The Americas: South, Central and Mexico

The trip plan was conceived a few years ago...The trip plan was conceived a few years ago, to round out my travels in South America. You see, I had been to South America twice before.In 1996 I had traveled from Santiago, Chile south to Ushuaia, that "Uttermost Part of the World" also known as "Fin del Mundo", and then back to Santiago before shipping home from there.

We came in fast...288 kmph...We came in fast...288 kmph. We roared down the runway, the pilot pressing hard on the brakes; the reverse thrusters rattling behind us.

Santiago musings, Valparaiso, Vina del Mar et al....The Santiago Metro is one of the most efficient ways to move around Santiago proper.For a mere 75 cents you can travel to your heart´s content. The trains run at about the same frequency that a traffic light switches at. If your train leaves as you approach the platform, never fear for another one will be there before you descend the stairs and reach the queue.

Reporting from Antofagasta, ChileWe were late in getting the bikes out of customs. It was almost 11PM before we were back at the hotel. We still had to pack and organize our luggage for a departure tomorrow morning.We followed the coast north from Vina. Then the road veered inland and I searched for a mountain backroad I had had my eyes on during the planning stages. I missed it by a mile, literally. However the road I was on had all of the correct characteristics so I meandered on.

Antofagasta and San Pedro de AtacamaBaquedano! What a romantic name for a town that time forgot. Perched in the middle of the Atacama Desert only a short distance from Antofagasta it exists in a peaceful slumber; the desert winds whistling among its ancient buildings. A few hardy folk continue to eke out a living in this godforsaken place.Most people would pass through this almost inconspicuous town and hardly give it a second thought or bother to lift their foot off of the accelerator if it were not for the carabineros. However, we had a different mission.

Reporting from Iquique, CHWe left San Pedro and made a beeline for the coast. It was only 2-1/2 hours away but it seemed to take forever in the straight line, monotone drone of the Atacama. At Tocopilla we lunched on fresh Soupa de Mariscos, dredging up oysters, clams and a few unidentifiable bits and pieces below the murky surface of the broth. As advertised by the patrons it was "muis rico."

Reporting from AricaWe left Iquique and climbed up the ridge separating the town from the desert. The cool coastal air gave way to the dry desert heat. Soon we were basking in 25 C warmth; a far cry from the 12C on the coast.

Reporting from ArequipaWhile visiting a museum on the outskirts of Arica, we met a Japanese couple who were travelling South America, for one (1) year, on their Yamaha....Yamaha 90 that is.

Reporting from NazcaArequipa to Nazca...almost 600 kms. Was it doable? Yes, but you had to be motivated. I wasn´t. I looked for a distraction and found one only two hours out of Arequipa.Nestled in the foothills of the Andes was Petroglifos de Toro Muerto, a large area of petroglyphs heretofore unassigned to any culture. Dating from the time of the Wari, about 800 AD, some of these are finely executed. The sunbaked mountain side sweltered in the 35C heat. It was impossible to stagger amongst the boulders, slog through the sand and seek out all of the art work.

Reporting from CuzcoThe desert had spoiled me. With ambients reaching into the low 30s C on a regular basis life was easy.Riding had been hot at times, my riding gear keeping me in the moist zone. Water consumption was high in the 3 liter plus per day range. I looked forward to the mountains with trepadation, knowing they could be cold and wet.

Reporting from....CuzcoYou can eat a three course meal at street level in Peru for less than $2. You can eat at sidewalk level for less than $4. You can eat at tourist level for much more, the choice is yours. Entree, soup, main course, coffee and desert (pie) for $3.50. It works for me and that is just for lunch. A lunch meal like that can allow you to skip dinner.The sun peered into the valley slit and put a bright shine on the new day. A few miles down the road I came into a small town. I hadn´t eaten since early afternoon so it was time for some food.

Reporting from Arica, Chile...My impressions of Cusco were not as favorable as the first time I visited.It was the street urchins and the peddlars that probably made a difference. Plus, it was not Inti Rami so the festive spirit was without. I weighed it all carefully and decided against a return visit to Machu Picchu.

My first visit to Machu Picchu was one of awe and wonderment. "The Vertical World of Machu Picchu" was how I described it then. I did not want to tamper with that pristine memory. I did not want to temper my rememberances. I did not visit Machu Picchu.

The trip off of the mountain revived some old memories from the last trip.Before I left Lake Titicaca I had a run-in with the Federales. I had not encountered these people before...only the Nacionale Police.I saw them parked at the south end of the small town as I entered from the north.
However, just before I got to them I spotted an old mission one block off of the main road. I turned towards it and stopped to investigate. Poking around and taking a few pictures consumed time...15, maybe 20 minutes. I was in no hurry.

La Paz There were seemingly a few good reasons to go to La Paz. However none of them balanced with the chaos that greeted me as I rolled off of the hill.There are so many buses, mini buses, mico-buses and taxis in these Latin cities that they consume 99% of the road. El Alto, the city at the top of the bowl, was no exception. Six of the eight lanes were plugged with the 'load' and 'unload' activities of these public transport vehicles. The other two lanes were blocked with drivers trying to escape the chaos. I was somewhere in the other two lanes.

The TropicsCochabamba was nestled in a broad valley at 8500 ft. The climate was moderate; warm in the day and cool at night.

I had heard much about the "new" road to Santa Cruz. I had heard much about the "old" road to Santa Cruz. I decided to ride them both.

The new road was the tropical route. I had been hearing about it for years. It was on all of the maps, but we know that doesn't mean much.

Back in Santa Cruz...Armed with only a small amount of information and the promise that they offered a unique spectacle I set off for the Missiones.Long an isolated area to the NE of Santa Cruz, the Chiquitania, was once only accessible by a not too well maintained dirt road. The entire loop was over 700 km, usually taking the better part of a week to complete in the dry season; nearly impassible in the wet season.

Within the last two years the first 350 km from Santa Cruz to Conception had been paved. I took the easy route.

wherefore art thou?The Missiones circuit...At Conception I lodged at the Hotel Etayo. I was their only guest. They welcomed me into their family as one of their own. I had planned to stay one day and ended up staying for three. We shared stories and traded lifestyles. Fernando had learned English in the United States...Ohio. We talked well into the evening. Born in 1950, he was the same age as me. He had moved to Conception to start a new life and to raise his family.

Reflections in a mud puddle........Reflections in a mud puddle....I wish I had time in my life to understand all that I see...the mysteries, the passions, the motivations behind the work. Those things, those memories that lodge in my mind but remain unanswered, unexplained and not understood. So much has happened before me; so much will happen after me; so much will remain a mystery in my life and the next...

The Old Highway, Santa Cruz to SucreThe Surazo can hang around for days or weeks. There is no telling.
Saturday was a wet and miserable day, the temperature barely above 10C. A good day for a movie...The da Vinci Code. Interesting, perhaps a little melodramatic, but a good distraction.

Sunday dawned overcast and cold, but no rain. I made a break for it. I knew that somewhere to the west the Surazo would run out of gas and blue skies would return.

I had been living high at the top of the world...literally. The cost be damned... I had been living high at the top of the world...literally. The cost be damned. At 13,200 feet ASL, Potosi was simply the highest city in the world. At one time it carried two other accolades...the biggest city in the world and the richest. Bigger than Paris or Rome or any other...richer than all others. That was back in the Colonial era, in the mid 1500s. Much has changed since then.

I had criss-crossed Bolivia like a politician campaigning for office.I had criss-crossed Bolivia like a politician campaigning for office. From Paso Tambo Quemada to La Paz, south to Cochabamba, east across the Chapare and the Beni via El Camino Nuevo to Santa Cruz, north and east into the Missiones district, back west on El Camino Viejo and south to Sucre, further south to Potosi and Tarija. Then east again to Villamonte and finally south to Yacuiba where I plan to make my exit to Argentina.What a grand country.

The road east from Tarija to Villamontes was total tierra...ripio...gravel...dirt. You get the picture.The road east from Tarija to Villamontes was total tierra...ripio...gravel...dirt. You get the picture. 300 kms of slow and twisty mountain roads with corner upon corner upon corner as the road moved up one mountain and down the next. I must have crossed twenty ranges with a dozen or more river crossings and one mudpuddle. I had expected a traverse down a valley but it was not to be.They said it would take eight hours...it did.

The Bolivian Hospital ExperienceBugs will rule the earth. There is no doubt in my mind. They are just waiting for the right time...the right conditions and then they will conquer all.A week or so ago I was in a one hotel town...too late to go ahead. I checked in.

I awoke in the morning to find a blood sucking critter hanging on, gorging his swollen body with my precious blood. He had dined all night I am sure. A row of red marks marked his passage. I took his life that morning. It was an easy decision.

Goodbye Bolivia..."Don't Cry For Me Argentina?There was a time change at the Argentine border. I would lose an hour before I even got started.It turns out I lost more than an hour. The border was shut down for some sort of celebration. People were lined up forever.

I waited patiently. What choice did I have. Finally about 10:30 all of the singing and dancing was over and the Aduanas were back at it.

The Bolivian solution was not working...I returned early to my room and had an afternoon shower. It was normally important to catch the non-peak periods to ensure you had lots of hot water. This was not the case here.I had lots. A veritable deluge crashed upon my body...hot, steamy water the temperature and quantity of which I had not experienced for several weeks. I languished in the extravagance of it all.

If you have never had to get a VISA you will probably not know what you are in for...I had several options to obtain a Visa for Brasil. However, since the alloted time starts counting down from when the Visa is issued it was reasonable to try to obtain it as near to my entry date as possible. Perhaps that thought process was flawed...My first option for a Brasil Visa was in La Paz. I discounted La Paz because I was there, easily a month in advance of when I needed the Visa. I moved on.

afdafadfadfadsfI asked at the hotel if there was a good restaurant nearby.
"Do you want fish?"

The Rio Paraguay went right through the city, separating Santa Fe from its sister city Parana. I had not even thought of fish.

"Yes, I like fish. Is there a good restaurant?"
"It is not close, but with your moto it is no problem."
"I don't want to ride at night. I could take a cab."
"Sure. It is the best fish restaurant. It is Quincho de Chiquito. It is about 7 km from here. The restaurants in town offer fish but they do not compare to this."

All good things must come to an end.....Out of the 8,765.34 followers only one person was interested in the wrought iron question. Can you believe it! Only one person stepped up to the plate and asked the question! My hat is off to her, who shall remain anonymous, with her inquisitive mind. I mean, really people. Are you that focused on deciding between cereal and eggs for breakfast that you cannot ponder wrought iron. Wow! I am simply astounded.

What a country this Brasil...What a difference a border makes. I left Argentina at the Foz and entered Brasil. Immediately the country changed.The land became more open. Gently rolling hills stretched to the horizon. A lush greenness covered the land. Farming on a massive scale was happening here. Corn, sugar cane, mixed farming, cereal crops, tea. It seemed that just about anything would grow in the rich, red earth. Grain elevators were stacked ten and twelve deep, fifty feet in diameter. Massive tractors ruled the land.

I purposely planned my entry for Sunday...I purposely planned my entry to Rio de Janeiro for Sunday. I assumed there would be less traffic than on a normal day. I was not totally prepared for what I experienced.I entered from the coastal south. The two lane coastal highway fanned into an eight lane divided carriageway. It was simply deserted. There could not have been more than a dozen vehicles occupying the space in both directions. It was like a scene from Mad Max or War of the Worlds. There was little evidence of life.

Rio was just too big...Rio was just too big. It had outgrown the infrastructure and administration that sought to control it...to govern it...to create sense out of chaos.With close to 9 million people the novelity of being in Rio wore thin in a hurry. The crush of people and traffic overwhelmed the senses and the sense of well being. We were seemingly the only two white people in town. We were overly conspicuous as tourists and foreigners. We were easy marks. It was time to leave and move on to some place more to our liking.

Big Al continued to work throughout his lifetime.Big Al continued to work throughout his lifetime.He decorated Churches and built edifices. Everywhere around Ouro Preto and in the neighbouring towns and villages his work can be found. Perhaps his most famous work is the Twelve Prophets which are located in front of the Church in Conganhas.

We zig-zagged our way south...We zig-zagged our way south to the Falls...the Foz...Foz Iguaçu for the Brasilians, Foz Iguazu for the Argentians and Foz Iguassu for the Paraguayans.
Hotel Fazendas became our home. We sought them out as we travelled to enhance the experience. We had given up on towns and cities...traded the crowds and cars for the placid solitude of the Country Inn.

What is Brasil anyway?Statistically Brasil is a 3rd World country. Visually it is something totally different, especially in the section south of Rio de Janeiro to Foz Iguaçu.The infrastructure is 1st World. The architecture is 1st World. The people are 1st World. I have not seen anything to support the label.

Alcohol fuel (Alcool) is available universally at roughly half the cost of gasoline. LNG is available in the major centers, a step North America has not yet made. Fuel of all sorts is readily available throughout the country.

Hoteis OK had been our home in Rio. The staff became our friends. We were their only Canadian customers...their only English speaking patrons. We were their first and only moto customers. They all extended a personal welcome when we returned. They all extended a personal goodbye when we left.

Salvador, SALvador, SALVADOR BAHIAZimbo Tropical was tucked away on Isla Itaparica in Aratuba.Philippe from Old France had ended his wanderlust here. He had fallen in love with the country, the land, the climate and at least one of the people. With his local wife, Sueli he had built up nine (9) isolated cabins in his own creation of a tropical paradise.

Miscellanea do Brasil....I found my first scones today.I walked into the room and scanned my surroundings. There nestled in the corner was a group of scones. I almost overlooked them, but there could be no mistake. They were definitely scones. I don´t know who brought them here...the British I presume. I managed to put three of them out of their misery before I moved on.

Kaa-CowCocoa... Kaa-Cow is how they pronounce it down here. They should know, they grow it and harvest it.Having not seen a Cocoa Plant before I found the experience rather interesting. It is actually a tree that will only thrive and produce harvestable fruit in a shade environment. Therefore a Cocoa Tree is a secondary level in a rainforest ecosystem. It must be within the forest to thrive.

Von Däniken LivesYet another cleaved chicken bites the dust. That makes two in a row. I have to start eating in higher class joints...perhaps tomorrow.I had been riding the lowland and coastal frontage for almost two months now. Pretty much all of the time since I and we had left the state of Minas Gerias and headed for the Foz, returned to Rio and headed north for Belem, elevations had characteristically remained in the less than 1,000 foot range and more often than not in the 300ft and less range.

Hondas, Truckers and SpacemenDown here and in the rest of Latin America, Honda has put the common man on wheels. He has been given freedom of movement which he otherwise would not have and could not enjoy.

From the venerable Honda 50 that started it all, to its big sister the Honda 90 and its inbred children the 125, 150, 175, 200 and 250 Honda is King. For over 46 years Honda has not relinquished its stranglehold on the motorcycle market, to any of its competitors.

They say it is tough to leave Brasil.They say it is tough to leave Brasil. To the layman that doesn´t mean anything. When I first read the statement, I had the typical, standard reaction. "Oh yeah...what do they mean? Why would it be different?"

I was about to embark on a journey up the Amazon...I was about to embark on a journey up the Amazon, the world's mightiest river. A journey that would take me from Belem to Santarém and onward to Manaus my final destination.The Amazon River Basin drains 6 million sq. km. and is the world's largest both in terms of drainage area and volume. With depths of up to 120 meters it is navigable by ocean going vessels beyond Manaus all the way to Iquitos, Peru. Even its tributaries are mighty...the Rio Juruá, the Solimões, the Rio Madeira-Mamoré, the Rio Purus/Pauini and the Rio Negro.

I warmed slowly to my Amazon environment...or perhaps too quickly.I arrived at the port at 4 PM. Udivan was there to greet me. He wanted to be paid for the moto shipment.

The Amazon grew darker, trading its khaki drags for something of a more chocolate tone.The Amazon grew darker, trading its khaki drags for something of a more chocolate tone.It was still placid...just darker; forever splitting into channels, divisions, rivulets, courses and streams, forming lakes, ponds, islands and peninsulas as it went. Then co-mingling to become a vast, broad expanse of water that most images conjure up.

The road north to Boa Vista was too long to make in a single day...I pondered my options.Rodolfo came and sat by my suite. We talked about, among other things, his Trans-Brasilian passage. Worry etched his sober features. My unsympathetic understanding readily discernible by the easy laughter that wracked my frame. Perhaps sometime later he would share my thoughts, but not now.They wanted money to offload my bike in Manaus. God only knows how they loaded it in Belem. I decided I did not want to know. I said "NO" to their request for money and everyone went for coffee.

They said it was difficult to leave Brasil. I had become familiar with her dress. Little did I know how much I would miss her.With only a week or so remaining on my 3 month Visa it was time to leave Brasil. It was time to continue north and enter her neighbour, Venezuela. I looked forward to the encounter.It was 33 C in Boa Vista by 8:30 AM. I was soaked before I hit the curb. I back-tracked to where I had had my Federale encounter and turned right. I headed north for Venezuela, confident in my route by the large green sign that shouted "VENEZUELA...FRONTERA."

It was 36 C. The humidity was 3 times that but it didn't rain.It was 36C. The humidity was 3 times that but it didn't rain. How could that be? I don't know...maybe my calculation was wrong. I felt like I was standing in a rainstorm. I looked like I was standing in a rainstorm, but the sky was blue...cloudless...full sun.Trinidad was only 7 hours away. I was in Guiri, Venezuela, the furthest east you could go by road. From here I would have to take the boat, if I went further east.

Black Ice at 33 degrees Celsius....In Barcelona 5 roads merged into 1...10 lanes into 2. The traffic snarled. The temperature rose to 40C and with it the tempers. The bike baked and so did I. I split laned my way through the maze to keep from melting. Then I saw the problem. The problem wasn´t only the merging of the roads. That happened with reasonable Latin efficiency. The problem was there was a Police Check-Point just downstream. Those STUPID F**king Bastards! They created the traffic jam. They created the mayhem. What ignorance. What stupidity.

A little bit of Germany surrounded by a lot of Spanish culture...Yesterday I had only half a plan, so I stayed up late studying and came up with three quarters of a plan. I wanted to get on the west side of Caracas without going through Caracas and yet not spend the entire day doing it.
I took the fast road and when I was 60 km away from Caracas, I stopped and assessed my options. I could avoid the crush if I went south and west of here to Santa Teresa and then north to La Victoria. Little did I know what lay in store.

It was with reluctance that I left Colonia Tovar.It was with reluctance that I left Colonia Tovar. Such a nice, pleasant and relaxed place was hard to find here in Venezuela. Without the pressures and chaos of traffic and the mad crush of markets in the streets, a pleasant lifestyle greeted those who called this place home.7,000 ft below me life returned to the Venezuelan norm. Dodging traffic and suffering the heat I moved west...not far...just far enough to swing north to the coast across Henri Pittier Nacional Park to Choroni.

All good things come to an end....With the premeditated precision of a guided missile I made good my exit from Venezuela. I had been through the mess that was Central America too many times and the prospect of passing through in the wet season appealed even less. I made a clean break.From the Caracas Airport I would be home in 9 hours. The bike would follow separately in a day or two.

It was an easy way to close the chapter on a 6 month odyssey through South America. It was a wonderful trip shared in part by my wife, Sandra...the "Best of Brasil", as we called it.