David, Panama

Much to our satisfaction, Mike’s bike did not break down once the entire day. Could the breakdowns that kept us in Costa Rica the entire week simply have been due to fuel tank venting issues? That would be nice, we will keep our finger crossed! Sure, it is unfortunate that Mike spent the extra money on rush shipping a new stator internationally, but I would much rather have the extra spares and two strong bikes than leave anything to question. Fingers crossed; we will keep forging our path with things as is. I almost forgot, today was my turn for some bike trouble. Not near as stressful as breaking down, on several occasions during the ride to the border, several drivers in the oncoming lane flashed their high beams, but after continuing there was no sign of police or construction (flashing high beams as a warning to other drivers is a common courtesy down here). I checked my bright headlight switch, which was in the low beam position. I then noticed my high beam indicator light was dimly illuminated, even with “low beam” selected. After cycling the switch and performing a few other trouble shooting steps while riding (always fun) I chalked it up to moisture in the switch housing. Since my high beams were illuminating along with a dimly illuminated high beam indicator, the only point common to both circuits is the switch. I will just have to give it time to dry and see what happens.

The border crossing into Panama from Costa Rica is worth mentioning. Although it took a few hours, checking out of Costa Rica and checking into Panama was relatively painless. Instead of several “assistants” offering to help us navigate the process, there was only one person, who called himself Abner. Abner was very quick in getting our necessary copies made of our passports, titles, and vaccination cards. After making the copies he swiftly guided us through the various immigration and vehicle permit steps. Abner asked for 20USD each at the end, which he certainly earned. After saddling back up on the bikes, the first thing I noticed was that I no longer had a rogue high beam headlight, so for the moment I will assume that my diagnostics were correct regarding moisture in the switch being the culprit (the bikes sat covered from the rain for a few hours during the crossing).

About an hour before the border a light rain had started. After the border, it was hours of torrential downpour. Hoping it would be a brief shower, we powered on without donning our rain gear. Before we knew it, our gear was soaked, and our boots filled with water. We had pulled off earlier to move or documents and cell phones to our roll-top waterproof bags, which proved to be a smart move. For the first time in all the showers we had ridden through, our water “resistant” pant pockets were soaked, we were soaked down to our underwear with not a dry spot remaining. With temperature dropping to 65 – 70 F, we were starting to feel chilled, even here in the bowels of Central America. Now battling the usual chaos of rush-hour traffic, we found a safe spot to pull of and research hotels. It had been a long, wet, and cold day, and we found the Gran Hotel Nacional only a short eight-minute ride up the road.

After checking into the hotel, we tipped the bellhop for running our luggage to the room, which I paid in soggy US dollars (Panama uses the USD). I apologized for the soaked money, but he made it clear that he wasn’t concerned the condition of the money, just very grateful for receiving it. We reached the room and quickly prompted the bellhop to bring us 4 more shower towels, which we used to soak water out of our riding gear. One dry towel on the floor, then the article of clothing, then another towel, followed by stepping on every square inch of the towel to squeeze out any and all excess water. We hung the gear to dry and head to the hotel restaurant for the first meal since breakfast at 7:30 am, and it was now 4:30 pm. With dinner accounted for we head to the room to relax. There is no end in sight for the rain, so we will likely be wet until the day we land in Colombia.

Due to our delay in receiving Mikes parts, we missed the regularly scheduled flight of May 29, and I am currently working to get the cargo airline to reply to my email regarding the next available flight for our bikes.

After David it was on to Santiago for a regularly scheduled stop. Not much stood out about Santiago, but we had fun stalking the non-existing Papa Johns Pizza. The sign was perched alongside the road, and it existed in Google Maps, but I assure you, there was no Papa Johns pizza. Ultimately, Papa Johns would come to be a fantasy land set in the middle of a partially demolished building, the parking lot of which was used for a driver’s training location for would-be bus drivers (which, judging by their driving, you would never imagine needed a special license). The following morning, we would find the waiter of the only nearby restaurant sleeping at the front counter about an hour past opening. He jumbled sleepy words in Spanish before we walked away. Another hotel employee assured us that the restaurant was in fact open, after which he walked into the restaurant and turned on the lights. The sleepy waiter played with his phone for a few moments before taking our order for breakfast. Fair enough, Santiago was a small town off the highway with all one needed to stay alive. We served one night in Santiago then packed our bikes back up for the run to Panama City.

Panama City is not your typical Caribbean city. Trading beautiful sandy beaches and sunsets for skyscrapers and shell-companies, Panama City is a metropolis of banks, casinos, and overpriced tourist traps. At this exact point in my life, I have never seen so many women made of plastic. With implants in every physical location you could imagine, physically disproportional women roam the streets and have advantage in numbers. I am not certain if they liked us or hated us, as their facial reconstructive surgery would not give way to the emotion that they felt inside. Mike and I have coined a name for such crepuscular individuals, “Señora Cabeza de Patata”, or “Mrs. Potato Head”. The prices in Panama City rival those in the ‘burbs in the United States, not exactly “ideal” for budget travelers. That said, the goal is to see the sights, eat the food, and leave this city as soon as practicable.

As we had seen earlier in Belize and Guatemala, many small businesses in Panama City have been erased by the pandemic. This proved finding good restaurants difficult, as many of them had closed and reopened under different names and management, invalidating the exemplary reviews found during our internet research. Early in the trip we had resorted to asking locals where their favorite restaurants were rather than relying on internet reviews, but as we quickly learned, their favorite places to eat were not necessarily businesses, or at least they did not operate as a business. This lends to the fact that some of the best local food to be found is likely made in home-kitchens rather than restaurants.

We had decided to spend one day walking San Felipe, a small city dating back to the late 1600’s when pirates ran the show. Ruins from a 1700’s conflict remain, and I will include some of the few good photos we were able to take. After a couple drinks and lunch with a balcony view of the main street, Mike and I decided to stray up the main road heading North-East. After a few minutes walking in said direction, we noticed the scenery quickly deteriorating. Moments after this realization, a taxi driver aggressively shouldered his car, shouting for us to get in. “Peligroso!”, “Malo para los touristas!”.  Apparently, we had wandered outside our tourist passes into an area where gringos were heavily targeted. The taxi driver told us of robberies and sexual assaults that have happened in the past, scenarios which were later confirmed to be true by one of our bar tenders. She advised us that immediately outside of San Felipe was not a safe place for outsiders, and that we were better off just a few blocks farther north at Casco Viejo. Since nothing unfortunate happened to us, we can neither confirm nor deny the dangers of West San Felipe, so take it for what it’s worth. On another note, this cab driver (as we would find is common here) did not know his way around Panama City, and instead depended on our loose knowledge of the city combined with GPS to find our hotel. We had learned from the hotel manager that cargo ship workers from China and India were by contract NOT allowed to leave the hotel. They post customs agents in the hotel lobby to ensure that they do not leave. The reason being that in the past, individuals from said countries would leave the hotel, flee Panama to Costa Rica and buy forged citizenship papers. In the past, she said, ships have required major repairs, leaving the workers stuck in the hotel room for 1.5 to 3 months! She also said it was not uncommon for the workers to request delivery of “women”, which, to her satisfaction was prohibited by the hotel/employer contract as no “visitors” were allowed to enter the rooms.

Fast forward a few days to June 7. The original cargo company never replied to my emails, continuing the stellar level of service that we have become so familiar with (he said with sarcasm thick as peanut butter). The original company, Girag, has forever lost my vote, and for good reason. We found a better price with quicker service through AirCargoPack, although we did not receive the great service that past motorcycle travelers have. Nevertheless, by 11AM on June 7th, our bikes were delivered to the cargo terminal of Tocumen International Airport, awaiting palletization, and loading onto a cargo plane bound for Bogotá Colombia. The crew rushed us to prep our bikes and luggage, not affording us adequate time to load and check our belongings as seen in their Google reviews. That said, unfortunately, we were unable to take photos of one of the most pivotal moments in the trip, being the changing of continents. The representative informed us that following arrival in Bogotá, we had 24 hours to retrieve our motorcycles from customs (“Aduana” in Spanish). After dropping the bikes off for shipping and paying the $1100 USD for shipping to Colombia, we headed to the local bar/restaurant, logged onto WIFI, and booked our flights to Bogotá for a mere $165 each. At said bar, we ran into a few guys from Australia who worked at a copper mine near Colón, Panama. The highlight was the Aussie slang when one of the gentlemen asked for a sample of beer, “Give me a section and I’ll take a crack at it!”. After a quick laugh, I applauded the bartender since he must understand slang from all over the world.

The very next morning we were boarding a plane bound for Bogotá, Colombia. Not long enough to watch an in-flight movie, shortly after reaching cruising altitude we were already on our way down for the approach. All our luggage being carry-on, we quickly deplaned, stood in line at customs, and tracked down a legitimate taxi. It should be mentioned that this was one of the most organized exits from an airliner that I have ever experienced. On only one other account, after landing in Frankfort, Germany, the flight attendants directed the passengers to exit their seats and deplane from rows lowest to highest, removing the bottlenecks in the aisle. Nobody even stood up until directed to do so, unlike every other flight where people lunge from their seats and pop open the overhead compartments in a race to get in line at customs.

It was now time to retrieve our bikes from the cargo terminal. After finding the correct office, the freight agent took us on a 1/8th mile walk to the customs office that handle the importation of our motorcycles. Much to my delight, after a 3 hour wait, the freight agent returns to me and tells me that the customs agent did not think that the number “90” (for 90-day stay allowed without visa) was not written clearly enough, and that I would have to return to the airport immigration office to have it rewritten. At this point Mike and I were in a race against the weather. Rain was on its way and darkness was setting in. You do NOT want to battle Bogotá traffic, in the rain, at night. Bogotá was the ultimate hellscape of traffic jams. After finally tracking down the immigration office (which apparently no airport employees knew the location of), I asked one of the officers to clarify the number written in my passport, to which she responded with a brutal eyeroll directed at the customs officer that made me go through this whole ordeal. She quickly rewrote “90 dia” over my passport stamp and bid us farewell. After returning to the cargo terminal, the freight agent who we had previously been dealing with had conveniently slipped out for the day. In her absence, another employee sent her a picture of my new and improved “90 dia” and guided us to our motorcycles. Just as the forklift set our bikes down over the edge of the cargo ramp, the rain started to fall. It was already dark, and because the fuel tanks must be near empty to fly the bikes, we were also low on fuel.

We geared up, started the bikes and head for our hotel, battling traffic in the dark, rainy chaos that was Bogotá. Dying of thirst, the bikes constantly sputtered as we missed the exit for our hotel amidst the chaos. After settling on different, closer hotel, we found a nearby gas station and topped off the bush-pigs (slang term for the DR650 motorcycle). “But what’s this?” I said, after again starting the bikes, only to hear the same unfortunate sputtering that drove us to the gas station in frenzy in the first place. Then it hit me… The bikes weren’t running too low on fuel, we had just landed in Bogotá, Colombia, roughly 8000 feet higher above sea level than where we started. And since these bikes are carbureted, not fuel-injected, they were running too rich. We decided that the adjustments to the carburetors would be done at the next stop, since we had nowhere clean to perform the out-patient surgery.

David, Panama

Much to our satisfaction, Mike’s bike did not break down once the entire day. Could the breakdowns that kept us in Costa Rica the entire week simply have been due to fuel tank venting issues? That would be nice, we will keep our finger crossed! Sure, it is unfortunate that Mike spent the extra money on rush shipping a new stator internationally, but I would much rather have the extra spares and two strong bikes than leave anything to question. Fingers crossed; we will keep forging our path with things as is. I almost forgot, today was my turn for some bike trouble. Not near as stressful as breaking down, on several occasions during the ride to the border, several drivers in the oncoming lane flashed their high beams, but after continuing there was no sign of police or construction (flashing high beams as a warning to other drivers is a common courtesy down here). I checked my bright headlight switch, which was in the low beam position. I then noticed my high beam indicator light was dimly illuminated, even with “low beam” selected. After cycling the switch and performing a few other trouble shooting steps while riding (always fun) I chalked it up to moisture in the switch housing. Since my high beams were illuminating along with a dimly illuminated high beam indicator, the only point common to both circuits is the switch. I will just have to give it time to dry and see what happens.

The border crossing into Panama from Costa Rica is worth mentioning. Although it took a few hours, checking out of Costa Rica and checking into Panama was relatively painless. Instead of several “assistants” offering to help us navigate the process, there was only one person, who called himself Abner. Abner was very quick in getting our necessary copies made of our passports, titles, and vaccination cards. After making the copies he swiftly guided us through the various immigration and vehicle permit steps. Abner asked for 20USD each at the end, which he certainly earned. After saddling back up on the bikes, the first thing I noticed was that I no longer had a rogue high beam headlight, so for the moment I will assume that my diagnostics were correct regarding moisture in the switch being the culprit (the bikes sat covered from the rain for a few hours during the crossing).

About an hour before the border a light rain had started. After the border, it was hours of torrential downpour. Hoping it would be a brief shower, we powered on without donning our rain gear. Before we knew it, our gear was soaked, and our boots filled with water. We had pulled off earlier to move or documents and cell phones to our roll-top waterproof bags, which proved to be a smart move. For the first time in all the showers we had ridden through, our water “resistant” pant pockets were soaked, we were soaked down to our underwear with not a dry spot remaining. With temperature dropping to 65 – 70 F, we were starting to feel chilled, even here in the bowels of Central America. Now battling the usual chaos of rush-hour traffic, we found a safe spot to pull of and research hotels. It had been a long, wet, and cold day, and we found the Gran Hotel Nacional only a short eight-minute ride up the road.

After checking into the hotel, we tipped the bellhop for running our luggage to the room, which I paid in soggy US dollars (Panama uses the USD). I apologized for the soaked money, but he made it clear that he wasn’t concerned the condition of the money, just very grateful for receiving it. We reached the room and quickly prompted the bellhop to bring us 4 more shower towels, which we used to soak water out of our riding gear. One dry towel on the floor, then the article of clothing, then another towel, followed by stepping on every square inch of the towel to squeeze out any and all excess water. We hung the gear to dry and head to the hotel restaurant for the first meal since breakfast at 7:30 am, and it was now 4:30 pm. With dinner accounted for we head to the room to relax. There is no end in sight for the rain, so we will likely be wet until the day we land in Colombia.

Due to our delay in receiving Mikes parts, we missed the regularly scheduled flight of May 29, and I am currently working to get the cargo airline to reply to my email regarding the next available flight for our bikes.

After David it was on to Santiago for a regularly scheduled stop. Not much stood out about Santiago, but we had fun stalking the non-existing Papa Johns Pizza. The sign was perched alongside the road, and it existed in Google Maps, but I assure you, there was no Papa Johns pizza. Ultimately, Papa Johns would come to be a fantasy land set in the middle of a partially demolished building, the parking lot of which was used for a driver’s training location for would-be bus drivers (which, judging by their driving, you would never imagine needed a special license). The following morning, we would find the waiter of the only nearby restaurant sleeping at the front counter about an hour past opening. He jumbled sleepy words in Spanish before we walked away. Another hotel employee assured us that the restaurant was in fact open, after which he walked into the restaurant and turned on the lights. The sleepy waiter played with his phone for a few moments before taking our order for breakfast. Fair enough, Santiago was a small town off the highway with all one needed to stay alive. We served one night in Santiago then packed our bikes back up for the run to Panama City.

Panama City is not your typical Caribbean city. Trading beautiful sandy beaches and sunsets for skyscrapers and shell-companies, Panama City is a metropolis of banks, casinos, and overpriced tourist traps. At this exact point in my life, I have never seen so many women made of plastic. With implants in every physical location you could imagine, physically disproportional women roam the streets and have advantage in numbers. I am not certain if they liked us or hated us, as their facial reconstructive surgery would not give way to the emotion that they felt inside. Mike and I have coined a name for such crepuscular individuals, “Señora Cabeza de Patata”, or “Mrs. Potato Head”. The prices in Panama City rival those in the ‘burbs in the United States, not exactly “ideal” for budget travelers. That said, the goal is to see the sights, eat the food, and leave this city as soon as practicable.

As we had seen earlier in Belize and Guatemala, many small businesses in Panama City have been erased by the pandemic. This proved finding good restaurants difficult, as many of them had closed and reopened under different names and management, invalidating the exemplary reviews found during our internet research. Early in the trip we had resorted to asking locals where their favorite restaurants were rather than relying on internet reviews, but as we quickly learned, their favorite places to eat were not necessarily businesses, or at least they did not operate as a business. This lends to the fact that some of the best local food to be found is likely made in home-kitchens rather than restaurants.

We had decided to spend one day walking San Felipe, a small city dating back to the late 1600’s when pirates ran the show. Ruins from a 1700’s conflict remain, and I will include some of the few good photos we were able to take. After a couple drinks and lunch with a balcony view of the main street, Mike and I decided to stray up the main road heading North-East. After a few minutes walking in said direction, we noticed the scenery quickly deteriorating. Moments after this realization, a taxi driver aggressively shouldered his car, shouting for us to get in. “Peligroso!”, “Malo para los touristas!”.  Apparently, we had wandered outside our tourist passes into an area where gringos were heavily targeted. The taxi driver told us of robberies and sexual assaults that have happened in the past, scenarios which were later confirmed to be true by one of our bar tenders. She advised us that immediately outside of San Felipe was not a safe place for outsiders, and that we were better off just a few blocks farther north at Casco Viejo. Since nothing unfortunate happened to us, we can neither confirm nor deny the dangers of West San Felipe, so take it for what it’s worth. On another note, this cab driver (as we would find is common here) did not know his way around Panama City, and instead depended on our loose knowledge of the city combined with GPS to find our hotel. We had learned from the hotel manager that cargo ship workers from China and India were by contract NOT allowed to leave the hotel. They post customs agents in the hotel lobby to ensure that they do not leave. The reason being that in the past, individuals from said countries would leave the hotel, flee Panama to Costa Rica and buy forged citizenship papers. In the past, she said, ships have required major repairs, leaving the workers stuck in the hotel room for 1.5 to 3 months! She also said it was not uncommon for the workers to request delivery of “women”, which, to her satisfaction was prohibited by the hotel/employer contract as no “visitors” were allowed to enter the rooms.

Fast forward a few days to June 7. The original cargo company never replied to my emails, continuing the stellar level of service that we have become so familiar with (he said with sarcasm thick as peanut butter). The original company, Girag, has forever lost my vote, and for good reason. We found a better price with quicker service through AirCargoPack, although we did not receive the great service that past motorcycle travelers have. Nevertheless, by 11AM on June 7th, our bikes were delivered to the cargo terminal of Tocumen International Airport, awaiting palletization, and loading onto a cargo plane bound for Bogotá Colombia. The crew rushed us to prep our bikes and luggage, not affording us adequate time to load and check our belongings as seen in their Google reviews. That said, unfortunately, we were unable to take photos of one of the most pivotal moments in the trip, being the changing of continents. The representative informed us that following arrival in Bogotá, we had 24 hours to retrieve our motorcycles from customs (“Aduana” in Spanish). After dropping the bikes off for shipping and paying the $1100 USD for shipping to Colombia, we headed to the local bar/restaurant, logged onto WIFI, and booked our flights to Bogotá for a mere $165 each. At said bar, we ran into a few guys from Australia who worked at a copper mine near Colón, Panama. The highlight was the Aussie slang when one of the gentlemen asked for a sample of beer, “Give me a section and I’ll take a crack at it!”. After a quick laugh, I applauded the bartender since he must understand slang from all over the world.

On a quick note, I had known before starting this journey that several police and military units throughout Latin America use the same motorcycles that we are riding. I happened to spot a Special Policia Motorcycle unit on a quick run to the ATM to retrieve some cash. The photo of agents Ortiz and Robles are included below. We had been informed that agents on this force are highly trained in handling the DR650, and it is said that they cannot be evaded. Their training consists of maneuvering the bike in enclosed spaces such as up and down the stairs of buildings, as well as in and out of individual rooms.

Also included is the best shot of Panama City that I could grab with my iPhone.

The very next morning we were boarding a plane bound for Bogotá, Colombia. Not long enough to watch an in-flight movie, shortly after reaching cruising altitude we were already on our way down for the approach. All our luggage being carry-on, we quickly deplaned, stood in line at customs, and tracked down a legitimate taxi. It should be mentioned that this was one of the most organized exits from an airliner that I have ever experienced. On only one other account, after landing in Frankfort, Germany, the flight attendants directed the passengers to exit their seats and deplane from rows lowest to highest, removing the bottlenecks in the aisle. Nobody even stood up until directed to do so, unlike every other flight where people lunge from their seats and pop open the overhead compartments in a race to get in line at customs.

It was now time to retrieve our bikes from the cargo terminal. After finding the correct office, the freight agent took us on a 1/8th mile walk to the customs office that handle the importation of our motorcycles. Much to my delight, after a 3 hour wait, the freight agent returns to me and tells me that the customs agent did not think that the number “90” (for 90-day stay allowed without visa) was not written clearly enough, and that I would have to return to the airport immigration office to have it rewritten. At this point Mike and I were in a race against the weather. Rain was on its way and darkness was setting in. You do NOT want to battle Bogotá traffic, in the rain, at night. Bogotá was the ultimate hellscape of traffic jams. After finally tracking down the immigration office (which apparently no airport employees knew the location of), I asked one of the officers to clarify the number written in my passport, to which she responded with a brutal eyeroll directed at the customs officer that made me go through this whole ordeal. She quickly rewrote “90 dia” over my passport stamp and bid us farewell. After returning to the cargo terminal, the freight agent who we had previously been dealing with had conveniently slipped out for the day. In her absence, another employee sent her a picture of my new and improved “90 dia” and guided us to our motorcycles. Just as the forklift set our bikes down over the edge of the cargo ramp, the rain started to fall. It was already dark, and because the fuel tanks must be near empty to fly the bikes, we were also low on fuel.

We geared up, started the bikes and head for our hotel, battling traffic in the dark, rainy chaos that was Bogotá. Dying of thirst, the bikes constantly sputtered as we missed the exit for our hotel amidst the chaos. After settling on different, closer hotel, we found a nearby gas station and topped off the bush-pigs (slang term for the DR650 motorcycle). “But what’s this?” I said, after again starting the bikes, only to hear the same unfortunate sputtering that drove us to the gas station in frenzy in the first place. Then it hit me… The bikes weren’t running too low on fuel, we had just landed in Bogotá, Colombia, roughly 8000 feet higher above sea level than where we started. And since these bikes are carbureted, not fuel-injected, they were running too rich. We decided that the adjustments to the carburetors would be done at the next stop, since we had nowhere clean to perform the out-patient surgery.