral.  I never thought I´d say this, but I was happy to see straight roads.  Aside from the first day in Mexico, nearly every road has hugged the side of a mountain or wound through the woods.  It´s a lot of fun to ride, but it takes a long time to get anywhere, and it's both mentally and physically exhausting to ride like that for 8 or 9 hours.  I was also pleasantly surprised to see that Durango invested in road signs.  So the straight roads, combined with excellent sign-age, allowed me to cover some good distances and reach the city of Durango the following day, and the city of Zacatecas in the state of Zacatecas yesterday.  In fact, the only thing that slowed me down was when my bike was running very poorly on my way out of Hidalgo del Parral.  After fiddling with the idle and the air/fuel screw, I finally pulled off the road and started disassembling the bike in order to diagnose the problem.  I started by taking a look at the air filter, and decided to oil up a spare and replace it.  No luck, it still ran like crap.  I started to unbolt the tank so I could dig into the carburetor, when I noticed that my choke lever on the handlebar was engaged.  That will definitely cause your bike to run very poorly.  Seething with anger at myself for being so stupid and not noticing that earlier, I suddenly heard the last words my friend Ryan shared with me when I left Scottsdale.  ¨Jeff, don´t be so hard on yourself all the time.  When things aren´t going right, take a deep breath and relax.¨   So rather than smash something, or stab a hole in my gas tank and make an even worse situation for myself, I decided to fake a smile and take a picture to mark the occasion instead.

New Pics and Captions Added

New post coming soon!

Mexico Time

I apologize for the long break between posts, but I think the laid back pace of everything in Mexico is making me lazy!   The country runs on 'Mexico Time' and it's definitely a pace that I can get used to.  Don, the owner of the hostel in Manzanillo, shared a story with me that I think sums up the idea of 'Mexico Time'.  Don was having a Palapa built (a thatched roof that you see in many tropical locales) and the guy doing the work told him that he had to take off for the afternoon to get more materials.  To Don´s surprise, the afternoon had come and gone, the sun had set, and no one had heard from the builder.  The next day also came to pass; again with no sign of the builder.  Late the following afternoon, the builder showed up with a truck full of palm branches and continued construction.  The man shared with Don that he and his sons had driven out into the forest to gather materials.  After drinking too much beer, they decided to camp out in the woods for the night.  The following morning they woke up and still had some beer left, so they let the festivities continue and gathered materials later that day.  Eventually they collected what they needed and returned to the hostel to continue construction.  The man was not offering this story as an apology or as an attempt to explain his absence, but was simply sharing with Don what he thought was a perfectly logical chain of events.   What I find interesting about this story is not the fact that a bunch of guys got drunk in the woods, but how this is a perfectly normal chain of events that should be expected in Mexico.  I can´t imagine what would happen if you hired someone in the States to build a deck, and two days after leaving to get materials, the builder explained that he had decided to get drunk and camp-out instead.  But here it doesn´t matter if the Palapa get´s finished today or two days from now.  It´s only a Palapa and it will be finished eventually.  Ahh,.. 'Mexico Time'. 

Interestingly, the same people that live at one of the most relaxed paces I have ever seen, suddenly follow a different creed when they get behind the wheel.  As soon as I ride into a town with a population of 20,000 people or more, I can't help but think that there's a finish-line somewhere, and I'm the only person who doesn't know about it.  But maybe it´s something about the road itself.  I´ve begun to move at a snails pace during every other part of the day, but riding in a congested area brings out the hidden bicycle courier in me.  There was a time when I would sit in congestion like all the other cars, but then I noticed that I was the only motorcycle sitting in traffic.  So now when there´s a gap between cars, I shoot through it.  If five cars and a tractor trailer are backed up at a tope (a massive speed bump), and I think that I may be able to slingshot around them, I´ll shoot down the dirt to the right, or down the oncoming lane to the left.  There´s no logical explanation for it this sense of urgency, but when in Rome....

Aside from being on Mexico time, my second excuse for why I haven´t posted is that life has become too easy and I don't have anything exciting to write about.  The vast terrain of the North, combined with the dirt roads and mountain passes, instilled a sense of adventure in each days ride.  But as the trip has moved south, nearly all of the roads are paved, it´s much more populated, and a gas station is never far away.

The trip has taken me to several of Mexico's Silver Cities, including Zacatecas, San Miguel del Allende, and Guanajuato.  Zacatecas was definitely my favorite of the cities because it sill had a normal, non-touristy feel to it.  All of the markets and food stalls that I frequent all too often, are all in the city center.  While Zacatecas is a popular destination for both foreign and Mexican tourists, I felt like I was witnessing the lives of real people, not walking through a city centered on tourism.  San Miguel del Allende, although beautiful, was the antithesis of Zacatecas, with more rich American retirees frequenting the city center than Mexicans.  All of the things I loved about Zacatecas, had been pushed out of San Miguel's central plaza to make room for Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts, and even a Subway.  Guanajuato struck a balance between the other to, but still didn't have the authentic feel that Zacatecas had.

After Guanajuato, I rode south to the town of Patzcuaro.  I had aspirations to circle a lake immediately north of the town and visit some of the indigenous communities located there, but the blinding downpours drowned out any plans that I had.  So rather than hang around the lake I headed east to check out a Volcano that grew out of a farm field in the 1950's, and swallowed a town.  I'm going to have to trust that it's actually there, because I couldn't see it with the rain and cloud cover.  Hoping to have better luck with the two, 12,000ft-plus Volcanoess in Colima, I was equally disappointed when the continued rain made a hike up the volcanoes less than appealing.  Here again, I had to trust the locals who reassured me that there were indeed two volcanoes in the immediate area.  Throughout the course of that week, it rained all day and everyday.  During the rainy season, it typically rains for a couple hours each afternoon, but i think there was remnants of a tropical storm moving through the area.  Oh well, better luck next time.

 

From Colima, I made my way to the Coast, where I spent 5 nights in Manzanillo.  I originally intended to spend two nights there, but on the first day I was introduced to a girl who was fluent in both Spanish and English, and she was able to meet with me for two hours each day and tutor me.  While my Spanish still has a long way to go, I learned a lot over the four days and I´m no longer limited to speaking in the present tense.  You can only imagine the looks people give you when you tell a story in the present and then explain that the story happened a week ago. 

The ride down the Pacific Coast on HWY 200 was both a lot of fun and picturesque.  A good portion of the road hugs the coast and winds along a mountainside.   I stopped in numerous small towns to eat and rehydrate, but spent nights in Zijuatanejo, Playa Ventura, and I´m now in Puerto Escondido.  The small towns between the major resort destinations don´t see many foreigners, so the people were very friendly and excited to ask me where I was going and where I came from.  Most people have a double-take when I told them that I started in New York. (No one knows where Connecticut is)   

 

I apologize for this post sounding rather mundane and just a summary of where I´ve been, but I guess it´s a good thing that I don´t have anything ¨crazy¨ to write about.  I don´t want to jinx myself, but my bike has run flawlessly, and I've had an entirely positive experience with each and every person I´ve met.  Whether it´s a shop owner, the Federales, a person on the street, or the soldiers at the 15 or more military checkpoints I´ve been through, everyone has been friendly and more than willing to help me or offer directions.  In fact I´ve only been pulled over by one police officer and that was in Zacatecas.  I was at a stop light and an officer on a motorcycle pulled up beside me and honked his horn.  I thought, ¨Here we go!  Let me guess, I didn´t come to a complete stop, or I made an 'illegal' turn, and I have to pay a fine.¨  Instead, the officer smiled at me and asked where I was from and where I was going.  He then shook my hand and wished me luck in my travels.  Before I could even comprehend that the officer wanted nothing more than to say hi, he had already vanished into the congestion ahead, leaving me with a smile on my face. ¡Viva Mexico!

Final Days in Mexico

The beaches south of Puerto Escondido did not disappoint.  After lounging on the beach in Zipolite for three days, thinking that the beaches (at least on the Pacific side) couldn´t get any better, I packed my bags and began the six hour ride to Oaxaca.  About 30 minutes into the ride, I ran into a Canadian guy on a KLR650.  We stopped to exchange stories and he asked if I had been to Mazunte, a beach about 25 minutes north of Zipolite.  He went on to explain that he and his friend started a trip like mine two years ago, but never made it past Mazunte.  They fell in love with the place and used the rest of their trip-fund to buy property there.  I figured that any place good enough to end a trip, is worth checking out.  So I turned around, road past my beloved Zipolite, and found a place to stay in Mazunte.  I can go to Oaxaca tomorrow.  Mazunte quickly became my favorite beach, and I spent my 26th Birthday in the surf, followed by some great live music in the evening.  After three days in Mazunte, it took all I had to pry myself away from the town and ride inland.  When I finally hit the road, I decided to bypass Oaxaca and ride more south to San Cristobal de Las Casas. 

 

As I approached a bridge crossing a fairly wide river in Zaragoza, I noticed the traffic ahead was at a standstill and that the bridge was packed with people standing shoulder to shoulder.  Knowing I wasn´t going to be crossing the bridge anytime soon, I turned around and made my way to a Pemex to top off my tank and inquire about another route.  The only detours on my map were of the 10 hour variety, so I was really hoping some local knowledge would save the day.  On my way to the Pemex, and still in dense traffic, my rear tire abruptly hopped about 10 inches to the left, and my whole bike darted forward, as an overly anxious cabbie collided with my right pannier.  Collided is a bit harsh of a term for what actually happened, but it was still enough to almost send me off the bike.  With the bike tipping to the left and teetering just a hair shy of the point of no return, I finally battled it upright in an exhausting display of stubbornness.  There was no way I was going to let the bike go down: I would rather die of heat exhaustion.  As soon as I had it upright, I gave the cab an obligatory ¨what the ___?¨ wave, and I pulled off to the side and he followed suit.  I got off the bike to have a look and there was nothing more than a dent/scratch.  The cabbie climbed out of his car and squatted down to examine his fender, all while giving me the evil-eye like I had just ran over his best friend.  I quickly began thinking through my limited Spanish vocabulary for verbs like, ¨to hit¨, ¨to collide¨, or even ¨to crash¨, but I came up with nothing.  With verbs, you can´t simply throw an ¨o¨ or an ¨a¨ on the end of an English verb and hope for the best, like you can with some nouns and adjectives.  So telling him that I wasn´t going to pay for anything because he hit me, was going to be difficult.  The word ¨vendejo¨, came to mind though, but I refrained from using it.  Thankfully, the cabbie must have decided that I didn´t do enough damage to his car, so he gave me one last look of disdain and drove away.

San Cristobal was much like all the other colonial cities, complete with a plaza, cathedral, cobblestone roads and sidewalks, etc.  The thing that set it apart were the great fruit and veggie markets, where I was able to pick up a pineapple and two pomegranates for $1.30.

 

  After spending just one day in San Cristobal, I road north to the Ruins of Palenque, where I found a great little cabana in the jungle:  Real jungle too, complete with howler monkeys doing what they do best.  I visited the ruins this morning, and although they´re not as spectacular as the pyramids in Egypt, it´s hard to fathom how anyone could build the city without using work animals, iron tools, or the wheel.  On top of that, everything was painted blood-red back in the day, with blue and yellow accents throughout.

   

I´m in Comitan at the moment, and on Saturday I will leave for Guatemala, making this my last post from Mexico.  My journey through Mexico has taken me more than 4,100 miles.  While I´ve only skimmed the surface of the sites, language, and culture, Mexico has made a lasting impression on me.  The people of Mexico have been friendly, welcoming, and generous: So much so that it took some getting used to.  At first I couldn´t help but think that they were trying to get something out of me, but all they really wanted to do was say hi, and practice their English.  Contrary to what I expected heading into Mexico, I´ve always felt safe here.  There were a couple of times where I was on edge, but it was only from my mind playing through all of the ¨what ifs¨, not because something bad was actually happening. 

Mexico has been a suprisingly beautiful country.  Don´t let my pictures fool you though.  Mexico is not all colonial cities and beautiful beaches.  I think that the majority of people here live very hard lives.  I´m not making a value judgment on what´s better or worse, but there is something undeniably ¨hard¨ about farming by hand, earth-moving by hand, or mowing the side of the road...by hand.   It´s not uncommon to see elderly women and small children carrying huge bundles of wood on their backs, with the weight suspended by a strap across their foreheads.  Even in the touristy areas, some people work from 8am to 12am, 6 days a week, and bring home next to nothing.  I don´t have demographic information to back any of this up, but I´m certain that running water and something other than a dirt floor is still a luxury that only a minority of the population enjoys.  I haven´t refrained from taking photos of  "real life" because I want my photos to be pretty, I just don´t feel comfortable taking pictures in those situations at this time.  I think that once I can actually communicate with people on a higher level, then I may feel more comfortable taking culturally relevant photos, or at least comfortable asking people if I can take a photo.

Finally, the people of Mexico seem genuinely happy.  Although they may not have as much stuff as people in the States, and many live what I feel is a very hard life, it seems that there's a lot more time set aside for friends and family, and that people are happy with living a simpler and less hectic lifestyle.  A lot of that stems from the 'Mexico time' I wrote about in my last post.  Maybe 'content' is the word I´m looking for.  Regardless of the label, I hope I can embrace a little bit of that mentality throughout this trip and more importantly, incorporate it into my life when I get home.

I hope that wasn´t too preachy.  Anyways, see you in Guatemala!

Back to School

The atmosphere at the border of Guatemala in the town of La Mesilla, was a little more interesting than the large, toll-booth-looking post on the border of Mexico and Arizona.  The process itself had a couple of additional steps as well.  To start, I had to export myself and the motorcycle at the Mexican aduana, located about 4km from Guatemalan border.  From there, I proceeded through the 4kms of no-man's-land to La Mesilla.  I call it a no-man's-land because in those 4km you aren't offically checked into any country.  Arriving at the crossing in La Mesilla was like arriving in the middle of a congested, pedestrianized marketplace, complete with about 50 vendors lining either side of the one-lane road to the border.  I slowly plowed my way through the pedestrian traffic that completely surrounded me, and eventually came up behind two cars that were awaiting fumigation at the point that actually marks the border.  The fee for the motorcycle's mandatory fumigation, along with the importation fee must be paid for in Guatemalan Quetzales.  No need to worry though, money changers lurking around the fumigation station are more than eager to help you with any of your currency needs.  Not knowing how much the whole process would cost me, I changed about $80 USD worth of Mexican Pesos to Quetzales. The exchange rate was actually more favorable than I expected it to be, considering the money changers have a monopoly on the market there. 

Once the bike was fumigated, I was able to pull into a less congested parking area in front of the Guatemalan Aduana.  I took off my helmet and removed my earplugs, and breathed a sigh of relief to be out of the chaotic mass of people.  Bad idea.  My my ears almost started bleeding once they were no longer sheltered from the horrendous voice of a man singing into an impressively loud sound system across the street.  I use the term 'singing' loosely, because the only thing that qualified it as singing was that there was music, and that he was not merely talking the words.  I can´t begin to imagine working in that area and having to endure that torture all day and everyday.  I entered the first office and the man´s voice reverberated off the walls of the office; the open doorway doing little to dampen the horror.  I thought I could sense a bit of agony in the people sitting behind the counter, so I offered a ¨Buenos Dias¨ and then commented in Spanish and with a smile that the guy in the street wasn´t the best vocalist.  The lady didn´t find my attempt at sarcasm in Spanish humorous, and quickly pointed out that he was with a church group.  Feeling like I had inadvertently desecrated a sacred shrine, I refrained from making any other heathenish comments and began explaining why I was visiting Guatemala and for how long I would like to stay.  At that point I thought for sure that she'd get the last laugh and hand me a 7 day visa, but to my surprise, she stamped my passport and granted me 90 days.

I thanked the woman and made my way to the barred window of the building next door.  I now had to complete the next batch of paperwork to import the bike.  While I was in the first office, there had been a changing-of-the-guard of some sort across the street, and the "Guatemalan Idol" runner-up was replaced by a girl who was no more than 6 years old.  Her voice was equally bad, if not worse, but the energy with which she screamed and marched back and forth on her makeshift stage, was hard not to look at.  As I completed the paperwork, I couldn´t help but glance over my shoulder stare at the spectacle across the street.  The girl was starting to attract quite the crowd of onlookers who seemed to be enjoying the show, so maybe I´m the one with the bad taste in music.  I received a 40 day pass for the bike, the most days allowed for a vehicle, and was assured that I could return to any border crossing to have it renewed for another 40 days.  With my paperwork complete, I couldn´t get my earplugs fitted and my helmet on soon enough.  I hopped on the bike, took in the sites and sounds of La Mesilla one last time, and then set off on the Pan-American Highway to the city of Quetzaltenango.

I arrived in Quetzalenango (Xela), on Saturday afternoon, and on Monday morning I enrolled in a language school.  The school set me up with a host family that lives two blocks from the school.  I have my own room in their apartment, and the mother cooks me three meals a day.  I´ve really enjoyed living with the family, and I get to practice my Spanish out of class with a very patient audience.  They have two kids: Michele who´s three years old, and Daniel who will be one in August.  I think Michele has taken a bit of a liking to me, and on the first day she told me a very exciting and animated story; of which I understood nothing...not even a word.  I just smiled, nodded, and said the occasional ¨Si¨ to let her know that I was intrigued with her story.   

Classes have been a lot of fun, although after five hours of one-on-one tutoring, my mind is completely spent.  Not a word of English is spoken, so it is quite exhausting to have to think through every word that I say.  After my first week, I feel that I´ve learned a lot, but I have a long ways to go.  As with everything in life, I want to speak it perfectly and I want to speak it perfectly now, so I often need to take a step back and remind myself that I´m not going to be fluent in a language after only one week.  It´s just incredibly frustrating to want to say something simple, and not be able to find the words to say it.  The school itself is really small, with only four students in the morning classes and four in the afternoon.  It´s located out of the city center and in the subburbs, so I can walk around all day and never see another tourist.  Xela is far from a charming city, but I like the feel of it nonetheless. 

I don´t think I´ll have too much exciting news to report in the next couple of weeks, but I´ll still try to post something in a week or two.  On a different note, the camera I bought for this trip is basically shot.  The LCD screen was damaged and no longer works, so I can no longer frame photos or use any of the functions (timer, flash, etc).  It doesn´t have a traditional viewfinder either.  Cameras are prohibitively expensive here, and importing one was going to be equally costly.  My girlfriend will be visiting me in a couple of months, so I´ll be able to get my hands on another camera in Costa Rica.  I´ll do my best with what I have for now, but if you notice a sharp drop in the number and quality of the photos I post, it´s not because I´ve become blind or developed vertigo.

¡Hasta Luego!

In Guatemala, Anything's Possible!

Ever have an electrical fire spark-off six inches from your face?  Yes?  Well, have you ever had it happen while you were taking a shower? Me neither; until a week ago. After a long, wet, and cold ride back to my host-family's home from San Pedro, I was enjoying a nice hot shower made possible by one of the electrical shower-heads that are so popular throughout Central America.   I’m a little tall for Guatemala, so I have to crouch down to get under most shower heads, but a warm shower is refreshing none-the-less.  Suddenly, I heard a loud pop and and a burst of sparks flew from the shower head.  Before I could actually comprehend what was going on, my natural instinct had me back-stepping through the curtain, and searching for dry ground.  Thankfully, it was a curtain and not a glass door.  Just moments after the first arc had sparked inches from my face, I was out of the shower, covered in suds, and watching as the wires caught fire. The breaker in the bathroom didn’t trip, and the wires arced for at least eight seconds before the house’s main breaker tripped.  In the words that my host-mom shared with me on this and several other occasions, ¨In Guatemala, anything´s possible!¨.

My friend Ryan and I had always joked about the jerry-rigged water-heater/shower-heads in Costa Rica, and now I know that our suspicions were well founded. As you can see from the photo, the wires running to the unit are merely twisted together and sometimes wrapped with tape. The ground wire is usually snipped and left hanging, but in this rare instance it was actually taped to the pipe. I don’t know much about electricity, but I know that grounds are good. I can’t say whether the extra effort the plumber/electrician put into setting this one up saved me from becoming a human ground, but it couldn’t have hurt any.  I know it´s not the most exciting story, but I´ve taken on student life again, so even the little things are exciting!

I´ve been studying pretty hard the last three weeks, and my brain is thoroughly exhausted for most of the day.  Classes run from 8:00AM to 1:00PM, Monday through Friday, and on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons I´ve taken on teaching English to some local elementary school kids.  I´m not sure how much my efforts help or hinder them, but I´d like to think that my pathetic attempt at teaching is better than nothing.  It´s actually a lot of fun, but extremely difficult.  Even simple concepts like "to be" or "to want" branch off into complex tenses and sentences that we thinking nothing of when we speak.

 

Guatemala, well from what I´ve seen in Xela, certainly has a certain edge to it that I didn´t feel in Mexico.  On my first night here, I was in a bar/club with my friend Franco, who I originally met in Zacatecas, when it was raided by 15 assault-rifle-toting officers that could have passed for a SWAT team.  The bar was open 45 minutes past the national closing time of 1:00AM, so that´s how they do last call around here.  Deciding to call it a night, we made our way out the door, and the streets had a really unsettling feel to them.  The level of drunkenness displayed by 99% of the local men on the street rivaled anything I´ve ever seen at any college party.  Seconds after being in the street, I saw a car slam into the side of a building, then come inches from running over a couple walking on the sidewalk as it tried to speed away.  Not long after that, I had a local guy come up to me and basically beg for a fight, which I wanted no part of.  That was my first and only late-night experience in the city and I´m content with that.  But on a day to day basis, one can´t help but notice that half of all stores and every delivery truck, regardless of whether it´s delivering potato chips or electronics, has at least one shotgun-weilding and bullet-proof-vest-wearing security guard.  With that being said, I still feel perfectly safe walking around the city during the day.

The first family I was living with didn´t work out as well as I had originally thought it would.  To steal the words of my friend Grace, "I hadn´t realized I signed up for a two week course in contraception!"  The one-year-old had lungs that rivaled both of the performers at the border in La Mesilla.  I honestly don´t know how something so small can make so much noise and at such a high pitch.  I can understand a kid crying after they've banged their head etc., but this kid screamed (not cried) when he was hungry, tired, happy, sad, or didn´t have someone´s undivided attention.  The father was out of town for the two weeks, so the kid had plenty of time without undivided attention.  I did my best to hibernate in my room with earplugs installed as much as possible, but the thin door and my earplugs were no match.  After two weeks, I couldn´t take it anymore, and I was getting tired of having to be in my room all the time, so I asked the school to place me with a new family.

 

The new family is great.  The youngest son is 26, and he only screams when he is hungry or tired.  The mother cooks incredible meals that keep me looking forward to what we´ll be eating next.  On top of that, they basically force feed me until I´m no longer physically capable of swallowing anymore.  They told me that they like seeing how much their guests can eat.  In hindsight, I wish I asked to move a long time ago.  Not only is the food incredible, but I get to hear and speak a lot more Spanish since I´m not hiding in my room all day and night.  Although, I think I'd have a bit of a weight problem if I started living there two weeks ago.  There is a catch though, and it's a big one.  They have two roosters that live no more than twenty feet from where I lay my head, and there's not even a pane of glass between us.  4:00AM wake-ups have become the norm, and after the half-hour long alarm clock subsides, I´m shooting 1 for 4 on falling back to sleep.  I never new this, but roosters have a snooze feature that makes them continue to make noise every 30 minutes or so, even after first light.  Between this post and the last, it must sound like I have some personal issues with noise, but I swear I'm not exaggerating any of these events even the slightest bit.  Aside from the screaming child, and the two roosters that look tastier by the day, the home-stays have been a great experience, and both families welcomed me as a member of their family.

 

Last weekend I had to get away from the screamer so I took a weekend trip to Lake Atitlan, and spent two nights in the lakeside town of San Pedro.  Most of the ride there, and all of the ride back, was foggy and rainy, but that´s to be expected in the afternoon during the rainy season.  The lake was beautiful, and it´s another one of the many places that photos don´t give justice to.  On the way there I missed the turnoff from the Pan American Highway, and I stopped at a gas station to ask for directions.  There, I met an incredibly friendly couple who I spoke with for over a half-hour. (Another reason to not use a GPS unless absolutely needed)   Earlier that day I was wondering how much I had learned over the last two weeks, but I walked away from the conversation pleased with my progress.

 

On the topic of language, I had my first dream in Spanish this week.  I can´t remember what it was about, but I can remember my tutor appearing out of nowhere and correcting my conjugation of the verb ¨tomar¨.  Even with all of the progress that´s been made, I´ve decided to get back on the road this Sunday.  Three weeks of study is short of my original 1-2 month estimate, but I feel it's time to move on.  I may pick up the books again in another lugar, but I need a change of scenery for the time being.  I'm not much of a city person to begin with, and Xela is far from a charming and active city that I could get used to.  Since I'm not in the city center, everything closes around 7:00PM, and cab-rides to and from the center on a daily basis is not in my budget.  It was a good place to study for a couple weeks, but the mountains are calling my name and my motorcycle is getting lonely.

I'm not sure where the next couple weeks will take me, but I'm heading north from here into the highlands, and making my way east.  After only three weeks of having a routine, I can't help but have a smile on my face at the thought of not knowing where I'll be and/or what I'll be doing this time next week!

Until next time!

 

In Guatemala, Anything's Possible...Twice!

I had another close call today.  Not on the road, or with bandits, but in the shower.  Yup, the shower...again.  The State Department's travel advisories don't warn against the dangers lurking inside your hotel room.  I arrived at a hotel in Huehuetanango earlier this afternoon, and while taking a shower my head bumped into the shower head.  This time I was genuinely electrocuted, as in my jaw involuntarily clenched shut, and I involuntarily grimaced aloud, unable to move for a few moments.  The breaker didn't pop either, so I think it was my only body weight that separated me from the shower head.  I could feel the current go through the back of my head and down my spine to my feet.  I've never had my whole body so incapacitated like that before.Scary as hell to say the least.   My head still feels a little weird.  Although there were no flames this time, the whole situation was 1000x worse.  As I mentioned before, I don't know much about electricity, but I truly feel that I could have died today.  Needless to say, I've sworn off hot showers indefinitely.

On the road in Honduras

The morning after the electrocution, I headed east from Huehuetanango to Coban, on one the prettiest roads Guatemala has to offer.  There wasn´t much to see or do in Coban, so I was up early the next morning and on my way to Lanquin, a small little town in the mountains, complete with rivers and caves.  I stayed at a little mini-resort there that is popular with backpackers, and it ended up being a comfortable place to relax for two nights.

While in Lanquin, I met Omer, a guy from Israel who´s also riding south on a motorcycle.  We decided to ride together for a while and started by taking back roads out of Lanquin and over the mountains to Lake Izabel.  That was the best ride I had in Guatemala and we were definitely off of the beaten tourist track that is really hard to avoid in Guatemala.  We passed through a ton of villages that showed varying degrees of interest in us.  In some places, people run out to the street to watch you go by, and in others, people do everything they can to not make eye contact.  It seems that the entirely indigenous communities are alot more standoffish of outsiders. 

Only 2 days after leaving Lanquin, Omer and I crossed into Honduras.  I don´t really have much in the way of final thoughts for Guatemala.  I enjoyed my time there, but it just didn´t inspire me the same way Mexico did.  To start, it´s hard to truly visit any place off of the tourist-track.  Guatemala is extremely poor and there aren´t hotels in areas that aren´t heavily visited by foreigners.  While in Mexico, I could stop at a comedor in any town and attempt to have a conversation.  In Guatemala, I never felt like the people actually wanted to talk.  That may just be me though.  Again, there are exceptions, and I met some really nice people there, but in general, I found the place ¨cold¨.  ¨Cold¨doesn´t mean bad, just different.  To answer the big question though, with the exception of walking the streets after a late-night-out in Xela, which is always a bad idea, I never once felt that I was in danger in any way.  Even the police smiled and directed me through a town after they caught me riding the wrong way on a one way road. (there weren´t any cars and I thought I could get away with it). 

It´s interesting how every country looks at the country below it with such fear.  In the States I was warned about Mexico.  In Mexico, the people there told me repeatedly that I would be most definitely robbed and probably killed in Guatemala.  And to make my hypothesis an actual proven scientific theory, several Guatemalans shared the same words of wisdom with Omer and I about Honduras.  Just an interesting observation.

Honduras has been awesome, and I´ve had the best days of riding on my trip here.  After visiting the ruins at Copan, and the town of Santa Rosa de Copan, Omer and I took a variety of back-roads and horse trails to the town of Gracias.  This was a pretty hard-core route and it was a lot of fun as well.  Omer and I are thoroughly convinced that the children in some of the towns we visited may have never seen a motorized vehicle, let alone two guys suited up on motorcycles. 

Somewhere in between the first river crossing and tipping my bike over in the second, I had an epiphany.  I, plain-old Jeff Roy, from Enfield, Ct, was riding on horse trails, fording rivers, and visiting remote villages in the mountains of Honduras.  This isn´t a Discovery Channel show, made for TV movie, or documentary, but my actual life!  How cool is that!...if I may say so myself without sounding too pompous.  More than anything else, I can´t get over how lucky I am to have this opportunity.

After a couple days of riding dirt, Omer and I beelined it across the country to Trujillo, a town in the northeast part of the country.  The ride itself was almost entirely boring, except for one moment of sheer terror.  While cruising at 50-60mph with Omer in front of me, the hood of the car ahead of Omer suddenly ripped off the front of the car and shot up 20 ft into the air.  From then on, everything happened in slow motion.  As the hood reached it´s cruising altitude, Omer actually road underneath it.  But now the hood was lingering directly over my path of travel, and teetering back and forth, from left to right.  I glanced to the left and there was traffic coming the other way.  I didn´t know whether to speed up and try to go underneath it, swerve and hope it didn´t swerve the same way, or slam on the breaks and hope the car behind me didn´t hit me.  It was all so surreal.  The way the hood stood upright and seemed to float made it look harmless; like nothing more than a big piece of cardboard sailing through the air.  But after working at the Honda wharehouse, I´m well aware of how heavy hoods actually are.  I decided to swerve right and I´m lucky I did.  Once I had committed, the hood drifted slightly to my left and came down like a sack of bricks; landing to my immediate side.  If I had continued straight or gone left, I wouldn´t be writing this.  With the distances involved, all of this must have happened over the course of a couple seconds, but it really felt like I had time to think it all through as it was happening.  The reality is that either one of us could be dead right now if the stars weren´t perfectly aligned...again.  Omer and I couldn´t help but laugh over a beer at how random the whole thing was.  We can´t imagine that hoods fly off of cars on a regular basis.  So with that said, what´s the chances of being behind a car when it happens?  I think I need to buy a lottery ticket.

Trujillo, is our staging point for the next stage of the journey and it´s the part that I am inexplicably excited for.  In two days we are going to head into La Mosquitia, a remote area of Honduras that we know nothing about.  Well we know it´s going to be a challenge, but how much of a challenge we´ll have to see for ourselves.  I´ve learned to take opinions with a grain of salt.  I´m sure people have taken bikes through there before, but I´ve never heard or read of anyone doing it, and that´s what makes it so thrilling.  I feel like I´m a pioneer about to head west in the 1800´s. (although this is a much shorter journey)  Omer and I have enjoyed the facial expressions and jaw-drops that everyone, without exception, has given us when we tell them that we are going there.  The owner of the hotel in Trujillo has assured us that we won´t make it and that the bikes will be a liability.  That may be the case, and if we have to turn around then we´ll turn around, but we´re going to give it our best shot and see what happens. 

That´s all for now, and I´ll see you on the other side of La Mosquitia...or maybe back here in Trujillo in a couple of days :)  Either way, there´s going to be a good story and some good pics!

La Mosquitia

After stuffing our faces with eggs, beans, and toast, certain that we wouldn´t be eating a good meal during the next couple of days, Omer and I set off to La Mosquitia in search of adventure.  Each of our bikes had two extra gallons of fuel on board, along with a pack of survival cookies. (generic Oreos)

We took a paved road south out of town, to a really dusty but smooth gravel road that took us east.  After passing through a couple small Garifuna towns, we came to a point where the road was flooded.  The Garifuna are people of African descent and their ancestors came to the new world as slaves.  A couple of guys offered to take us across in their rowboat, but a woman fording across confirmed that we could ride it.  Only a couple hundred meters further down the road, we came to a lagoon that was too wide and deep to ford, so we put our bikes on a barge made of barrels and wood, and two men pulled us across using a rope that was strung across the river.

   

The ride had been really easy up to this point, but all of that changed when the road became a beach.  Our map depicted the road more inland, but this was definitely the route.  Within the first 50 meters of deep sand, I realized that this was going to be a nightmare.  I have never ridden a motorcycle in sand before, let alone a fully loaded bike.  Omer, who rides sand dunes in Israel, made quick work of the beach.  Within the first 30 minutes I had dropped the bike several times.  Don´t let the pictures fool you, those were my best moments on the hard packed stuff.  The reality was that I was either picking up my bike or trying to get it moving forward again about 90% of the time.  A couple of miles down the beach, a soft sand road diverted from the beach to a small village, and I began rejoicing at the thought of getting out of the sand.  The happiness was short lived though, as the road dumped us back onto the beach 2 minutes later. 

   

Things didn´t get any better.  The intense fear I´ve had of breaking my legs on the panniers only became worse when the bike came down on my right leg.  With aluminum panniers it´s best to keep your feet on the pegs, but in sand (at least in my experience) there are times when placing your foot down to keep your balance happens whether you consciously want it to or not.  If the foot stays down for a millisecond to long, the pannier runs it over and breaks your leg.  Again, a skillful rider may not see this as an issue.  The oppressive sun and heat, made worse by the riding gear and lack of airflow from riding so slow, really drained the energy out of me.  The bike seemed to get heavier each time I picked it up or tried to maneuver it.  For those of you who know me well, you can imagine how happy I was when I wasn´t able to ride sand like a pro in the Dakar Rally.

Finally, about 20 miles from where we first hit the sand, we arrived at a lagoon that made the beach impassable.  There was a Garifuna village there, where we spoke with several boat owners who bring people across the lagoon and to points further down the coast.  After listening to the sales pitches of the boaters, and the input of locals hanging around the launch site, we decided that this was as far as our La Mosquitia journey would go.  The deal breaker for us was the boats: Picture an over-sized canoe with a motor.  Neither of us could fathom getting the bikes in or out of the canoe, let alone placing it on-board in a way that wouldn´t capsize the thing in the middle of the lagoon.  This wasn´t going to be a one time thing either.  The road we had wanted to take through the heart of La Mosquitia was impassable, and we would have to take two more boats to bypass it.  So with all of that in mind, I swallowed the reality that we were going to have to ride the god-forsaken beach back to where we had started. 

There was no accommodation at this lagoon-side village, and I didn´t care for the vibe there to begin with.  There were two strings of gunfire in our immediate vicinity while we were chatting at the launch site.  It was probably just someone trying to unsettle the gringos, and I wasn´t going to give whoever it was the satisfaction of looking concerned.  I just continued on with my conversations, and pretended to not notice anything, even though it was probably no more than 30 yds away.

We made our way back down the beach.  I had gotten better at not dropping the bike, but my pace was still really slow.  We took one of the paths off of the beach to a Garifuna village we had passed through earlier that day.  I asked a man on horseback if there was accommodation there, and one of the boys that had gathered around to check out the bikes, offered us a place to stay.  He led us to his family´s home, and his siblings, mother, and a few neighbors were hanging around outside.  Before we could even put our kickstands down, they had brought us a bucket of water to drink, ad they were making arrangements with a neighbor to use his water pump to wash our bikes.  After treating the water with my steripen, I chugged down several bottles of water.  I have always felt awkward when people in remote places offer me water and I have to treat it first.  They probably think nothing of it, and I do my best to explain why I have to, but it still seems awkward, especially when my water purifier resembles a glow stick that I stir the water with.

 

The boy showed us our rooms, which were in a storage shed of sorts, but there were two mattresses.  This place was definitely rugged.  In a town of 200 people, the only place with electricity was the local store.  After showing us our rooms, the boy asked if we would like dinner.  After seeing a portion of some variety of fish hanging on the clothesline next to a couple of t-shirts, I had some reservations at first, but how could I say no to a home-cooked meal.   

Dinner was great.  We went to the family´s home, where they had two plates of food and some tea waiting for us by candlelight.  The meal consisted of fried plantains, and some sort of fried and breaded fish with cheese.  The cheese in the fish was a little unique, but edible.  When the mother dropped an additional block of cheese on my plate, I asked Omer if he would like to share it with me.  He gave me a quick ¨No thanks, Jeff¨ and suddenly took a lot of interest in his food to hide a grin.  I eventually made it through the cheese, and washed it all down with the tea made from grass, which was surprisingly good.

I awoke in the middle of the night to the deafening roar of rain on the tin roof, and to water dripping on my face.  Several hours later the storm subsided and I squeezed in another hour of sleep.  Within seconds of being up and about, the son was at our door offering us coffee and bread for breakfast.  We enjoyed the quick eat and packed our bags.  I asked the son how much we would like for the accommodation and the food and he said that he didn´t want anything.  Omer and I left the family some money, but I couldn´t believe that he didn´t ask for anything.

The rain from the storm made the beach much easier to ride, by firming up the sand and smoothing our the ridges.  We were making good time up until a point where a lagoon/river was flowing with last night´s rain into the ocean.  Without walking across on foot first, Omer drove into the river and almost completely submerged his bike.  Before I could even take a picture of what is now a hysterically funny situation, I was running into the water to help.  The current was really strong and Omer did a good job of not loosing the bike.  For the next 15 or 20 minutes we tried to muscle the bike out.  Each time we wiggled the front wheel r stopped moving, the bike would sink into the sand, the same way your feet do when walking in the surf.  If he or I were solo in the same situation, the bike would have been lost.  We eventually got the bike out, but it wouldn´t start; not that we expected it to.  While Omer worked on the bike, I removed my panniers to lighten up my bike, and carried them across the river.  As much as I hated the idea of subjecting my bike to the same thin, we had no choice, and the tide was coming in.  With the engine off, we pushed my bike across (much easier said than done), and since there was no water sucked into the engine, it started up right away.  Eventually we got Omer´s bike to start as well.  After having a good laugh, we loaded the bikes up and made our way back to Trujillo.

 

Although we didn´t have the trip to La Mosquitia that we had hoped to have, we knew going in that we may have to turn back.  In all honesty, the first day on the beach was the most exhausting thin I´ve done in a very long time.  The experience with the family and the village was priceless, and it was almost worth turning back just for that.  So even though the jaunt was a short one, I certainly found the adventure I was looking for.

Nicaragua

After a couple days in La Mosquitia, our bikes were in desperate need of a bath to get the corrosive salt and sand off.  After stripping my bike down, giving it a good scrub, and then coating it with WD-40, the bike looked like it had never seen dirt.  It pained me a little to clean the bike for the first time since the trip began.  The DR´s an undeniably-ugly bike (but it has a great personality), and I thought that the layer of dirt and grease that had built up over the last 11,500 miles, was the only redeeming quality that it had.

Omer and I wrapped up our time in Honduras with a two-day ride from Trujillo to the border of Nicaragua.  The ride brought us through the mountains and along the edge of a couple National Parks.  You know you´re spoiled when a beautiful dirt road through the mountains of Honduras, that rivals anything I have ever ridden in New England, now seems like par for the course.  We spent the first night in the small town of La Union, and made our way to the border the following morning.

 

Honduras was so much more than I ever expected it to be.  Unlike Guatemala, it was really easy to get off of the beaten path.  Aside from our first day at the Copan Ruins, we never saw another traveler.  The riding there was the best I´ve had on the trip.  If you missed the other posts from Honduras, check out September´s Posts to read more.  We did some rough calculations, and approximately 90-95% of our riding time was spent on dirt roads, horse trails, or on the beach.  In addition, the people were some of the friendliest I have met on this trip.  If you ask a group of Hondurans for directions, be prepared to wait a minute or so while they battle it out over who will get to tell you.  It´s actually quite comical, and I found myself asking bigger groups just to see what would happen. 

The border crossing into Nicaragua was as easy and straightforward as the others.  I don´t want to jinx myself, but I never imagined it being this easy to import and export a bike.  I heard so many horror stories of bureaucratic nightmares and having to ¨grease the wheels¨ in order to get anything done, but I haven´t experienced anything like that.  I do have all of South America ahead of me though... 

Nicaragua was the first border crossing at which I was bombarded with ¨helpers¨, or people ranging in age from 7 to 45 and wearing an assortment of semi-official looking vests, badges, etc; most of which I presume are fake.  The helpers offer to navigate you through the post for a fee; although one of them said that he didn´t want money and that his help was by the grace of God.  Something tells me that God would have wanted payment when it was all said and done.  I´ve heard mixed reviews on the ¨helpers¨.  Some people consider them an inexpensive life-saver, while others claim that they are useless, expensive, and sometimes outright thieves.  Since we´ve each navigated every other border without problems, Omer and I declined their services, but a few insisted on tagging along anyways.  I finally reached the point where I had to explicitly tell them to go away.  I could understand the instructions of the border officials just fine, and having three "helpers" repeat every spoken word with differing translations, was actually making things 100x more confusing than it had to be.  Finally, the helpers caught on to the fact that they weren´t going to make any money from us, and let us be. 

About 40 minutes later we were in Nicaragua and on our way to Ocotal.  I thought that "Ocotal" sounded familiar, and then I remembered the slogan, "Pencils for Ocotal".  "Pencils for Ocotal" was a collection my high school did to send school supplies to a town that I had presumed was in Africa.  Well Ocotal is actually in Central America and it´s a comfortable place to spend a day.  We arrived during the middle of a large parade and it quickly became apparent that the people here were just as friendly as in Honduras.

The next day we were off to the city of Leon.  The road to the city was one of the worst I´ve seen...ever.  It was paved, but just barely.  Huge, sharp-edged potholes, comprised more of the surface than intact pavement did.  Most vehicles chose to crawl down the sides, half on the road, and half on the ever-expanding dirt shoulder.  My guess is that the shoulders will eventually replace the paved road completely.  Since our bikes are more maneuverable than the cars and buses, and the shoulders were bogged down with vehicles, we stuck to the middle of the street and made our way through the slalom course as quickly as we could.  Thankfully it´s a relatively short stretch of road, so it was over before it became too tiresome, and before either of us had a flat. 

 

Leon was a pretty city, but after one day we decided to move down to the Pacific coast.  While packing my bike, I noticed that a bolt to my pannier rack had sheared; probably a result of one of the many falls in La Mosquitia.  We made a detour to a machine shop on the outskirts of town, and they were able to fix the rack and drill and tap another sheared bolt on Omer´s bike.  By the time we left the shop, the sun had already set, but we decided to break one of my cardinal rules, and make the 25km ride to the beach in the dark.  I have to ride with my tinted visor up at night, and after a couple minutes of using my corneas as a windshield, eating swarms of mosquitoes along with bigger and tastier insects, and swerving around random cows, horses, and oxen that just seemed to appear in the middle of the unlit road, I realized why I had made the rule in the first place.  We made it to the beach OK though and found a place to sleep.  The next morning we awoke and realized the beach wasn´t anything to get excited about, so we made our way Northeast to Laguna de Apoyo.  The Laguna is set in a volcanic crater, so the hills you see in the photo on the left are actually the inner walls of the volcano.  This was the nicest lake I´ve visited in Central America, with clean and clear water that couldn´t have been any more inviting. 

 

Continuing through Nicaragua, we visited Granada, and from there we took a day trip out to Volcan Masaya, pictured on the right.  On the way back from the volcano, our trip had another interesting event, as Omer tried to pass a bus while doing a wheelie.  He gave the bike a little more gas than he should have after changing gears and the bike almost flipped over on him.  While trying to recover, he collided with the side of the bus and then went down.  Thankfully he slid away from the bus´s tires, but I really didn´t know how bad it was going to be at first.  After a moment of collecting his thoughts, Omer was back on his feet, smiling, and saying how stupid he was, and I was kicking myself yet again for not having invested in a helmet cam at the beginning of this trip. 

We rounded out our stay with a trip to Isla de Ometepe, a volcanic island in Lago de Nicaragua.  We arrived just in time to the enjoy the parades that marked Nicaragua´s Independence Day celebrations. 

 

I´m writing from San Juan del Sur, a beach town close to the Costa Rican border.  After traveling with Omer for nearly five weeks, we finally had to part ways today.  His girlfriend is flying into Colombia on October 21st, and my girlfriend is flying into Costa Rica on October 11th, meaning that he needs to speed up, and I need to slow down.  When I was planning this trip, I had my heart set on riding it solo, but traveling with Omer added so much to my journey, and made for some of the most memorable moments of my trip thus far.  We´re both obviously really independent people, so how we were able to get along for that amount of time is beyond me, but I feel really lucky to have ran into him back in Guatemala. 

I´ve picked up the books in San Juan del Sur, and I´m going to study Spanish here until the middle of next week.  After that, I´m going to make my way into Costa Rica and explore the Pacific Coast while eagerly awaiting my girlfriend´s arrival!  Until next time...

Have You Ever Seen the Rain?

I´m sure John Fogerty had a deeper meaning in mind when he performed "Have You Ever Seen the Rain?" with CCR, but with the most literal interpretation of the lyrics in mind, I have now seen the rain, and I really wish the song would stop playing over and over again in my head.  To get an idea of what Costa Rica is like in October, imagine the heaviest rain you have ever seen, then imagine it raining like that for 16 hours a day.

I wrapped up my week of Spanish classes in Nicaragua, and crossed into Costa Rica 4 days ago.  The border crossing was the most time consuming I´ve had yet.  The people who run the Nicaraguan check-out have perfected the bureaucratic nightmare almost as well as the CT DMV has, and those of you from CT know that is no small feat.  To leave the country with a vehicle, you need several signatures from officials, police, etc, who are supposed to inspect the bike to make sure you are leaving with the bike you came in with.  Of course, none of them look at the  bike,  but their signatures are needed anyway, and you´re not moving on to the next window until you have them.  To be fair, the border employees were helpful and friendly, it was the police that brought the process to a grinding halt.  There is one police officer who is supposed to be monitoring customs, and he and he alone is the one who needs to sign the paper.  If he decides to take a nap after lunch, go home, etc, then you´re out of luck.  I waited for two hours for the police officer to come back.  I even walked to the police station that was just around the corner to see if any of them could sign it, but of course I was told that there was an officer on duty at the customs office.  Silly me, what was I thinking?  Anyways, after 3.5 hours of working my way through the swelteringly-hot and humid border crossing, I finally crossed into Costa Rica, where it began to rain within minutes.

I´ve been exploring the Nicoya Peninsula throughout the last couple days.  The riding has been great and I can´t even count how many rivers I´ve crossed.  Some only calf deep, others up to mid-thigh.  There are a couple paved roads on the Nicoya Peninsula that lead in and out of the major beach areas.  It´s quite difficult to travel directly from beach to beach because they are connected by what my map calls "Seasonal 4x4 Tracks", which can mean anything from a fairly decent road with bridges, to a dirt path, with rivers flowing across it.  I had been  riding on one of the latter for quite some time, when I arrived at a river about as large as a four lane road.  At first glance, I didn´t expect to be able to cross.  The water looked too high and too fast.  But since I was already soaked from the rain, going for a swim in my gear wasn´t going to change my day any.  So I waded across and navigated a zig-zag path that kept the depth manageable.  I made my way back across with the invisible path in my mind, hopped on the bike, and had my last "Should I really do this?" moment.  No guts, no glory...although I´m not sure what glory comes from crossing a river in the middle of nowhere, other than an adrenaline rush and some personal satisfaction. 

I stared directly across the river at where the road exited the other side, and went for it.  For the first couple seconds, things were going great, and then the full force of the current hit the side of my panniers and started pulling me down stream.  I had expected to feel the current, but I hadn´t expected it to move me the same way it would a swimmer.  My planned route was no longer an option, and my sole concern was making it to where the road exited the river.  I was being pushed down stream to where there was nothing more than an eroded river bank and nowhere to exit.  I started riding diagonally upstream, hoping that I didn´t hit a deep spot that would submerge my air-box.  I worked my way across, and the water level gradually decreased and soon my tires were on dry land!  There is glory in crossing a river like that!  Then it occurred to me that I had no idea what lay further down the road and that I may have to ride back across the thing.  Needless, to say, this would have made for a good video, but my camera officially died several weeks ago, so my website is experiencing a photo and video blackout for the next couple weeks. 

I left the Peninsula this afternoon and made my way for the mountains.  I´m not sure where I´ll be headed in the next couple days.  I´d like to get away from the more touristy areas and practice my Spanish before my girlfriend, Kali, arrives on October 11th.  Costa Ricans are really friendly and talkative, and with the number of Americans tourists here that don´t even bother to say "hola", I think they´re taken back when a gringo can say just a few words.  I´ve actually been asked by Ticos and Ticas (the terms for Costa Rican men and women) if I´m from here.  My Spanish is definitely not that good, but I must have a couple phrases down well enough to throw people off at first.  Even if they´re just humoring me, I take it as a complement.  As for now, I really hope the rain situation is under control by the time Kali gets here or she may never forgive me for suggesting she visit me in Costa Rica.

Kali's Visit

I have to give my girlfriend Kali a lot of credit.  I had her fully convinced that we would be staying in hostel dorm rooms and traveling in chicken buses, all during Costa Rica's rainy-season, and she still wanted to visit me!  Considering we haven't seen each other in four months, and we were only going to have a week together, I decided to step up the quality of the accommodations and rent a car to make our travel time more comfortable:  She definitely deserves it!

I picked her up at the airport in San Jose, and we drove north to the area around Volcan Arenal, an active volcano, and the lesser known and dormant Volcano, Cerro Chato.  We checked into a really nice cabina that supposedly had great views of Arenal, but the rains had already begun, leaving only the base of the volcano visible.

We awoke to a clear and sunny day, with the smoking Arenal looming outside our window.  Not wanting to let this rare moment of sun pass us by, we jumped into the car and set off to hike Cerro Chato.  On the way into town, the car was making a weird noise and after arriving at the market we realized that our right-rear tire was flat.  Ironically, I've traveled over 13,000 miles on this trip and haven't had a flat.  Fortunately, with a car it's a five minute job that doesn't require breaking the bead or patching tire tube. 

 

The hike up Cerro Chato was fun, although I think I enjoyed it more than Kali, who had not yet adjusted to the higher altitude.  The weather held out too, so as we stood on the rim of the volcano we had excellent views of the lake-filled crater and of Arenal.  We climbed down the steep inner-wall of the volcano to the lake, and let our legs rest by the water for a while;  little did we know there was a huge storm approaching.  By the time we had climbed back up to the rim, we were in a torrential downpour, and the path down the volcano was quickly becoming a river.  The trail was treacherous enough with exposed roots and rocks, and now we had to navigate it while stepping down into unknown depths of water.  But to make things even more exciting, a lightning storm hit us head on, with several heart-stopping close contacts.  We finally reached the edge of the forest, leaving more than a mile hike down the hill, through an open field with scattered trees. 

  

 

Crouching in the grass on the forest's edge, we did our best to judge how close the storm was.  Right when one of us would say, ''I think it's far enough away,'' another bolt would hit and encourage us to hang tight for a while longer.  This is also the point where I realized that I hadn't read up on lightning like I had wanted to after the storm in Kansas.  Of course we all know that you should stay inside or in a car when there's a storm, but when A or B isn't an option, what's better?  Crouching in the forest or laying in a field away from trees?  How far away from those trees do you need to be?  Do you get extra points for walking in a river through said forest?  If everything is wet, does that change things?   Hopefully, I'll have that all sorted out before next time.  We eventually decided to go for it, and made our way down in a semi-crunched run/walk, as if the extra foot from standing upright would make or break a lightning strike.  We made it down the slippery slope safely, and we couldn't have been happier to climb into the car.  When it was all said and done, I finally looked at Kali and admitted that our descent down the volcano was scary as hell.

That night the skies cleared and we were rewarded with a perfect view of the lava flows running down the side of Arenal.  The next day we made the long drive to the Monteverde Cloud Forest, made longer by an hour-plus detour around a point where the road had washed away.  The dirt road to Monteverde is a potholed mess, so the four hour trip felt like forever.  When we arrived in Monteverde the rains began again and continued into the morning, ruining any chance of enjoying an outdoor activity.  These rains aren't like normal New England showers, they are the type that force you to pullover on the highway because you can't see the hood of your car.  We decided to cut our losses and made the long ride back out of Monteverde to the Caribbean Coast.

It was bad enough to have wasted a day riding into Monteverde and a good portion of the next day riding out, so we pushed as far as we could towards the Carribean Coast to minimize the following day's drive.  Of course we pushed a bit to far, and when it was getting dark and we needed accommodation, none could be found.  There are plenty of truck-stop brothels along the highway, but nowhere I'd really like to spend the night.  We saw a nice looking sign for an Eco-Lodge that seemed promising, so we turned off the highway at the next intersection.  It was pitch black and for some reason everyone in the town had the desire to ride their bikes in the middle of the unlit road.  Neither of us had seen anything like it.  There were people and bikes everywhere.  None of the bikes had reflectors, and the clothing of choice was black.  We had no idea how far the place was from the highway, but the quality of the Eco-Lodge's signs were quickly deteriorating to the point where I wasn't sure if the place would be open.  After making our way through the town, down a deserted paved road, and then down a deserted dirt road, we were starting to wonder if this was some sort of a sick joke, or if we were going to be eaten alive by bed bugs that night.  We finally arrived at the lodge, and our headlights illuminated a locked gate, that could or could not have belonged to a condemned property.   The area was completely dark, but I saw a faint light coming from deep within the property, and I could see a shadow walking towards us.  They were open, and to no one's surprise they had vacancy.  The Eco-Lodge was actually really nice and the on-site restaurant cooked a good dinner and breakfast.

We eventually found paradise on the Carribean.  Cahuita National Park is a postcard perfect beach, and it has a great hike through the forest as well.  In the park we saw Capuchin monkeys, Howler monkeys, and a yellow pit viper in a tree.  We had our hearts set on seeing a sloth, but didn't have much luck spotting an animal that barely moves in the forest canopy.  We wrapped up our stay at the beach with third-degree sunburns for us both, and with another flat tire on the morning we had to head back to San Jose...yes, another flat tire!

 

 

After fixing the flat and about 2 hours into the ride to the city, the most dissapointing thing to happen on the trip happened.  We were waved over by a cop at a speed trap, and informed that we were traveling 93kmh and had also crossed the yellow line.  The fact that the car could go 93kmh without the help of a 30% grade, was news to me, but the radar gun ''doesn´t lie''.  With that being said, I knew where this was going to go.  He asked me to get out of the car and explained that I would have to pay a $90 ticket.  He then pointed out that this was a rental car, so I would have to pay a $70 tax at the rental office.  In a dramatic display of simple math, he laid all of this out on a notepad, and circled the grand total of $160 while shaking his head in disbelief that I would have to pay so much.  He then went on to tell me that I was a really nice guy, and that my Spanish was really good, and that he just hated the idea that we were even in this situation...like a couple of long lost buddies with a chance reunion at a speed trap.  And then he said it,  ''I want to help you.  If you pay me the $90, then you won't have to pay the $70 at the rental office''.  He then crossed out the $160 and the $70 on the notepad, and circled the $90 with so much enthusiasm you´d think he had just found a cure for cancer.  I told him I didn't have much money and suddenly $70 became the magic number.  I only had a $20 bill and a couple colones, so I told him I could pay $20, and that suddenly became the magic number.  I handed over the cash like a sucker, and was on my way.  As soon as I climbed back in the car, all the ''what I should have said'' and ''what I should have done'' scenarios set in, but it was a done deal.  More than anything else I was dissapointed.  I really thought I could make it through this whole trip without playing the corrupt cop games, but it happened, and in Costa Rica of all places.  If there wasn't a credit card tied to the rental vehicle, and if Kali wasn't in there, I would have been a little more insistant on a real ticket and maybe things would have turned out differently.  But paying the $20 was definitely the fastest way for us to get back on the road and enjoy our last day together.

Kali flew out early the next morning, and if one things sure, it's that the goodbye's certainly haven't become any easier.  The eight days together were the best of my trip, but certainly not enough.  After returning the car, I made my way back to the Carribean that same day, and crossed into Panama the following day.  I've ridden rather quickly across Panama.  I'm happy with my experience in Central America and ready to move on to something new in South America.  I'm in Panama City at the moment sorting out transportation to Colombia.  It looks like I could be in Panama for a week or two while the sailboats make there way back from Cartagena, Colombia. Until next time...

Colombia: First Impressions

It turned out that taking a boat from Panama to Colombia wasn't meant to be.  After spending a week in Panama City waiting for updates on the sailboats, I eventually found that it was going to take at least 10 more days for any boat to return from Cartagena.  Even then there was no guarantee that the first boats to return could take a motorcycle.  Disappointed that I wouldn´t be doing one of the things I had looked forward to most, I woke up early on a Saturday morning and rode to the airport to check out the less exotic and less interesting alternative for getting to Colombia.  There were two airlines that could take the bike.  The first, Girag, had a cargo flight leaving the next day and could do it for $910.  The other, Copa Carga, didn't have a flight leaving until the following Friday, but they were charging $625, and I could leave my bike with them on Monday.  Since it wasn't important to have my bike with me in Bogota, I went with the latter, and said goodbye to my bike at the cargo terminal that Monday: Not really sure if I would ever see it again.  Being strapped to the pallet with the bike was not an option, so I flew out of Panama city on Tuesday, and arrived in Bogota that evening.

Bogota was so much more than I had expected.  Aside from finding a great hostel with a good group of people, the city was really pleasant to walk around.  I'm not much of a city person, but Bogota didn't feel nearly as congested as the others I've been to.  I felt perfectly safe walking around the city.  Of course I took cabs at night, but that's standard protocol for locals as well.  Check out the phone booth in the pic below.

 

The most striking thing about Colombia has been the people.  They are by far the friendliest I have met on this trip, and they want nothing more than to share their country with you.  I´ve used more Spanish here than anywhere else simply because everyone is so friendly.  For example, while at Monseratte in Bogota, a point overlooking the city, I met a group of 20 college students from Bucaramanga on a class trip.  They invited me to join them on their afternoon excursion to a farm outside of the city.  So an hour later I was riding to the farm on their chartered bus and my head was spinning from the immediate and intense Spanish immersion.  The farm itself wasn't anything to get excited about, but it was a nice way to spend the afternoon out of the city, and the grill we stopped at on the way back was awesome.  Dinner included a huge plate of beef, chicken, sausage, potatoes, and my favorite, fried plantains, all for five bucks.  To cap off the evening, our bus broke down in the middle of the city, about 30 blocks from where we needed to go, but the walk back was a good way to see a lot of the city and the Halloween celebrations that were happening throughout. 

 

My bike arrived that Friday, but customs was closed because of the holiday and I wasn't able to pick it up until Tuesday.  After feeling naked without my bike for a whole week, it was a huge relief to see that the bike had finally arrived safely.  The process of running around the cargo terminal to import the bike was a 5 hour ordeal:  One of those situations where everyone seems to know what they're doing, but no one actually does.  Around 4:30pm I rolled the bike down the stairs and into the parking lot where I packed up all my stuff.  The bike started up right away, but I noticed that my headlight was out.  I had planned to leave the city that afternoon, but by the time I left the airport it was already dark, and riding between cities at night is a worse idea in Colombia than anywhere else I´ve been.  I decided to make my way back to the hostel on the other side of the city.  Riding from one side of Bogota to the other, through rush hour traffic, and in the dark with no headlight, is definitely one of those, "I'd rather be anywhere but here" moments. 

The next morning I road north to Tunja, a pretty colonial city in the mountains.  I met a guy named Rodrigo who was staying at my hotel, and he took time off from work the following day to show me around the town.  He owns an insurance office in Tunja, where he lives during the week, and on the weekends he returns home to his wife and kids in Bucaramanga.  

The following two days took me north through the mountains and through several colonial towns along the way.  In Chiquinquira, I found the cheapest hotel of my trip.  It cost $3.50 for the night, and that price included a TV.  Needless to say, it was far from the nicest place I've stayed, with a bed that was shaped like a hammock and a common bathroom without a toilet seat.  The lack of toilet seat wasn't a problem though, because the eye-watering and gag-inducing "funk" in the bathroom air kept visits short.  The room itself was clean though, and I dosed off to the TV doing its best to show the one distant channel it could pick up.  You get what you pay for...

 

The next day took me through some beautiful canyons with postcard-perfect winding roads to the city of Bucaramanga.  As I made my way through the outskirts of the city, I ran into a local guy at a stoplight (not literally), who had the same bike as me.  He invited me follow him to the center, and then directed me to a hotel in my price range.  (I decided to splurge after the previous nights bargain!)  He came with me into the hotel lobby and bargained the owners down, so I have really nice place at a really good price.

 

It's almost hard not to meet people in Colombia. Last night I went to dinner and started talking with two guys at the restaurant bar.  Their parents belong to a country club of sorts and they invited me to go with them to a huge semi-annual party there.  After introducing me to their parents and other family members, I was dragged out onto the dance floor by one of their elderly aunts, where I proceeded to look like the only person in the ballroom who couldn't hear music.  I was definitely way out of my element; although when it comes to dancing, I don't really have an element to begin with.

I met up with Rodrigo today, and he showed me around Bucaramanga and its small colonial neighbor to the south, Giron.  I have to thank him for his overwhelming hospitality and friendship both here and in Tunja.  I´ve learned a lot about both places that I would have never known otherwise. 

Tomorrow I'm going to make the 9 hour drive to the coast.  It's supposed to be one of the most beautiful parts of Colombia, so hopefully I´ll have some good pics for the site!  Hasta Luego!

More From Colombia

Life's still great in Colombia.  From Bucaramanga, I made the long and boring ride to Santa Marta on the Caribbean Coast.  While the road south of Bucaramanga had picturesque canyons and windy roads, the terrain to the north is an arid flatland, and the road has a Kansas-interstate feel to it.  Police and military checkpoints were in abundance, with one appearing every 5 miles or so, but I'm yet be stopped at one.

The roads are certainly dangerous in Colombia.  Not because of Guerillas (knock on wood), but because double-lines (if you're lucky enough to have lines), mean nothing, and you can expect someone coming at you head on at any time, especially when cresting hills and in blind turns.  Likewise, if you're going into a blind turn, you can expect someone to try and pass, and then merge into you in order to avoid a head-on collision.  Right-of-way is determined by who has the bigger vehicle; putting me and all motorcycles at the bottom of the food chain.  I think we still have power over scooters though!  I've been pushed off the road several times, and I even had to jump up onto a sidewalk to avoid being hit by an oncoming bus in Baranquilla.  Another example of all out craziness, is on a section of road between Santa Marta and Cartagena.  I'm pretty sure it was supposed to be a four lane road; albeit a narrow one, but there aren't any lines to designate anything.  The outer lanes are the are the only sure place to drive, with the entire middle area filled with congestion moving in both directions.  Motorcycles fill any open pocket across all four lanes.   Right of way is decided by the same criteria as above.  The ride has been crazy in every country, but Colombia takes it to a whole new level.  In the end, it's really not that big of a deal.  But if you plan on riding in Colombia, be ready for anything and everything and you'll be fine.  With all that being said, I genuinely feel safer riding here than in the States.  Even with all the madness, people actually see you here, and everyone's driving with a heightened state of alertness just to survive.

The city/town of Santa Marta is nothing to get excited about, but it's a good place to spend the night before heading to Tayrona National Park, which lies just east of the city.  Tayrona is certainly one of the nicest National Parks I have been to outside of the States.  From the gate, it's a 45 minute walk on a forested trail to the beach.  It's inaccessibility gives it a tranquil and secluded feel, especially during the week.  The beaches were deserted and gorgeous, and it's certainly a place to get away from it all.  Since I'm on vacation, I'm not sure what there is to get away from, but I found it relaxing none the less.  After seeing dozens of leaf-cutter-ant highways throughout this trip, I finally stumbled across the end of one of those highways.  The huge pile of leaves you see in the pic is the staging point outside of the nest...yup, I'm easily entertained. 

From Santa Marta and Tayrona, I road west to Cartagena.  Cartagena is where I would have arrived in Colombia if I had taken a boat from Panama.  Aside from the four lanes of mayhem described above, there's another section of road on that ride that was equally shocking.  Part of the journey crosses a narrow isthmus that is no more than a 1000yds wide.  The road, on a berm about 10ft above sea level, is the high-point and it cuts right down the center.  On either side of the road, the terrain resembles a salt flat that goes to the ocean on the right and a lagoon on the left.  Sprawled throughout this area are vast shantytowns.  I've seen plenty of poverty on this trip and at other times overseas, but this was unlike anything I'd seen before.  The homes in the shantytowns were made of scrap metal, wood, tarps, and trash.  But what made this particular place different, were the huge areas of the town sitting in six inches to a foot of water.  The homes weren't on stilts, and judging from the terrain, I imagine that any sizable rainfall floods the town, and the people simply wait for it to evaporate.  In hindsight, I really wish I took a photo.  The photo could explain it much better than I, but at the time I didn't feel right pulling over and taking a photo.  I even considered riding back a couple days later, but thought that the five hour round trip wasn't worth it.

Cartagena was a really nice city, and I couldn't have arrived at a better time.  I arrived a Wednesday afternoon, and set off on foot to explore the city.  Two blocks from the hotel, I had shirtless kids and teens, covered in motor oil, mud, or grease, approaching  me with sticks and standing in my way.  They would run up to me, get right in my face, and ask for "monedas" or "coins".  If you tried to walk by, they would stand right in your way and not allow you to pass.  They also had the, "we are going to use these sticks" look on their faces.  So I did what I do in all similar situations, and acted like I didn't understand anything, including universal hand signals, then apologize, and keep walking.  I was never beaten with sticks, and the kids eventually gave up and accosted the next passerby.  Literally, every minute or two, I'd be approached by another roving band of stick-wielding children, and at times they would sprint from a 100yds away to block my path.  I stuck with my strategy and was fine.  I really couldn't believe this.  How could this be tolerated in a tourist hot spot like Cartagena?  I started to notice that these groups were not only approaching foreigners, but locals alike.  Even more shocking was that the some of the locals were actually forking over the money.  After walking around the town for an hour or two, I made my way back to the hotel.  Aside from the kids, there were now people in the street with cups of paint.  Same deal:  "Pay me or I will sling paint on you."  This is unbelievable!  With my limited wardrobe, I decided to pay the women with paint, rather than test how serious they actually were.

When I got back to the hotel, I asked the receptionist what the deal was, and he said that it was part of the Miss Colombia celebration that was happening that week.  Simply put, the kids with sticks and people with paint, were participating in a trick-or-treat of sorts.  Most of the kids were street kids and this was there couple days of fun for the year.  And yes, the more serious one's will hit you (not viciously) and smear paint on you (washable).  Didn't I feel like an idiot!  I actually felt bad for not giving the kids coins.  The next day I went back out armed with my pockets full of coins and it was definitely a lot more fun being "in" on the whole thing.  The "accosting" had much more of a game feel to it, rather than that of a serious ultimatum.  On the second day I asked a group of kids if I could take their picture and they were thrilled.  Definitely just a group of friends out trick or treating.

That afternoon, the whole city shut down for the Miss Colombia parade.  Aside from the extremely talented contestants passing by on floats, the parade itself was not unlike any other parade.  The crowd is what made it unlike anything I had seen before.  Rather than stand there mindlessly waving at the bands, dancers, and floats going by, the crowd battled it out with corn starch, water, foam, and paint; all in good fun of course.  You could do whatever you wanted to whomever you wanted, with no hard feelings.  I can only imagine what would happen at a similar event at home.  Yet here, things never escalated, and it was just fun.  I definitely received my fair share of paint, cornstarch, and foam, and had a great time.  Most of the gringos seemed to lock themselves down for the day, but those that went out were well received and customarily welcomed to the events.  That afternoon, the narrow streets of the city turned into an all out war, and you didn't go outside if you wanted to stay clean.  Buckets of water were being slung off balconies.  Careless drivers scurried to roll up their windows as seemingly harmless pedestrians would whip out cans of foam and unload on the car.  There were parties in every plaza that began at sunset and went well past my bedtime.  The whole day and night was "insane" to say the least, and I really can't imagine visiting at any other time of the year.  Obviously, under the circumstances, I don't have any photos from the festivities.

There were three more days of the Miss Colombia festival remaining when I left Cartagena, with Miss Colombia being decided on Monday.  On the day I left, I was able to walk several blocks to the bank and to breakfast without seeing any kids with sticks, so I guess the trick-or-treat portion of the festival was over.

Upon leaving Cartagena, I've finally started to head south and my journey should continue in that direction from this point on.  Colombia continues to be so much more than I expected and I really can't wait to see what else I encounter along the way.  I'll post again soon from Medellin...

Crossing the Equator

As I left Medellin and started the three day journey to the border of Ecuador, I was thinking back on my experiences in Colombia.  The country had just about everything:  Beautiful beaches, comfortable cities, mouthwatering empanadas, and the friendliest people I've met on the trip.  The only thing lacking was a memorable ride.  Sure there were some picturesque hills around Medellin and some switchbacks south of Bucaramanga, but nothing that was jaw-dropping.  The majority of the roads were either straight and boring, or curvy but with not much to look at.

On my last day in the country, I road from Popayan to Ipiales, and any feeling of disappointment I had in Colombia quickly disappeared.  The ride was not only the best I had in Colombia, but was easily one of the most impressive of the trip.  Each curve provided a more stunning view than the last.  As I've said 100 times before on this website, photos cannot do the views justice.  The sheer magnitude of the mountains made it difficult to take pictures: I simply couldn't fit enough into the frame to capture the feeling of being there.  The road itself was in great shape, and I was never on my center tread for more than 20 seconds at a time.  I can't think of a better way to wrap up my stay in Colombia!

I was hoping to cross the border that same day, but after checking out of Colombia, and checking myself into Ecuador, I found out that the person working at the aduana had left for an undetermined amount of time.  The aduana is the office that imports the bike into the country.  I waited for over an hour and eventually gave up.  Even if the person came back, I would have less than an hour of solid sunlight in Ecuador.  Disappointed that I couldn't cross, I road back into Colombia.  I´m not sure if this was an entirely legal move on my part, but it all worked ot OK.  I spent the night in Ipiales, and got up at 5:30am so that I could beat the Monday morning madness that´s found at any border.  I road directly to the aduana office and was surprised to see that I was the only person there.  The official took a look at my passport to check out the Ecuadorian entrance stamp I had received the day before, only to find out that I didn't receive an entrance stamp:  I received an exit stamp.  Even though I explicitly told immigration I was entering Ecuador, their wires got crossed and they checked me out before I had even entered.  He told me to go back to immigration, where I found at least 75 other people waiting.  "You've got to be kidding me!"  So much for my plans of covering some ground in Ecuador today!  I stood in line for a few minutes and then went back to the aduana.  "The line is really big and I already went through this yesterday.  Is it possible for you to talk to immigration about the problem?"  He said, "No problem" and he went over and had it resolved in 2 minutes.  Looks like the day wouldn't be a complete wash after all!  Once the passport situation was resolved, the bike paperwork took 10 minutes, and I was on my way!

The big question most people have about Colombia is, "Is it safe?"  While I was only there for a month, I can honestly say that I felt just as safe, if not safer than anywhere else I've been.  Now for the catch.  Unlike the other countries I've been through, where I basically went to whatever region I wanted, and road on whatever roads I wanted to ride (there are some exceptions), I was limited to the major routes in Colombia.  I wanted to take a couple other roads not far from the major routes, but each time I asked the police or military about the roads, they´d thoroughly convince me that it was a bad idea.  I probably could have ridden those roads without incident, but they weren't going to add enough to my trip to make it worth the risk or running into guerrillas.  The Colombian government takes security very seriously, and even the smallest towns have at least a couple soldiers stationed there.  Checkpoints are everywhere, and in the most extreme case I saw, there was an officer posted every 300 meters along the roadside, for a 5 mile stretch of road.  As for locals, they voiced very little concern for my safety as well, but most agreed with the police in terms of staying on major roads.  By far, the greatest concern voiced to me was that I would be spending the holidays alone.  The majority of people I met asked where I would be for Navidad, and they thought it was a travesty that I didn't have plans.  I know for a fact that if I was in Colombia on Christmas, I would be adopted and spend it with a Colombian family.  My final thoughts:  Visit Colombia!

As a side note, I don't have any other specific stories to tell from my last week in Colombia, but I posted some more pics and added captions to most of them.

The northern part of Ecuador was a continuation of the awesome ride in Colombia.  It's been a long time since I've had rides like these.  Most of Central America didn't have much to offer in the way of truly awesome vistas, so it's refreshing to be here and it has re-motivated me!  It´s always amazing to see the extreme plots of land that locals cultivate.  The pictures below are from Ecuador, but you can see the same thing in Colombia and in parts of Central America, namely Mexico and Guatemala.  I think I'd be apprehensive to even walk on some of the steep grades, never mind haul around equipment and harvest crops.  On top of that, a lot of these plots are around 10,000ft above sea-level. 

I crossed the Equator today as well.  It's hard to believe that I have been riding for this long and have only just hit the equator.  I can assure you that crossing the equator is almost as exciting as driving across state lines, but at least I can look forward to toilets flushing in the opposite direction.  There's an Equator monument in the form of a sundial along the roadside, and it's the only Equator monument in Ecuador that is exactly on the Equator.  There's a guide who gives a surprisingly interesting presentation on the sundial, which includes a summary of what makes Ecuador so unique and important to astronomers.  He also talks about and show´s satellite photos of ancient ruins throughout the region that coincide with the sundial perfectly.  How they figured that thousands of years ago is simply amazing.  I'm not going to get into the gritty details, but I can assure you the monument is worth the $1 entrance fee if you happen to be driving by.  

 

I decided to bypass Quito.  I've had my fix of big cities with Bogota and Medellin this last month, and was content to stick to the mountains.  The road South of Quito is supposed to be incredible, but the imposing 16,000ft volcano on the left side of the road, was covered in dark, tornado-like storm clouds blocking my view.  In addition, I was too busy thinking about the pea and corn-kernal-sized hail hitting my fingers at 65mph, to take in any of the lesser views. (I knew I shouldn´t have cut the liners out of my gloves!)  The volcano is a short ride from the town I'm in now, so if the weather is better in the morning, I´m going to take a short ride north to catch a glimpse.  Hasta Luego! 

Happy Thanksgiving

Today was one of those days that couldn't have been any better.  After not seeing any of the things I set out to see yesterday, due to fog and park rangers, the weather cooperated today and I saw more than I ever thought I would.  I was told at Volcan Cotopaxi National Park that foreigners were not allowed into the park on motorcycles, so I went with plan B and road out to Laguna Quilotoa yesterday afternoon.  According to the rangers, years ago, some guys on motorcycles didn't stick to the roads and decided to make their own trails, hence ruining it for all of us.  By the time I arrived at the Laguna a couple hours later, fog had already filled the crater and there wasn't anything to see.  I pushed another 45 minutes north through freezing rain to a town with a couple hostels, and hoped for a clearer and drier sky in the morning.

Determined to beat the daily influx of low clouds and rain, I woke up at 6am, had breakfast, and then headed back South to the crater.  The fog had already set in by the time I reached the gate, but I figured I had nothing to lose, so I may as well enter and check it out.  Thankfully I did!  The clouds formed a lid over the dormant volcano, but the crater lake was visible, beautiful, and huge!  I had almost summoned enough ambition to hike down to the lake when the clouds began to fill the crater.  Thinking that I had a valid excuse to be lazy, I hopped back on the bike, thrilled that I was able to see at least one of the two things I had set out to, and carried on with the rest of the day's plan.

I returned to Latacunga taking the same route I had ridden out on yesterday.The weather was much better today, and I was able to see a lot more.  The area around the laguna is inhabited by indigenous communities, but in stark contrast to the rural areas of Guatemala, the people are really friendly, and always smile and wave.  While passing clusters of houses along the road, kids would run out to the street to give me a high-five as I rode by.  When I would pull over to take a picture, or check out my map, passerbys would always start conversation with me. 

I returned to the Pan-American highway, followed it south for an hour or so, and then took a road heading southwest that took me past Volcan Chimborazo.  I knew Chimborazo was over 20,000ft tall, but I never expected the road itself to reach over 14,000ft.  The cooler temps at that elevation, along with high winds and intermittent rains, made for a surprisingly cold ride considering that I'm less than 200 miles from the equator.  After passing the volcano, I hopped on a dirt road to the small town of Salinas, on the advice that some of the world's best chocolate comes from there.  While in-route to Salinas, I misread a sign and took a very slow-going mud road for 15km or so, before finding out that I wasn't heading where I wanted to.  Not sure what time the sun would set in the mountains, panic momentarily set in as I thought of riding the same road back in the dark, or the alternative, sleeping on the side of the road.  When I reached the fork where I made my mistake, I was thrilled to see that the road I should have taken was perfectly groomed and I could make up for some lost time.  I arrived in Salinas with enough daylight to buy some chocolate, and then rode 25 more minutes to Guaranda, where I'm spending the night.

I'm heading to a town called Baños tomorrow.  Several people have told me it's their favorite place in Ecuador, so I'm really looking forward to it!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Road Closed

"Señor, you should look at that bridge carefully, because if it breaks, you're probably going to die," said the sweet little-old-lady at the bus stop: in Spanish of course. After a quick double-take, I almost began to chuckle.  I'm not sure if it was her nonchalant tone of voice, or the context of her warning, but I never expected to hear something like that from her.  I had ridden past this bus stop just minutes before on my way to Baños, and was forced to return and seek directions.  A couple miles further down the road, volcanic ash covered the road's surface, rock slides covered parts of the right lane, and a sign reading, "High-Risk Area," stated the obvious.  Baños was only six miles away, so I tried to push through the mess, but I eventually came to the end of the road...literally.  A 40 yard section of the road had given way, and it looked like the collapse had occurred several years ago.  I road up to the edge hoping that I could ride down and back up the other side.  I could certainly do it on foot, but not with the bike.  I took a quick look around but couldn´t find any scrap wood, so building a ramp to jump it wasn´t an option either. (no, I'm not serious)  I turned back, slightly baffled that not even one of the signs indicating "Baños" throughout the last hour, had mentioned that the road was closed.  There wasn't even a "Road Closed" sign at the point of the collapse, although any reasonable person would have noticed that something was wrong long before that point.  Then again, since the collapse had happened years ago, I was probably the only person in Ecuador who didn't know that the road was closed. 

When I arrived back at the town, or should I say, the lone bus stop that people somehow appear at, there was a little-old-lady sitting in traditional dress.  I stopped and sat down with her for 20 minutes or so, and she told me that she thought I might be able to get to Baños without riding all the way back to Riobamba.  It wasn't a direct route, but it was better than nothing.  She told me that I had to cross the bridge that I had caught a glimpse of when the road turned bad, and follow the road 20km to the next town.  Thrilled that I wouldn't be back-tracking for an hour, I stood up with a smile and thanked the lady for her time.  As I walked to my bike with a new sense of resolve, I heard the familiar soft voice come from behind me, "Señor, you should look at that bridge carefully, because if it breaks, you're probably going to die."  So much for the new sense of resolve!  With a little less enthusiasm, I got back on the bike and returned to the volcanic ash and rockslides, and found the turnoff for the bridge.  It was a narrow suspension bridge, barely wide enough for a car, and the wooden planks were laid lengthwise, rather than across like on most bridges.  The bridge looked passable at first.  There were a couple planks missing, but nothing too bad.  My eyes continued to pan across, and that´s when I saw the last 20 feet of the bridge; and the solitary plank laying in the center.  The little-old-lady´s voice chimed in, "...you're probably going to die."  I couldn't have said it more eloquently.  Looks like I'm backtracking!

After two days of checking out waterfalls, riding my bike on horse-trails, and visiting Baños' volcano-heated hot springs (think big cement bathtub with more people in it than water), I made my way to Cuenca.  My stomach didn't feel right when I was packing my bike in Baños, and things became really bad, really fast, once I was on the road.  I was forced to call it a day at only forty-five minutes into the six hour journey.  (Yes, probably more information than you needed to know, but everyday isn't as nice as the pictures!)  I spent the night in Ambato, and continued my journey to Cuenca the following morning.  My stomach problems continued as well.  After more than a day of not eating anything, the antibiotics finally kicked in, and I was able to stuff my face at dinner the way I'm accustomed to.  In Cuenca, I met up with two other bikers from Toronto, Moe and Mike.  They've been on the road for six weeks and expect to be in Ushuaia by January.

Riding south from Cuenca to Vilcabamba, I stopped in the small town of Saraguro for lunch.  As I walked out of the restaurant, a nearby elementary school was being let out.  Within seconds, I was surrounded by two dozen kids in their blue and grey school uniforms, complete with backpacks in tow.  The majority were between six and nine years old and they stared at me as if I were an alien.  I guess the combination of being 6ft tall and having red hair, along with being dressed in full motorcycle attire and riding a "huge" bike by Ecuadorian standards, probably does make me an alien of sorts.  The kids took a lot of interest in the paper map on my tank bag, so I laid it out on the ground for them to see.  As they each struggled to get close enough to point at and name a different place on the map, I took my camera out and showed them pictures from different parts of the country.  After checking out the map, we had an impromptu English lesson in the street, which mainly involved me repeating the days of the week at least 10 times, and translating simple phrases and greetings from Spanish to English.  They seemed to get a kick out of my accent, and they were incredibly enthusiastic.  I only wish my students in Guatemala were as eager. 

One of the younger girls asked me how long I had been traveling for, and when I told her that I started in May, she counted the months out from May to December on her fingers, and then stood there silently for a moment, before exclaiming with big eyes, "That's a very long time!"  One of the boys asked me how much my bike cost, and when I told him, he seemed completely shocked.  Not in a "trillion-million dollars" type way, but in the way that he knows and can appreciate how much things cost in life:  Something I certainly couldn't do at seven years old.  It's been a while since I've been around kids, but I was really blown away by how these children seemingly understood and could appreciate what are typically abstract ideas to children: time, distance, money, etc.  In a way, I felt like I was talking with people two or three times their age.  The group of boys in the picture below, hung around the longest, and asked,"When are you leaving town?"  When I replied, "In 15 minutes or so", they looked truly disappointed, as if they had wanted to swap stories over a beer or something.  

When I think about it, most of the children I've seen or met, have all seemed much older than they are.  Whether it's really young kids trudging along a muddy mountain road in the rain on their way home from school, herding goats or cattle, roaming or working in the streets of a city, or working in restaurants and stores alongside their parents, they definitely seem to grow up fast.  I can remember sitting down at a small eatery in a market back in Nicaragua.  As I sat and waited, I watched the 6 or 7 year old waitress in the comedor next door take the order of the two men that had just sat down.  She walked, talked, stood, and had all the mannerisms of someone in their late teens; complete with attitude.  She had just finished listing off the meals of the day, and one of the guys asked her to repeat something.  She sighed, gave the guy a look like, "You must be kidding me," rolled her eyes, and then rattled off the meals of the day again, though this time she counted off each meal by bending a different finger back on her hand.  She went back into the kitchen and recited the order to the cook, who I assume was her mother, and then came back out to jokingly give the guys a hard time about something.  When the meal was all said and done, she accepted payment, held each bill up to the light, presumably checking for counterfeit money, then wished them a nice day. 

The hour I spent with the kids in Saraguro was a lot of fun and as I road out of town I couldn't have been happier with how the day turned out.  It always amazes me how the most memorable moments of the trip are found when I least expect them.  They´re not places I've read about in guidebooks, and they´re not things I can take pictures of.  They're the chance conversations I've had with people at bus stops, teaching spanish to children in the street, and all the other faces I've seen and personalities I've met along the way.

On The Road In Peru!

As I crested the last ridge and dropped into the river valley dividing Ecuador and Peru, I was thrilled to see a bridge with small sheds on either side, and with two draw-arms blocking access from each side.  Someone actually works here!  Six hours earlier, I had left Vilcabamba not knowing what I would find at the crossing.  My map showed a road, but neither of my maps showed the symbol for a "border post," as there was at the two other crossings west of here.  Often times, the remote crossings don't have immigration offices to stamp passports or aduana offices to do paperwork for the bike.  I'm not sure how this means for the residents of the two border countries, but as a foreigner, I need my passport stamped.  So when I left Vilcabamba I accepted the fact that I might be making a return trip, but a couple hours into the ride, I was really hoping I wouldn't be taking the same route back.  The road was beautiful, and it was nice to see forests after a couple hundred miles of widespread deforestation, but no route is fun to ride twice, especially when it's six hours each way.

There were two people working on the Ecuadorian side, and they had me on my way in less than five minutes.  One of them lifted the draw-arm and I crossed to the Peruvian draw-arm.  I parked my bike on the bridge and walked over to the cluster of sheds that was the Peruvian border post.  The immigration official welcomed me with a complementary soda and some fresh pineapple.  I need to go to remote border crossing more often!  I hung around and chatted with the guy for a while, and then walked to the aduana who's office door was three feet from the immigration office.  The office was closed.  I knew this was too good to be true. It's not the end of the world to have to wait a bit, but when it's 3pm, and the first town with a place to sleep is an unknown distance from the border, on a road of unknown condition, I start to get a little concerned; especially when I've waited for several hours, on several occasions, for a person to come back to the office.  

I poked my head back into the immigration office and asked if he knew where the aduana guy was.  "Oh, he's probably sleeping.  There's so few people coming through here that we usually sleep until a bus is scheduled to come through.  See the two story building in town with the red roof, go knock on the door and he'll come back to the office."  I need a job like that!  One where you can just go to sleep when there's nothing to do.  Wait, I did have a job like that: Marine Corps Infantry.  Actually, now that I think about it, I'll pass.  I wasn't sure if waking this guy from his beauty sleep was the best way to make friends and ensure a speedy crossing, or if I'd be better off just waiting for him to wake up on his own, but I walked the 200 yards into the cluster of houses and stores that was the town, and knocked on the door.  When he poked his head out the second story window, with a face that said, "I'm less than happy right now," I wasn't sure if I had just made a really long day for myself or not.  He said he'd be at the office in five minutes, and as I walked back to the offices, I glanced at the bridge wondering if it would be my roof for the night.  Ten minutes later, he arrived at the office and he was actually smiling!  Another ten minutes and I was on my way.

I've been in Peru for a couple days now, and although I don't have any specific stories to tell at this time, Peru has had some of the best riding of the trip.  Ecuador had very few North to South routes aside from the Panamerica.  I made several loops off of the Panamerica in Ecuador, but all southerly progress was made on the highway.  In Peru, the route options are limitless, so it's great to be off the beaten path, but still making progress south.  Like Colombia and Ecuador, the people of Peru are friendly and inquisitive, and its a pleasure to stop in the small towns and meet people.  I have a ton of pictures to share from the last couple of days.  I apologize if it's picture after picture of winding roads hugging the sides of mountains, but that's what the last 14 hours of riding has consisted of...and I'm not complaining!

Rough Rides In Peru

New Pics Added on December 16th- I added 30+ pics (I got a little click happy with the camera) of my 11 hour ride through the Cordillera Blanca yesterday. Peru just keeps getting better and better!  Here's a preview:

 

Now, back to the December 14th post, "Rough Rides in Peru":

The going has been painfully slow over the last couple days.  The combination of afternoon showers, slow roads, bad luck, and lack of detail on my map, has turned what I thought would be a 2-3 day jaunt, into a 5+ day odyssey.  The ride has been incredible, but it's still disappointing to see that you've only moved an inch on the map after 8-11 hours in the saddle.

Three nights ago, I went to bed with high hopes of getting up early, knocking out an 11 hour day, and actually getting somewhere.  Since I still haven't got around to buying an alarm clock of some sort, I went with the chug-a-lot-of-water-before-bed method.  My timing was off though, and I was up at 3am and chugging more water.  I woke up at 7am, an hour later than I had hoped, and went outside to load the bike.   "Son of a ___ !"  After more than 21,000 miles, 17,500 of which have been on this trip, I had my first flat. (not counting the two flats Kali and I had with the rental car in Costa Rica)  A quick inspection revealed a nail in the rear tire.  Just two days before, I wrote an email to someone who commented on my last post, saying how I hadn't had any problems with the bike: not even a flat tire.  Ironic, yes.  Entirely unexpected, no.  With the words in that email, I practically hammered the nail into the tire myself.  My mind flashed back to all of the rear-tire-changes that had lasted several hours, and all hopes of covering ground that day disappeared.  On a high note, I was parked in the hotel parking lot and not on the side of the road in a downpour.  Surprisingly, after a little more than an hour of work while entertaining the questions of every hotel guest that walked by, I had a new tube in place and the bike was ready to go.

Once I was on the road, any feeling of needing to get somewhere disappeared.  The area was really picturesque and not something I wanted to race through.  Off the main dirt road, was a slightly rougher road that meandered up a hill and begged to be explored.  I decided to check it out, and slowly navigated over and around the jagged rocks and mud pools to the crest of the hill.  The road ended there, but I could see where tires had flattened down tracks in the grass.  The tracks sprawled out in all directions so I figured that from this point on it was somewhat of a free for all.  I road out into the meadow to the top of a hill that provided perfect views of the rolling hills surrounding me.  The vast terrain draws me in every time, and I have the feeling of contentment with just being there.  At 12,000 feet, the world has a different feel.  Even without an altimeter I could give a reasonable guesstimate of the elevation.  The air is thin and brisk, and each breath leaves a hollow feeling in your chest.  The colors are different as well.  The natural greens (not planted crops) are a dulled green.  Browns are equally muted, and it's as if you are looking a the world through a filtered lens that gives everything a hint of gray.  While enjoying the views, I fired up my stove, and cooked up some soup and some instant coffee.  I couldn't think of a better place to have breakfast.

After breakfast, I found my way back to the main dirt road.  After rounding a couple hills, I spotted a bus parked a ways off the road, and it looked like all of its passengers were gathered around the outside, with their possessions strewn about.  I really wasn't sure what was going on at first, but as I got closer, I saw other cars and pickup trucks parked there as well.  I finally got close enough to see that it was a market.  I was a little baffled at first, being that I was in the middle of nowhere, but I spoke with a couple guys who explained that the market happens once a week, and all the surrounding villages come to meet there.  Always on the lookout for something to eat, I wandered between the blankets covered in various goods, but was disappointed that a lot of what was being sold could be found at a convenience store.  I've been in the situation countless times now, but there is still something slightly uncomfortable about being the center of attention.  As always, everyone was really friendly, but it still has that walking into a bar and having the music stop kind of feel.  I ended up grabbing an apple, and a bag of caramelized puffed wheat. (think Kellogg's Smacks cereal, but with much bigger puffs) 

The day continued along the same winding dirt road, and I was making the typical slow progress.  Many towns have one main road cutting through the center, but the bigger ones offer their own little maze.  Usually the main road leads to the central plaza, but from that point, you have to guess which of the seven other roads exiting from the corners of the plaza, is the road leading out of town.  People are more than eager to help when I'm not too stubborn to ask, so I always find my way out one way or another.

About halfway between towns, my front tire washed out in some mud, and I crashed my bike.  I was riding along the right edge of the road (no cliff edge this time) and when my bike went down, the right pannier collided with the end of a large log, that was laying there as a border to the road.  The log hit the front of my pannier like a battering ram and sheared the right pannier rack in two places, and cracked it in a third place.  Believe it or not, the broken pannier rack was actually the best case scenario.  If the bike had fallen to the right a half a second faster, the battering ram would have collided with the bike's oil-cooler, and/or my shin, knee, or thigh.  I'll take a cracked pannier rack any day over the alternative.  With two of the three load bearing arms broken, and the third held on by a bead of weld, I took out some nylon straps and tied off the pannier to the bike, so that when the weld eventually let go, the box wouldn't fall off completely. 

I drove to the next town at a snails pace to limit the bouncing and stress on the remaining support.  I found a welder in the next town, and after almost 2 hours of bending and welding, the racks were repaired and just as crooked as they were since I high-sided it (when you get sent forward off the bike) riding with Omer in Guatemala.  As I loaded the bike back up at the welders, I eyed my map and saw two towns further down the road.  The welder told me that it was 45 minutes to the first town, and 4 hours from there to the next town.  Did I hear him right?  4 hours?  On the map, it looks like the same distance as the 45 minute stretch of road.  He explained that although the two towns can nearly see each other, there's a huge river valley between the two.  I didn't have my heart set on getting to the second town that day or anything, but the fact that a 4 hour ride would only get me a stones throw away, was still a little discouraging.

I arrived in the next town, 45 minutes later as promised, and I could see what the 4 hours was all about.  The far side of the valley was crisscrossed with switchbacks that rivaled any others I've seen on this trip.  It was 5:00pm, and I asked a couple guys hanging around the plaza if there were any places to stay at the bottom of the river valley.  I was hoping that I could make the decent that evening and continue with the ascent in the morning.  There weren't any hotels, but they did offer more favorable estimations of ride times that ranged from 2.5 to 3 hours.  Even with their best estimate, I would be arriving in the dark, and the switchbacks didn't seem like the best place to be riding at night.  Yet, instead of the voice of reason encouraging me to refrain from doing something, some other voice was telling me to go for it.  So that's what I did.  I left the plaza around 5:15pm and told myself I'd make it before dark, which was around 6:45pm.  I'm not sure why I put such unnecessary pressures on myself, but it gets the adrenaline going, as weird as that may sound.  I rode fairly quickly, but the loose sand, gravel, and rocks had me crawling through the hairpins.  I completed the descent in about 45 minutes, crossed the bridge, and made it through the ascent in 30 minutes.  By this time the sun was certainly setting, and I followed another cliff-hugger to the town.

The road curved slightly as it traced the contours of the mountainside, and as the road curved left yet again, I rounded the turn and heard myself say aloud, "Oh...My...God".  I was then left speechless, thoughtless, and in shear awe, as I gazed at one of the most incredible natural spectacles I have ever witnessed.  I have never seen, nor could I have ever imagined, a more amazing sunset.  Pixar couldn't animate a more awe-inspiring sunset.  If I knew the names of any famous painters, I'd say that they couldn't paint a more perfect sunset.  After a couple minutes of admiring the intense reds and oranges, I thought back on the flat tire that pushed the ride back an hour, the cracked pannier rack that set me back more than 2 hours, and the voice telling me to go for it.  If all that hadn't happened the way it did, I would have arrived too early and missed it, or I would have been staged in a hotel back across the valley.  Divine intervention?  Tire-popping angels?  The voice of God?  Sorry, but I'm still not convinced.  I was simply reminded that this journey isn't and has never been about a destination.  Just because a route that I thought would take 2-3 days, has taken 5 and counting, there's no reason to rush things or feel like I need to get somewhere.  Things will happen the way they do, and as always, the best parts of the trip have happened when I've least expected it.

As a follow-up, the following day (yesterday) I had another spill.  I was riding along a cliff-hugger, and a gust of wind pushed me into the loose rubble that's piled up between the two tire tracks.  Once your front tire hits that stuff, it's all over, and you're just going along for the ride. The gust blew me towards the mountain and away from the cliff's edge, but the bike came down hard on my left leg, and pinned it under the pannier.  I managed to get my leg out from underneath the bike, and hit the kill switch to shut off the motor.  My leg was definitely hurting, but I was able to stand and get the bike upright.  I straightened the front end out and continued on my way.  About two minutes down the road, I started to feel really nauseous and my leg started to throb.  I pulled over, got my helmet off and sat on the side of the road.  After a while, the nausea went away but my leg was still throbbing.  I'm not sure what brought on the nausea: My body may have been coming down from the surge of adrenaline that flowed through me during the crash, or it may have been the realization that if the bike went right after hitting the rubble, I wouldn't be writing this right now.  While resting I saw that my left pannier was more badly damaged than the right one was the day before.  It hadn't cracked, but was so badly bent that I couldn't get the lid open.  I pressed on for 8 more hours, 2 hours of which was spent on a wrong turn that brought me up 7,000ft feet of switchbacks, and then right back down again.  It rained for the entire descent as well.  I road on rough dirt and rock for 11 hours yesterday, all of it sitting because I couldn't stand, so today is a day off from riding: My butt and my body need it.  I'm in the town of Caraz, at the north end of the Cordillera Blanca, and I'm hoping I can find another welder that is open on Sunday.  If I can get the rack fixed today, I'm going to head into the Cordillera Blanca tomorrow.  Until next time...

To Protect and to Serve

December 27th Update: New pictures added from Machu Picchu and my last ride in Peru

The road from Huaraz to the coast was paved and plunged from over 13,000ft to sea-level in just over four hours.  Since the descent was spread out over 100kms, rather than 10kms, the road was a lot more relaxing than riding the usual switchbacks, and the pavement helped me cover some ground.  For brunch I stopped at a roadside restaurant in a small town, and the woman who owned it came to the front door to greet me.  "Oh Gringo, Bienvenidos!" she said with her arms raised in the air and with all the enthusiasm of an Italian grandmother welcoming home her long-lost grandson.  She promised to cook me the local specialty: another variation of chicken and white rice.  While enjoying my meal, her daughter, who was probably in her 20's, arrived and said a shy hello.  She went back outside and I finished my meal.  I thanked the woman for my lunch, and headed out to the bike.  As I stripped off some of the layers that had kept me warm that morning, the daughter returned with four friends and they asked if they could each get a picture with me.  All of them, the mom included, were acting like giddy school children, and I heard "Gringo guapo" quite a bit amongst their banter.  I felt like Brad Pitt!  I've had a handful of people ask to take pictures of me because of my red hair, but no one has ever been borderline ecstatic over my presence.  It was a lot of fun being a star for 5 minutes, and I have to admit that I felt pretty cool as I rode away. 

As I was plodding down the Panamericana, through a desert landscape that could easily pass for North Africa, I crested a slight hill and low and behold, there was a police 4x4 waiting on the other side.  They waived me over, and I cautiously slowed down and pulled off the road, hoping that the pick-up truck and SUV tailgating me wouldn't hit me.  I took off my helmet and gloves, put on a fake smile, and greeted the Police officers as if it was the highlight of my day. 

They started with the usual battery of questions:  Where are you coming from?  Where are you going?  What kind of bike is that?  Then they told me that I was going 73kmh in a 45kmh zone and asked if I saw the sign.  I explained that I didn't see the sign, and then I decided to get a little creative with my Spanish and said, "With the two trucks on my ass, I thought that I was driving too slow!"  As the words came out of my mouth, I realized that the Spanish word "en" can mean "on" or "in", which could explain the unusual look the cops gave me.  One of them went back to his post along the roadside, while the other told me to get my paperwork and meet him by the truck.  Having a bad feeling about the situation, I took this moment to empty all but 30 soles ($10 USD) from my wallet.  I grabbed all my paperwork and grudgingly made my way to the cruiser, wondering what games were about to be played.

The officer took my license and picked up a stack of licenses that were rubber-banded together and resting on the dashboard.  He explained that those licenses belonged to the other people they had given tickets to, and that it's standard protocol to withhold the license until the fine is paid.  That's a nice story, but I can think of a lot of other reasons why a cop would have a stack of confiscated driver´s licenses: fakes, expired, etc.  He added mine to the stack and placed the pile back on the dash.  He began writing me a ticket for 330 soles, or $110 USD, and explained that I had to go to a town back North on the Panamericana, pay the fine in an office there, and then return for my license.  "I don't live here.  How am I supposed to find an office in some distant town and pay the fine?  I'm going to get lost, and you won't be here when I get back", I said to further the game along. 

"Hmm, well how about you get into the truck, we'll bring you to get your money and bring you to the office," he replied. 

"Thank you sir, but I'm not going to leave my bike here." 

"Well how about I get on your bike with you, and show you how to get to the office." 

"Sir, there isn't enough room on my bike for two people."  I was hoping that response would finally get him to the punchline, and it did. 

"Well, you can pay me the 330 soles, and I can give you your license back right now!"  How convenient! 

"I have an idea, we can go to the police station, and I can give your boss the $330 soles, and then you can give me my license back.  But  I am not going to give you 330 soles here on the side of the road."

  He didn't seem to like my suggestion, and said, "What else can we do about this?  I want to help you get your license back." 

"I think we should forget about the whole thing.  I know what the signs look like now and I will drive more carefully." 

"So you want me to annul the ticket?" 

"Yes, I think that is best" 

"Ok,", and he tore up the ticket and handed me my license back.  Are you serious?  After giving me my license, he looked at me and said, "You should invite us to lunch."  I understood exactly what he said, but pretended to misunderstand him. 

"Thank you for the invitation sir, that is very generous, but I ate an hour ago, and I really need to continue my trip."  I'm not sure how much he believed that I misinterpreted him, but he said, "Go, my friend."  I turned and walked away trying to hide the smile on my face.  I'm pretty sure the cop was seething with frustration at my last comment, and I had felt like I had redeemed myself after paying off the cop in Costa Rica! 

Ironically, before my trip, I made a fake drivers license specifically for circumstances like these, that way I can bluff and drive off with the promise of returning for my license.  I keep it in my wallet at all times...except for when I actually needed it of course!  I always put my real license into my wallet at border crossings since the officials there are usually trustworthy.  But when I entered Peru a couple weeks ago, I forgot to put the fake one back into my wallet after I had crossed.  In addition, all three of my expendable international drivers licenses, were buried at the bottom of my panniers. 

The Panamericana continued through the desert and followed the coast.  This area certainly makes it on my list of, "Top-ten most depressing places to live."  I was forced to drive though Lima, the capital city, and aside from a seemingly endless traffic jam, it wasn't as bad as driving through some other cities.  At least the highway goes through the city, rather than dump into the urban sprawl.

The next day I cut back inland and out of the desert.  The desert was a nice change of scenery for a day, but I was happy to be heading back into the mountains.  I stopped in the plaza of another small and pleasant mountain town for lunch.  Four local guys were at the restaurant and they invited me to sit with them.  I shared the story of the police encounter and they were laughing out loud at the part when I told the cop I'd give the money to his boss.  They said 330 soles was way too much, and that it was abuse.  I then told them about how the office asked me to buy them lunch.  "What?  They wanted you to buy them a lunch! That's ridiculous!  You only have to buy them a soda if they don't write you a ticket!" 

Just in case anyone had the illusion that every day is sunny, warm, and beautiful, here's a couple pics from the rest of my ride that day.  As I continued to ascend to 15,500ft in the mountains, the clouds moved in and drenched me with rain, then freezing rain, and then hail and ice.   I'll openly admit that the icy roads, brutal winds, and freezing temps made for an absolutely miserable ride, but in hindsight and from the warmth of an internet cafe, I can say that it was exactly what I was looking and hoping for in my South American adventure!   

Happy New Year!

From Ayacucho, Peru, the city I arrived in after the ice storm, I drove east for two days and arrived in the city of Cusco.  The ride was picturesque, but I couldn't help but think about how spoiled I've become.  After riding amongst the snow-capped peaks of the Cordillera Blanca, the less profound rolling hills and farms that lined the 14 hour route, seemed merely so-so; when only a couple weeks ago they would have been mind blowing.

In keeping with what has seemingly become tradition for me in Peru, I had another spill while enroute to Cusco.  This time it was on pavement: the first of its kind...yeah! (sarcasm)  I think I may have been overly excited to be on blacktop again, especially on a really curvy road, and I pushed it a little too hard into an uphill switchback.  It was a really tight turn, so I wasn't going very fast, but I leaned it over far enough to have the bike wash out on me.  The car behind me stopped to see if I was OK, and when they saw that I was alright, the father and son were really excited to tell me about how far I leaned into the turn.  They said that my right pannier hit the ground and then I crashed, but I'm still not sure if the tires had lost traction before the pannier hit.  Regardless of how it happened, I know for a fact that the CE armor in my jacket saved my elbow, which more than a week later is still bruised and sore but not broken.

I spent Christmas Eve day at Machu Picchu, and returned to Cusco around 11:30 that evening.  Christmas Eve was not at all like I had expected it to be.  I pictured the entire city being shut down and people at home with their families.  That wasn't the case at all.  The main plaza was closed to traffic, and filled with people.  There were vendors selling fireworks, moss that is burned as an incense, food and hot chocolate, and on top of that, thousands of people descended from local towns and slept in the plaza.  They didn't have tents, but were packed in tightly with blankets under the overhangs of the stores and restaurants facing the plaza.  The scene took on a party type atmosphere that I truly never expected.  Christmas day in Cusco was similar.  Many places didn't open until noon, and many remained closed, but I originally thought I'd have a hard time finding food on Christmas day with how religious South America is.

The day after Christmas, I road through the altiplano (high plains) to the border of Bolivia.  While enroute, my mind wandered back to the experiences I had in Peru.  While I don't think I'll ever be able to make a blanket statement such as, "____ was my favorite country," I can comfortably say that Peru delivered everything I had both consciously and subconsciously wanted to experience on this trip:  Amazing landscapes that ranged from the desert to massive mountains and glaciers, challenging roads, good and bad weather, very long rides, minor bike problems (cracked pannier frames and a flat tire), friendly and welcoming people, corrupt police, and a genuine feeling of South American authenticity.  On top of all that, it was really inexpensive. (Aside from Cusco and anything related to Machu Picchu.  Even that was inexpensive to American standards, but not from a budget travel standpoint) 

Crossing into Bolivia was pretty straightforward.  An archway over the road marked the border, and both the Peruvian and Bolivian migration and aduana offices were well marked and logically located within meters of the arch on their respective side of the border.  The $130 Bolivian visa was a bit of a surprise.  Actually, I knew it was coming, but actually handing over 4-7 days of living expenses for a sticker in my passport was much more painful than it sounded when I was planning this trip.

My route in Bolivia took me to Copacabana, a small town on the shores of the beautiful Lake Titicaca, which is the world's highest navigable lake.  From there I road northeast to the town of Sorata.  The road to Sorata runs parallel to a mountain range that has some of Bolivia's highest peaks, but heavy fog ruined any chance I had of catching a glimpse.  I returned down the same road the following day while enroute to La Paz, and the peaks poked through the clouds from time to time.  There was a ridge between me and the mountains that the clouds seemed to cling to, so I turned of the main road and headed towards the ridge line via paths through farm fields.  I was hoping to find a way to get over the ridge, but after being stuck in the mud several times (see video) in just the first couple minutes, there was no way I could make it to the ridge, and make it to La Paz in time to meet my friend Jurri.

I met Jurri on my way to Machu Picchu in Peru.  He's from the Neatherlands and backpacking around South America for several weeks.  His father is the Dutch Ambassador to Bolivia, so he's visiting his parents during his trip as well.  While we were at Machu Picchu, he invited me to stay at the Ambassador's residence with he and his parents.  I've been here for several days and have really had a nice time.  The house is amazing, to say the least, and their hospitality has been overwhelming.  The night I arrived, they treated me to a steak dinner at one of La Paz's finest restaurants, and it was unquestionably the best meal I have had in a very, very, long time.

The following day, Jurri, Malik (a family friend) and I, went on a mountain-biking on Bolivia's famous "Death Road".  The ride began way up in the mountains, where it was snowing, and finished in a hot and humid tropical clime in the town of Corocoi.  At this time the "Death Road" isn't overly dangerous, but I can see why there were so many fatalities when it was the primary road from La Paz to Corocoi.  Actually, the ride back in the van on the paved road was infinitely more scary than the ride down on the bike.  The combination of having a driver with really heavy eye lids, and the worst fog I've seen to date, made for a really attentive ride back, and I don't think anyone was able to relax.

We spent the day roaming around the city yesterday, and we're going to a Dutch owned bar/restaurant to celebrate New Years Eve tonight.  Happy New Year!  Until next time...

Where to Begin?

Part 1: The Day Bolivia Ran Out of Gas

I spent 5 nights at the Ambassador's residence in La Paz.  I can't thank Jurri and his parents enough for their hospitality.  I had forgotten how nice it is to have hot water in the bathroom sink, a non-electric-showerhead hot shower, and it had been seven months since I had flushed my toilet paper! (the plumbing systems in Central and South America can't handle the paper, so it gets put in a waist basket) I left Jurri's parents' house in La Paz on January 2nd.  From there, I was making a big push south to the town of Uyuni, located on the shores of the Salar desert.  Jurri was heading that way as well, but was making a detour to the mining town of Potosi first.  Malik, his family's driver, was driving him on this stage of his journey, so I followed them out of La Paz, and I think it was the first time I drove through a big city without cussing!  Once we hit the main road south, Jurri took off, and I pulled over for gas.  "No Hay," said the attendant, meaning that there wasn't any.  Huh, OK.  I road 100m further to the next station,  "No Hay, " and the next, and the next, until there weren't anymore stations and I was back in the Altiplano:  "No Hay!"  I had enough gas to get the day started, so I wasn't worrying about it too much.  A while later I came to small town with a gas station and was able to fill up.  Maybe it was just an isolated thing in La Paz?  Continuing South to the small city of Oruro, and looking to top off my tank before heading into the no-man's-land between there and Uyuni, I ran into the same problem:  "No Hay!"  Actually in Oruro, I never actually heard "No Hay," but the dozens of cars lined up at every gas station told the story.
 


I knew I couldn't make it to Uyuni with the gas I had, but saw a couple more small towns on my map before the dirt road began.  I visited each of them and was finally able to track down 8 liters that someone was selling out of their house.  If my calculations were correct, I would have enough to arrive in Uyuni with 10 miles of gas left: a little too close for comfort!  There were a few small villages along the way though, so I figured I'd go for it and see what happened.  Once I hit the dirt road, I immediately came to a detour.  They were starting to pave the main route, so I had to ride on a new dirt road that snaked back, forth, over, and across the old straight road that was being paved.  I'm guessing that the muddy detour ate a mile or two into my ten mile buffer.  I hope there aren't too many more of those!  Once I was able to pick up the main dirt road again, the land opened up, and I was in the middle of the most vast terrain I had seen up until that point of the trip.  Usually there are scattered homes owned by herders, or small villages that aren't on my map, but here there was nothing, and it seemed to go on forever.  I tried to find fuel in the first two towns I came to, but struck out:  One guy who sold gas didn't have any, and the no one in the other town sold gas.  Finally, in the third and last town before the long stretch to Uyuni, I tracked some fuel down and bought 4 liters. (1 gallon)  Now I had more than enough to make it to Uyuni, and it's a much more relaxing ride when you can actually use your throttle and not worry about having to push the bike the last couple miles!  That night I met up with Jurri and Malik in Uyuni and we were both equally shocked to see eachother there.  I thought for sure they would be stranded somewhere without fuel, and they figured I would suffer the same fate.  They ran into the same problem in Potosi when they tried to fill up, but were able to find some from alternative sources as well.  When it was all said and done, it was actually kind of interesting to live through the oil embargo of the 1970's for a day!

Part 2:  A Day Without a Horizon

Riding across the Salar de Uyuni on my motorcycle was something I had dreamed about since the first days of planning this trip.  The Salar is a huge salt flat in Bolivia.  If you click on "SAT" on my map, you'll see the massive white spot in South Americ that is the Salar.  For a good part of the year, the Salar has a perfectly flat, hard-packed salt surface that is blindingly white.  It's a place where you can fall asleep at the wheel and live to tell about it.  Even though 4x4 tracks define the major routes from Uyuni to the few towns along the northern, western, and southern perimeter, there are no other points of reference, so it's a very easy to get lost.  Exactly 9 days before I arrived, the Salar change from a dry salt flat, to a shallow lake, as it does each and every rainy season.  It will remain that way until April or so.  The water basically ruined my chances of crossing the Salar on my bike.  It's certainly not impossible, but the ultra-concentrated salt water would kill my bike, and second, your chances of getting lost increase exponentially since the 4x4 tracks are no longer visible.  As disappointed as I was, it all worked out in the end.  I ran into three other bikers, who I had met a week ago in Cusco, and the four of us hired a 4x4 and guide for the afternoon.  Although the water ruined my Salar motorcycle experience, I can only believe that it only added to the actual Salar experience: I think the pictures speak for themselves!

Part 3:  "Lucky" is an Understatement

The following day, the four of us woke up early and loaded our bikes up with enough extra fuel to get us from Uyuni to Chile.  We road southwest  out of town, on a road that skirted the edge of the mudflats surrounding the Salar.  We weren't really sure what to expect heading into this region.  It's known for it's remoteness, brutally cold temperatures at night, confusing roads, and generally wild terrain.  The day started off easy enough though, with a wide and smooth dirt road taking us 120 miles from Uyuni to Villa Alota.  This is one of the main 4x4 tour routes, and also an important shipping route for the local mines.  In San Cristobal, about 60kms out of Uyuni, we ran into another gas station and were able to top our tanks off with extra insurance: always a nice surprise!  From Villa Alota, South to Villa Mar, the terrain became more vast, and the road became a little looser with sand, but overall, the route was clearly defined and it had plenty of 4x4 traffic heading North from Laguna Colorada.

We had planned to part ways in Villa Mar.  My friends wanted to head directly to Laguna Colorada, and I wanted to explore a little more of the region first.  So as we headed out of town, I veered left at the fork and they went right.  I wanted to get to the town of Quetena, and my map indicated that I had to head southeast to Soniquera, and then continue due south to Quetena.  I arrived in Soniquera about a half hour later and asked around for the route to Quetena.  I was told to head back out of town the way I came, bear left, and continue to Quetena. Simple enough!  That makes sense on my map too!  I took the road out of town, beared left and was on my way.  From then on the road situation changed completely.  I was confronted with countless forks and turnoffs, none of which had a clearly defined, "this is the way," look to them.  None of the roads were on my GPS, but at least the town of Quetena was, offering me a black dot in the middle of a blank GPS screen.  I did what I always do in these situations, and take the road that is heading in the direction of the dot on my screen.  I came to one fork and the road to the right looked unused, while the one to the left looked barely used, but the unused one seemed to head to Quetena more than the other one did.  Quetena is the only town in this direction, so all of these roads heading south should eventually lead there, right?  Not too far down the road, the road dipped into a small valley and it became clear why the road was unused.  On the near side, the road was covered with a rock slide, and on the far side, the road was rutted with 2 foot deep ruts that crisscrossed the road, making it impossible for a car to pass, and nearly impossible for me to pass.  I made it through though, and then dropped down into another valley where I cut directly across about 800 meters of wetlands to a road I saw on the hill on the other side.  This is definitely not the road on my map!  When I crested the hill, the unused road I was on, merged onto a more used one, and it seemed to head South to Quetena.  I figured this was the road on my map. 

I followed that road, passing about a half dozen more turn-offs that seemed less suitable, and eventually found myself 5km due east of Quetena: according to my GPS.  The terrain was hilly and rocky, so visibility to the west was limited.  My map showed that Quetena was on a river, so I knew I had to descend into the river valley.  I continued south hoping that the road would eventually bear right, descend into the river valley, and then come back north to the town, even though this wasn't what was depicted on my map. I found no such turnoff.  The road seemed to continue south indefinitely.  I turned north, and road back a considerable distance to see if there was a road heading into the river valley from the North.  I tried dozens of roads, paths, and even drove through the open terrain, with the hopes of at least catching a glimpse of the town.  I had no such luck.  At this point I wasn't really sure what to do.  It had been 3 hours since I had seen a person, car, or house, so the one time I desperately needed directions and wasn't too stubborn to ask, there wasn't anyone around to ask.  My frustration levels were through the roof.  The town is right over there!  Why can't I find a path, road, or anything going there!  I'd been monitoring the sun, and time was running out.  I started thinking about the -4ºF nightime temps I read about, and how deadly serious the situation was.  How cold is -4ºF?  If I put on every layer that I have, will I be OK?  I certainly don't expect to be comfortable, but can I actually die?  Am I overreacting and I actually have more than enough clothes to survive the night?  Enough of that!  I'm not giving up yet!  I decided to scramble down a couple paths heading west hoping to catch a glimpse of the town.  If I could see the town, I could leave my bike in the hills, and hike there if need be.  It certainly wouldn't get stolen, although at that point I didn't have too many long term concerns beyond making it through the night.  I still couldn't see anything.  I considered retracing my route to Soniquera, but I knew that I couldn't ride the "adventurous" route with the rockslides in the dark, and I'd end up finding myself in the same situation looking for an alternative route to Soniquera in the dark. 

The sun was just about to touch the horizon and I finally accepted the fact that I would not be finding Quetena.  The feeling of actually accepting that truth is inexplicable.  I decided to make the best of what sunlight I had left and look for shelter.  I was in an area with large boulders and small ledges, and I spotted a nook in a ledge that would give me protection on three sides.  I parked my bike along the road, and as I walked up to the nook, I was in complete shock that this was actually happening.  I took a quick look at my new home, and it looked about as good as it was going to get.  There were an abundance of large flat stones, so I started roaming the small hill looking for stones to build a wall and block off the exposed side as best as I could.  As the sun hit the horizon, the wind began to howl and rip across the ground and right through me.  The temps were dropping as each minute passed. Oh how a sleeping bag would be nice right now!  Ironically, I had anticipated the possibility of finding myself in this situation, and I went shopping for sleeping bags in La Paz.  The only bag I found was $250, and at the time I thought that it was too expensive.  Too expensive!  You cheap bastard!  $250 has never seemed so insignificant as when you're confronted with the possibility of dieing from exposure in the next 10 hours.  I carried the first stone up to the entry way and was already winded from exerting myself at 14,000ft.  I looked at the sun and took in the last rays of warmth I would be feeling that day, and I even considered whether I should salvage the last moments of sunlight and make a video for my family: just in case.  I decided against making a video and turned to gather more stones.  Just then, the unimaginable happened. As I stared into the distance, my legs nearly collapsed from under me as I watched a small bus round a hill nearly 300yds from my cave.  The overwhelming sense of relief of knowing that it was all going to be ok, is beyond anything I can put into words.  I was in disbelief.  Unbelievable!  I haven't seen anything or anyone for hours, and here a bus appears out of nowhere and just happens to be on the road I'm on!  I ran down to where my bike was and waited as the bus approached, partially waiting for this apparition to vanish at any second.  The bus stopped and I explained the situation.  The driver pointed south, the direction I had just come from, but then said that he was going there, and that I could follow him.  Moments before I had struggled to accept that I would be spending the night in the desert, and now I found it equally hard to accept that I no longer would be.  Mere seconds ago I was building the front door to what may have become my eternal home, and now I was following a bus that would bring me to a town with a real place to sleep.  This was so surreal and unbelievable!  Still partially expecting the bus to disappear, I took a picture as it passed by to capture evidence of its existence in case it did happen to vanish. 

I followed the bus for 45 minutes to the southernmost point I traveled to, and we continued for another 45 minutes beyond that.  I was completely baffled at that point.  When's the road going to turn north again?  It was completely dark, and I was struggling to keep up with the bus.  The road was really rocky and sandy, and I crashed twice just trying to stay with him.  In addition, I had to leave a considerable gap between us to allow the dust to clear, but since the bus didn't have tail lights, I could barely determine which way he went at forks or turnoffs.  We eventually arrived at a river that was about 20 yds wide.  Woo hoo, my first river crossing in the dark!  The bus struggled across, and then it turned on it's reverse spotlight and lit the way for me.  Even with the help of the spotlight, the sandy bottom bogged my bike down and I had to put my feet down in about 1.5 - 2ft of water.   Woo hoo, wet boots for the next week!  I couldn't help but laugh at how lucky I was to be able to concern myself with the little things again!  A couple minutes later we arrived in the completely dark town of Quetena.  The town didn't have electricity, so I didn't even know we were there until the bus' headlights pulled up to a building and parked.  The bus driver introduced me to a man in the plaza who rented a room in his house.  After thanking the driver for saving my life, I made my way to my room for the evening.  As he opened the door, and I could feel the heat of the day still lingering in the room, the word "lucky" popped into my head.  "Lucky" is an understatement.

The next morning I turned on my GPS and saw that the real Quetena was 18 km south as the crow flies from where my GPS depicted it.  That would explain why none of the roads I found went to what was probably just another barren stretch of land.  Often times the roads on my GPS are way off, but the towns have always been dead on, so the thought that the town's point may have been wrong didn't cross my mind.  Even if I had thought that though, I can honestly say that I still would have never found the town; not with the maps I had.  I can blame my GPS, and I certainly will, but I really misunderestimated how vast and confusing this area of the country is.  With a road map and a roadless GPS map with points that are way off, there's simply no way to reference your location.  If you are planning a trip here, and plan to get off the main 4x4 tour route, I can't emphasize the importance of a topographic map enough.  Or at a minimum, don't be an idiot and bring a really warm sleeping bag.  That alone would have turned a life or death situation into a fun and interesting night in the hills.

Part 4:  My Own Mt. Everest

After rising from a warm night wrapped in wool blankets and with a roof over my head, I set off to ride the highest motorable road in the world.  I read that the road was between Quetena and Laguna Celeste, but locals told me that it was another road that led to the volcano.  Neither roads were on my map, so I took the locals' word for it.  The volcano was an obvious terrain feature, and the guys identified the road by pointing in that direction, but again, less than a KM out of town, I came to 4 different roads, all of which seemed to head towards the volcano.  After what happened the day before, my confidence was running a little low, and I didn't have the fuel to spend the day looking for the right road.  Not far down the first road, I changed my mind and returned to try the second one.  A ways down the second one I thought that it felt promising, but I didn't want to get my hopes up.  Once I saw the road start to snake up the mountain, I could finally relax and enjoy the climb.  The bike chuggged along as the road climbed and climbed.  I went into the ride not knowing how high I would be able to go, but I figured I'd give it my best shot and see where that got me.  At 18, 446ft, I hit a steep and sandy section and my bike wouldn't climb anymore.  I backed down the hill a ways to get more of a running start, but that got me only 2 feet further up the hill.  Well, this is it then. I walked up a bit further to take some pictures, and then I realized that I could take off the panniers and the spare fuel to lighten the bike up. 

With the panniers off, I pushed/walked beside my bike for the steep sandy section.  From there I hopped back on and continued to climband the ride became truly epic.  We earned each and every vertical foot we climbed.  The road became more of a path, covered in loose rock and eventually snow. I know this is the highest motorable road in the world, but there is no way a truck could drive this road.  At 19,039 feet I thought I had reached my highest point, but I couldn't help but want to push it even further.  I hopped back on the bike and fought up to 19,060ft, where the road officially became impassable.  That moment couldn't have been any better!  Up until where I dropped my panniers, the road was pretty easy riding, but the last 124 vertical feet really tested the bike and my wits.  It would have been 1000x easier just to walk the last stretch, and my clutch certainly would have appreciated it, but what fun is that?

Llamas, Flat Tires, and More!

The evening I arrived in Quetena after being lost and found by the bus, the bus driver introduced me to Miguel, a guy who rents out a room in his family's house from time to time.  Miguel found the story of my arrival humorous, and was more than happy to offer the room to me.  He guided me down the sand streets of the pitch-black town to the entryway of his house.  When we arrived, he removed the panels of corrugated sheet metal that guarded the entryway, and I brought my bike into the yard.  This walk was the first moment I could really relax and actually take in my surroundings.  The cold air, crystal clear sky, and smell of the desert, brought me back to all the long winter nights I had sleeping out in the high-desert of 29 Palms, CA.

The following day, I road to the volcano where I made my way up to 19,060ft, and after descending the mountain, I took the same route back to Quetena.  The trip had taken me just over five hours, and I figured it was better to play it safe and spend another evening in Quetena, rather than take chances trying to find somewhere to sleep on my way to Chile.  I road back to Miguel's house and he was happy to hear that I had both found my way to the volcano and had gone as high as I had.  As I settled into my room, his son appeared moments later with hot water for coffee, and a bowl of soup for lunch.  As I enjoyed the soup, Miguel came in and asked if I would like to join him when he went to tend to his herd of llamas later that afternoon.  I thought it sounded like a great experience and told him I'd join him.  He added that there were some old paintings on the rocks near his herd that I may like to see.

Two hours later we hopped into his pick-up truck, grabbed his son from the neighbor's house, and the three of us made the 45 minute drive out to his llamas.  He makes this journey every day, twice a day:  once to let the herd out in the morning, and once to bring them back in at night.  Wolves and coyotes are a serious problem out there, but they won't attack the llamas if they are all contained in one small area.  As we drove to his herd, he explained that years ago, he lost his entire herd of 40 animals in one evening.  Coyotes or wolves had killed all of them but had only eaten a few.  Miguel said that since all of his animals had bled out many hours before he arrived, all the meat was bad and all was lost.  So now, although it comes at a huge expense of time and gas, he makes the journey daily so that history doesn't repeat itself.  Miguel also has a small home near his herd that he stays in several nights a week. 

We dropped his son off with the herd about a half a mile from his farmhouse, and Miguel and I drove over to the house and parked there.  We walked for a ways past large rock cliffs and he showed me the paintings that I assume were done by natives who lived there hundreds of years ago.  While showing me the paintings, Miguel's son had moved the herd to a field closer to the house, and afterwards he came over to see what we were doing.  Miguel left me with his son to explore the strange rock formations littered throughout the area, and he went back to tend the herd. 

After his son brought me on tour of the area, we rejoined Miguel and the two of them set off to bring the llamas in for the night.  I figured the best thing I could do at this point was stand back and not direct the animals in any way, either intentionally or unintentionally.  It was really quite amazing to watch the two of them bring the animals in.  I can only imagine what it would look like if two people with my herding experience tried to move a herd of 70+ animals into a pen. 

When it was all said and done, we made our way back to the house in Quetena, and I will be forever grateful that he shared that with me.  Miguel is extremely proud of his llamas and of all the things he has in life.  When he asked if I could send him photos when I get home, the first photo he wanted me to take was one of him infront of his truck with his son.

The next morning I woke up to the idle of a diesel truck at about 5am.  I knew that Miguel was heading back to the herd to let them out for the day.  I dozed back off, and two hours later when I opened the door from my room to the yard, Miguel and another guy were standing around a llama that was peacefully sitting with a towel wrapped over hits head and eyes.  I instantly had that shocked feeling, as if I had just walked in on something I shouldn't have.  Neither of them had seen or heard me.  I quickly ducked back into my room.  I knew what was going on, and I didn't want to receive the offer usually given to guests throughout a variety of cultures: to cut the animals throat.  While I understand that it would be a "cultural experience" I have no desire to cut a llama's throat or anything's throat for that matter.  So I lingered around a bit until I knew they were fully underway, and then I wandered back out to see what was going on.  Miguel greeted me with the bloody knife still in hand, as if this was a perfectly normal event for him and me both.  Of course, it is a perfectly normal event for him, but it's certainly not what I'm used to waking up to.  He said, "Give me a minute, and I'll get you breakfast." I said "thanks" and went back into my room.  The next couple of minutes were excruciating.  I had visions of a plate being brought to my room with a beating llama heart, or with fresh balls of either variety, all in the name of a delicacy for the honorary guest.  As the door swung open, a huge sense of relief passed over me as my eyes locked on to the plate of bread and thermos of hot water!  Phew!!!

As I loaded up my bike, the family had gathered around the llama and each person went about their duty.  The daughter, who I'm guessing was thirteen, skinned the animal.  The mother made an incision through the membrane covering the entrails, and was dutifully fishing through the intestines, almost as if she was looking for something specific along the length of them.  Miguel and his son were skinning the animal as well.  It was about as far from home that I could be at any given moment.  It's not that I have a problem with any of this occurring, but when I looked at the family going about their work, the scene couldn't have been anymore different than my own life and childhood.  Heck, I used to complain about spending a couple hours hanging Avon books on mailboxes with my mom.  Here Miguel's son, who was maybe 10 or 11, was out herding llamas on his own one afternoon and then butchering them in his backyard the next.  Certainly a different childhood than my own.

It was a long days ride from Quentena to Chile.  The route itself was easy to navigate, but the section of road between Laguna Colorada and the border was not fun.  A good portion of it was deep and rutted-up sand, and there was no escaping it.  I tried riding off of the road itself and in the fresh sand covered with a solid layer of small stones, but that was equally not fun.  I reached the Chilean border that afternoon and it was another straightforward and simple South American border crossing. Note: if you're heading this way, the Bolivian Aduana is not at the border.  If you are heading South past Laguna Colorada on the main 4x4 route, you will undoubtedly see a sign directing you to a mine where the aduana office is.  I don't remember the distances exactly, but the mine is closer to Laguna Colorada than it is the border.  If you are going to the border via any other route, I don't know what your options are. From the border I rode a little further west to San Pedro de Atacama, a rather unexciting and expensive tourist town, but it was a necessary stop for gas.

The picture below is of flamingos in Laguna Colorada.  I couldn't help but chuckle when I arrived there.  Laguna Colorada is a massive lake with a gravel road going all the way around it.  Yet, each and every 4x4 tour that arrives at the lake parks in the same exact spot.  I can hear the driver now, "Get out now and take your pictures here!  This is the spot to take pictures of Laguna Colorada!"  There were four 4x4 parked there when I arrived, and I'm sure the trails of dust heading to and from the horizon had either just been there or would be arriving shortly. 

I took a day off from riding in San Pedro and caught up on the website, and then I headed east to Argentina the following day.  I was on the road by 7:30am and ready for a long days ride.  Well, it ended up being much longer than I expected.  I checked out of Chile in San Pedro, and then road the desert road to the Argentinian border at Jama.  As luck would have it, the border had a power outage and the line of people waiting to cross was huge.  Three hours later I was back on the road, and riding at 120kmph on more deserted desert road.  The bike started gradually swerving from left to right, and then the swerving became more abrupt until it forced me to pull over.  What the hell?  Oh, look at that, I have a flat rear tire.  That was the first flat I've had while actually riding, and I can't imagine what an instantaneous deflation of the front tire would feel like: hopefully I'll never know.  I pulled the wheel off the bike, and breaking the bead was easier than it has ever been since the tire was so hot from riding it on little to no air.  I pulled the inner-tube out and saw that the patch I put on in Uyuni, Bolivia, had come off.  I took out my patch kit, threw another patch on, and had the tire remounted,  all in record time.  I took off again and less than 10 minutes later the patch came off again.  Grrrr.  I repeated the process again, but this time I put in a spare tube that I patched back in Peru.  The patch from Peru was my first patch job ever, and it has since held up through very long highway drones in Argentina.

That same day I came to another salt flat.  This one wasn't nearly as big as the Salar in Bolivia, but it was dry, so I was finally able to ride on a salt-flat.  It was not nearly as much fun as I thought it would be.  After about 2 minutes it gets old fast, although I imagine doing it on a 1000cc sportbike would be a lot of fun!

 

Continuing eastward, the sun was starting to go down and I was still fairly far from where I wanted to end up that evening.  I saw a small but lively looking town on the right side of the road and figured I'd call it a night there.  As I pulled into town, there were backpackers everywhere.  The town's called Purmamarca and I guess it's a really popular spot for Argentinian travelers who are all on their summer vacation right now.  I road around for a couple minutes to get my bearings, and then parked my bike in the plaza and started searching for a place to stay.  Everywhere I went was full.  Everywhere.  The sun was down and I kept searching.  I found two hotels next to eachother that had plenty of vacancy.  They were also over $150 a night.  I ran into a group of backpackers from Buenos Aires who were in the same situation.  They told me how earlier that day, they passed through the town of Yala, south of Purmamarca, and how they had eaten lunch at a place with rooms.  They added that the food was great, so even though it was dark, I decided to give it a shot.  Literally as I pulled out of the town, it started to rain.  My favorite!  Riding in the dark, in the rain, with a tinted visor, crappy headlight, and with knobby off-road tires!  When I hit the main road running south, I came up on a slow moving pick-up truck and decided to follow it.  Its headlights were much better than mine, and I figured the truck would find the rockslides for me.  (there were plenty of signs indicating rockslide areas)  It was after 10pm at this point and the road seemed to go on forever.  I wasn't used to the scale on my map of Argentina, and I underestimated the distance.  After 45 more minutes of riding visor up, visor down, and everything in between, I arrived in Yala.  There was a police station on the border of the town, so I pulled over to get directions with the information I had, which wasn't much. 

The police officers came out of their one room station, and the first looked at me and said, "Your clothes are waterproof right?"  I looked at him and shook my head no.  "So you're wet then?" he said with somewhat of a dumbfounded look.  "Si," I replied.  The truth is, I have rain gear, but I was too lazy to put it on becasue I thought the town was just down the road.  After having established that I was indeed soaked, I took out the piece of paper I scribbled this restaurant/hotel's name and address on.  "Do you know of a Sara Chatal?  She has a restaurant."  The first officer maintained the dumbfounded look he had when he found out that I was soaked.  The second grabbed the piece of paper and said, "Si, I know her.  We are bringing this guy home and we can bring you there."  Wow this is great, the police are going to bring me there!  The day is finally over!

I followed the police pick-up down the main road and then we took a left onto a side street.  The road was completely covered in mud, and it headed into what appeared to be the woods.  Keep in mind, it was pitch black and my visibility was zero.  Where are these guys bringing me?  A couple minutes later and with a few more puddle/pond crossings under my belt, we pulled up to a white house that was completely dark.  I didn't see any signs stating that it was a restaurant, hotel, hostal, hostel, hospedaje, store, or anything other than just a house.  I pulled up along side the truck and they told me that this was the place.  I thanked them, pretty sure that I was worse off than I was 10 minutes ago at the police station.  They drove off, and I got off the bike and walked up to the front door of the unlit house.  I knocked a couple of times and a light clicked on.  The door opened and a middle-aged man answered the door.  "Good evening sir, sorry to bother you, but is this the home of Sara Chatal?"  "No," he says and then stares at me for a second.  Alright then.  "She lives back there," and he points to his left, where the second story of the home over-hangs a cement patio area, or a car-port of sorts.  Everything is pitch black and there is a section of chain link fence pulled across the patio/car-port entrance.

"Sir, do you think you would be able to get her?" I ask.  "Just clap," he quickly responds.  That was the second time that day I was told to clap to get someone.  While searching around Purmamarca, I pulled up to a hostal's iron gate and was ringing the bell.  Two women saw me standing there and said, "Just clap your hands."  I paused for a second, "Seriously, or is that some kind of a joke?" I responded with a smile.  "No, seriously!"  So I stood there and clapped.  It was about as effective as the unanswered door bell.  As I pondered clapping my hands for the second time that day, the man who had answered the door sensed my moment of hesitation, and stepped outside and clapped his hands.  They were like the hands of god.  I was looking into the dark abyss behind the chain link, and seconds after he clapped his hands, the lights kicked on in the car port area and two dogs came running and barking.  Now I could now see that the living area continued beyond the car port, and a door opened and a woman stuck out her head.  I looked to my left and the guy had already gone back inside.  "Hi, Sara!?...Sorry to bother you.  My name is Jeff and I met 5 people in Purmamarca that said that you had rooms here.  They said that they had lunch here today and that you make great empanadas."  She walked out the door and came over to the fence.  The line about the empanadas seemed to be the key words.  As she walked over, I could see that he eyes were still adjusting to the light, "Well I don't rent rooms but I do have good food!  Come here young man and get out of the rain."  She pulled aside the fencing and offered me a seat at a picnic table.  "I only have empanadas, is that ok?"  Actually, I'm really not hungry.  It's 11pm and I really just need a place to sleep and I still haven't found that place.  "Of course, empanadas would be great.  Thank you so much!", I said with a smile.  She went back into her house and I sat there, shaking my head at the picnic table as I watched precious time tick by.  A while later she emerged with a plate of empanadas.  As I dug in, I asked, "Sara, do you know of a place that has rooms in this town?"  "Yes, there's a hospedaje back on the main road and about 1km further south."  She was walking back to her kitchen to bring me a soda, when she stopped and turned around.  "Do you have a tent?"  "No, I don't," I responded.  "Well I have a tent you can use.  You can set it up here.  I will bring you some blankets and a pillow."  I was shocked.  "Thank you so much!  That would be perfect!"  Her daughter came downstairs with a stack of blankets for me, and she helped me set up the tent.  After everything was ready, Sare wished me a good night's sleep, and asked when she should have breakfast ready for me.  While sleeping on cement is never really a good time, it can feel suprisingly comfortable when you're too tired to care.  It had been a long first day in Argentina, but with this show of hospitality, it couldn't have ended on a more positive note.  The next day I road back up to Purmamarca to check out the colorful hills (that I had missed the day before) in broad daylight.

Since then, I've been heading south on Ruta 40, which is Argentina's equivalent of Route 66 in the US.  If anything its more popular than Route 66.  I've never had anyone ask me if I road Route 66, but starting in Mexico, I had other travelers asking me if I was going to ride Ruta 40.  So far, the road has been nothing to get excited about.  I road 500 miles of it yesterday, 500 miles more the day before, and quite a bit of it the day before that.  I picked it up just north of Cafayate, and that's where I saw the first Km marker indicating that there were 4362km (2710 miles) to the end.  I originally thought that Ruta 40 went all the way to Ushuaia, but Ushuaia is actually another 200 miles south.  Either way, that mile marker was the first indication I've had had that this trip will eventually come to an end.  With that realizatoin came a variety of emotions.  The first: Wow, I only have 2710 more miles to go.  The second: Wow, I still have 2710 miles to go!  And the third:  After all the planning, all of the good times on the road, and all of the bad, only 2710 (+200) miles separate me from reaching reaching my "objective" as I worded it in the "The Journey" tab on this site.  I never thought reaching Ushuaia would be as important to me as it is now.  Don't get me wrong, I am completely content with the experiences I've had on this trip.  Yet with that being said, I need to reach Ushuaia!  It's as simple (or confusing) as that.

Patagonia

I've been heading south fairly quickly through both Argentina and Chile's lake districts, and I'm currently making my way through Patagonia.  I've probably said it twenty times now, but photos cannot even begin to capture the beauty of this area, and that truth applies here more than anywhere else I've been.  You need one of two things to even attempt to photograph this area: a helicopter or a fish-bowl lens. If photos can't do it justice, I can assure you that my words can't either.  Everything is so huge and expansive that merely a photo-frame's worth seems inadequate.  Likewise, my vocabulary isn't colorful enough to describe it in words.  It's a place you really need to see for yourself.  Until then, here's a glimpse of what you'll see:  

As I've been making my way south past the unworldly vistas of Chile and Argentina, something hasn't felt right.  Here I'm in one of the most beautiful places in South America, if not the world, and I can't help but feel like something is missing:  The challenge is missing.  Honestly, it's too easy here.  There's gas stations a plenty and so many signs that I haven't once had to ask for directions.  Likewise, I've never had the feeling of, "Am I where I think I am right now?".  The roads have basically been immaculate, and even the dirt and gravel roads are in good shape.  There's no wondering about what I'll find in the next town.  This whole region is overwhelmingly touristy so each and every town has dozens of places to stay and eat. 

In Bariloche, which is known as a little Switzerland, I saw a sign for a "Tea, Bread, and Cheese Tasting Boutique."  I had a double-take.  "Tea, Bread, and Cheese Tasting Boutique?"...wait, what, where am I?  Only days before I was staying in a Bolivian town without electricity, a restaurant, or a store carrying anything but basic supplies.  There certainly wasn't extra money for tasting Tea, Bread, Cheese, or anything else for that matter.  It probably doesn't seem like a big deal but it really blew my mind.  By all means I'm happy that the majority of Argentinians and Chileans seem to be doing well and that they have expendable income.  In fact, these are the only two countries where I've met large numbers of tourists that are actually from the country.  I'm not selfish enough to want to take their well-being away so that I can have an experience a little rougher around the edges, but it takes some getting used to.  It's an adjustment I was bracing for when I arrived back in the States, and I guess I wasn't ready for it yet.  Simply put, I miss Bolivia, Peru, and Ecuador.  I miss not knowing how long it will take to get somewhere or if I can even get to where I want to go.  I miss being "lost".  I miss roads that go over mountains, rather than between, around, or through them.  I miss asking for directions.  I miss worrying about finding gas, or if I can get off the road before nightfall.  I miss the adventure!

I hope I don't sound overly negative about Argentina or Chile.  They are great countries, and if I had to suggest a place for friends and family to visit in South America, Patagonia would be it.  It's truly an amazing place, but the overall experience is just a little different from what I've become used to, and what I was expecting and hoping for.

On a completely different note, I finally broke down and bought a tent and sleeping bag in San Martin de Los Andes, Argentina.  In light of what happened in Bolivia, I'll admit that I was a little late on that purchase, but even the night in Bolivia wasn't enough to convince me to spend the money on the gear.  Spending $60 on a hotel when I arrived in yet another town that had all of it's inexpensive accommodation full, was finally enough to convince me.  I figured that if I got stuck paying $60 a couple more times that the gear would quickly pay for itself.  It's been great having camping gear, mainly because there is inexpensive camping everywhere, and waking up on the shores of a massive lake beats a hostel dorm room any day of the week, regardless of price.

Before reaching Chalten, I road the gravel stretch of Ruta 40 south of Perito Moreno, Argentina.  Throughout the motorcycling community, that section of Ruta 40 has the reputation of being notoriously rough and windy, and many trips have ended there with serious injuries and/or bike failures.  I went into it expecting the worst.  I envisioned a road like the one between Laguna Colorada, Bolivia and the border of Chile: deep rutted up sand that seemed to go on forever.  I added the nasty patagonian winds to that picture and braced for a rough couple of days.

On the first day, the road was surprisingly nice.  It was gravel, and had plenty of ridges running the length of it, but the wash-boarding was kept to a minimum, and there weren't any potholed sections.  The Patagonian winds held their breath for most of the day as well.  In the afternoon, I hit a rain and lightning storm that turned the necessary detour to the town of Gregores into pure mud.  The road was like ice, and the winds had picked up making it impossible to ride straight or have any sort of control over the bike.  With no traction in the mud, the wind was making the bike slide whichever way it wanted.  Even keeping the bike upright while standing still was difficult because my feet were slipping everywhere as well. I filled up with gas in Gregores, and with no end to the storm in site, I decided to call it a day and set my tent up in the Municipal campground in the center of town.  The campground was basically a small grass park in the town where anyone can set up a tent for free, and there's even free hot showers if you're brave enough to use them:  Free does have a price.

Ruta 40 showed its true face on the second day.  The road was still in fairly good shape, although the ruts were a little deeper.  What made the second day challenging and entertaining was the winds.  I can't even venture to guess what the wind speeds were, but when I pulled over to share my tire pump with a guy and his pick-up truck, neither of us could hear each other talking/screaming at each other just two feet away.  Off the bike, I had to deliberately lean hard into the wind, or I would instantaneously loose my balance.  A perfect day for riding a motorcycle!  The winds cut across the road from right to left, and made for a tiring day in which I couldn't let my mind wander for even a half-a-second.  At any moment, and even when riding slow in first or second gear, a gust of wind could hit and blow me clear across the road and over all the ridges of gravel.  You have to allow the wind to push you across to a certain extent, because if you lean equally hard against it, it will blow the wheels right out from under you.  If you try to steer hard to the right as you cross one of the gravel ridges, the front tire will wash out.  You can't slam on your brakes either, or you will definitely end up on your face.  Thankfully my newer and knobbier front tire handled the gravel ridges infinitely better than the MT-90 I had on back in Peru, which would wash-out each and every time I tried to cross a loose rubble ridge either intentionally or unintentionally. 

I arrived in Chalten two days ago and have hit what is hopefully just a minor setback.  I was changing my rear tire yesterday, and when I removed the rear axle, a half-a-dozen ball bearings spilled out.  I'm not an expert, but that's never a good sign.  Upon further inspection, I saw that the bearing inside the cush drive (rear-sprocket hub) was no longer a bearing.  Unbelievable!  When I was buying spare parts for the trip, I can remember looking at that bearing specifically and thinking:  Hmm, should I buy one of those?  Nah, it doesn't have the weight of the bike on it like the four other wheel bearings, so I doubt it will wear out.  I'll just buy the four wheel bearings.  At this point in my life I should realize that when I have a moment of doubt like that, I shouldn't ignore it, but I did, and now I have to find a bearing down here.  Without it, the sprocket hub floats on the axle, and the sprocket tilts inward several degrees.  Again, this is all new to me, but I'm sure riding it like this will wear-out the chain, sprocket, axle, and the hub itself.  I've asked around town and can't find a bearing here, but I did meet a guy who has a friend of a friend going to Calafate tomorrow in a pick-up truck.  He said I should be able to throw my bike on the truck and get to Calafate that way.  There's an auto parts store there so with some luck they will have the bearing I need.  We'll see what happens.  Until next time...

I've Hit Bottom

I returned to the gas station in Chalten early the following morning to meet up with the truck that I heard could bring me, and maybe my bike, to Calafate in search of a bearing.  It turns out that the truck was actually a dilapidated black Volkswagen hatchback that was missing most of the front-end bodywork.  It wasn't going to Calafate either, but to Rio Gallegos, a larger town several hours further south. 

Manuel, the cars owner, introduced himself and told me we'd be leaving around noon.  He returned to his house and I took shelter from the rainy, windy, and cold weather, in a small room where the gas station attendant also took shelter between fill-ups.  The same 10 tracks of Reggaeton from Don Omar and Daddy Yankee blasted from a pair of computer speakers, just as they had when I visited the day before, and probably had for the last year.  Actually, ten tracks is a pretty good variety.  I've been in countless other places throughout the journey, internet cafes, local eateries, etc, where a solitary track has played over and over again, and no one but me seems to take notice.

At noon, and with the beat of Reggaeton now deeply embedded in my brain, Miguel fetched me from the gas station, and he, his wife and three kids, and I, piled into the compact VW hatchback.  Manuel is 26 years old as well, and as the family loaded into the car, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself.  I have received plenty of emails from people that say they admire my courage to do this trip solo, and countless locals have looked at me like I'm crazy, and then exclaimed that I have "cojones", while pretending to hold two imaginary basketballs.  As I looked at another 26 year-old, married, and with three kids, ages four, six, and nine, I think that he is the courageous one, the one with "cojones":  I know I'd be terrified if I were in his shoes!

The youngest boy road up front with the mother, and I shared the backseat with the six year-old boy and the nine year-old girl.  My fellow backseat passengers stared at me awkwardly for the first ten minutes, but finally got over me, and fell asleep in the most contorted positions that only little kids can manage to bend themselves into, let alone sleep in.  After two hours, they were awake again and getting fidgety.  The youngest boy had climbed into the back seat as well, and enjoyed pulling the hair on my arms.  The car was cramped, the heater on full blast, and the fidgety kids were starting to wear on me.  Drastic times call for drastic measures, so I got the attention of all three kids and held both hands out in front of me.  I held one over the other and "magically" pulled the tip of my right thump off.   After a moment of complete silence and bug-eyes as the kids stared at me in disbelief, the backseat of the car erupted in panicked commotion, as the kids simultaneously alerted their parents of what had just happened: I guess the old separating thumb trick never made it's way to South America.  "Otra Vez!" (Again!) exclaimed the children.  I pulled the tip of my thumb off a couple more times and finally let them in on the big secret.  Their attempt to replicate the trick kept them busy for at least 30 minutes, and was more entertaining for the little one than pulling the hair on my arms.

45 minutes later the kids were asleep again, and I only wished I could have relaxed enough to blink, let alone sleep.  Two of the scariest moments of my trip have been when someone else was behind the wheel.  The first was in Bolivia, when the van driver bringing us back to La Paz after mountain biking had really heavy eye lids.  Now, Manuel was trying to set a land-speed record in a car that had no place going that fast.  The suspension was shot, and even minor steering corrections would cause the car to sway back and forth and continue to sway back and forth long after the correction was made.  The road was mostly straight, but as we approached curves, no attempt was made to slow down, and we repeatedly drifted into the outside lane with the tires threatening to break loose at any moment.  I tried to sneak a peak at the speedometer, but it was broken.  I was truly terrified. No one was wearing seat belts, and the youngest boy was laying above the back seat and on top of the luggage stuffed into the hatchback.  The engine continued to scream at red-line, and I held the sides of the driver seat.  As we rounded a downhill turn, even Manuel had a moment of panic, as the tightest line the car could hold, put us within inches of hitting the gravel in the opposing lane's shoulder.  As Manuel struggled to keep us on the road, I was certain the tires would slip or that we would hit the gravel: either scenario would have sent us tumbling through the air in a roll-over that would make the nastiest Nascar crash seem like a fender-bender.  Even Manuel had an "oh shit" look on his face when I glanced at him in the rear-view mirror.  As we crested the turn and fought centripetal force back into our lane, I thought a close call like that would finally get him to slow down.  It didn't. 

About 10 minutes later the front right tire exploded, presumably from overheating, and we slowly made our way to the shoulder.  Thankfully it didn't explode in a turn because the 'tumbling through the air' outcome would apply there as well.  The tire was shredded, and as we changed it I saw that the all the other tires had varying amounts of belt showing.  The fact that we were running on an under-inflated spare and three other tires with exposed belts, all without a spare to fix another flat, did nothing to slow Manuel down.  I casually talked about my observations hoping that he'd put it all together and take it upon himself to slow down:  He didn't.

After five very long hours, and with less enamel on my teeth, we arrived in Rio Gallegos. By that time I had fully committed to taking a bus back to Chalten, regardless of the cost.  It turns out that Manuel grew up in Rio Gallegos and worked at a motorcycle store there for several years.  He brought me to an auto parts store and we bought the bearing I needed.  I brought the cush-drive with me, so with the replacement bearing in hand, we went to his brother-in-law's house and used his workshop to change out the old with the new.  I explained to Manuel that I was going to take the bus back to Chalten, citing that I wanted to get back as soon as possible and he wasn't going to be returning until late the following evening.

He brought me to the bus station and sorted out the tickets for me.  As we parted ways I offered him gas money which he adamantly refused.  Although the ride was terrifying, his willingness to help a complete stranger and want nothing in return, continues to restore my faith in humanity. 

My bus north left at 8:30pm and arrived in Calafate at 1:00am.  The bus connecting to Chalten left at 7:30am, so I decided to spend the night in the bus station.  I had my sleeping bag with me, so I laid it out along the wall and made myself as comfortable as I could.  Just as I started to doze, a police officer came over and shook my shoulder.  "You need to sit up.  You can't lay down."  He didn't say I couldn't sleep there, simply that I had to sit up.  I looked to my right and my left at the completely empty bus station and was a little baffled, but I obliged and turned my body perpendicular to the wall.  My feet now extended out into the hallway and I elevated my head and shoulders slightly on my small day pack.  "Is this OK?" I asked sincerely and surprisingly without a hint of sarcasm.  He nodded his approval and walked away.  I couldn't follow the logic behind his demand.  I was tucked up against the wall and out of everyone's way before, but now I was a tripping hazard.  This has been the case throughout the trip though.  There basically hasn't been any rules for all the important things that can save lives: seat belts, speed limits, stop signs or street lights at four-way intersections.  In the States we have rules and standards for everything.  At gas stations we have to use 'gasoline approved' containers.  Throughout Central and South America, you can put gas in anything, and a gas station attendant would probably fill a paper bag if I asked him to.  Even when there are rules for the 'important' things, they are seldom enforced.  Yet, the stupid, petty, and inconsequential rules are enforced to a T.  Case in point, "You need to sit."  Or in Peru, every gas station attendant, police officer, pedestrian, or oncoming car, would let me know at nausea that my headlight was on. (it's automatic so I can't shut it off)  People would really get in a tizzy about my headlight being on and go to great lengths to tell me about it.  I wish I could remember the even more ridiculous examples that beg the question, "Are you serious?"

I eventually scooted back up against the wall and officially began to lay down.  At 3:30am I received another nudge, "You can lay here until six, but then you need to sit up again."  I was happy with the compromise.  I was up at 6:00, on the bus at 7:30, and back in Chalten at 10:30.  I put the cush-drive back on the bike and headed south, back to to Calafate, only this time I'd spend the night in a tent.

I met another biker, Adam from the UK, at the campground in Calafate.  He's in his 3rd year of an around-the-world trip.  The following morning we got up at 6:00am so that we could arrive at the Perito Moreno Glacier before 8:00am and avoid paying the $20 entrance fee.  I had no expectations for the glacier and thought I'd show up, think "That's a lot of ice!", take a picture, and leave.  Instead, we spent over four hours admiring one of the most impressive sites I have seen on the trip.  The glacier stands 200ft out of the water, and seems to go on forever.  The face of it is over three miles long.  What really impressed me was how active it was.  It advances forward 2 meters everyday, causing huge chunks of ice to crash into the bay with thunderous crashes that thump against your chest, much like a shock-wave from a distant explosion.  Even pieces that looked like snowballs, would hit the water with the sound of a gunshot.  For it to be that loud and from so far away, those 'snowballs' were probably the size of Manuel's Volkswagen.  When a whole 200ft section would fall, huge tidal waves would spread out in a ring and race away from the glacier.  Being there also reminded me of why I've never gambled.  Watching the glacier is really addicting, and it was hard to tear ourselves away, especially when a 200ft tall section looked so close to falling right in front of us.  The concussion from that chunk would probably blow our hats off!  As addicting as standing there was, at least I didn't need to keep putting money into it for the chance to hit it big.  For anyone visiting the area, the Moreno Glacier is a definitely 'must-see' site!

The following day I left Calafate and road South to Rio Gallegos and into Chile.  Since it's light out until 9:30 or 10:00pm, I can start my ride at noon and still get a full day's ride in.  I made my way to the ferry that crosses the Straight of Magellan to Tierra del Fuego.  I knew I'd be arriving there too late to cross, but planned to set up my tent somewhere around there for an early crossing the following day.  About a mile from the turn-off for the ferry, my bike started to sputter and quit.  What the...?  My trip odometer read 155 miles, and I know I can go 225 miles when I'm riding at sea level.  I unscrewed the gas cap and sure enough there was just a little gas splashing around.  I leaned the bike to the left to get all the gas to that side, and turned the petcock to reserve.  At the intersection, there was a large white house that belonged to a natural gas company.  I pulled in to ask where the nearest gas station was and they said it was 30km (18 miles) down the road.  I also asked if I could return there after I fetched gas and set up my tent in the yard for the night.  They said yes and said I could take a shower and use the kitchen there as well.

I doubted I had enough gas to go 18 miles, but I needed to fill up one way or another, and I thought that the gas I had would get me most of the way there: I could always push it the last 3 miles if need be.  I went for it, and 10 miles down the road I found out that I didn't have enough gas.  With 8 miles between me and the town, I started pushing.  How embarrassing!  Nine-plus months on the road and I've never run out of gas.  But now, and in Chile of all places...  There was about an hour and a half of sunlight left, but now that I have a tent and sleeping bag, a night along the roadside is not a big deal at all, so there was no need to get to the next town, other than I needed to get there eventually to buy gas.  A few cars passed, but my extended thumb didn't incite even a quick inquiry into my situation.  1.2 miles down the road, a green pick-up stopped and asked what was wrong.  This is so embarrassing!  We all had a laugh at my misfortune, and he took out a hose to siphon gas from his truck into my bike.  As he was trying not to inhale a lung full of fuel, his wife offered me coffee from a thermos.  He put two or three liters into my bike and wished me a great trip.  I tried to give him money for the fuel, and he looked at me like I was crazy.  I thanked him about a dozen more times for stopping and for offering me the fuel, and we went our separate ways.  I later realized that trying to maintain 120kmh while riding head on into Patagonian winds was what ate up my fuel.  Live and learn.

As I arrived in the deserted town of Estancia Gregorio, the town with the gas station, I saw a green KLR 650 parked in front of a house and with it's rear tire removed.  No one was around, but I recognized that the bike belonged to Moe, a Canadian guy I first met with his friend Mike in Ecuador and again in Peru.  While I was standing there, Mike crested the hill in front of me, and he had Moe's repaired tire strapped to the back.  Moe came out of the house and we were all shocked by the chance reunion.  The house was an eatery of sorts for some of the local natural gas miners, and the miners invited us in for dinner.  We sat down to massive trays of roasted lamb and sausage.  The miners kept our glasses full with Malbec.  They told us there was a room with bunks in the back of the house and invited us to spend the night there, which we happily did.

The following morning Moe and Mike went in the opposite direction, and I made the ferry crossing to Tierra del Fuego.  The first day was really rainy and cold, and I called it a night short of Ushuaia at a lakeside campground.  The next day I made the last southerly ride of the trip to Ushuaia on an equally cold and rainy day.  About 15 miles out of Ushuaia, the sky finally cleared and revealed a perfect day to hit the bottom of South America.

Pulling into Ushuaia was anti-climatic, but at least it's a pleasantly scenic place after the last couple days of complete nothingness.  It wasn't until I was cooking dinner that night, when I glanced over to the map on my bike, that I realized the significance of it.  I actually made it to the bottom of South America on a motorcycle!  It's not only hard to believe that I'm here, but there's a part of me doesn't want to believe it.  Believing it is accepting that the trip is over and that I've accomplished what I wanted to accomplish.  With that being said, I'm very content and happy to be bringing the trip to an end.  In reality, with a 3,200km (1,920 mile) ride North to Buenos Aires, the trip is far from over, but it certainly feels like it's over, and now it's a matter of ending it logistically.  There are a few things to see on the way North on Ruta 3, but my mind has already started to shift to buying a plane ticket home and sorting out what I will do with the bike.  Shipping it home is really expensive, but selling it probably won't be a legal option.  We'll see what happens.

and 287 days later...

(Sorry for taking so long to post)

Although the town wasn't much to get excited about, I ended up spending several days in Ushuaia, typing up my previous post, doing some bike maintenance, and waiting out the rain.  In addition, I spent some time seeking out firsthand information on selling my bike, rather than relying on the conflicting hearsay I received from other bikers.  Ushuaia is a tax free zone, and I had heard rumors that I could sell my bike there, but a trip to port's aduana office snuffed out any hopes I had of offloading the bike in Ushuaia or anywhere in Argentina. 

One of the days in Ushuaia I went to a large, Elf car-parts store and garage to pick up some oil for my bike.  Elf is a brand of car not available in the US.  The shop was clearly part of the franchise, so I was surprised when they said that I could change my oil in their garage.  After buying the oil, I asked the clerk if any of the mechanics could change my wheel bearings: I had replacement bearings, but I had never removed old wheel bearings before.  He went into the large and modern garage bay, similar to that which you'd find at any car dealership in the States, and asked around.  He came back with Mauricio, one of the mechanics, and he told me to bring my bike inside and that he could change the bearings.  I rolled the bike over to his corner of the garage and took off the rear wheel and set it on his workbench.  We stood there and talked bikes for a while and I told him a couple tales from my trip.  I explained that I had never taken wheel bearings out before and he was happy to turn the project into a quick lesson.  Work continued at a snail's pace which is the status quo in Argentina.  It's no bother to me, but I couldn't help but wonder if the owner of the car on the lift behind me was going to be a little disappointed when he showed up to pick up his car that evening.  After the rear-wheel bearings had been changed, I asked if he still had time to work on the front wheel and he quickly replied "Of course!"  I was starting to wonder how much this work was going to cost me; after all, this wasn't his shop, nor was this a mom-and-pop garage.  As he worked on the front wheel, I thanked him for letting me hang around and for showing me how to do the work.  "No problem!  It's great when people want to learn how to do this stuff, and it makes my day more interesting." 

He finished up work on the front wheel and I remounted it to the bike.  We stood around and talked for another 45 minutes or so, and all the other mechanics took turns looking over the bike and asking the usual, "How big is the engine?", "How fast does it go?", "How many Km's to the liter does it get?", and "How much did it cost?" questions, and then I asked Mauricio how much I owed him for his time.  He gave me the "what are you talking about?" look that has become the normal response from people who have helped me throughout this trip.  I was even more shocked this time than I usually am though.  I had assumed that at a franchise-owned garage in a touristy town like Ushuaia, the mechanic would have to bill me labor hours whether he wanted to or not, simply because it wasn't for him to decide how the billing is done.  In addition, while I've found that being a traveler can usually go a long way in small towns, in tourist towns, you usually get treated like all the other tourists, and I was actually expecting the manager to write me a bill with special 'tourist' rates.  Yet the complete opposite happened, and he continued to insist that I owed him nothing.  I've finally learned to accept that for what it is rather than try to force someone to take money. 

As I pulled through the bay doors I realized how much I was going to miss the little experiences like this when I got home.  The fact that he did the work for free was certainly nice, but I realize that not everyone can have work done on their cars or bikes for free, or there wouldn't be any mechanics.  The part I will miss is how personal everything is down here; even at a franchise-owned garage.  I know that at home, I wouldn't be allowed to set foot in a garage for liability reasons alone:  The waiting room is as far as I would get, and you may get a quick glimpse through a glass door at the actual work area.  It's almost guaranteed that you won't talk to the mechanic, let alone receive instruction from them.  Though, if you did, there would be the overwhelming sensation that you are wasting his or her time.  Yet here, not only was I invited into the garage, but Mauricio was excited to share his knowledge with me, and shoot the breeze about life while he was working.  With that being said, it's safe to assume that the car on the lift was going to be spending another day up there:  I guess there are trade-offs to everything.

I left Ushuaia on a cold and rainy day, and I road north toward Rio Gallegos on the same route I had taken south.  I hit a bit of a snag at the first Chilean border crossing when the gas station didn't have any gas.  I needed to top-up there in order to guarantee I'd make it to the next station in San Sebastian.  The gas station attendant said they were completely out of gas: as in not even 10 liters (2.5 gallons).  It was around 5pm, and he said that the gas truck may arrive around 7pm, which in Argentina means there is a good chance the gas truck will arrive within the next two days.  I thought I may have had enough fuel to return to the gas station I passed in Rio Grande, but I had been hammered with severe winds all day, and wasn't sure how much fuel I had left.  As I had learned on my way down to Ushuaia, severe winds can make you think you have a hole in your gas tank, by cutting gas-mileage down from 48 to 32mpg.  I decided to wait for the gas truck. 

While sitting in front of the gas station, an Israeli motorcyclist named Moran arrived and found himself in the same predicament.  We asked the attendant again if he there was anyway he could pull a couple liters out of the pumps.  He said no again.  Even though Moran doesn't speak Spanish, I explained to him in Spanish that if the gas truck didn't arrive we could camp at the gas station and wait for the truck to come.  The attendant overheard us, as I had hoped he would, and he said that he could give us some gas.  Go figure.  I rolled my bike over to the pump and I could tell from the look on his face that he had been given very specific instructions not to sell any gas.  The way he looked over his shoulder at the border office 200yards away, and glanced back and forth for onlookers, made me feel like we were in the middle of a drug deal, rather than buying a couple liters of gasoline.  He ended up filling both of our tanks, charged us the normal price on the meter, and then he insisted that we not tell anyone that we had bought gas there.  I'm still not sure what all the fuss was about.

That evening we set up camp in a small park in San Sebastian.  A group of about a dozen guys working on a pipeline in the area were cooking dinner over one of the park's large grill pits and they invited us to join them.  They were testing the local pipeline for leaks and were waiting for their "gopher" (think of the canister sent through the tube at a bank drive-thru, but on a much larger scale) to complete a 50km section of the pipeline.  Like all Argentinians, these guys know how to grill and there was no chance of us cooking ravioli as we had originally planned: they simply wouldn't allow it.  They had a massive amount of sausage, chicken, lamb, and steak all roasting over the grill, and while I'd been disappointed with the only two mixed-grills I had at Argentinian restaurants, Argentinian home-cooking has always been exceptional. 

Moran and I spent the next several days riding north on Ruta 3, which is without a doubt, the most boring road I have ever been on.  It's so boring that it's challenging.  Hour after hour, and day after day of perfectly straight roads and nothing to see, can easily make you feel like you are losing your mind: at least I felt like I was losing mine.  I wasn't seeing purple elephants or anything like that, but each day it became increasingly difficult to focus on the road and remain as attentive as you need to be.  Judging by the number and nature of the wrecks on the side of the road, I wasn't the only one.  There was a tractor trailer that had gone off the road, and somehow, someway, the cab of the truck  folded under the trailer portion, much like a tractor-trailer-sized Pez dispenser.  About an hour further down the road, we arrived at a wreck where a tractor-trailer had just hit a car head-on.  Judging by the skid marks in the road, the trailer drifted into the car's lane.  The police and ambulances were still at the scene, but judging by the amount of blood on the doors and hood of the car, an ambulance wasn't needed, and another memorial will be added to the countless others that line Argentina's motorways.

I've never seen a wreck like that before, but really nasty car wrecks always creep me out a bit.  The idea of someone's life ending or changing forever because of one moment of carelessness is always a little unsettling, and in this case, it certainly helped me be more attentive while riding the drudgery that is Ruta 3.

We visited Peninsula Valdes which was the one and only highlight of our journey on Ruta 3.  The Peninsula is home to penguins, sea-lions, seals, and several types of whales that migrate through the area.  Killer-Whales are often seen hunting seals just offshore...though not this time of year.

 

Moran continued north from Peninsula Valdes, and I stayed in Puerto Madryn for an additional day and waited on news from a potential buyer interested in my bike.  I didn't hear any news from the buyer, so the next day I continued north again, spending most of the day droning north on Ruta 3 to a beach town near Viedma.  The following day, I continued North to Tres Arroyes, but then veered off of Ruta 3 and headed east on Ruta 228 towards Necochea.  About an hour after sunset, I arrived in an extremely small town and asked the owner of the general store if there was a campground in the area.  He told me that there wasn't, but that his friend and owner of the eatery next door had a big and secure back yard and he was sure I could set my tent there.  I walked over to the restaurant and introduced myself.  Moments later I was setting my tent in the man's backyard and calling it a night.

A couple days later I rode the last leg of my journey into Buenos Aires, and made my way over to Dakar Motos, a bike shop and hostel that is popular with motorcycle travelers.  By that time I had decided to send the bike home, so as the shop arranged the shipping, I had the shock rebuilt and I spent two full days cleaning the bike.  It pained me to wash the bike, and I felt like I was stripping it of it's history:  There were layers of dirt on there dating back to Honduras!  As much as I didn't want to clean it, customs can give you a really hard and costly time bringing a bike into the USA if it's covered in foreign soil.  After the cleaning, aside from the repair welds on my pannier racks, the bike look likes it never left my driveway!

Two days before my flight, Omer, the Israeli I met and road with for 5 weeks in Central America arrived in Buenos Aires as well.  His girlfriend flew into Colombia back in October and they have been riding through South America together ever since.  It was great to meet up with him again, and to meet his girlfriend.  We had a good time laughing about our time in Honduras, which included the flying car hood and the ride into La Mosquitia, which is still one of the best days of my trip.  In a sense it was surreal to sit there and talk about it.  It really wasn't that long ago, yet sometimes it feels like a different lifetime, and at other times like yesterday.

I bought my plane ticket home several weeks ago when I was in Calafate visiting the Moreno Glacier.  My girlfriend Kali was the only one who knew about it, and she did a remarkable job keeping it a secret from my family and friends!  On Friday, February 27th, I boarded my flight home from Buenos Aires.  It was hard to believe that the journey was actually over.  How could it be?  The trip had been a part of my life for so long, long before I began on May 16th, and now it's over?  While it's hard to grasp that it's over and that I'm actually sitting here typing this from Connecticut, I'm happy that it has come to an end, and I know that it was time for it to come to an end.  I can honestly say that I got everything I wanted out of the trip and more.  I wish I could somehow sum-up my journey with some final thoughts, but I think those of you that have been following my journey will understand that it's not something I can sum up in a sentence, paragraph, or a single post.  I only hope that the posts and photos on this site have somehow been able to capture at least a piece of the people, places, and experiences that have undoubtedly changed me forever.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank my parents for always supporting me as I've pursued my dreams, even when my dreams are often the last thing a parent would want their child to do.  A mere 'Thank You' isn't sufficient for my girlfriend.  She has offered her unwavering support since the day we met, and I admire her for being the woman she is: I can't imagine how difficult the last 9+ months may have been for her.  I want to thank all my friends and family who encouraged me in the months leading up to and during the trip.  In addition, thanks to everyone who has emailed me with feedback and/or commented on the site, and to those whose donations have helped keep the website updated.  Knowing that people were actively following the site kept me motivated to post and I had a lot of fun sharing my experiences.

Finally, I want to thank all the people that have helped me along the way and have asked for nothing in return:  Your generosity will never be forgotten.

So what now?  A lot of people want to know when my next trip is and I can honestly say that I have no idea.  Right now, just a couple days after returning home, I can't even begin thinking about another huge trip.  There are plenty of places in the world I want to explore, and I certainly hope there will be another trip, but there's not even the beginnings of a plan at this point.  In the nearer future, I would really like to ride to Alaska with my girlfriend, but a lot of that depends on how quickly I can find a job.  Speaking of a job: Anyone need a motorcycle guide in South America?  Their driveway shoveled? Car washed?

Although there is no plan in the works, if you've enjoyed this travelog and would like to be notified in the event of another trip 2, 5, or 10 years from now, please send me an email and I'll add you to a mailing list.  Don't worry, I don't sell vintage rolex's, purple pills, or smut, so I won't spam you.

Until next time...

Statistics From The Road

Duration: 9 months 11 days  (287 days)

Distance: 28,000+ miles

Countries: 13

Tires: 4 fronts, 6 rears

Oil Changes: 15

Flat Tires: 3 (+2 with rental car in Costa Rica)

Pulled Over by Police: 9

Was Asked For a Bribe: 2

Paid a Bribe: 1

Received a ticket or a fine: 0

Ran Out of Gas: 1

Noteworthy Crashes: 4

Tip-overs and such: Too many to count

Electrical Fires and/or Electrocutions while taking shower: 2

Robbed: 0 (I did have a $5 watch taken off my handlebar in a hotel lobby)

Bouts with stomach problems: 287

Welcome!

I completed my journey on February 26, 2009, but I'm not going to tear down the website just yet!  If this is your first time visiting the site, you can jump directly to the first posts of my journey here: Counting Down the Days

Enjoy the read, and if you have any questions about the trip, feel free to contact me!