"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.