I am propped up in my bed in a humble room in the town of Putre, just across the Chilean border at circa 11,500'. Yes, walking is difficult here, especially since we came directly from sea level, arriving here in only 90 minutes.
Today we packed things up and were ready to leave the hostel in Arequipa at 7:15 when we became aware of a slight problem. We'd jumped the bikes up over the curb then dropped down a large step into the hostel when we arrived two days ago. Upon looking at the step leading up to the curb, we realized that it was pretty tall. I asked the hostel clerk if he had a ramp which he clearly did not. I then pried up a man-hole cover to use as a ramp but was saddened to find it chained-down. I then went back to my room, grabbed a wool blanked and rolled it in a tight tube, about 4" in diameter. I then wrapped my blue sleeping pad around the blanked. I then placed this cushy mass in front of the step which made a tiny ramp for us, just enough to launch out of the hostel. I came close to drilling another Peruvian boy who didn't heed Mark's warning when I landed on the sidewalk.
Before riding out of town we walked over to a little market to buy some bottled water. On the way back a creatively-built trash truck pulled up next to us to pick up a pile of garbage on the corner. It smelled, well, like a garbage truck. It was belching black smoke, honking for no reason and had some horrible music playing far too loudly. We were happy to get passed the truck which then pulled up alongside us again, picking up more trash. We hurried our pace though it was in vain. The trash truck followed us the rest of the block, Mark and I laughing as it seemed to be quite representative of our time here in Peru.
While zipping out of town I had a taxi try to cut in front of me which I did not approve of so I kicked his bumper. I looked back and he honked at me and was flapping his arms in anger. Mark then rode next to him and game him a good stomp as well, that's how we do things. We eventually made it to the main road, but there was no road leading to it so we jumped some curbs, cut down some sidewalks and hopped off another curb before we were on our way.
We were in need of gas so we stopped at the first gas station on the way out of town. Almost every gas station south of the States is full service which seems to be quite a bit slower than self-serve. We pulled in and asked the guys to fill us up with 90 octane. He said he didn't know if he had any 90 octane. There was a pause. I then asked him if he could...um...maybe go find out if there is any 90 octane. The attendant chirped at two of other workers who went scurrying around the gas station, looking at pumps and darting in and out of the building. He then told us he didn't think he had any 90. Fine, I said. I'll take 95 octane. Oh, we don't have any of that. Do you have any gas at this gas station? I asked feeling somewhat frustrated but aslo seeing the humor in it. "No, we have no gas".
We were able to hit another station who managed to fill us up and we were on our way.
Breakfast consisted of loma saltado, basically fajita meat. It was edible, served on a bed of rice with a nice cup of hot water and some instant coffee. I asked the lady where the bathroom was and she just pointed towards the side of the restaurant/shack, so I went to exactly where she pointed and relieved myself in the dirt.
We were excited to hit Chile and just as excited to be out of Peru which was not what I expected. I'd never heard anything bad about Peru in the past, however, most people who travel here to to Lima, Cuzco and Machu Picchu. To say that these three places represent the rest of Peru would be quite erroneous. Lima is alright, another big city and I'm sure Cuzco has it's highlights. But as far as I can tell, the rest of the country is a dump. That being said, I'm guessing I'll be living here someday if I continue working in the mining industry as there are tons of mines throughout the country which employ a large number of Americans.
We hit the town of Tacna which is the last main town before the border. I asked somebody where the road to the Chilean border was and was told I had to go to some 'passport office' first which I thought was wrong so I asked another person who confirmed my suspision. He also told me that I was headed the wrong way to get to the border and that I had to turn around to take a road parallel to the road I was on, perhaps 50 feet away. "Can't I just turn at the next corner?" I asked and he mutterd then started smashing his fingers together. I repeated myself and he did more sign language, which I interpreted to mean 'one way road'. I rode off shaking my head and made it to the corner, took a right and was on my way to the border where we had one last ordeal with Peru.
We pulled up to some booth with a lazy eyed kid about my age go told me to go to the other side of his little guard shack. I did, he swivveled around in his chair and talked to me on that side instead. Whatever. He then told me to go inside to do my paperwork (no signs, of course). Upon getting inside we were told by some mumbling multi-chinned man to go outside to get some other piece of paper. We went outside, found the guy with the 'cafe' colored shirt and got our paperwork from him. I asked for a pen. He had one next to him, unused and said 'no'. So Mark and I took turns using his little aerospace pen. We were then allowed back into main office where fatso gave us a stamp. One last stop at a 'casita' where some guy reading the newspaper took my paperwork and passport and handed it to the guy next to him without glancing up. We got our last stamps, and rode off to the Chilean side smiling.
Chile was instantly different in a pleasant way, though their accents are difficult. Things work here as they should. We were given some paperwork to fill out. I asked for a pen, 'of course', the clerk said. 'In Peru they don't have pens' I said to the guy and he laughed.
I ran all my luggage through a metal detector while Mark had a dog sniff his. It only took an hour and we were on our way. The road was a steady climb except for little river-crossing dips which were fun, roller-coster like bumps that made my innards float a bit upon jumping into it as well as out of it.
This road was even more deserted. We passed maybe 3 cars in all 90 minutes of riding up to the town. We stopped for a few pictures, including some of wild llamas (please say with Spanish accent 'yamas').
We pulled in to the little town of Putre which is near the border of both Bolivia and Peru. It was a small, unorganized town for the most part with cobblestone streets with a deep gutter running down the center which we were made sure to keep our tires out of.
We found a little hotel, dropped our things and walked to the nearest restaurant where we had some delicious alpaca pizza. Burrrrrrp! Very good.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
3-10-10 Lima, Peru
We stayed a couple nights in the beach town of Huanchaco which was a pleasant change from the dust bowl we'd been riding through. While there we rented 'caballitos' which are little kayaks made out of reeds that you maneuver with a bamboo shaft cut lenghtwise. We went out a few hundred yards into the ocean and somewhat rode our way back, catching waves at times. I'm pretty sure there are better riders out there.
We hired a local guide to take us on a tour of a wide variety of things throughout the little town as well as the archeological sites nearby. Most memorable, though, was the cui we ate. Don't need to do that again. Cui is guinnea pig, a Peruvia delicacy. No, it does not taste like chicken, cui tastes like guinea pig, which tastes exactly like you'd expect it to. Our guide ate most of the thing happily, incluing the thing's face which he nibbled on tenderly, taking time to spit out the little teeth that fell out of the jawbone.
We got an early start out of Huanchaco, starting the bikes at 6:20, not long after first light. We hit a gas station on the outskirts of town where the gas attendants asked us if we flew the bikes down to Peru to which I replied slowly with wide eyes, "Planes are for little boys" and we all had a good laugh.
We soon came upon signs for the town of Salaverry. Oh the possibilities with this one. I wondered if I could perhaps find a T-shirt that says 'I LOVE SALAVERRY' or how about a coffee mug that says 'MY BOY IS IN SALAVERRY' or a nice sweatshirt with a cui on the front and 'SALAVERRY IS FOR LOVERS' on the back. But alas, I found none of these little gems and we kept going.
We were headed to Lima which was some 8 hours off and were aware that it was a dangerous place. I had received explicit instructions from a Peruvian friend of mine as to where to not go unless I wanted to continue my adventure via bus.
The ride was long, hot and windy through the desert with nothing for forty or fifty miles at a time. Sand blew across the road and was being cleaned off by crews of men with flat shovels and brooms, a never-ending job.
We came across a little cop checkpoint where a cop waved me over and showed me his radar gun. 78kph. I shrugged my shoulders in indifference. He told me that the limit was 60kph. I told him that there was no sign posted. He countered by saying since there was a small farm road intersecting the main highway that it was in fact an intersection which would mean that the speed limit is 60kph and does not need to be posted. Our tickets were for around $200 US each. I would have loved to argue with the guy for a while but it was getting late in the day and we wanted to get into Lima as quick as possible so I went to work on the bribing process as that is all they wanted anyway.
"Yes, you can pay here" he said, accepting the notion of a bribe.
"Good, I'll buy you lunch then"
"No, no, a tank of gas"
"Deal, a tank of gas for Marks bike" (3gallons)
"No, no, no, a tank of gas for my truck"
"OK, a tank of gas for my bike, we'll meet in the middle, then and both win"
He laughed and we shook hands as I handed over about $10 US to cover both Mark and me, far more than we probably should have.
"I hope to see you in a few months when I return!" I said
Signs were few and far between and thus we relied on Mark's GPS at times while hitting the small towns, several times taking shortcuts through the sand to get back on the main Panamerican Highway. We ascended a large mountain which put us in the fog which cleared on the other side, revealing a vast shanty-town. There were a lot of tarps, carboard boxes and industrial bags and plywood used as building materials. There was clearly no running water or electricity.
We were moving quickly along, gradually getting deeper into the shanty suburb when we started seeing shanty stores and shanty shops. Eventually electricity made an appearance as bare above-ground wires were visible. Traffic picked up as well. Lima traffic is legendary and I was excited to get in on the action. They have a different driving style than in Guatemala City, who now takes the silver when it comes to awful drivers, behind Lima. Here in Lima cars will charge out perpendicular into traffic, cutting cars off before lurching forward, honking all the while.
Whenever I thought of Lima before I always pictured a hilly city at night with people not paying attention to stoplights. I wasn't too far off. The only difference was that it was daytime. We had each been cut off numerous times by all sorts of vehicles, my closest call was a bus who I exchanged gestures with. We came to a toll booth area (motorcycles don't have to pay tolls in Peru) but didn't see the ususal sign for 'exempt vehicles' which denotes a free-lane. A grumpy cop wouldn't let us through nor let us duck under a rope to go around the booths where we were supposed to. Apparently there was a sign earlier that instructed us to pull off the road, into the dirt to go around the booths but we never saw it since we were hemmed in by trucks. The cop made us ride back against the five lanes of traffic then cut across to the shoulder where we were supposed to have gone in the first place. I kicked over a baricade in protest and rode off.
I got into a good traffic rhythm like I usually do where I kinda zone out and let autopilot take over. It's a strange mental place to be in but is relaxing and easy. I'll get in this state and not really remember anything about how I get somewhere. Traffic was dense, maybe 20 feet between cars as we were moving 40 miles an hour or so. I was in one of the middle lanes of a five lane road with a bus to my right, his bumper about 15 feet ahead of me. We were cruising along and I had three fingers on the brake lever like I always do in heavy traffic when I saw a flash of color dart out from the front of the bus to my right. It was a guy maybe 16 years old sprinting across traffic. As he darted passed the bus he swiveled his head over towards me. I hit the brakes. The look on his face was priceless. Simply priceless. He stopped then jumped up in the air arching back towards where he came when I drilled him. He came rolling up and over the brand new windshield that I had made back in Colombia, hit my right handlebar which caused the bike to dart left slightly, then he bounced off my right shoulder. His hat came off and stuck to my chest, the wind holding it on. I saw him do at least 1.5 rotations and was pushed close to 15 feet ahead I looked down and was given another priceless look which Mark does a superb job of imitating. He was stumbling to his feet and I saw Mark pointing ahead to which I agreed. I adjusted my mirror slightly and kept on rolling.
In the US, yes, of course you stop. But this isn't the US. Some people might have a hard time with this but it's very clear in my mind. I did all that I could to prevent it and can't do anything to change what has happened. Just an unlucky day, I guess, for him more than me obviously. I would, however, like to talk to the guy which Mark and I have dubbed 'Junior' just to see what the hell he was thinking. Didn't his daddy teach him not to run in traffic?
We rode for a while longer in the city when we stopped at a stoplight where I checked the bike over. Broken windshield, which I yanked off and threw to the side of the road. One of my foglights was facing down a little and I bent it back into position. The fog lights are mounted to a solid bar that protudes out from the bike. If he bent down the fog light it means that he got clipped by the bar pretty good. There exterior of the bike had a layer of dust on it from the desert except for the right part of the fender and tank which had no dust thanks to Junior polishing it with his ribs. The bike and I weigh in at around 900 lbs together and were going about 20mph upon impact, so roughly three times harder than any hit in the NFL. Bet he's feeling it today.
Farther on down the road a gringo stuck his head out the window of a truck and asked me to pull over. It was a guy from Delaware who had married a Peruvian girl. They were with the girl's parents and her father was in the process of starting a company to serve the rock crushing needs of the mining industry. We talked for a while and he was interested in my mining and rock crushing experience as well as Spanish abilities and the fact that I was looking for work. Will probably be getting an email from him sometime. He asked me if we needed any help getting around Lima and I gladly took him up on the offer. As I get older, I accept help from people more often as it's often a win-win situation. He was happy to help me and I was happy to be helped. We drove around for a while before finding a huge Yamaha dealership where Mark needed to get some work done and they said they could change my tires and oil too.
Once settled in our hostel I called up my good friend, Juan Pablo, who I worked with at a mine in Chihuahua, Mexico for a while. He's a native of Arequipa and was working on a project in northern Peru but was on R and R in Lima. He took us out to some local spots including Taberna Queirolo, famous for their pisco concoctions and bar food, all were good.
We hired a local guide to take us on a tour of a wide variety of things throughout the little town as well as the archeological sites nearby. Most memorable, though, was the cui we ate. Don't need to do that again. Cui is guinnea pig, a Peruvia delicacy. No, it does not taste like chicken, cui tastes like guinea pig, which tastes exactly like you'd expect it to. Our guide ate most of the thing happily, incluing the thing's face which he nibbled on tenderly, taking time to spit out the little teeth that fell out of the jawbone.
We got an early start out of Huanchaco, starting the bikes at 6:20, not long after first light. We hit a gas station on the outskirts of town where the gas attendants asked us if we flew the bikes down to Peru to which I replied slowly with wide eyes, "Planes are for little boys" and we all had a good laugh.
We soon came upon signs for the town of Salaverry. Oh the possibilities with this one. I wondered if I could perhaps find a T-shirt that says 'I LOVE SALAVERRY' or how about a coffee mug that says 'MY BOY IS IN SALAVERRY' or a nice sweatshirt with a cui on the front and 'SALAVERRY IS FOR LOVERS' on the back. But alas, I found none of these little gems and we kept going.
We were headed to Lima which was some 8 hours off and were aware that it was a dangerous place. I had received explicit instructions from a Peruvian friend of mine as to where to not go unless I wanted to continue my adventure via bus.
The ride was long, hot and windy through the desert with nothing for forty or fifty miles at a time. Sand blew across the road and was being cleaned off by crews of men with flat shovels and brooms, a never-ending job.
We came across a little cop checkpoint where a cop waved me over and showed me his radar gun. 78kph. I shrugged my shoulders in indifference. He told me that the limit was 60kph. I told him that there was no sign posted. He countered by saying since there was a small farm road intersecting the main highway that it was in fact an intersection which would mean that the speed limit is 60kph and does not need to be posted. Our tickets were for around $200 US each. I would have loved to argue with the guy for a while but it was getting late in the day and we wanted to get into Lima as quick as possible so I went to work on the bribing process as that is all they wanted anyway.
"Yes, you can pay here" he said, accepting the notion of a bribe.
"Good, I'll buy you lunch then"
"No, no, a tank of gas"
"Deal, a tank of gas for Marks bike" (3gallons)
"No, no, no, a tank of gas for my truck"
"OK, a tank of gas for my bike, we'll meet in the middle, then and both win"
He laughed and we shook hands as I handed over about $10 US to cover both Mark and me, far more than we probably should have.
"I hope to see you in a few months when I return!" I said
Signs were few and far between and thus we relied on Mark's GPS at times while hitting the small towns, several times taking shortcuts through the sand to get back on the main Panamerican Highway. We ascended a large mountain which put us in the fog which cleared on the other side, revealing a vast shanty-town. There were a lot of tarps, carboard boxes and industrial bags and plywood used as building materials. There was clearly no running water or electricity.
We were moving quickly along, gradually getting deeper into the shanty suburb when we started seeing shanty stores and shanty shops. Eventually electricity made an appearance as bare above-ground wires were visible. Traffic picked up as well. Lima traffic is legendary and I was excited to get in on the action. They have a different driving style than in Guatemala City, who now takes the silver when it comes to awful drivers, behind Lima. Here in Lima cars will charge out perpendicular into traffic, cutting cars off before lurching forward, honking all the while.
Whenever I thought of Lima before I always pictured a hilly city at night with people not paying attention to stoplights. I wasn't too far off. The only difference was that it was daytime. We had each been cut off numerous times by all sorts of vehicles, my closest call was a bus who I exchanged gestures with. We came to a toll booth area (motorcycles don't have to pay tolls in Peru) but didn't see the ususal sign for 'exempt vehicles' which denotes a free-lane. A grumpy cop wouldn't let us through nor let us duck under a rope to go around the booths where we were supposed to. Apparently there was a sign earlier that instructed us to pull off the road, into the dirt to go around the booths but we never saw it since we were hemmed in by trucks. The cop made us ride back against the five lanes of traffic then cut across to the shoulder where we were supposed to have gone in the first place. I kicked over a baricade in protest and rode off.
I got into a good traffic rhythm like I usually do where I kinda zone out and let autopilot take over. It's a strange mental place to be in but is relaxing and easy. I'll get in this state and not really remember anything about how I get somewhere. Traffic was dense, maybe 20 feet between cars as we were moving 40 miles an hour or so. I was in one of the middle lanes of a five lane road with a bus to my right, his bumper about 15 feet ahead of me. We were cruising along and I had three fingers on the brake lever like I always do in heavy traffic when I saw a flash of color dart out from the front of the bus to my right. It was a guy maybe 16 years old sprinting across traffic. As he darted passed the bus he swiveled his head over towards me. I hit the brakes. The look on his face was priceless. Simply priceless. He stopped then jumped up in the air arching back towards where he came when I drilled him. He came rolling up and over the brand new windshield that I had made back in Colombia, hit my right handlebar which caused the bike to dart left slightly, then he bounced off my right shoulder. His hat came off and stuck to my chest, the wind holding it on. I saw him do at least 1.5 rotations and was pushed close to 15 feet ahead I looked down and was given another priceless look which Mark does a superb job of imitating. He was stumbling to his feet and I saw Mark pointing ahead to which I agreed. I adjusted my mirror slightly and kept on rolling.
In the US, yes, of course you stop. But this isn't the US. Some people might have a hard time with this but it's very clear in my mind. I did all that I could to prevent it and can't do anything to change what has happened. Just an unlucky day, I guess, for him more than me obviously. I would, however, like to talk to the guy which Mark and I have dubbed 'Junior' just to see what the hell he was thinking. Didn't his daddy teach him not to run in traffic?
We rode for a while longer in the city when we stopped at a stoplight where I checked the bike over. Broken windshield, which I yanked off and threw to the side of the road. One of my foglights was facing down a little and I bent it back into position. The fog lights are mounted to a solid bar that protudes out from the bike. If he bent down the fog light it means that he got clipped by the bar pretty good. There exterior of the bike had a layer of dust on it from the desert except for the right part of the fender and tank which had no dust thanks to Junior polishing it with his ribs. The bike and I weigh in at around 900 lbs together and were going about 20mph upon impact, so roughly three times harder than any hit in the NFL. Bet he's feeling it today.
Farther on down the road a gringo stuck his head out the window of a truck and asked me to pull over. It was a guy from Delaware who had married a Peruvian girl. They were with the girl's parents and her father was in the process of starting a company to serve the rock crushing needs of the mining industry. We talked for a while and he was interested in my mining and rock crushing experience as well as Spanish abilities and the fact that I was looking for work. Will probably be getting an email from him sometime. He asked me if we needed any help getting around Lima and I gladly took him up on the offer. As I get older, I accept help from people more often as it's often a win-win situation. He was happy to help me and I was happy to be helped. We drove around for a while before finding a huge Yamaha dealership where Mark needed to get some work done and they said they could change my tires and oil too.
Once settled in our hostel I called up my good friend, Juan Pablo, who I worked with at a mine in Chihuahua, Mexico for a while. He's a native of Arequipa and was working on a project in northern Peru but was on R and R in Lima. He took us out to some local spots including Taberna Queirolo, famous for their pisco concoctions and bar food, all were good.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
3-7-10 Piura, Peru
Near the southern border of Ecuador I saw a bent yellow pipe about 7' in the air, stretching across the road. I shot underneath it and looked back towards Mark when I saw a few military personnel hop out of a little shack and wave me over. Aparently it was meant to be a road block but wasn't terribly effective. The soldiers were very friendly and inquisitive and also seemed somewhat worried about our travels to Peru which they said was very dangerous.
I assumed Peru would look like this: Lots of little Peruvians in native garb chewing coca leaves while swatting at alpacas with sticks, all in the high mountains. Some blow on wooden pipe things while others are knitting and everyone is smiling. I came to find out this wasn't the case exactly.
The border crossing into Peru was easy, just had to do some quick paperwork on the Ecuadorian side then ride over a bridge marking the international boundary. Inside the little customs office there were several men, two of which processed our paperwork. One man would read aloud our personal information while the other did a hunting and pecking procedure on the keyboard. We didn't know it at the time, but this would be very representative of the rest of our time here in Peru.
We left the checkpoint and started riding and instantly came aware of the fact that Peruvians love to put things in the road. There were signs requesting that people please not put rocks in the road as well as signs requesting that tires not be burned on the road. In addition, there were hundreds of goats, cows, donkeys, dogs, pigs and people running wildly on the asphault. The roads here are nice, though. They use cutting and filling to smooth the terrain unlike in Ecuador where the natural topography is rarely conquered.
We pulled over at the first sign of life that we saw, a little service station with a restaurant attached. We throught we'd try the beef as the cows on the road looked to be pretty healthy. Minutes later the cook brought our food, presenting it to us in a with a little bow which was probably meant to make us think we weren't eating rubbery hack-meat as that's exactly what it was. There were tons of bone fragments still hanging on to the piece via inedible strands which couldn't be cut with the knives provided. My pocket knife helped carve off a few edible pieces, the rest we threw to a pack of dogs who'd assembled nearby. Perhaps they know that when gringos stop by they will get a good meal.
The road soon flattened out and cut directly into a desert with tiny shacks placed sporadically next to the road and were built out of what woven mats, used like plywood and placed over a stick frame. The holes in the mats were huge, enough to let a bird in. Trash was everywhere. We didn't really have plans as to where to stop so we pulled off the highway into one of the first larger towns we came through. We rode about a quarter mile down their main street, turned around and rode off. Mark and I were both dry heaving in our helmets as the town couldn't have smelled much worse. The people gave us blank, unwelcoming stares. Just as we were about to get back on the main highway we had to ride through some sewage that was flowing across the street. Mark and I looked at each other and shook our heads.
The next town still smelled bad but we'd gotten used to it a little bit. Pieces of trash were more common than dry leaves on the ground. We asked several people where hotels were and usually got a shrug or a mutter and a hand wave off in the distance. We finally did find one, though, for about $3 US each. I could touch the walls with my head and toes at the same time. There was a small gap between our beds, just enough to walk through. A huge window opened up to a the street below that was never quiet.
Peruvians honk constantly. They honk when crossing an intersection, when behind cars, when passing cars, when getting passed, when oncomming cars are passed, when bikes are on the road, when people are on the sidewalk, etc. There is so much honking that the honk has lost quite a bit of respect, obviously. To combat this, the Peruvians have now incorporated car alarms into their horns. So instead of a honk, they make a loud electronic wailing sound. A few cars even had police sirens mounted. I can see exactly what's going to happen in the next 10 years...
While in town Mark and I frequently held down our horn for minutes at a time, even when stopped, which felt good. The horns aren't really a problem, though, it's the lack of respect from the drivers that is apalling. There are few stoplights or stopsigns so it's a total free-for-all. Cars will pull out in front of other cars, causing them to skid their tires all the time.
We unloaded everything and parked the bikes in a secure parking lot, put our covers on them and locked them together before stopping at a little restaurant for a some Peruvian pizza which was good. We then went found a moto-taxi (three wheeled tuk-tuk), whose driver,'Johnny', we asked to take us to a place where they had pisco sours, the famed drink of Peru. He brought us to a little place and I invited him to join us. They had no pisco but did have Cusqena, the national beer. We learned the Peruvian drinking technique of sharing one glass amongst a table, pouring a small amount for yourself, guzzling it, then shaking the foam out on the floor before passing the cup on to the nex person.
We had Johnny take us on a tour of the little city and he enjoyed sharing little bits of information with us. He needed some fuel, as he'd been driving us around for a while, so we offered to buy him some fuel. Johnny really liked this and asked me if I would like to drive his taxi. "Si, claro!" I said as I hopped on the 125cc beast. I kicked motor over and it fired up, burning my foot on the already hot engine. Steering wasn't exactly crisp, nor was braking but it was still fun to zip around the side streets. I drove for a while before Mark took over, who got us back to our hotel safely.
I assumed Peru would look like this: Lots of little Peruvians in native garb chewing coca leaves while swatting at alpacas with sticks, all in the high mountains. Some blow on wooden pipe things while others are knitting and everyone is smiling. I came to find out this wasn't the case exactly.
The border crossing into Peru was easy, just had to do some quick paperwork on the Ecuadorian side then ride over a bridge marking the international boundary. Inside the little customs office there were several men, two of which processed our paperwork. One man would read aloud our personal information while the other did a hunting and pecking procedure on the keyboard. We didn't know it at the time, but this would be very representative of the rest of our time here in Peru.
We left the checkpoint and started riding and instantly came aware of the fact that Peruvians love to put things in the road. There were signs requesting that people please not put rocks in the road as well as signs requesting that tires not be burned on the road. In addition, there were hundreds of goats, cows, donkeys, dogs, pigs and people running wildly on the asphault. The roads here are nice, though. They use cutting and filling to smooth the terrain unlike in Ecuador where the natural topography is rarely conquered.
We pulled over at the first sign of life that we saw, a little service station with a restaurant attached. We throught we'd try the beef as the cows on the road looked to be pretty healthy. Minutes later the cook brought our food, presenting it to us in a with a little bow which was probably meant to make us think we weren't eating rubbery hack-meat as that's exactly what it was. There were tons of bone fragments still hanging on to the piece via inedible strands which couldn't be cut with the knives provided. My pocket knife helped carve off a few edible pieces, the rest we threw to a pack of dogs who'd assembled nearby. Perhaps they know that when gringos stop by they will get a good meal.
The road soon flattened out and cut directly into a desert with tiny shacks placed sporadically next to the road and were built out of what woven mats, used like plywood and placed over a stick frame. The holes in the mats were huge, enough to let a bird in. Trash was everywhere. We didn't really have plans as to where to stop so we pulled off the highway into one of the first larger towns we came through. We rode about a quarter mile down their main street, turned around and rode off. Mark and I were both dry heaving in our helmets as the town couldn't have smelled much worse. The people gave us blank, unwelcoming stares. Just as we were about to get back on the main highway we had to ride through some sewage that was flowing across the street. Mark and I looked at each other and shook our heads.
The next town still smelled bad but we'd gotten used to it a little bit. Pieces of trash were more common than dry leaves on the ground. We asked several people where hotels were and usually got a shrug or a mutter and a hand wave off in the distance. We finally did find one, though, for about $3 US each. I could touch the walls with my head and toes at the same time. There was a small gap between our beds, just enough to walk through. A huge window opened up to a the street below that was never quiet.
Peruvians honk constantly. They honk when crossing an intersection, when behind cars, when passing cars, when getting passed, when oncomming cars are passed, when bikes are on the road, when people are on the sidewalk, etc. There is so much honking that the honk has lost quite a bit of respect, obviously. To combat this, the Peruvians have now incorporated car alarms into their horns. So instead of a honk, they make a loud electronic wailing sound. A few cars even had police sirens mounted. I can see exactly what's going to happen in the next 10 years...
While in town Mark and I frequently held down our horn for minutes at a time, even when stopped, which felt good. The horns aren't really a problem, though, it's the lack of respect from the drivers that is apalling. There are few stoplights or stopsigns so it's a total free-for-all. Cars will pull out in front of other cars, causing them to skid their tires all the time.
We unloaded everything and parked the bikes in a secure parking lot, put our covers on them and locked them together before stopping at a little restaurant for a some Peruvian pizza which was good. We then went found a moto-taxi (three wheeled tuk-tuk), whose driver,'Johnny', we asked to take us to a place where they had pisco sours, the famed drink of Peru. He brought us to a little place and I invited him to join us. They had no pisco but did have Cusqena, the national beer. We learned the Peruvian drinking technique of sharing one glass amongst a table, pouring a small amount for yourself, guzzling it, then shaking the foam out on the floor before passing the cup on to the nex person.
We had Johnny take us on a tour of the little city and he enjoyed sharing little bits of information with us. He needed some fuel, as he'd been driving us around for a while, so we offered to buy him some fuel. Johnny really liked this and asked me if I would like to drive his taxi. "Si, claro!" I said as I hopped on the 125cc beast. I kicked motor over and it fired up, burning my foot on the already hot engine. Steering wasn't exactly crisp, nor was braking but it was still fun to zip around the side streets. I drove for a while before Mark took over, who got us back to our hotel safely.
3-6-10 Vilcabamba, Ecuador
We got a good start this morning, rolling out at 7am and rode for an hour to the town of Riobamba where we started looking for some breakfast. We both decided quickly when we saw a roasted pig, mouth wide open, hacked into a pile on a table on the side of the road. The pig was good. I always enjoy ordering pork in Spanish as the word for 'pig' and 'pork' are the same. More pig please!
Things cooled off as we gained altitude which topped out somewhere between 10k and 11k feet with stunning views of agricultural valleys below. At one stop a guy rode up next to me and chatted for a bit before recommending we ride to Vilcabamba which was almost on our intended path. He gave us the number of a friend of his who lived nearby and told us to call him upon getting to town as he would recommend a good place to stay.
We kept on riding, passing through the clouds which slowed us down to a crawl but were still fun to ride in. Around one corner we saw a truck pulled over and a group of people standing in a circle staring at the ground. As we got closer we saw a mangled horse with it's head twisted backwards on the shoulder of the road with rocks all around him. We think the horse fell off the cliff, bounced off the rocky face before landing on the road. He's probably in the stew by now.
We came into Vilcabamba around 6pm where I called my new friend's friend who recommended we go to some hindu-sounding place which is where I am now. We had a great dinner and a 75 minute massage for 18 bucks. Not bad. Off to Peru in the morning.
Things cooled off as we gained altitude which topped out somewhere between 10k and 11k feet with stunning views of agricultural valleys below. At one stop a guy rode up next to me and chatted for a bit before recommending we ride to Vilcabamba which was almost on our intended path. He gave us the number of a friend of his who lived nearby and told us to call him upon getting to town as he would recommend a good place to stay.
We kept on riding, passing through the clouds which slowed us down to a crawl but were still fun to ride in. Around one corner we saw a truck pulled over and a group of people standing in a circle staring at the ground. As we got closer we saw a mangled horse with it's head twisted backwards on the shoulder of the road with rocks all around him. We think the horse fell off the cliff, bounced off the rocky face before landing on the road. He's probably in the stew by now.
We came into Vilcabamba around 6pm where I called my new friend's friend who recommended we go to some hindu-sounding place which is where I am now. We had a great dinner and a 75 minute massage for 18 bucks. Not bad. Off to Peru in the morning.
Friday, March 19, 2010
3-4-10 Quito, Ecuador
Left at 6:30 this morning and rode to some little restaurant where the guy brought us our food (eggs, rice, plantains and beef) then brought us our silver ware and lastly our coffee and chocolate (just hot chocolate but kinda bitter). So that was different. This particular little town had far more black and indigenous people who were short and stocky with a wide face and flat nose.
Getting out of Colombia was easy, just a 5 minute wait in line, then had to tell the stamp wranlger what my profession was. That's all. Not much different getting into Ecuador, though the guy had a hard time comprehending that we'd ridden our bikes from the States. He asked me where I started and I told him "Los Estados, Colorado" to which he replied, "Si, pero donde empezo?" and I repeated myself, the he repeated himself again, then I told him that I rode through Mexico, Belize, Guatemala...... and he got the idea then gave us a blank stare.
Ecuador is beautiful. Huge rolling hills and mountains, wide valleys and lots of farmland. The fields are all irregularly shaped, and have different crops of many colors and textures, almost resembling a huge patch-work quilt.
Being that there were lots of green fields around and some healthy looking bovines as well we decided to try some beef. What came out of the pot on the stove on the side of the road was the following- 2 medium taters, 3 cubes of beast and a handful of toasted hominy. Then we had a little dish of hot sauce that looked like Thousand Island dressing but had pureed strawberries in it I think and was spicy, very good. Oh, and no silverware was provided with this feast, just 2 room temperature Cokes. Being that we don't know what this specific meal was called, we decided to name it 'beef bricks' as the beef looked like, well, bricks. But it was actually really good.
The only complaint thus far is the toll booths. They charge us 20 cents and are located every twenty minutes perhaps. The price isn't an issue, it's the fact that we have to stop, take off our gloves, fumble around in our tank bag for a quarter, then wait for the lady to print me a receipt which she gives me along with a nickel. Yes, they use US currency here. At one booth I tried using a dollar bill but the lady couldn't break it.
Quito is a huge city. We came over the crest of a hill just after dusk and saw a sea of lights in the valley beneath us, creeping up the side of a far mountain. We didn't have a hostel picked out so set off to find the city center and work outwards from there. While in the city, we noticed that we were in a lane without any other cars ahead of us or behind even. Upon further investigation we realized that we were in a trolley lane with a high-voltage line above or heads. We pulled up behind a trolley and had to wait for it to load before slowly making our way down the lane until we could find a spot to jump out into regular traffic.
We ended up liking Quito a lot. It's very cheap here. We had Chipotle-style burritos and a mini Coke for under $2. The people are also very friendly and speak a clearer Spanish than the Colombians and also understand my accent better. This was most evident when yelling in traffic at taxi drivers for directions. They never replied with a 'Que!?' but always with a concise answer.
Getting out of Colombia was easy, just a 5 minute wait in line, then had to tell the stamp wranlger what my profession was. That's all. Not much different getting into Ecuador, though the guy had a hard time comprehending that we'd ridden our bikes from the States. He asked me where I started and I told him "Los Estados, Colorado" to which he replied, "Si, pero donde empezo?" and I repeated myself, the he repeated himself again, then I told him that I rode through Mexico, Belize, Guatemala...... and he got the idea then gave us a blank stare.
Ecuador is beautiful. Huge rolling hills and mountains, wide valleys and lots of farmland. The fields are all irregularly shaped, and have different crops of many colors and textures, almost resembling a huge patch-work quilt.
Being that there were lots of green fields around and some healthy looking bovines as well we decided to try some beef. What came out of the pot on the stove on the side of the road was the following- 2 medium taters, 3 cubes of beast and a handful of toasted hominy. Then we had a little dish of hot sauce that looked like Thousand Island dressing but had pureed strawberries in it I think and was spicy, very good. Oh, and no silverware was provided with this feast, just 2 room temperature Cokes. Being that we don't know what this specific meal was called, we decided to name it 'beef bricks' as the beef looked like, well, bricks. But it was actually really good.
The only complaint thus far is the toll booths. They charge us 20 cents and are located every twenty minutes perhaps. The price isn't an issue, it's the fact that we have to stop, take off our gloves, fumble around in our tank bag for a quarter, then wait for the lady to print me a receipt which she gives me along with a nickel. Yes, they use US currency here. At one booth I tried using a dollar bill but the lady couldn't break it.
Quito is a huge city. We came over the crest of a hill just after dusk and saw a sea of lights in the valley beneath us, creeping up the side of a far mountain. We didn't have a hostel picked out so set off to find the city center and work outwards from there. While in the city, we noticed that we were in a lane without any other cars ahead of us or behind even. Upon further investigation we realized that we were in a trolley lane with a high-voltage line above or heads. We pulled up behind a trolley and had to wait for it to load before slowly making our way down the lane until we could find a spot to jump out into regular traffic.
We ended up liking Quito a lot. It's very cheap here. We had Chipotle-style burritos and a mini Coke for under $2. The people are also very friendly and speak a clearer Spanish than the Colombians and also understand my accent better. This was most evident when yelling in traffic at taxi drivers for directions. They never replied with a 'Que!?' but always with a concise answer.
3-3-10 Popayan, Colombia
We left Cali in the afternoon, much later than we would have liked to but still happy to be riding. The ride out was't terribly scenic but really fun, lots of traffic which is always exciting. Plenty of darting between trucks on the road then splitting between all the vehicles while stopped at lights, being careful not to bump the panniers against their mirrors.
Once out of town we hit walking-pace traffic. We blew past it on the shoulder didn't know it was a funeral procession until it was too late. We then rode through a lot of sugar cane fields and passed trucks that were hauling five swerving trailers behind them, full of sugar cane. We started passing cars on shoulder as it just seemed to make good sense for us. We hit the mountains and things cooled off quickly then got a downpour upon hitting the outskirts of Popayan. We stopped outside some church then ran inside out of the rain as we didn't know where our hostel was or where we were, for that matter. One might say that we were lost, but I wouldn't. Once the rain subsided it didn't talke long to find Hosteltrail, a nice big hostel owned by a British guy.
Once out of town we hit walking-pace traffic. We blew past it on the shoulder didn't know it was a funeral procession until it was too late. We then rode through a lot of sugar cane fields and passed trucks that were hauling five swerving trailers behind them, full of sugar cane. We started passing cars on shoulder as it just seemed to make good sense for us. We hit the mountains and things cooled off quickly then got a downpour upon hitting the outskirts of Popayan. We stopped outside some church then ran inside out of the rain as we didn't know where our hostel was or where we were, for that matter. One might say that we were lost, but I wouldn't. Once the rain subsided it didn't talke long to find Hosteltrail, a nice big hostel owned by a British guy.
3-2-10 Cali, Colombia
Had a long ride today through lots of coffee fincas and winding roads that were some of the best I've seen. The prevalence of amazing motorcycle roads is astonishing down here. Colorado has quite a few but are often plagued with sand and cracks from the freeze/thaw cycle of winter. Being that it doesn't snow down here, the roads stain in good shape much longer.
We hit town and were pleased to find the usual case of one way streets with no street signs. After a few laps and figure-eights we made it to Casa Blanca and were warmly welcomed by their owner with a round of beers as we were dismounting. The owner is Danish, his wife is Colombian. He had been doing a similar trip as mine when he met his little Colombiana and got married. They now have a little baby running around the place.
The main order of business in Cali was to get a new windshield fabricated for my bike. We found the shop, explained everything I wanted in the new windshield and paid $50 of the $100 it would cost. They assured me it would be done in the morning.
Dinner that night was unique. Perhaps dinner isn't the right word. Meat mound with poking sticks would be more appropriate. Mark and I split a 'picadilla'. I didn't know exactly what it was, just knew it contained the various critters. Turns out we had a mound full of chicken, beef and chorizo. It was all very good. On the way back we were propositioned by 'lady of the night' with a 'Hola chico' followed by the classic lower lip bite/sultry look. Don't you wish you a guy for this very reason? A simple 'no gracias' and we kept walking.
The next day we went to the shop and realized that they hadn't started on my windshield and that it would take another day at least. I decided not to even bother with it as tomorrow they'd say 'tomorrow' as well. I got my money and bike back before buying a piece of plexiglass which I took over to a small shop where a friendly mechanic and I fabricated a nice little shield for $7.
We hit town and were pleased to find the usual case of one way streets with no street signs. After a few laps and figure-eights we made it to Casa Blanca and were warmly welcomed by their owner with a round of beers as we were dismounting. The owner is Danish, his wife is Colombian. He had been doing a similar trip as mine when he met his little Colombiana and got married. They now have a little baby running around the place.
The main order of business in Cali was to get a new windshield fabricated for my bike. We found the shop, explained everything I wanted in the new windshield and paid $50 of the $100 it would cost. They assured me it would be done in the morning.
Dinner that night was unique. Perhaps dinner isn't the right word. Meat mound with poking sticks would be more appropriate. Mark and I split a 'picadilla'. I didn't know exactly what it was, just knew it contained the various critters. Turns out we had a mound full of chicken, beef and chorizo. It was all very good. On the way back we were propositioned by 'lady of the night' with a 'Hola chico' followed by the classic lower lip bite/sultry look. Don't you wish you a guy for this very reason? A simple 'no gracias' and we kept walking.
The next day we went to the shop and realized that they hadn't started on my windshield and that it would take another day at least. I decided not to even bother with it as tomorrow they'd say 'tomorrow' as well. I got my money and bike back before buying a piece of plexiglass which I took over to a small shop where a friendly mechanic and I fabricated a nice little shield for $7.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
2-20-10 Medellin, Colombia.
We got an early start, saying goodbye to James and Torben who were headed northbound to Cartagena for a while. Tom, Mark and I, skipped breakfast till an hour or so down the road where we quickly got to know the Colombian people. They're unbelievably friendly and very engaging, always looking to start a conversation. Numerous people in the little cafe offered suggestions on what to try as it was all new cuisine for us. The coffee was excellent as was the mini pig-in-a-blanket as well as some sweet pastries.
Further down the road we encountered our first military checkpoint. These have never gone well for us but we'd heard good things about the Colombian military. These guys were very professional, addressing us as 'gentlemen' and speaking properly. We got to talking and they were just as interested in us as we were in them. In the end we took several pictures with them and their guns before they took out a camera to take a few pictures with us and our bikes. It was a strangely symbiotic experience leaving everyone content.
The road darted through thick vegetation, switching between dirt and asphalt at inopportune times. Potholes were stuffed with cobbles to lessen the blow which was a nice touch. We slowly climbed out of the jungle onto an arid ridge with cliffs on either side of us providing quite the view despite hazy conditions.
Dropping into Medellin was impressive, it's a large city in a bowl, surrounded by mountains. We found a moto cop and asked him for rough directions to our hostel as we had no idea. He led us through traffic, running red lights and splitting between cars before pointing to a main road that would get us close.
The hostel was a good one. Casa Kiwi, owned by a fellow motorcyclist from New Zealand is located in the Zona Rosa district, a lively suburb teeming with nightlife. There were excellent coffee shops scattered throughout as well as our beloved Proximo which had everything we could want all packed into a store smaller than a 7-11.
Our first order of duty was to get our customs work processed as we couldn't do so when landing in Turbo as it was on the weekend. We took a series of taxis to three different offices. The first wouldn't let Tom or Mark in as they were wearing shorts. The security guard said that we could change outside, taking turns wearing my pants. Inside, however, I was told we were at the wrong office. We went to two more before being told that we needed no paperwork for our bikes to be in the country which we knew wasn't right despite the friendly and reassuring Colombians telling us so.
We made a few phone calls and sent out some emails to the States and were put in contact with the right people. The DIAN office. Oh how I hate the DIAN office. We went there three consecutive days trying to figure out what needed to happen. The root of the problem was that the customs agents didn't really know the procedure for processing us as it's rarely done in Medellin. They wanted us to ride back to Turbo as that's where we offloaded the bikes. Then they wanted us to ride back to Capurgana as that is where we had our passports stamped. They weren't aware that Capurgana couldn't be reached by road, but by water only.
We'd frequently get pulled into a small office with three people from customs where we'd be put on speaker-phone with other offices where we'd tell our story then leave as they discussed the possibilities. We'd go back outside and sit on the ground where we learned how to make origami polo shirts out of a dollar bill. Finally, after about 25 hours of waiting we were instructed to ride our bikes down to the office where a lady wrote down the VIN numbers and gave us our entry papers giving us a reason to celebrate.
Our next objective was to get some work done on the bikes. We were referred to Mr. Bike, an excellent shop that went above and beyond what we expected of them. My bike was detailed to a level I've never seen before, simply spotless. I had the fuel filter changed, cleaned the injectors and fixed some electrical issues. The owner of the store gave me some spare parts for my bike as he used to own the same model. He also gave me a beaded seat cover which looks like it belongs in a NYC taxi but I don't care, it's shockingly comfortable. I also recovered my seat and changed my tank decals to a black/grey theme. New continent, new colors. I also washed my riding gear and helmet pads as they'd taken on an evil aroma circa Nicaragua. Unfortunately I was charged by the kilo which turned out to be an expensive affair.
Despite the problems with customs, Colombia quickly became my new favorite country, ousting Japan. Medellin, specifically, is brilliant; on the same par as London, Tokyo, San Francisco and Sydney in my books. The people are phenomenal, very helpful and friendly. It's a safe place too. I felt safer here than any other country on my trip thus far and look forward to returning some day.
Further down the road we encountered our first military checkpoint. These have never gone well for us but we'd heard good things about the Colombian military. These guys were very professional, addressing us as 'gentlemen' and speaking properly. We got to talking and they were just as interested in us as we were in them. In the end we took several pictures with them and their guns before they took out a camera to take a few pictures with us and our bikes. It was a strangely symbiotic experience leaving everyone content.
The road darted through thick vegetation, switching between dirt and asphalt at inopportune times. Potholes were stuffed with cobbles to lessen the blow which was a nice touch. We slowly climbed out of the jungle onto an arid ridge with cliffs on either side of us providing quite the view despite hazy conditions.
Dropping into Medellin was impressive, it's a large city in a bowl, surrounded by mountains. We found a moto cop and asked him for rough directions to our hostel as we had no idea. He led us through traffic, running red lights and splitting between cars before pointing to a main road that would get us close.
The hostel was a good one. Casa Kiwi, owned by a fellow motorcyclist from New Zealand is located in the Zona Rosa district, a lively suburb teeming with nightlife. There were excellent coffee shops scattered throughout as well as our beloved Proximo which had everything we could want all packed into a store smaller than a 7-11.
Our first order of duty was to get our customs work processed as we couldn't do so when landing in Turbo as it was on the weekend. We took a series of taxis to three different offices. The first wouldn't let Tom or Mark in as they were wearing shorts. The security guard said that we could change outside, taking turns wearing my pants. Inside, however, I was told we were at the wrong office. We went to two more before being told that we needed no paperwork for our bikes to be in the country which we knew wasn't right despite the friendly and reassuring Colombians telling us so.
We made a few phone calls and sent out some emails to the States and were put in contact with the right people. The DIAN office. Oh how I hate the DIAN office. We went there three consecutive days trying to figure out what needed to happen. The root of the problem was that the customs agents didn't really know the procedure for processing us as it's rarely done in Medellin. They wanted us to ride back to Turbo as that's where we offloaded the bikes. Then they wanted us to ride back to Capurgana as that is where we had our passports stamped. They weren't aware that Capurgana couldn't be reached by road, but by water only.
We'd frequently get pulled into a small office with three people from customs where we'd be put on speaker-phone with other offices where we'd tell our story then leave as they discussed the possibilities. We'd go back outside and sit on the ground where we learned how to make origami polo shirts out of a dollar bill. Finally, after about 25 hours of waiting we were instructed to ride our bikes down to the office where a lady wrote down the VIN numbers and gave us our entry papers giving us a reason to celebrate.
Our next objective was to get some work done on the bikes. We were referred to Mr. Bike, an excellent shop that went above and beyond what we expected of them. My bike was detailed to a level I've never seen before, simply spotless. I had the fuel filter changed, cleaned the injectors and fixed some electrical issues. The owner of the store gave me some spare parts for my bike as he used to own the same model. He also gave me a beaded seat cover which looks like it belongs in a NYC taxi but I don't care, it's shockingly comfortable. I also recovered my seat and changed my tank decals to a black/grey theme. New continent, new colors. I also washed my riding gear and helmet pads as they'd taken on an evil aroma circa Nicaragua. Unfortunately I was charged by the kilo which turned out to be an expensive affair.
Despite the problems with customs, Colombia quickly became my new favorite country, ousting Japan. Medellin, specifically, is brilliant; on the same par as London, Tokyo, San Francisco and Sydney in my books. The people are phenomenal, very helpful and friendly. It's a safe place too. I felt safer here than any other country on my trip thus far and look forward to returning some day.
Monday, March 15, 2010
2-19-10, Turbo, Colombia
We struck a deal with a merchant ship that would bring us from Sapzuro to Turbo, some 60 miles off and were told that it would take us between 3 and 36 hours. The merchant ship was docked next to us in the little bay and we were told that they were leaving promptly so we quickly went to work untying our bikes then wheeling them off the cat onto the dock on a ramp. It was a bit precarious at times as the cat was rocking in the sea but all five bikes made it just fine.
We paid the captain half of the one million pesos upfront and were told to pay the rest on landing in Turbo. This equated to about $110 US per man.
We lashed our bikes inside the new ship which was full of mostly booze and coconuts, 4000 we were told. We motored along towards Capurgana when we hit some rough seas, causing a 50 gallon fuel barrel to fall over, nicking Mark's leg, leaving a gash in it. Luckily it didn't hit his foot or his trip would be over. Once in Capurgana the crew shoved 5 barrels of diesel overboard into the water, maybe 200 yards offshore. A few guys then swam out to meet the floating barrels and started the long process of pushing them to shore.
We waited for over three hours as smaller boats pulled up alongside ours to unload the contents of the ship. There had been some standing water in the bottom of our ship where all the goods were stored, causing the cardboard boxes to deteriorate, leaving thousands of flasks of aguardiente, vodka and rum strewn about. Eventually everything was unloaded with only one bottle casualty.
We started moving south when one of the crew members, the captain's nephew, came over to chat about our trip. He told us that we could eat as many of the coconuts as we wanted however I feared an albino barf and kept my coconut intake to a minimum.
The boat rocked quite a bit more than the cat had but I was able to drift off to sleep at times, only to be awakened with a headache from the diesel fumes which kept blowing in.
We were served a decent lunch consisting of a bowl of rice, some starchy roots and some beast. It tasted good, but the texture was a little of the tough side.
After 10pm we pulled into the port at Turbo but had to look for a spot to park for half an hour, eventually pushing a few boats out of the way to get us close enough to land to where we could stretch a long, narrow ramp over the water. Again, we unloaded each bike, the owner operating the hand brake while the rest of us steadied it.
A crowd of people had gathered around our bikes in Turbo, especially mine which the locals thought had two engines because it's an opposed-twin configuration with an engine head sticking out each side. Lots of touching and fiddling with the bike which I don't really care for. We rode off from the crowd, following the captain's nephew who brought us to a hotel for the night, our first night in Colombia.
We paid the captain half of the one million pesos upfront and were told to pay the rest on landing in Turbo. This equated to about $110 US per man.
We lashed our bikes inside the new ship which was full of mostly booze and coconuts, 4000 we were told. We motored along towards Capurgana when we hit some rough seas, causing a 50 gallon fuel barrel to fall over, nicking Mark's leg, leaving a gash in it. Luckily it didn't hit his foot or his trip would be over. Once in Capurgana the crew shoved 5 barrels of diesel overboard into the water, maybe 200 yards offshore. A few guys then swam out to meet the floating barrels and started the long process of pushing them to shore.
We waited for over three hours as smaller boats pulled up alongside ours to unload the contents of the ship. There had been some standing water in the bottom of our ship where all the goods were stored, causing the cardboard boxes to deteriorate, leaving thousands of flasks of aguardiente, vodka and rum strewn about. Eventually everything was unloaded with only one bottle casualty.
We started moving south when one of the crew members, the captain's nephew, came over to chat about our trip. He told us that we could eat as many of the coconuts as we wanted however I feared an albino barf and kept my coconut intake to a minimum.
The boat rocked quite a bit more than the cat had but I was able to drift off to sleep at times, only to be awakened with a headache from the diesel fumes which kept blowing in.
We were served a decent lunch consisting of a bowl of rice, some starchy roots and some beast. It tasted good, but the texture was a little of the tough side.
After 10pm we pulled into the port at Turbo but had to look for a spot to park for half an hour, eventually pushing a few boats out of the way to get us close enough to land to where we could stretch a long, narrow ramp over the water. Again, we unloaded each bike, the owner operating the hand brake while the rest of us steadied it.
A crowd of people had gathered around our bikes in Turbo, especially mine which the locals thought had two engines because it's an opposed-twin configuration with an engine head sticking out each side. Lots of touching and fiddling with the bike which I don't really care for. We rode off from the crowd, following the captain's nephew who brought us to a hotel for the night, our first night in Colombia.
Friday, March 12, 2010
2-18-10 Vomitville, Sanblas Islands
Worst seas yet. I started out in the cabin where things weren't exactly going well. I was breathing hard, lifting my shoulders and chest with each breath all while sweating profusely. The smell in the kitchen was nothing unusual, just typical food smells which reminded me of the bread that came up yesterday after breakfast. My mouth would start watering and I'd just stare ahead blankly trying to think happy thoughts which would work for a while until I would take another breath through my nose which would put me on barf alert again.
During one of my code red bar alerts I felt a little burp sprang from my little bench and hung my head off the stern. Just coffee this time, but enough through the nose to turn me off to coffee for a while.
We pulled into Zapzuro today just after noon where we anchored and had a cheesy pasta lunch whose thought makes me want to hang my head overboard again. At the time, however, it was pretty good. Haven't eaten much lately.
I've been in rough shape all day and still am even though we are anchored. I'm sitting on one of the trampolines at the stern and listening to and smelling the chugging of a diesel generator from a merchant ship anchored a hundred yards upwind.
The seas were about 10 feet tall today, enough to submerge the left bow of the catamaran at times. My bike took a good wave to the side. Luckily I soaked it well the first day with WD-40 to slow down any rust. I also jammed a plastic bag in the muffler to keep water out.
Not long after anchoring we hailed a lancha (open hull boat, 3 person wide, 8 rows long, 200hp outboard) to take us south over to Capurgana where we had to do our customs work. The ride was essentially a cross between 4-wheeling and boating. Huge seas and a little boat with few life preservers next to rocky shores made things exciting.
Capurgana was only 15 minutes off in the next bay but it was quite a trip getting there. To leave our bay we rode directly into the waves, jumping most of the boat out of the water on the larger waves. Running south, parallel to the waves was precarious as we were constantly changing from being on a crest to being in the trough of waves, several of which invited themselves into the boat. Tom sported a waterproof shell which seemed to work. I was wet.
Riding into the bay was no different than surfing. We motored along slowly until one of the bigger waves came along then the captain would hit the throttle and catch the wave, riding it till it dissipated.
We made it into town wobbly legged and went to the customs office where they asked the usual questions. What is your profession? Where are you going? How long will you be here? I was unsure to all the answers but did the best I could.
I was excited to find a little internet cafe but not excited to wait 15 minutes to open a web page. I also ran into Charlie, who I rode with in Mexico. He had arrived the same day via different boat, the MetaComet er 'Vomit Comet' as he said.
We are currently in a holding pattern. Our catamaran can't make it to Turbo, where the road starts again (Zapzuro and Capurgana are accessible by water only). The cat can't go any further for vague reasons so we must find another boat to take us. We've heard of perhaps a dozen possibilities, none of which have materialized.
The three main options are the 'fast boat' which is like the lancha we took to Capurgana but with an additional outboard motor and has a bit of a roof on it. Then there is the 'slow boat' (technical terms here) which is a larger boat maybe 70' long which is equipped to take people and bikes. Lastly, we're trying to hitch a ride from a local merchant ship in the area but we hear that they are allowed to take bikes, but no people.
During one of my code red bar alerts I felt a little burp sprang from my little bench and hung my head off the stern. Just coffee this time, but enough through the nose to turn me off to coffee for a while.
We pulled into Zapzuro today just after noon where we anchored and had a cheesy pasta lunch whose thought makes me want to hang my head overboard again. At the time, however, it was pretty good. Haven't eaten much lately.
I've been in rough shape all day and still am even though we are anchored. I'm sitting on one of the trampolines at the stern and listening to and smelling the chugging of a diesel generator from a merchant ship anchored a hundred yards upwind.
The seas were about 10 feet tall today, enough to submerge the left bow of the catamaran at times. My bike took a good wave to the side. Luckily I soaked it well the first day with WD-40 to slow down any rust. I also jammed a plastic bag in the muffler to keep water out.
Not long after anchoring we hailed a lancha (open hull boat, 3 person wide, 8 rows long, 200hp outboard) to take us south over to Capurgana where we had to do our customs work. The ride was essentially a cross between 4-wheeling and boating. Huge seas and a little boat with few life preservers next to rocky shores made things exciting.
Capurgana was only 15 minutes off in the next bay but it was quite a trip getting there. To leave our bay we rode directly into the waves, jumping most of the boat out of the water on the larger waves. Running south, parallel to the waves was precarious as we were constantly changing from being on a crest to being in the trough of waves, several of which invited themselves into the boat. Tom sported a waterproof shell which seemed to work. I was wet.
Riding into the bay was no different than surfing. We motored along slowly until one of the bigger waves came along then the captain would hit the throttle and catch the wave, riding it till it dissipated.
We made it into town wobbly legged and went to the customs office where they asked the usual questions. What is your profession? Where are you going? How long will you be here? I was unsure to all the answers but did the best I could.
I was excited to find a little internet cafe but not excited to wait 15 minutes to open a web page. I also ran into Charlie, who I rode with in Mexico. He had arrived the same day via different boat, the MetaComet er 'Vomit Comet' as he said.
We are currently in a holding pattern. Our catamaran can't make it to Turbo, where the road starts again (Zapzuro and Capurgana are accessible by water only). The cat can't go any further for vague reasons so we must find another boat to take us. We've heard of perhaps a dozen possibilities, none of which have materialized.
The three main options are the 'fast boat' which is like the lancha we took to Capurgana but with an additional outboard motor and has a bit of a roof on it. Then there is the 'slow boat' (technical terms here) which is a larger boat maybe 70' long which is equipped to take people and bikes. Lastly, we're trying to hitch a ride from a local merchant ship in the area but we hear that they are allowed to take bikes, but no people.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
2-17-10 Sanblas Islands
I'm inside the cabin this time, looking rearward. The seas are the roughest yet but I'm faring well. It's overcast and has been since yesterday evening but no rain has come.
We docked at an island that we thought was deserted and set out to explore. We found several different coconuts of varying ripeness and went to work ripping off the husks with the help of a sharp rock I found. Good coconut milk and meat was had by all.
Walking the coastline we came across the usual sea trash. Bottles and shoes seem to be the most common find.
We found a few guys making a canoe with nothing but an adze and axe. One of them showed us around their village where the best part was watching a toddler drag juvenile chickens around by their wings. Not a common sight back home. We got a ride back to the cat in a dugout canoe with about 2 inches of freeeboard. We didn't have enough paddles so hands were used as well.
We docked at an island that we thought was deserted and set out to explore. We found several different coconuts of varying ripeness and went to work ripping off the husks with the help of a sharp rock I found. Good coconut milk and meat was had by all.
Walking the coastline we came across the usual sea trash. Bottles and shoes seem to be the most common find.
We found a few guys making a canoe with nothing but an adze and axe. One of them showed us around their village where the best part was watching a toddler drag juvenile chickens around by their wings. Not a common sight back home. We got a ride back to the cat in a dugout canoe with about 2 inches of freeeboard. We didn't have enough paddles so hands were used as well.
2-16-10 Sanblas Islands
Barf. Chunder. Spew. Boot. Yack.
All the above.
I was feeling a bit queasy for several hours and had propped myself up on the front of the cabin in the shade of the sail and drifted in and out of sleep until the first mate yelled that lunch was ready. I staggered between the bikes towards the little dining table at the rear of the boat and instantly got sick. I turned around, made my way back through the bikes to the bow of the boat, dove on one of the trampoline-like nets and cut loose breakfast. And there I stayed for the rest of the voyage that day, drooling into the sea. At times water would blast up through the mesh and shock my senses which distracted me from the nausea. I luckily fell asleep but rolled over and would have been sunburned beyond recognition but Tom threw a towel over my face which made waking up confusing. At least I didn't sunburn my tongue.
We docked for the night at another island and all went snorkeling though there was nothing much to see. Tons of crabs and shells on the island, though.
All the above.
I was feeling a bit queasy for several hours and had propped myself up on the front of the cabin in the shade of the sail and drifted in and out of sleep until the first mate yelled that lunch was ready. I staggered between the bikes towards the little dining table at the rear of the boat and instantly got sick. I turned around, made my way back through the bikes to the bow of the boat, dove on one of the trampoline-like nets and cut loose breakfast. And there I stayed for the rest of the voyage that day, drooling into the sea. At times water would blast up through the mesh and shock my senses which distracted me from the nausea. I luckily fell asleep but rolled over and would have been sunburned beyond recognition but Tom threw a towel over my face which made waking up confusing. At least I didn't sunburn my tongue.
We docked for the night at another island and all went snorkeling though there was nothing much to see. Tons of crabs and shells on the island, though.
2-15-10 Sanblas Islands
I have never seen a drunker group of people than I did today. It was Monday, before noon and they were all older women. Welcome to Carnival!
We had docked on one of the many Sanblas Islands and were in search of fresh water. The island was owned by the Kuni tribe whose flag consists of yellow and red sections with a black swastika in the middle. No Nazi relation.
While Fritz went to work finding water the rest of us ventured out into the little island and came upon a group of women all dressed in native garb whose distinguishing characteristics were beaded leg-bands, gold nose rings, red blush, a black line down their nose, red hair bonnets of sorts and brightly colored dresses. Oh, and many accented their outfits with bottles of 'Aguardiente' which almost translates to 'tooth water' but in reality is a flammable alcohol made from sugar cane. Thing a rum/gas cocktail with a touch of anise. They weren't drinking for flavor today. These lushes were all off by themselves boozing so we crept over near them with the help of some drunk local guy who kept calling me Luis for no reason, but I didn't object.
The women would pair-off then take turns pouring each other shots, downing one every 30 seconds perhaps. Often times, there were 'spotters' for some of the older women, who would prop grab them from behind as they seemed to fall backwards often while taking a shot. After watching this in awe the women all mobilized and started heading back to the main communal building which we'd seen earlier, it had several rows of benches on each wall, all facing inward which was used for community meetings, etc.
The women got in groups of three or four and held each other's shoulders like a rugby scrum so as to reduce the chance of falling in their drunken stupor. This worked well for some, but proved disastrous for others. We saw several groups all crumble to the ground after one lady stumbled and initiated the collapse. Some of th older ladies were wailing too. (??)
We sailed/motored for a few hours and frequently checked on the bikes as things were starting to shift a bit with the rocking of the catamaran which rocks quite differently than monohull, or 'regular' boat. The cat rocks almost exclusively fore and aft, see-saw like with virtually no lateral movement. Monohulls, on the other hand, rock less violently fore and aft but have more movement laterally. It is said that cats are better for seasickness which I have to agree with thus far. Think it is also better for the safety of the bikes as they're not subjected to movement in all directions.
We docked up at another small island in search of several hundred gallons of fresh water again as the last island only seemed to have Aguardiente. Every square inch of the island was used for something, just like a modern city. It felt strange walking through as there was very little privacy with the bamboo walls.
They have no private bathrooms on the island, just a few thatch huts on stilts a few yards off-shore. Various splashes were audible in the evening. Torben became aware of the bathroom situation only after a good swim in the area.
We had docked on one of the many Sanblas Islands and were in search of fresh water. The island was owned by the Kuni tribe whose flag consists of yellow and red sections with a black swastika in the middle. No Nazi relation.
While Fritz went to work finding water the rest of us ventured out into the little island and came upon a group of women all dressed in native garb whose distinguishing characteristics were beaded leg-bands, gold nose rings, red blush, a black line down their nose, red hair bonnets of sorts and brightly colored dresses. Oh, and many accented their outfits with bottles of 'Aguardiente' which almost translates to 'tooth water' but in reality is a flammable alcohol made from sugar cane. Thing a rum/gas cocktail with a touch of anise. They weren't drinking for flavor today. These lushes were all off by themselves boozing so we crept over near them with the help of some drunk local guy who kept calling me Luis for no reason, but I didn't object.
The women would pair-off then take turns pouring each other shots, downing one every 30 seconds perhaps. Often times, there were 'spotters' for some of the older women, who would prop grab them from behind as they seemed to fall backwards often while taking a shot. After watching this in awe the women all mobilized and started heading back to the main communal building which we'd seen earlier, it had several rows of benches on each wall, all facing inward which was used for community meetings, etc.
The women got in groups of three or four and held each other's shoulders like a rugby scrum so as to reduce the chance of falling in their drunken stupor. This worked well for some, but proved disastrous for others. We saw several groups all crumble to the ground after one lady stumbled and initiated the collapse. Some of th older ladies were wailing too. (??)
We sailed/motored for a few hours and frequently checked on the bikes as things were starting to shift a bit with the rocking of the catamaran which rocks quite differently than monohull, or 'regular' boat. The cat rocks almost exclusively fore and aft, see-saw like with virtually no lateral movement. Monohulls, on the other hand, rock less violently fore and aft but have more movement laterally. It is said that cats are better for seasickness which I have to agree with thus far. Think it is also better for the safety of the bikes as they're not subjected to movement in all directions.
We docked up at another small island in search of several hundred gallons of fresh water again as the last island only seemed to have Aguardiente. Every square inch of the island was used for something, just like a modern city. It felt strange walking through as there was very little privacy with the bamboo walls.
They have no private bathrooms on the island, just a few thatch huts on stilts a few yards off-shore. Various splashes were audible in the evening. Torben became aware of the bathroom situation only after a good swim in the area.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
2-14-10 Carti, Panama part II
At the coast there were perhaps a hundred 4x4 vehicles parked near a small building on the beach which served as a general store, dock authority and hangout point for shady characters. After jabbering with the locals for a bit we were quoted $200 to bring our bikes out to the catamaran which was anchored offshore about a mile on the leeward side of an island. We felt like they were trying to stick it to us so we kept asking around and came to find out that there was a river about a mile away that served as an impromptu port.
We rode out to the little river which had a lean-to for an office and a stack of styrofoam for a table. Here a guy offered us a price of $60 to get us out to the catamaran plus an additional $2 for port fees, we took it. He told us to wait while he brought is boat around into the shallows of the river where we could load.
Tom and I were both curious about how we would load the bikes into the boat as there were no winches, docks or ramps to pull up to. After waiting a few minutes we saw our boat captain putting up the river in a dugout canoe with some old paint on it. He'd nailed some boards to the sides for extra freeboard as well.
Tom and I exchanged silent looks as things didn't seem to add up but after some intense questioning we agreed to proceed. The boat was pulled up into a small swamp next to the river, parallel with the bank. Next, several boards were placed as ramps up into the canoe and I was instructed to ride the bike down the little slope and up the ramp, stopping before dropping into the canoe. By this time we had a crowd of people around us, just as eager as we were to see how things would work out.
I rode to the top of the planks then hopped off the bike while several other guys steadied it. We then pushed it forward until the front tire touched the bottom of the canoe before picking up the rear of the bike and swinging it in as well. Several drops, drags and scrapes later and we had it in position. With the bike standing upright in the canoe we then jammed two planks diagonally under the bike, resting on the sides of the canoe to hold the bike up. Tom repeated the same procedure and with equal success.
We piled all of our gear in the bow of the canoe then jumped in. Tom was behind his bike and I was behind mine, with the captain right behind me. We slowly trolled out of the swampy area and into the river, which wound through the jungle. After a few minutes we emerged at the mouth of the river and the ride instantly became more interesting. The waves weren't big but were enough to start rocking the boat. For a hundred yards we threaded our way between submerged trees, our path marked out by pieces of trash nailed to the trunks. And then we were in the open water. It was a humbling experience being there at sea. A little rogue wave could have easily bumped us enough to send both bikes to the bottom. It was strangely calming, however, as I had a keen sense of what I could and could not control. I can't stop the bike from falling to the ocean floor, so why even worry about it. This is how I look at things not only in this trip but also in life which leads to a worry-free existence.
Perhaps five minutes after hitting open sea my bike fell sideways in the canoe, rocking the craft violently. We'd been taking on water which had lubricated the smooth wood bottom of the boat, causing the rear tire to slide sideways. The bike came to rest on the side of the canoe. The captain slowed down to a crawl but we kept moving. We were pointed directly at our catamaran, 'Fritz The Cat', aptly named as it was a catamaran owned by Fritz, a wild Austrian.
As we got closer I could see a pot-bellied man sporting a Speedo and a black and white horizontally striped shirt. "Hello, Hello!" He said, sounding like Arnold Schwarzenegger.
"Velcome, velcome aboard"
We stayed in our canoe as Fritz went to work moving the boom of the main sail above us which had a winch coming off it. We tied our bikes up in a cradle of rope and slowly hoisted mine aboard, which took about ten minutes. Once we swung the bike on deck we took the winch off and slowly rolled the bike around the bow of the cat onto the portside, dodging pop-up windows, rigging and the mesh trampolines until we got it into position where we lashed it to several strong points.
We got Tom's bike into position as well then plopped down on a little bench, happy to have the bikes secured. Fritz was still sporting his Speedo, though it wasn't a speedo, just some black briefs.
Within hours Torben showed up as well as Mark from Minnesota and James from Ontario, all motorcyclists as well. It's a natural funnel here for motorcyclists as it's the only way to get around the Darien other than flying or going on the less scenic Pacific side. It was a late night sharing stories with each other and making plans for South America.
We rode out to the little river which had a lean-to for an office and a stack of styrofoam for a table. Here a guy offered us a price of $60 to get us out to the catamaran plus an additional $2 for port fees, we took it. He told us to wait while he brought is boat around into the shallows of the river where we could load.
Tom and I were both curious about how we would load the bikes into the boat as there were no winches, docks or ramps to pull up to. After waiting a few minutes we saw our boat captain putting up the river in a dugout canoe with some old paint on it. He'd nailed some boards to the sides for extra freeboard as well.
Tom and I exchanged silent looks as things didn't seem to add up but after some intense questioning we agreed to proceed. The boat was pulled up into a small swamp next to the river, parallel with the bank. Next, several boards were placed as ramps up into the canoe and I was instructed to ride the bike down the little slope and up the ramp, stopping before dropping into the canoe. By this time we had a crowd of people around us, just as eager as we were to see how things would work out.
I rode to the top of the planks then hopped off the bike while several other guys steadied it. We then pushed it forward until the front tire touched the bottom of the canoe before picking up the rear of the bike and swinging it in as well. Several drops, drags and scrapes later and we had it in position. With the bike standing upright in the canoe we then jammed two planks diagonally under the bike, resting on the sides of the canoe to hold the bike up. Tom repeated the same procedure and with equal success.
We piled all of our gear in the bow of the canoe then jumped in. Tom was behind his bike and I was behind mine, with the captain right behind me. We slowly trolled out of the swampy area and into the river, which wound through the jungle. After a few minutes we emerged at the mouth of the river and the ride instantly became more interesting. The waves weren't big but were enough to start rocking the boat. For a hundred yards we threaded our way between submerged trees, our path marked out by pieces of trash nailed to the trunks. And then we were in the open water. It was a humbling experience being there at sea. A little rogue wave could have easily bumped us enough to send both bikes to the bottom. It was strangely calming, however, as I had a keen sense of what I could and could not control. I can't stop the bike from falling to the ocean floor, so why even worry about it. This is how I look at things not only in this trip but also in life which leads to a worry-free existence.
Perhaps five minutes after hitting open sea my bike fell sideways in the canoe, rocking the craft violently. We'd been taking on water which had lubricated the smooth wood bottom of the boat, causing the rear tire to slide sideways. The bike came to rest on the side of the canoe. The captain slowed down to a crawl but we kept moving. We were pointed directly at our catamaran, 'Fritz The Cat', aptly named as it was a catamaran owned by Fritz, a wild Austrian.
As we got closer I could see a pot-bellied man sporting a Speedo and a black and white horizontally striped shirt. "Hello, Hello!" He said, sounding like Arnold Schwarzenegger.
"Velcome, velcome aboard"
We stayed in our canoe as Fritz went to work moving the boom of the main sail above us which had a winch coming off it. We tied our bikes up in a cradle of rope and slowly hoisted mine aboard, which took about ten minutes. Once we swung the bike on deck we took the winch off and slowly rolled the bike around the bow of the cat onto the portside, dodging pop-up windows, rigging and the mesh trampolines until we got it into position where we lashed it to several strong points.
We got Tom's bike into position as well then plopped down on a little bench, happy to have the bikes secured. Fritz was still sporting his Speedo, though it wasn't a speedo, just some black briefs.
Within hours Torben showed up as well as Mark from Minnesota and James from Ontario, all motorcyclists as well. It's a natural funnel here for motorcyclists as it's the only way to get around the Darien other than flying or going on the less scenic Pacific side. It was a late night sharing stories with each other and making plans for South America.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
2-14-10 Carti, Panama
After two hours of sleep I got up at 4:45 am, and started dragging my gear down to the front of the hostel where we had parked our bikes the night before. We had to be packed up and ready by 5am in order to follow a Jeep full with other future sea-goers that knew the way to the small port where we would be catching our catamaran to Colombia. We couldn't have cut it much closer. I put on my last glove and was throwing my leg over the bike as the Jeep disappeared around the corner in front of us. We gave chase and caught it quickly though the driver seemed to want to give us a bit of a challenge for most of the trip darting through the city.
We took and unmarked road which we were told would lead us to the coast and then passed the Jeep as it was going too slow for our taste. The road varied widely, part of it was great dirt, well compacted with no loose gravel, but part of it was the complete opposite as well. The worst sections were steep with deep pockets of 1" rocks covering the road.
We could see the coast at times which was a ways off with lots of ridges and valleys in between. These turned out to be a lot of fun as I would creep down the hills slowly engine braking in first gear until close to the bottom where I'd upshift and accelerate to around 40mph just before hitting the bottom which would then carry me up to the top of the hill where I'd repeat the process again.
On one series of hills we were riding up a hill which had a blind right-hand turn to it and lots of loose rocks. I swung wide to keep up my speed but as I rounded the corner I saw a car that was stuck in front of me spinning his tires and going nowhere. He was directly in my line so I tracked further to the outside into the deeper gravel which prompted the rear of the bike to start fishtailing. I rode out perhaps three series of good tail-swings before getting next to the car when the rear of the bike came about 45 degrees to my left, my slick rear tire spinning freely and launching rocks behind me. I corrected the wide left swing, or rather, that's what the bike did then the rear swung even harder to the right until I felt it get impossibly low and I lost it. I came off the bike to the right and impacted on my side before rolling, catching glimpses of the bike as it spun counterclockwise, ending up pointing down hill. My left pannier had broken loose as had my headlight guard and winshield which was still spinning in the dirt as was an engine guard.
Tom was about a second behind me and couldn't stop. He dodged me and the bike but caught my windshield squarely with his front tire, sending Lexan shrapnel flying but he maintained control and rode it out to the top of the hill where he came down to check on me.
After a few entertaining pictures we stood the bike up and I hopped on and skidded down, narrowly dodging the car that was still stuck on the hill before crashing again which sent me rolling backwards downhill until coming to rest on my back with my knees next to my ears.
We righted the bike again and I rode down without a problem. I did a U-turn and gunned the bike, picking up a good amount of speed, more than the last time, and blew past the stuck car. I got a few wobbles going uphill but nothing unmanageable and made it to the top.
After 15 minutes the next obstacle was a river crossing about 30 yards across. I walked it first and found the best path to be a 'J' shape where we had to track down the right side of the current then hook across to the far bank before popping out of the water. We both made it without incident.
Just after the river we hit a semi-paved runway with lots of weeds on it running directly at the Caribbean. I wondered how many kilos of cocaine had crossed the strip over the years.
We took and unmarked road which we were told would lead us to the coast and then passed the Jeep as it was going too slow for our taste. The road varied widely, part of it was great dirt, well compacted with no loose gravel, but part of it was the complete opposite as well. The worst sections were steep with deep pockets of 1" rocks covering the road.
We could see the coast at times which was a ways off with lots of ridges and valleys in between. These turned out to be a lot of fun as I would creep down the hills slowly engine braking in first gear until close to the bottom where I'd upshift and accelerate to around 40mph just before hitting the bottom which would then carry me up to the top of the hill where I'd repeat the process again.
On one series of hills we were riding up a hill which had a blind right-hand turn to it and lots of loose rocks. I swung wide to keep up my speed but as I rounded the corner I saw a car that was stuck in front of me spinning his tires and going nowhere. He was directly in my line so I tracked further to the outside into the deeper gravel which prompted the rear of the bike to start fishtailing. I rode out perhaps three series of good tail-swings before getting next to the car when the rear of the bike came about 45 degrees to my left, my slick rear tire spinning freely and launching rocks behind me. I corrected the wide left swing, or rather, that's what the bike did then the rear swung even harder to the right until I felt it get impossibly low and I lost it. I came off the bike to the right and impacted on my side before rolling, catching glimpses of the bike as it spun counterclockwise, ending up pointing down hill. My left pannier had broken loose as had my headlight guard and winshield which was still spinning in the dirt as was an engine guard.
Tom was about a second behind me and couldn't stop. He dodged me and the bike but caught my windshield squarely with his front tire, sending Lexan shrapnel flying but he maintained control and rode it out to the top of the hill where he came down to check on me.
After a few entertaining pictures we stood the bike up and I hopped on and skidded down, narrowly dodging the car that was still stuck on the hill before crashing again which sent me rolling backwards downhill until coming to rest on my back with my knees next to my ears.
We righted the bike again and I rode down without a problem. I did a U-turn and gunned the bike, picking up a good amount of speed, more than the last time, and blew past the stuck car. I got a few wobbles going uphill but nothing unmanageable and made it to the top.
After 15 minutes the next obstacle was a river crossing about 30 yards across. I walked it first and found the best path to be a 'J' shape where we had to track down the right side of the current then hook across to the far bank before popping out of the water. We both made it without incident.
Just after the river we hit a semi-paved runway with lots of weeds on it running directly at the Caribbean. I wondered how many kilos of cocaine had crossed the strip over the years.
2-13-10 Darien, Panama
Stuart, some of his friends and I went to a little pub near our hostel where I noticed a Kawasaki KLR outside with California plates. Upon entering I asked the bouncer who owned it and soon met Torben, a guy my age from the Netherlands who was riding south as well. Earlier that day I'd met Tom, a middle-aged guy from Ohio on a KLR as well who was staying at my hostel. Tom, Torben and I decided to make a run to the end of the road in the Darien the next day.
Oddly enough, there is no road from North America to South America. The road stops in the Darien Province of Panama before picking up again some 60 miles south in Colombia. In between is nothing but jungle, guerillas, cocaine operations and spear-chucking natives, my favorites!
We left early in the morning and had been riding perhaps 45 minutes when we all came to a military checkpoint where I instantly realized that I didn't have my dirver's license or my vehicle import papers. Tom had overstayed his visa as well and so we hoped for a quick wave-through but didn't get it. They demanded all the formal paperwork and documentation. I handed the guy my passport but it wasn't enough. He told me to push the bike to the side of the road and stated that I couldn't ride it until I provided a license and would have to get a wrecker truck in order to get the bike home which seemed like a pretty terrible option, though still an option.
I inquired if there were any places around where I could buy a driver's license, all but offering a bribe but he wasn't taking it yet. Then Tom ushered over their head guy and said, "Maybe this will help..." He opened his wallet and presented a police badge. After a brief interaction the officer came over to me and told me that I could go on but only if I bring him a 'cola' upon my return. This at first comfused me as 'cola' means 'tail'
but he soon added 'a big bottle' which helped sort the homonym.
We cruised at around 60mph which was Torbens top speed. He was having some issues with his motor which was consuming oil at a rate of a quart every hundred miles. No, his bike is not a 2-stroke. While in Mexico somebody had dropped a chunk of metal into his transmission which, though he got out, had caused some damage. Later, in Guatemala, he rebuilt the engine (for different reasons) and it now smokes like a beast.
Since Torben couldn't go very fast we'd always cut him loose early after breaks as we'd catch up to him after maybe ten minutes. After one break we caught up with him just a few hundred yards out from where we had stopped and could see his chain dragging from a ways away. Hmmm. This isn't good. The problem wasn't fixing the chain, the main problem was fixing it in time to ride to the coast the next day where we were all to catch a catamaran to Colombia. If we didn't make our voyage we'd have to wait a while as the seas were getting rougher and very few boats were making the passage.
I took off to the nearest town in search of parts while Tom and Torben tried to fix it on the spot. The first little shade-tree mechanic I came to didn't have anything but knew of a shop that might be able to help. Another minute down the road and I'd found a brand new chain that would fit Torbens bike. I rode back to Torben and Tom before buying the chain and was pleased to find that Tom had a master link in his tool kit that we were able to install after combining the forces of our tool kits.
We pushed on, a little apprehensive of our potential mechanical problems and legal issues and were still 120 miles of twisty roads away from the end of the road which still contained 3 military checkpoints. Luckily we were only asked for our passports the rest of the day and got through unscathed.
Information varied widely from checkpoint to checkpoint. One told us that we would have to stop at the next town and wouldn't be allowed through at is was too dangerous for gringos and that we would be 'found quickly'. But there was nobody at the next town to stop us so we kept going.
While cruising along in formation on a reasonably good dirt road I saw Torben's bike jump to the side and kick up a huge plume of dust, followed by Tom's bike doing the same thing, his bouncing diagonally, but he stayed on. I swerverd left and nicked the side of a huge pothole the size of a mattress that went straight through the asphault to the dirt beneath. We all slowed down and stood up on the pegs as we'd entered an area with tons of random holes in the road.
We finally made it to the outskirts of the little town of Yavisa which was filled with lots of stilt houses, most of which were thatch-roofed and had bamboo walls. The town had very narrow concrete streets what were well-above ground by about 18", not sure why. We came upon a Carnival party going on where several hoses were spraying down the crowd in the street.
We did a hard left down a street then doubled back on a road that ran perpendicular to a river where it stopped at a long, narrow susupension bridge. End of the road. In the river were may locals in dug-out canoes, piled with fruit and other goods.
We took a few pictures before riding off to our hostel, trying to make as many miles as possible before dark.
Oddly enough, there is no road from North America to South America. The road stops in the Darien Province of Panama before picking up again some 60 miles south in Colombia. In between is nothing but jungle, guerillas, cocaine operations and spear-chucking natives, my favorites!
We left early in the morning and had been riding perhaps 45 minutes when we all came to a military checkpoint where I instantly realized that I didn't have my dirver's license or my vehicle import papers. Tom had overstayed his visa as well and so we hoped for a quick wave-through but didn't get it. They demanded all the formal paperwork and documentation. I handed the guy my passport but it wasn't enough. He told me to push the bike to the side of the road and stated that I couldn't ride it until I provided a license and would have to get a wrecker truck in order to get the bike home which seemed like a pretty terrible option, though still an option.
I inquired if there were any places around where I could buy a driver's license, all but offering a bribe but he wasn't taking it yet. Then Tom ushered over their head guy and said, "Maybe this will help..." He opened his wallet and presented a police badge. After a brief interaction the officer came over to me and told me that I could go on but only if I bring him a 'cola' upon my return. This at first comfused me as 'cola' means 'tail'
but he soon added 'a big bottle' which helped sort the homonym.
We cruised at around 60mph which was Torbens top speed. He was having some issues with his motor which was consuming oil at a rate of a quart every hundred miles. No, his bike is not a 2-stroke. While in Mexico somebody had dropped a chunk of metal into his transmission which, though he got out, had caused some damage. Later, in Guatemala, he rebuilt the engine (for different reasons) and it now smokes like a beast.
Since Torben couldn't go very fast we'd always cut him loose early after breaks as we'd catch up to him after maybe ten minutes. After one break we caught up with him just a few hundred yards out from where we had stopped and could see his chain dragging from a ways away. Hmmm. This isn't good. The problem wasn't fixing the chain, the main problem was fixing it in time to ride to the coast the next day where we were all to catch a catamaran to Colombia. If we didn't make our voyage we'd have to wait a while as the seas were getting rougher and very few boats were making the passage.
I took off to the nearest town in search of parts while Tom and Torben tried to fix it on the spot. The first little shade-tree mechanic I came to didn't have anything but knew of a shop that might be able to help. Another minute down the road and I'd found a brand new chain that would fit Torbens bike. I rode back to Torben and Tom before buying the chain and was pleased to find that Tom had a master link in his tool kit that we were able to install after combining the forces of our tool kits.
We pushed on, a little apprehensive of our potential mechanical problems and legal issues and were still 120 miles of twisty roads away from the end of the road which still contained 3 military checkpoints. Luckily we were only asked for our passports the rest of the day and got through unscathed.
Information varied widely from checkpoint to checkpoint. One told us that we would have to stop at the next town and wouldn't be allowed through at is was too dangerous for gringos and that we would be 'found quickly'. But there was nobody at the next town to stop us so we kept going.
While cruising along in formation on a reasonably good dirt road I saw Torben's bike jump to the side and kick up a huge plume of dust, followed by Tom's bike doing the same thing, his bouncing diagonally, but he stayed on. I swerverd left and nicked the side of a huge pothole the size of a mattress that went straight through the asphault to the dirt beneath. We all slowed down and stood up on the pegs as we'd entered an area with tons of random holes in the road.
We finally made it to the outskirts of the little town of Yavisa which was filled with lots of stilt houses, most of which were thatch-roofed and had bamboo walls. The town had very narrow concrete streets what were well-above ground by about 18", not sure why. We came upon a Carnival party going on where several hoses were spraying down the crowd in the street.
We did a hard left down a street then doubled back on a road that ran perpendicular to a river where it stopped at a long, narrow susupension bridge. End of the road. In the river were may locals in dug-out canoes, piled with fruit and other goods.
We took a few pictures before riding off to our hostel, trying to make as many miles as possible before dark.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
2-13-10 Panama City, Panama
Adam had heard that one could make a small backpacking stove out of beer cans so we set out to do just that. I'll let him tell the story here as he does a proper job of it on his blog at http://bridginggaps.com.au/ just click on the "NEW" tab on the left side of the screen then "DIY compact gas cooker...."
I packed up in Boquete, said my goodbyes to Adam and Claudia then pointed the bike towards Panama City where I would be staying at another 'Mamallena' hostel owned by Stuart as well. He said that the place was full for Carnival but that he'd find a place for me somewhere which ended up being a comfy hammock on an outdoor balcony.
The ride in was exciting as I rode over the Panama Canal on a huge bridge, looking towards the Pacific to the right and mountains, city and a mass of vessels to the left. The Canal is interesting from a logistical perspective but nothing terribly amazing in person. You wouldn't know you were at the Panama Canal if not for the signs all around stating just that. Essentially, the Canal links a series of lakes together but more importantly allows boats to travel uphill and downhill with locks which are essentially water elevators.
I'd been to Panama City before and quickly made it to their huge mall where massages are to be had for a quarter the price as back home. I fell asleep several times in my chair and awoke startled as to why I was being jabbed in the back. After my massage I went to their little food court where I tried some Panamanian Taco Bell which was no different from States. Upon ordering, the cashier asked me my name. "Benjamin" I replied (I alway go by Benjamin in Spanish speaking countries as 'Ben' sounds like the word for 'come' in Spanish which gets confusing.) Speaking of confusing, the lady gave me a weird look, then typed my name onto the receipt before handing it to me. She hadn't written 'Benjamin', but 'WLADAMIR' which they called when my order was ready.
That night Stuart took me out to Carnival which is quite big in Panama City. While walking around the sea of people I saw a hand lunge at my face and unload a cloud of debris. Without hesitatingI spun to my left and returned fire with my empty beer can, bouncing it off the assailant's madulla oblongatta and sending a stream of foam into the air. I instantly felt bad as I realized it was a girl my age who had just tossed a handfull of confetti at me. I felt worse when Stuart told me thowing confetti at people is a sign of affection. So if you're reading this, poor girl, I'm sorry. Call Me!
I packed up in Boquete, said my goodbyes to Adam and Claudia then pointed the bike towards Panama City where I would be staying at another 'Mamallena' hostel owned by Stuart as well. He said that the place was full for Carnival but that he'd find a place for me somewhere which ended up being a comfy hammock on an outdoor balcony.
The ride in was exciting as I rode over the Panama Canal on a huge bridge, looking towards the Pacific to the right and mountains, city and a mass of vessels to the left. The Canal is interesting from a logistical perspective but nothing terribly amazing in person. You wouldn't know you were at the Panama Canal if not for the signs all around stating just that. Essentially, the Canal links a series of lakes together but more importantly allows boats to travel uphill and downhill with locks which are essentially water elevators.
I'd been to Panama City before and quickly made it to their huge mall where massages are to be had for a quarter the price as back home. I fell asleep several times in my chair and awoke startled as to why I was being jabbed in the back. After my massage I went to their little food court where I tried some Panamanian Taco Bell which was no different from States. Upon ordering, the cashier asked me my name. "Benjamin" I replied (I alway go by Benjamin in Spanish speaking countries as 'Ben' sounds like the word for 'come' in Spanish which gets confusing.) Speaking of confusing, the lady gave me a weird look, then typed my name onto the receipt before handing it to me. She hadn't written 'Benjamin', but 'WLADAMIR' which they called when my order was ready.
That night Stuart took me out to Carnival which is quite big in Panama City. While walking around the sea of people I saw a hand lunge at my face and unload a cloud of debris. Without hesitatingI spun to my left and returned fire with my empty beer can, bouncing it off the assailant's madulla oblongatta and sending a stream of foam into the air. I instantly felt bad as I realized it was a girl my age who had just tossed a handfull of confetti at me. I felt worse when Stuart told me thowing confetti at people is a sign of affection. So if you're reading this, poor girl, I'm sorry. Call Me!
Saturday, March 6, 2010
2-6-10 Boquete, Panama part two
After having a few beers with Paul, Adam and I returned to our hostel where we met one of the owners, Miguel, who insisted on taking us out to a little pub with live music. A round of tequila soon showed up on account of my Mexican accent. Also out with us was Claudia, Adam's Bolivian girlfriend he'd picked up while in Bolivia. Adam's 26, she's 32 which he told me while nodding and shooting me a wink.
After the bar we decided to indulge in some Totinos pizzas we'd found at a little market on the way home, they were delicious. While eating them I met Stuart from Tasmania, the other owner of the 'Mamallena Hostel'. Stuart asked Adam and I if we wanted to go see something that he described as being a 'brilliant spectacle' which wasn't a question at all in our books as we couldn't decline such an offer.
It was now 2am and the three of us headed out for a brief walk then rounded a corner into an alley where a single light illuminated a small crowd of guys. Upon getting closer we saw that it was a fight that had everyone's attention. The two fighters boxed properly, no kicking, biting or hitting on the ground. The opponents held their fists unusually high so that their upper arm was parallel with the dirt, kinda resembling a kangaroo. They threw few jabs but used more of a vertical stabbing motion which did a good job of bloodying both men.
Inside the bar was interesting to say the least. I've seen some pretty shady establishments including some with troughs between the stools and the bar intended to allow patrons to relieve themselves conveniently without leaving their perch. This place had no troughs but could have used them as it wreaked of piss. I counted six bodies slumped on the floor and found number seven when I kicked him in the chest accidentally on my way to the bar to order a round of 60 cent beers. I'm pretty sure he didn't feel a thing.
The bar scene was comprised entirely of local indigenous guys, but not all of them were dressed as guys. We were propositioned for a dance by some cheeky chaps and we graciously declined. The three of us were each a foot taller than everyone else in the room though we were never stared at or treated any differently from the others which was nice. Often times in situations like this the foreigners will be given a lot of personal space, but here we seemed to blend in with the crowd. Then again, maybe they were too drunk to look up and see our white faces.
While standing around chatting three fights broke out, two of which were moved outside where they fought properly, the third fizzled after a good slap.
During one of the outdoor matches everyone stopped what they were doing and ran into the bar. The cops had showed up. Stuart, Adam and I stayed outside and greeted the cops who went indoors, made a round then left. Less than a minute after the cops departure the fists were flying again.
It was a Saturday night in Boquete and apparently this is what the local indigenous guys do every weekend. The previous Saturday ended with four stabbings outside the bar.
We made it back to the hostel a few hours before sunrise exhausted but elated that it had been an excellent day. The hostel was dark so I staggered off towards my dorm room, opened the door quietly and crawled up the little ladder and was soon asleep in my bunk. For some reason I wasn't worried about the fact that none of my gear was on my bed where I'd left it. The 60 cent beers might have had something to do with this, then again, maybe not. Upon waking up the next morning I came to find that I was not in a room with a few Canadians as I had thought the night before, instead I was in a dorm room of Israeli girls. "Morning, ladies" I looked at the door which said Dorm 2, the key in my pocket said Dorm 1.
After the bar we decided to indulge in some Totinos pizzas we'd found at a little market on the way home, they were delicious. While eating them I met Stuart from Tasmania, the other owner of the 'Mamallena Hostel'. Stuart asked Adam and I if we wanted to go see something that he described as being a 'brilliant spectacle' which wasn't a question at all in our books as we couldn't decline such an offer.
It was now 2am and the three of us headed out for a brief walk then rounded a corner into an alley where a single light illuminated a small crowd of guys. Upon getting closer we saw that it was a fight that had everyone's attention. The two fighters boxed properly, no kicking, biting or hitting on the ground. The opponents held their fists unusually high so that their upper arm was parallel with the dirt, kinda resembling a kangaroo. They threw few jabs but used more of a vertical stabbing motion which did a good job of bloodying both men.
Inside the bar was interesting to say the least. I've seen some pretty shady establishments including some with troughs between the stools and the bar intended to allow patrons to relieve themselves conveniently without leaving their perch. This place had no troughs but could have used them as it wreaked of piss. I counted six bodies slumped on the floor and found number seven when I kicked him in the chest accidentally on my way to the bar to order a round of 60 cent beers. I'm pretty sure he didn't feel a thing.
The bar scene was comprised entirely of local indigenous guys, but not all of them were dressed as guys. We were propositioned for a dance by some cheeky chaps and we graciously declined. The three of us were each a foot taller than everyone else in the room though we were never stared at or treated any differently from the others which was nice. Often times in situations like this the foreigners will be given a lot of personal space, but here we seemed to blend in with the crowd. Then again, maybe they were too drunk to look up and see our white faces.
While standing around chatting three fights broke out, two of which were moved outside where they fought properly, the third fizzled after a good slap.
During one of the outdoor matches everyone stopped what they were doing and ran into the bar. The cops had showed up. Stuart, Adam and I stayed outside and greeted the cops who went indoors, made a round then left. Less than a minute after the cops departure the fists were flying again.
It was a Saturday night in Boquete and apparently this is what the local indigenous guys do every weekend. The previous Saturday ended with four stabbings outside the bar.
We made it back to the hostel a few hours before sunrise exhausted but elated that it had been an excellent day. The hostel was dark so I staggered off towards my dorm room, opened the door quietly and crawled up the little ladder and was soon asleep in my bunk. For some reason I wasn't worried about the fact that none of my gear was on my bed where I'd left it. The 60 cent beers might have had something to do with this, then again, maybe not. Upon waking up the next morning I came to find that I was not in a room with a few Canadians as I had thought the night before, instead I was in a dorm room of Israeli girls. "Morning, ladies" I looked at the door which said Dorm 2, the key in my pocket said Dorm 1.
Friday, March 5, 2010
2-6-10 Boquete, Panama
I left Rivas and was still undecided as to where I would go for the evening, I was debating the Osa Peninsula or the little town of Gulfito which was rumored to have little to see or do but was a good days ride away. The ride was easy, nobody out on the roads at all. The only time I was slowed down was when one of the Delmonte pineapple tractors was chugging along down the road ahead of me. There were thousands of acres of little pineapple sprouts growing in the fields that looked almost like aloe vera or large iris plants.
Storm clouds started brewing so I decided not to go to the peninsula as the best parts were dirt roads and the tread on my tires is getting somewhat low. Upon seeing Golfito it was obvious that there was nothing to do so I thought I'd take advantage of the cloudy weather and make it to the Panama border which was rumored to be a pain to cross.
Within minutes of pulling under a huge overhang for customs the storm hit, nothing too extreme but enough to instantly saturate the air making for a rather uncomfortable hour of darting back and forth between random offices. I paid off a local guy to run some papers for me and to get out of checking all my gear for customs as it was getting late in the day.
The rain didn't have a clean, refreshing smell at the border, just brought a foul stench out of the ground. Once inside Panama, however, the rain took on a good earthy smell, like black-eyed peas. I rode to the town of David where I stopped at a little cart for some coconut milk and got directions to the town of Boquete.
I hit the outskirts of Boquete just as it was getting dark and could make out a few silhouetted peaks surrounding the town. I noticed some car behind me was flashing its lights so I sped up a bit and the car did the same. I rode past the little central park and decided to turn around to make another pass. Upon pulling over the car that was behind me pulled over as well and I saw a gringo stick his head out, "You from Colorado?" he yelled.
Paul was from Seattle but has been living in Central America for a few years after meeting a girl in Guatemala. The story goes as such... He was working as a firefighter in Seattle when he bought a motorcycle (the exact same model as mine) and started riding to South America. While in Guatemala, though, he fell in love with a local girl. He kept riding down to Panama but turned around to be with her. They're now married.
He offered to show me a good hostel that was only a few hundred yards away so I followed him. I stayed on my bike while he ran inside to check for availability. As I was waiting outside a wild-haired guy jogged over, "I'm a KLR rider!" he said in an Australian accent. (KLR's are a bike made by Kawasaki that are popular for the trip I'm doing) And this is how I met Adam. He's my age and started his adventure 8 months ago in the bottom of South America and is now working his way north.
There was room in the hostel so I dropped my gear and Paul, Adam and I went to a little bar next door where we swapped motorcycle stores for quite some time. Adam had a rather harrowing experience crossing the Darien Gap, from Colombia to Panama. He and a kiwi mate took an old boat hull and mounted both their motorcycles in the bottom. The removed the rear wheels and ran their chains around an axel from a rear-wheel drive car. The chains spun the axel which in turn spun a driveshaft which turned a prop sticking out the back of the boat. They also ran some cooling pumps which tapped into the radiators of the bikes to keep them cool as they wouldn't be going fast enough to keep the engines from overheating. This all seemed good in theory. Two months of construction later and they set off. They were plagued with problems, broken parts, salt water eating anything it touched and eventually a blown CDI unit due to it getting a little wet. They lost power altogether and were adrift in a storm when they decided to drop their little anchor to steady themselves in the rough sea. However, they literally dropped the anchor, chain and all to the bottom of the ocean. The boat then drifted until it smashed up on a reef next to an island where they were later rescued by the coast guard. They ended up fixing things enough to limp up to Panama where Adam was now. In all their voyage took over a month but they made it. Adam's bike is now in Panama City waiting for a variety of new parts before he pushes north.
Storm clouds started brewing so I decided not to go to the peninsula as the best parts were dirt roads and the tread on my tires is getting somewhat low. Upon seeing Golfito it was obvious that there was nothing to do so I thought I'd take advantage of the cloudy weather and make it to the Panama border which was rumored to be a pain to cross.
Within minutes of pulling under a huge overhang for customs the storm hit, nothing too extreme but enough to instantly saturate the air making for a rather uncomfortable hour of darting back and forth between random offices. I paid off a local guy to run some papers for me and to get out of checking all my gear for customs as it was getting late in the day.
The rain didn't have a clean, refreshing smell at the border, just brought a foul stench out of the ground. Once inside Panama, however, the rain took on a good earthy smell, like black-eyed peas. I rode to the town of David where I stopped at a little cart for some coconut milk and got directions to the town of Boquete.
I hit the outskirts of Boquete just as it was getting dark and could make out a few silhouetted peaks surrounding the town. I noticed some car behind me was flashing its lights so I sped up a bit and the car did the same. I rode past the little central park and decided to turn around to make another pass. Upon pulling over the car that was behind me pulled over as well and I saw a gringo stick his head out, "You from Colorado?" he yelled.
Paul was from Seattle but has been living in Central America for a few years after meeting a girl in Guatemala. The story goes as such... He was working as a firefighter in Seattle when he bought a motorcycle (the exact same model as mine) and started riding to South America. While in Guatemala, though, he fell in love with a local girl. He kept riding down to Panama but turned around to be with her. They're now married.
He offered to show me a good hostel that was only a few hundred yards away so I followed him. I stayed on my bike while he ran inside to check for availability. As I was waiting outside a wild-haired guy jogged over, "I'm a KLR rider!" he said in an Australian accent. (KLR's are a bike made by Kawasaki that are popular for the trip I'm doing) And this is how I met Adam. He's my age and started his adventure 8 months ago in the bottom of South America and is now working his way north.
There was room in the hostel so I dropped my gear and Paul, Adam and I went to a little bar next door where we swapped motorcycle stores for quite some time. Adam had a rather harrowing experience crossing the Darien Gap, from Colombia to Panama. He and a kiwi mate took an old boat hull and mounted both their motorcycles in the bottom. The removed the rear wheels and ran their chains around an axel from a rear-wheel drive car. The chains spun the axel which in turn spun a driveshaft which turned a prop sticking out the back of the boat. They also ran some cooling pumps which tapped into the radiators of the bikes to keep them cool as they wouldn't be going fast enough to keep the engines from overheating. This all seemed good in theory. Two months of construction later and they set off. They were plagued with problems, broken parts, salt water eating anything it touched and eventually a blown CDI unit due to it getting a little wet. They lost power altogether and were adrift in a storm when they decided to drop their little anchor to steady themselves in the rough sea. However, they literally dropped the anchor, chain and all to the bottom of the ocean. The boat then drifted until it smashed up on a reef next to an island where they were later rescued by the coast guard. They ended up fixing things enough to limp up to Panama where Adam was now. In all their voyage took over a month but they made it. Adam's bike is now in Panama City waiting for a variety of new parts before he pushes north.
2-4-10 Rivas, Costa Rica
I went to my usual breakfast spot before heading out for a run on the beach with my temporary pet dog, Chispa. As always, he was a few steps behind me no matter how fast I ran. He had a bit of a diagonal gait and had a tongue that bounced around a lot. He'd occasionally dart off into the jungle before resuming his position right behind me. Chispa had followed me for the past day and a half. He'd wait outside of restaurants for me, follow me to the beach and even sleep outside my door.
I couldn't take Manuel Antonio anymore. Way too hot and humid there, and just another beach in my opinion. Beaches are fun for a couple days then I get restless. The whole 'beach vacation' thing has always seemed a bit strange to me, especially the way Americans vacation. For some reason we think we're supposed to get great pleasure out of blowing lots of mony on being lazy in the sun.
I packed up the bike wearing nothing but my boxers, frequently taking breaks on the little the bench outside my room. I'd flop down and watch beads of sweat roll down my chest into my bellybutton. Chispa was nearby as usual and I watched him drink out of a waterbottle that one of the groundskeepers had left open by darting his tongue inside like a anteater.
.
It was an unpleasant few minutes putting on my boots, pants and jacket before saying adios to Chispa. I rode off to the south, paralleling the coast on a winding road that snaked through surgar cane and pineapple plantations. I rode for a while and thought I should have made a turn already so stopped at a little roadside cafe for ceviche and tamarindo juice, both excellent. The waitress gave me directions back to where I should have turned inland.
After a few hours of riding I made it to a small unmarked road that I was told would lead me to Rivas, a little mountain town and the base camp for lots of volcano hiking in the area. I wasn't planning on doing any hikes as every volcano I've ever seen has been stuck in the clouds providing no view. Instead I found some hotsprings to soak in instead but not before I dumped the bike yet again on a steep gravel section. Gotta make the day somewhat difficult in order to truly enjoy the hotsprings. After parking and trudging up to the little office for the springs some sneaky dog crept up behind me and bit my heel before darting off to safety where we exchanged dirty looks.
I stayed at the Pelican Inn which is a cool little resort-like place of by itself with a pool and some cabanas as well as some little rooms above the restaurant which is where I'm located. There are no room numbers, just bird names. I had room 'Colibri' (hummingbird).
I couldn't take Manuel Antonio anymore. Way too hot and humid there, and just another beach in my opinion. Beaches are fun for a couple days then I get restless. The whole 'beach vacation' thing has always seemed a bit strange to me, especially the way Americans vacation. For some reason we think we're supposed to get great pleasure out of blowing lots of mony on being lazy in the sun.
I packed up the bike wearing nothing but my boxers, frequently taking breaks on the little the bench outside my room. I'd flop down and watch beads of sweat roll down my chest into my bellybutton. Chispa was nearby as usual and I watched him drink out of a waterbottle that one of the groundskeepers had left open by darting his tongue inside like a anteater.
.
It was an unpleasant few minutes putting on my boots, pants and jacket before saying adios to Chispa. I rode off to the south, paralleling the coast on a winding road that snaked through surgar cane and pineapple plantations. I rode for a while and thought I should have made a turn already so stopped at a little roadside cafe for ceviche and tamarindo juice, both excellent. The waitress gave me directions back to where I should have turned inland.
After a few hours of riding I made it to a small unmarked road that I was told would lead me to Rivas, a little mountain town and the base camp for lots of volcano hiking in the area. I wasn't planning on doing any hikes as every volcano I've ever seen has been stuck in the clouds providing no view. Instead I found some hotsprings to soak in instead but not before I dumped the bike yet again on a steep gravel section. Gotta make the day somewhat difficult in order to truly enjoy the hotsprings. After parking and trudging up to the little office for the springs some sneaky dog crept up behind me and bit my heel before darting off to safety where we exchanged dirty looks.
I stayed at the Pelican Inn which is a cool little resort-like place of by itself with a pool and some cabanas as well as some little rooms above the restaurant which is where I'm located. There are no room numbers, just bird names. I had room 'Colibri' (hummingbird).
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
2-3-10 Manuel Antonio, Costa Rica
I woke up and found a great little cafe and ate a mound of fruit and pancakes along with some Costa Rican coffee. I perused my guidebook and decided to check out the National Park which was walking distance from where I was. There wasn't much there that I hadn't seen before with the exception of spider monkeys. There was a family of these bandits swinging through the tree and hopping around like,well, monkeys which never gets old. The monkeys were fond of a plastic bag that had some picnic remnants in it and quickly ripped it open before ferrying watermelon rinds and potato chip bags up through the trees.
On my way back I encountered a sloth slowly making his way across the bottom strand of some powerlines. There was a group of people assembled nearby and were yelling at it, trying to make make it turn around and leave his high-voltage jungle-gym. Some genius grabbed an aluminum pole and was going to try to club the poor thing off the line until somebody with some common sense stopped him. I saw this as being potentially spectacular as I've never seen a sloth get zapped by a power line before so I switched my camera over to video mode. There were worried murmors as the sloth then started climbing the lines which were arranged like a ladder. As he reached with each little hooked claw for a new line the crowd would gasp and shriek. Fortunately the little guy knew what he was doing and methodically climbed up and down the line nibbling on branches before slowly climbing a tree for a nap.
I hit the beach again and found dead jellyfish washed up on the sand. I've got an acute hatred for jellyfish resulting from the afternoon of December 25, 2005. I was in the British Virgin Islands with my family and was swimming in the clear blue water with my youngest sister when we were both stung by a jellyfish. She had it worse on her shoulder and neck while I got away with just a sting on my left forearm.
Little Anne went to the local clinic to get some ice and antihistamines which helped her some. Not wanting to ruin a good day at the beach I decided to stay behind despite the fiery sting. "Hey, I know how to make that feel better" My brother said with a grin. I knew exactly what he was talking about. "Damnit, fine" I agreed.
I followed my brother behind a huge rock on the beach where he ordered me to get on my knees and stick out my left arm. Yes, he was laughing by this time. He then peed on my arm which he made sure splattered excessively. Then, for preventative measures, he hosed-down my upper arm, shoulder, back and neck all while wishing me a merry Christmas.
The worst part was that Nate's homeopathic treatment didn't work at all. I ended up having a strange checkered mark on my forearm that looked like a meat tenderizer wound that lasted and burned for several months. And this is why I don't like jellyfish.
On my way back I encountered a sloth slowly making his way across the bottom strand of some powerlines. There was a group of people assembled nearby and were yelling at it, trying to make make it turn around and leave his high-voltage jungle-gym. Some genius grabbed an aluminum pole and was going to try to club the poor thing off the line until somebody with some common sense stopped him. I saw this as being potentially spectacular as I've never seen a sloth get zapped by a power line before so I switched my camera over to video mode. There were worried murmors as the sloth then started climbing the lines which were arranged like a ladder. As he reached with each little hooked claw for a new line the crowd would gasp and shriek. Fortunately the little guy knew what he was doing and methodically climbed up and down the line nibbling on branches before slowly climbing a tree for a nap.
I hit the beach again and found dead jellyfish washed up on the sand. I've got an acute hatred for jellyfish resulting from the afternoon of December 25, 2005. I was in the British Virgin Islands with my family and was swimming in the clear blue water with my youngest sister when we were both stung by a jellyfish. She had it worse on her shoulder and neck while I got away with just a sting on my left forearm.
Little Anne went to the local clinic to get some ice and antihistamines which helped her some. Not wanting to ruin a good day at the beach I decided to stay behind despite the fiery sting. "Hey, I know how to make that feel better" My brother said with a grin. I knew exactly what he was talking about. "Damnit, fine" I agreed.
I followed my brother behind a huge rock on the beach where he ordered me to get on my knees and stick out my left arm. Yes, he was laughing by this time. He then peed on my arm which he made sure splattered excessively. Then, for preventative measures, he hosed-down my upper arm, shoulder, back and neck all while wishing me a merry Christmas.
The worst part was that Nate's homeopathic treatment didn't work at all. I ended up having a strange checkered mark on my forearm that looked like a meat tenderizer wound that lasted and burned for several months. And this is why I don't like jellyfish.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
2-2-10 Manuel Antonio
I packed up and was enjoying a cup of coffee before leaving Monte Verde when I glanced at the front page of the newspaper. A fuel-tanker had crashed on a bridge the day before and burned for several hours, weakening the bridge which was now closed. I didn't think twice about it.
I saddled-up the bike and got directions to some backyard mechanic who sold me a few gallons of gas, enough to get me back to a larger town where it would be half the price. I snaked down the winding dirt road that I had ascended a few days earlier, though didn't recognize much, only the occasional odd-looking tree or bright sign. I rounded a corner and saw a huge rainbow off in the valley in front of me and decided to stop for a picture. I had slowed to about a mile an hour when I pulled my front brake a little too hard, causing the front tire to skid sideways which threw me off balance enough to drop the bike. We both landed ungracefully on our left sides. As I sat in the road I was provided with an interesting view- a rainbow in the background with my bike, on it's side, at the end of the rainbow. No damage, I picked it up (barely) and rode off, happy to hit pavement eventually.
I rode for a hour before I came to a long line of vehicles waiting on the side of the road. I adhered to my usual technique of passing stopped vehicles that are stopped for unknown reasons and rode until I saw a few guy standing around and asked them what was going on. I was told that a truck had exploded on a bridge the day before and it wasn't passable, the same truck that I'd read about in the morning newspaper. I kept riding to the front of the line where I saw a charred chassis and blackened bridge.
I found out that there was some heavy equipment in the midst of making a river crossing just upstream of the bridge and rode up a little dirt road, paralleling the river to investigate. I dismounted and walked around the river for a bit trying to get a good view of what lay ahead. The largest rocks were basketball sized, but most were between the softball and baseball range.
I decided to cross much to the delight of the group of people on the far side. I started off slow, chugging through the water which started pouring in the top of my boots. The water got gradually deeper which started pulling my feet backwards, making it hard to balance, so I slowed down to a crawl, lunging the bike over the rocks ahead of me. One spot of the river dropped about six inches quickly and submerged the engine sending off a good plume of steam but the bike didn't hesitate and kept rolling. I then ran directly into a large rock that I didn't see. I tried to throttle over it but the bike died. I held my breath as I thumbed the starter button and the bike fired. A little more throttle this time and I cleared the rock and was home free receiving an applause from the observers.
I stopped for a few pictures then linked a few dirt paths together before surfacing on the southbound Pan-American Highway. I was the only guy headed south for a while and passed miles of cars wanting to go northbound but were stuck. I rode until the beach town of Manuel Antonio where I found a little concrete bungalow/prison cell with no AC that was painfully hot. I unloaded the bike, stripped down and ran off to the beach where I splashed around for a while.
It was about 3pm and I wanted to find out how much it would cost to rent a beach chair for the rest of the day. Some local guy was clearly proud of his chairs as he let me know they cost $5 per day. I asked him how much it would cost for the rest of the day and was told $5 as well despite there being two hours of daylight left. He didn't seem to understand why I might want a discount. This seems to be typical down here. For example, it doesn't matter if you buy a Pepsi that is 500ml, 750ml or 3000ml, they all cost the exact same per milliliter, no bulk discount. So on principle alone I decided not to rent the guys chair and instead dug a little sand chair for myself. I guess it was more of a depression for my butt and a mound for my head, but it was comfortable enough for me to fall asleep in. Apparently I slept with my arms over my head as I now have painfully sunburned arm pits and have to walk around with my hands on my hips.
I saddled-up the bike and got directions to some backyard mechanic who sold me a few gallons of gas, enough to get me back to a larger town where it would be half the price. I snaked down the winding dirt road that I had ascended a few days earlier, though didn't recognize much, only the occasional odd-looking tree or bright sign. I rounded a corner and saw a huge rainbow off in the valley in front of me and decided to stop for a picture. I had slowed to about a mile an hour when I pulled my front brake a little too hard, causing the front tire to skid sideways which threw me off balance enough to drop the bike. We both landed ungracefully on our left sides. As I sat in the road I was provided with an interesting view- a rainbow in the background with my bike, on it's side, at the end of the rainbow. No damage, I picked it up (barely) and rode off, happy to hit pavement eventually.
I rode for a hour before I came to a long line of vehicles waiting on the side of the road. I adhered to my usual technique of passing stopped vehicles that are stopped for unknown reasons and rode until I saw a few guy standing around and asked them what was going on. I was told that a truck had exploded on a bridge the day before and it wasn't passable, the same truck that I'd read about in the morning newspaper. I kept riding to the front of the line where I saw a charred chassis and blackened bridge.
I found out that there was some heavy equipment in the midst of making a river crossing just upstream of the bridge and rode up a little dirt road, paralleling the river to investigate. I dismounted and walked around the river for a bit trying to get a good view of what lay ahead. The largest rocks were basketball sized, but most were between the softball and baseball range.
I decided to cross much to the delight of the group of people on the far side. I started off slow, chugging through the water which started pouring in the top of my boots. The water got gradually deeper which started pulling my feet backwards, making it hard to balance, so I slowed down to a crawl, lunging the bike over the rocks ahead of me. One spot of the river dropped about six inches quickly and submerged the engine sending off a good plume of steam but the bike didn't hesitate and kept rolling. I then ran directly into a large rock that I didn't see. I tried to throttle over it but the bike died. I held my breath as I thumbed the starter button and the bike fired. A little more throttle this time and I cleared the rock and was home free receiving an applause from the observers.
I stopped for a few pictures then linked a few dirt paths together before surfacing on the southbound Pan-American Highway. I was the only guy headed south for a while and passed miles of cars wanting to go northbound but were stuck. I rode until the beach town of Manuel Antonio where I found a little concrete bungalow/prison cell with no AC that was painfully hot. I unloaded the bike, stripped down and ran off to the beach where I splashed around for a while.
It was about 3pm and I wanted to find out how much it would cost to rent a beach chair for the rest of the day. Some local guy was clearly proud of his chairs as he let me know they cost $5 per day. I asked him how much it would cost for the rest of the day and was told $5 as well despite there being two hours of daylight left. He didn't seem to understand why I might want a discount. This seems to be typical down here. For example, it doesn't matter if you buy a Pepsi that is 500ml, 750ml or 3000ml, they all cost the exact same per milliliter, no bulk discount. So on principle alone I decided not to rent the guys chair and instead dug a little sand chair for myself. I guess it was more of a depression for my butt and a mound for my head, but it was comfortable enough for me to fall asleep in. Apparently I slept with my arms over my head as I now have painfully sunburned arm pits and have to walk around with my hands on my hips.
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