Katie & the Bumblebee

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.

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.

"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.

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 Clark’s 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.