"So, what do you pack?" I asked Bob one day over girlie-man lattes.
"I've worked up some lists. l'll email you. But don't take everything you own, keep it simple." Bob smiled like it was an inside joke. I didn't get it. Yet.
It´s 8:30 on a Santiago morning and I´m walking to school. The Chilean sun feels nice on my back. Its cheery yellow light casts long shadows down the sidewalk, showing me the way. Ahead, an old man, wearing rumpled old man clothes, generously waters his part of the sidewalk, and by design or accident I´m not sure, drowns his flowers, lawn and the trees by the curb. There is no nozzle, the water just pours out and hits the sidewalk in noisy splashes. Daily this ritual of flooding everything occurs and he´s not alone.
As first port of call for 19th century sailing ships rounding the Horn, Valparaiso was the lo mejor puerto for all of South America´s Pacific coastline. Founded in 1536, the city did little until Chile achieved independance in the 1820´s, then the little port flourished until the Panama Canal put an end to the glory days. When Kim and I arrive for a weekend away from school, the picturesque harbour city looks like the streets of San Francisco frozen in time.
Seems like it´s been years since I said goodbye. I left Katie in a cavernous warehouse in Houston in early February and flew to sunny Santiago. It also seems like years that I´ve been taking Spanish lessons, but it´s only 7 weeks. Now school´s out and it´s time for the real adventure to begin. But the clock seems suddenly uncooperative as its little gears slowly saw away the minutes. Minutes become hours as I wait for the freighter to unload Katie M onto the docks of Valparaiso.
Katie is free! We liberate her and her 14 friends from the shipping container by the light of the Valparaiso moon. The first ride with Katie is from the Aduana yard high in the cerros above Valpo back to Viña del Mar, 30 minutes away. A wide swath of moonbeam shining across the Pacific Ocean far below greets us as we crest the hill. At that memorable moment on the new continent together, I say, "Katie, I´m sure glad to be together again.
"HEY! GOD DAMN IT!" I yell as I see a guy with MY DAYPACK going out the door. I jump up from my chair and chase after him out of the restaurant. There are two of them, one going each way. Which one of these bastards took my pack? Thief No 1 escaping to my left seems empty handed but I can´t be sure. Thief No 2 is heading across the street to the town plaza. He looks empty handed too. Which one do I chase? Then out of the corner of my eye I spot my pack lying on the sidewalk. Outrage and disbelief turns to relief and mild aftershock.
The absolute magic of Machu Picchu. As SonGlenn would say, "It takes all my knowing!" just to fumble for the words to describe how this 15th century pueblo/citadel/university/astronomical observatory touches me. Resting in the col of an Andes montaña, its steep terraced slopes drop dramatically to the Rio Urubamba far below.
"This isn´t a road, it´s a damn one-lane llama track! And a f*@king bad one at that!"
"Oh shit! It's too late now!" The ground cruelly disappears beneath the KTM and Í'm bloody airborne. The landing, some several feet below, arrives instantaneously with a wallop. I strike my face on the cockpit dash, whiplash back, then do a slow motion crash into la arena (sand). My aerobatics provide much amusement to my fellow Peruvian bikers, as they watch in surprise as the extranjero pops up like orange toast then disappears much the same way.
After a day's ride in the Cordillera Blanca with Beatriz and Simon, I am looking forward to cena (supper) at Chilli Heaven in Huaraz. To patronize their restaurant seems the least I can do to repay for their guiding services. What I didn't expect were my friends from Cusco, Patricia Thomson and Sheonaugh Ravensdale, sitting there having supper and waiting for me. What a pleasant surprise to see Sho and Pat again!
"You were measured on radar back at the overpass. You were doing 50 km/hr in a 45 km/hr zone. The fine is 150 Soles. You can pay me here now. And your driver's licence is a photocopy. Where is the original?"
As our days in northern Peru wind down, Sho, Pat and I visit three significant pre-Columbian sites. Just north of Trujillo rests the remains of the largest adobe city in the world, Chan Chan. As the capital of the Chimu culture (circa AD 1100 to 1471), the adobe city spread over 28 square kilometers and held a population that varied between 60,000 to 250,000 people, depending on the era. The Chimu surrendered to the pesky Incas after eleven years of heavy badgering and threats to destroy their irrigation canals.
My life is divided between two main activities. Either Katie and I are on the road watching the landscape slide by or I'm in some interesting town checking out the sights. In this chapter, I will say little and let the pictures do the talking. Here are some of the visual stories that make life interesting here in South America. The centrepiece of every city is the main plaza. Katie and I head there everytime we hit a new town. The centre of life in the evening, in the day the plaza is home to old men and shoe shine boys. My shoes have never looked better.
From the tourist town of Baños it is time to head north to the Avenue of the Volcanoes. That and the Quilotoa Circuit are next on the list of stuff to see. The route takes me to Ambato, then north on the busy Pan Americana Highway, then west at the starting point, Latacunga. Rain showers chase me along. Disappointingly, the more than a half dozen giant 5000 and 6000 meter volcanoes along the 'avenue' are hiddened from view by the solid ceiling of low cloud.
Going to Ecuador doesn't mean a mandatory trip to the Baños. Now I know what you're thinking: a trip to the baños is necessary everyday, no matter where you are. But I am talking about a different kind of Baños. This trip takes you to the town officially known as Baños de Santa Aguas, after the healing hot springs nearby. This is selfsame Tropical-Banff-with-No-Rules town that bills itself 'the Gateway to the Amazon'.
I can't believe it! I've got water in the engine oil! Bloody hell, did that damn water pump seal start leaking again? As I stand here in the rain in northern Ecuador my disbelief spurs a quick memory flash back to sunny Arizona and February. The KTM boys in Tucson had replaced the seals and I thought that fixed it. Now here I am 1000 km from the KTM dealer in Bogota and more than 1000 km back to the last dealer in Cuenca, Ecuador. And will this God damn rain never end?Luckily there is town nearby, the lovely Otavalo (pop 31,000).
As I race the sun to get back to my hotel before dark I have one more little adventure for the day. I am in the Zona Cafetera, home to some of the best coffee grown in the world. After passing a jillion military and police checkpoints unheeded, I get waved over with an hour of daylight left. Not good. That is how much time I need to get back to Armenia. Not a good plan to be out on a south american highway after dark. Especially a south american highway in Columbia. On purpose I have left all my valuables in my hotel room in Armenia thinking I'll be at minimum risk from robbers.
Turns out that my entry into Bogotá's south end is through the most unflattering corner of this mountain city. The north end of town hosts modern highrises, shopping malls, broad streets and my destination, Extreme Machines, the KTM dealer.
I am on my way north to Santa Marta, port of call for sixteenth century pirates of the Caribbean. Catedral de Sal comes after 40 minutes on the Pan Americana. I am barely out of Bogotá.
Walk to the Lost City? Are you mad? Hike for six days over hill and dale in the midst of jungle/rain forest, trees with hanging vines, poisonous snakes, waist deep rivers, guerrillas and cocaine factories, fierce rainstorms and hot sun so I can see moss covered stone steps built in 700 AD then lost in the rain forest until 1975? Did I ask, are you mad? OK, I'll do it.We start our tour from oldest colonial town surviving in South America, Santa Marta, founded in 1525.
It's evening in Cartagena. I sit at a restaurant table, outside, in a spacious cobblestone plaza within the walled cuidad antiqua (old city). Now imagine this: I'm with three friends from the Cuidad Perdida hike. Around us are buildings muy antiqua, dominated by a lovely 400 year old cathedral on the western edge of the plaza, tastefully showcased in spotlights. Above the iglesia, la luna de cuarto watches us from a black sky. I'm in shorts, sandals and golf shirt - not really appropriate for more formal latino americana dinner but tolerated as extranjero customers are.
Clearing Panama customs I head outside and get directions to the other side of the airport where the cargo companies are located. The airport terminal taxis want US $12 for the few km trip. "Muy lejos", they insist. And it is too hot and humid to walk that far. Yeh, right. In the parking lot I find one for $7. Feeling good with myself I arrive at the Girag office and step into the air conditioned comfort of the front office. I show the nice lady my shipping documents and she replies "hay no moto aqui". Huh!? Has to be! Either came in on the midnight flight or the one at 2 this morning.
Now begins the infamous Central American border crossings. For years a reputation has been passed down word of mouth among adventure travellers. "Be patient." "Negociate prices ahead of time." "Watch your stuff and watch your money." The fronteras can be time consuming, bafflingly complex with scattered offices, bits of paper and stamps (sometimes as many as five for one country) and can be expensive. It should be said the vast majority of border folks are great and work under difficult conditions.
The Honduras-Guatemala border crossing goes well. Within an hour I am riding a zigzag course for the Mayan ruinas of Tikal. As I ride the Penìnsula de Yucatàn north I reflect on the history read in preparation for this amazing city of 100,000 and 60 square kilometres. The Tikal site was first inhabited around 600 BC but by AD 869, the last ruler, Hasaw Chan K'awill II, was watching the near end of his city state. By the time the conquistadors arrived in the 1500's, the Yucatán jungle had a several-century head start of invasion.
This is too good to be true. As I ride up the Nicaragua-Honduras frontera at Los Manos is quiet. I am first at the Nicaragua windows to cancel my moto visa and stamp out my passport. A quick $5.00 changes hands, for what I don't know but I'm on a roll. Now I am first at the windows for entering Honduras. While I do the Border-Cross Boogey, a hired chico washs Katie for a buck. Another young tramitador is helping expedite my paperwork for 2 bucks. Things are going tickety boo until the Honduras aduana officer gets in the money game.
I get a great suggestion from a fellow biker, a typically friendly Guatemalan who very untypically rides a Honda 600. The road he suggests is seldomed travelled because unruly rivers keep taking out the bridges. He assures me the road is asphalt and the rivers can be crossed. True to his word, the highway, although not well signed at the junctions, is paved and is a treat. This is real Guatemala, untouched by commercialism or tourism. Tiny villages, fields of ripening crops, and locals herding their bramhas along the roadside.
"Sign here and you're finished. Welcome to Mexico." With those simple words, and a similarly simple process, I am through customs and into my final latin american country. The process is prophetic: travelling in Mexico is so easy I feel I am somehow cheating.The Mexican pavement is in great condition, I marvel at the luxury of road signs, everywhere there are indications of construction and industry. The American Big Three re-emerge. Oversized Chevy, Ford and Dodge trucks are everywhere. How inappropriate they now look to my eyes. However, the countryside remains truly beautiful.
So which story do you want to hear first? The one about the two pickpockets, or the one about the corrupt Mexico City cop? Both clever in their own way, they share two things in common as it turns out: first, get the "walking wallet" to a secluded spot and distract him from what's really going on; secondly, play a mind game on him so he actually contributes to being a victim.First, the cop story. After leaving Oaxaca at 2 in the morning, my KTM truck driver drives for eight and a half hours like we are being chased by terrorists. I try to sleep.
Katie and I ride through Guadalajara's morning rush hour and out the west side of this 3 million strong city before 9 a.m. As the second largest city in México it's a happenin' place but I don't want to stop. The Guadalajara area is the birthplace of the famous Mariachi bands and the Mexican hat dance. West is the town of Tequila. Tours and sampling are possible. With some reluctance, I decide to give the whole thing a miss. I've got to get Katie's hydraulic clutch problem fixed in Puerto Vallarta and soon.
Riding into a dense fog that slowly lifts with the sunrise hour, Katie and I head out of Concordia and climb the Sierra Madre Occidentals towards Durango, 200 kms to the east. From there it will be another 600 kilometers north to the last major destination on my "must see" list: Barranca Del Cobre, or Copper Canyon. EyeWitness Travel Guide states, "Bigger by far than the Grand Canyon, yet nowhere near as well known, Mexico's Copper Canyon region is one of the great undiscovered wonders of North America."
The climb out of Copper Canyon from Batopilas to Creel takes the morning, with a stop to refill the hydraulic reservoir for Katie's clutch. In the logging town of Creel I stop for lunch and again perform the oil refill ceremony. The leak is getting worse. For the last several days, as often as possible, I shift without the clutch but this is no way to treat Katie. Luckily there is a good KTM dealer in Chihuahua.
The North - South dream was created exactly 10 years ago today, on December 5th, 1998. Leaning over a map on Dave Clarks kitchen table, rum and cokes in hand, my friend and I were playing another round of the what-if game. But instead of dreaming up another epic hiking or canoe trip, this what-if day dream was different. What if one rode a motorcycle from the Arctic Ocean to the Antarctic Ocean? It was one of those moments that suddenly, perhaps Mr Bacardi was doing the talking, became a goal, a must-do.
If in a journey an unavoidable/unexpected detour should present itself, it´s best to accept the detour as part of the trip and enjoy it as best one can. I know those words are true, I just didn´t think I would have to live them so early.
Our first day on the road with Katie and the Bumblebee is like freedom incarnate. Finally, after 38 (!) days of waiting - either for the bikes to arrive or my sciatica to depart, we´re off.
Hey, this is great! I´m back on two wheels! Too bad it´s a wheelchair and not Katie, but it´s a beginning. So it´s training wheels for the next few weeks. But at least now I can get around. For amusement I can worry the locals and stray dogs gangs. After being confined to quarters for the last weeks it´s great to be outdoors again. Note I am sporting my alpaca toque (the thoughtful and very useful gift from Ramon), I have my baston - my cane - handy when we have to 4x4 it, and a baseball cap from the Evangelistas ferry. What all well dressed dudes wear here if they are anybody.
It is time to take a one-day bus tour of Parque Nacional Torres del Paine. Why? I`ve got a bad case of cabin fever, having been confined to quarters so long with this damn sciatica. As a kind of trial, we load the wheelchair and ourselves onto the Comapa TurBus and head off. Not surprisingly, we thoroughly enjoy the 12 hours looking out the window, walking around a bit and seeing wilderness, glaciers, real mountains and critters up close and personal once again.
We cross the Straits of Magellan in a long 20 minutes and bounce ashore onto dry land. Dry land, what an understatement - there is more moisture in popcorn. Dry, flat and arid in the north, Tierra del Fuego, more than twice the size of Vancouver Island, has mountains, sub-antarctic forests of beech and low ground cover in the extreme south. Our little Samsung TVcumCAR rattles over the gravel road as we head south to Rio Grande, Argentina (ownership of the island is divided between Chile and Argentina).
Marlen and Maritza, bless their little hearts, tell us not to come back to the Aquaterra Hotel until after 9:30 PM. It´s our last night in Puerto Natales. When we do come in, chilled from the cold night, we are truly warmed by their "surprise". We are surrounded by sixteen candles, welcoming points of soft yellow light in a darked lounge. Otherwise, only the southern stars and moon light the room. By a black leather loveseat, made comfy with white sheepskins, sits a wee coffee table. On this mesa, catching the candlelight, sits two wine glasses.
From San Antonio, Chile we ride north, skirting Santiago through pastoral wine country to the west and north then head east through Los Andes, Chile towards the Argentina border. Our route crosses the Andes mountains at Paso Cristo Redentor, which involves sixteen hairpin turns to gain altitude before entering the tunnel that crosses the continental divide and empties us into Argentina.
We explore La Rioja province by a loose connection of zig-zags and driving in semicircles. Fine by Joyce, not taken to artifical rules, but not typical behavior for the guy side of the equation. But really, I must admit, we don't have a destination either.
Having planned our arrive into Cordoba after their famous four-day World Rally of Argentina has ended, we ride into the city of 1.3 million in the 27 C heat of early Monday afternoon. We are here to apply for a visa for Brazil.
We're travelling to Uruguay. After a night's stay in the border town of Gualeguaychu, Argentina, we are perfectly poised to do a morning border crossing the international bridge over the Rio Uruguay into Fray Bentos, Uruguay. We want to visit the famous El Anglo, Fray Bentos museum. Little did we know the mischievous whims of politics would have the highway blockaded by Argentinians off and on since December 2005. OK so we didn't know and travel 40 kms to find that out.
After enjoying more than a month of sunshine, we ride from Fray Bentos to Colonia del Sacramento in rain. Along the way, the temperature drops from 28 to 15C. Our textile motorcycle clothes keep us dry, thanks to the GoreTex lining, but nothing can stop the cold rain from running down sleeves and into our gloves. We turn on the heated grips and drive on with soggy but at least toasty warm hands. Warming too is the thought we have a reservation at another beautiful hotel, thanks to Fabrizio, so we arrive happy little ducks.
After an hour of formalities at the Uruguay/Brazil border at Chui, we are on our way in another new country. We ride through lowlands heavily saturated with standing water full of standing cows. Our first night in Brasil is in the city of Rio Grande. Hey, that´s the same name as the city we spent our first night in Argentina, only that Rio Grande on Tierra del Fuego is half a continent away from here.
We leave Colonia in a steady drizzle. The forecast for the next three days is rain but we must move on. Autumn is creeping up from the south, inching northward day by day like the cold black shadows of sunset. Our plan, now that cruel autumn is showing her real colours, is to follow the coastline of Uruguay east and north and enter Brazil at Chuy.
Leaving Pato Branco in scattered rain showers, we press on westward to one of the world's greatest natural wonders, Foz do Iguaçu. Located well away from well known large cities like Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro or Asunción, this corner of the world is literally that, with the borders of Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay meeting here.
Sometimes, well OK, on rare occasion, an innocent event provides an unexpected Ah-Hah Moment. Our innocent event starts out as a need to repair the steering head bearing and ignition circuit on the Chicitita. An internet search reveals a BMW dealer in Belo Horizonte. In two days we are there. Luckily, like looking for a needle in a haystack, in this case a haystack of three million people, we find Euroville BMW on first try. No sooner have we explained the mechanical problems to attentive staff than boom, the Chicitita is wheeled into the shop, up on the mechanic's lift and being fixed.
A side trip to Ouro Prêto, about 100 kilometres south east of Belo Horizonte, turns out to be one of our best diversions. Even the ride down is fun. For two hours, Katie and the Bumblebee thrive on the curvy mountain roads of Serra do Espinhaço as we head southeast to the old colonial city.
