REACHING THE PACIFIC

San José, the capital of Costa Rica, is a giant city which doesn’t resemble anything of the beautiful Costa Rica. Like any other metropolitan area in the world, San José is made out of very poor neighborhoods to high society mansions. But they all have one thing in common: no street addresses of any kind. In our voyage to find bike parts and a lens cap for the camera, we learned that directions and addresses in Costa Rica generally run something like: go past the yellow house, turn left after the 2nd post, and right by the mango tree. In fact, the owner of the camera shop we visited assured us that if he were to visit his employee’s house, he would never find it based on the address alone, unless he were with her, or she drew him a detailed map. So needless to say, we had a bit of an adventure going around the city. The GPS was all but useless and good only for the coordinates. We finished off the errands with getting the oil changed on the bike and a much needed wash. Oil is like gold down here. A regular quart size bottle of oil runs about 8 USD, gas was almost $5 a gallon, and a regular meal in the range of 12 USD.

Just as we got back to the hotel, the headlight went out. That sealed the rest of my evening, as I then proceeded to try to figure out the problem and get the necessary parts. The lamp by itself was fine so I suspected the switch. It would come on and go off by itself after cycling between the high and low beam and suddenly not at all. I took the switch apart and that was a big mistake. Six little springs flew in every direction in the dark and complicated the matter. The switch was really corroded and I needed to clean it, but I had no electrical cleaner. I went inside and asked the bartender for a glass of coke. The coke was flat and didn’t do a very good job of cleaning the contacts so I asked the bartender for a few limes. The limes did a better job, but I wasn’t still satisfied. So again, I asked for baking soda and water and that did the trick. The doorman at the hotel was watching me silently the whole time and was amazed at the cleaning cocktail I was making. He couldn’t hold it anymore and came and asked what the hell I was doing as he couldn’t understand why I was feeding my bike coke, lime, and white watery stuff, glass after glass. After all that cleaning, it turned out that the switch was fine and actually the relay was going bad. I could read voltage at the light, but the second I turned it on, there was no amperage. I replaced the relay, and the life was good again, but now I had a broken switch.

The sun hadn’t yet made its appearance when the profane sound of the phone ringing roused me from my slumber. Painfully peeling my eyes open I answered the 4:20 a.m. wake-up call. We were meeting downstairs to load up at 5:00 a.m. for our 240 mile journey to David, Panama. The plan, an early start to make the border crossing in good time and (hopefully) miss the rain. The drive out of San Jose led us through layers of mountains peaking out through mist and clouds as the sun started to shine. We passed bottomless gorges and ravines, and the vegetation on both sides of the road grew more dense and lush as we went on. One river we stopped at yielded a little early morning excitement when we spotted a couple of fat alligators lazing in the muddy river banks, and for the first time, we caught a glimpse of the Pacific Ocean. The rest of the way was just one mesmerizing scene after another until we reached a dead stop two kilometer before the border, literally 3-5 lanes of absolute gridlock in both directions.

The rain was coming down in sheets again and the road started to flood. I went ahead on the bike but even on the bike, I could only get about 1 km up the road before I, too, had to stop. After asking around, we were told that it would take about 4-5 hours just to get to the border and that traffic was backed up on both sides. Kevin Augello (the second British camera man who joined us in Guatemala City) was my passenger that day and we decided to pull over under a porch and wait to see what happens. Hours passed and the traffic didn’t move an inch. The rain, our hungry stomachs and the mosquitoes got me up and moving again. I had enough of waiting so there was only one more trick to do. I mounted the blue flashing police light on the bike, turned on the alarm siren and radio in hand, shouted at the cars and trucks to make room for the SRzero and the bike to pass. Truck after truck moved to the side to make a narrow passage for the SRzero and we reached the actual border before the sun went down.

We were regaled by tales of theft, murder and other sundry crimes by the locals who told us that Panama would send their vagrant drug and alcohol users over their border into the no-man’s zone between Panama and Costa Rica so the area we were waiting around in wasn’t particularly a savory one to be in. But we made it out without any incident. We ended up staying in David, Panama about 50 km from the border and promptly hit the hay as the next day was another early start.

AVOIDING THE DARIEN GAP

If entering Panama was hard, leaving the country proved to be much harder. Panama was the last Central American country, and only 90 miles from the coast was our new destination: the infamous Columbia. What separates the two countries is one of the most dense and impassable jungles and swamps on earth, called the Darien Gap. Walking the Darien is almost suicide let alone taking a vehicle through it. A group of British guys tried to cross the Darien gap in the 70’s and their average progress was 300 feet a day! In the end they had to be airlifted out.

Needless to say, we had to ship the bike to other side either on an airplane or cargo ship. Since we were sending the SRzero electric car and the support van to the other side as well, we decided to load everything on one container and load it on an ocean freighter. The paperwork for the shipping process started before we even arrived in Panama and lasted five days into our stay. Office to office, we chased our tail with the Panamanian bureaucracy, corruption and laziness on every level. At one office, there was a 10x10 room filled by eight female workers shoulder to shoulder with no air conditioning. Inside of that room was another door and this was the door to the director’s office, and as we entered it, we were shocked. His room was four times bigger than everyone else’s and two air-conditioning units were on full blasts aiming at his desk. Gold chains hanging from his neck and iphone in his hand, he was a fat cat and a rude one at that too.

We also had to get the vehicles inspected at the police station. The police station was in a very dodgy part of town and the police warned us several times not to go across the parking lot to the little store as we might get caught in the middle of a shoot-out. One of the local guys packing some heat, came over from an apartment across the street and cheerily reassured us, “Don’t worry. I have a gun. You’ll be safe!”

After all the paperwork was done, we had to take the vehicles to Colon, a major port on the Caribbean side about 100 miles away, and load everything up into the container. The paperwork went on until the last minute and it took from 6 am to 6 pm to load one container. The three vehicles barely fit into the 40 foot container with bike going in last and sitting sideways. About 8 port-workers strapped everything down and finally sealed the container. Photography and recording videos were strictly prohibited, but we managed to smuggle my small camcorder in to get some shots. All said and done, the only thing left to do was to take a short flight from Panama City to Cartagena, Colombia and wait for the container to arrive.


Panama City is a very diverse city with almost every ethnic background from all over the world. From Chinese to Arabs to Germans and Africans, every part of the town is occupied with a distinctive race. It owes its diversity to the famous canal built by the United States army corp of engineers at the instigation and behest of Teddy Roosevelt in early 1900. Roosevelt, despite all protests and oppositions from Latin America, (Panama was part of Colombia at that time) pushed on through with the construction of the canal, and 10 years after its initial start, almost every ship that crossed between the Pacific and Atlantic went through this narrow canal. It changed the map of Central America and created a new country: Panama. Sailors and workers from literally everywhere settled in Panama City and made a one giant international community. Colorful and beautiful, Panama is the most important port in the western hemisphere and a significantly large portion of the country’s income comes from the canal and the shipping industry.

We had the privilege of getting a private tour of the impressive Panama Canal and even walking across the locks. The ships are guided in, strapped on both sides to small trains to keep them from side-to-side movement due to the narrow water way, and in three steps, they cross the canal. In the first lock, they raise the water to float the ship higher, then they open the second lock and so on until the ship floats on the other side. The width of the canal is still the same as what it was when built in 1914 but there are plans to widen the canal in 2012 to ease the passage for more vessels at a time.

We were warned and warned again about Colombia, on the drug cartels, the FARC, and the kidnappings and almost everyone was apprehensive to some extent about Colombia. Let see if it lives up to its myths.

Life in Cartagena, Colombia

First I would like to thank James South, Lynn Minthorne, Gregory Quinn, Rich Jordan and Ahti Peura for their support and generous donations. You guys are part of this expedition as much as I am, and to this day I’ve been amazed by your support and generosity and humbled by your selflessness. Big corporations have not shown us much love, as apparently feeding little kids is not their business idea, so we’ve relied on public support to carry on our mission.

I’ve personally invested everything I had in this non-profit organization, and if I find a penny on side of the road I still put it towards the cause. But one man’s wallet is not big enough to take on a project like this effectively (Bill Gates is a rare breed). Thanksgiving is in a few days and while the times are still tough for many back in United States, you’d be amazed what your spare change could buy for the kids down here. I’m not asking for anything for myself, I’m just asking you to consider making another family in need happy with a spare dollar bill that won’t buy you anything in US. Enough begging now, let’s get to the story.

Tuesday morning found us aboard a short and uneventful flight on the COPA Airlines, from Panama City to Cartagena, Colombia. You can either take a boat or fly from Central America to South America. The boat ride is around $250 depends on the captain, and the airfare is somewhere around the neighborhood of $300. Since we were told that the container will get to Cartagena in 3 days, we took the short 40 minutes flight rather than going on a 5 day long ocean journey (big mistake). From the second we came out of the airport, I was relieved to see countless motorcycles, all in the 125cc range whizzing around, because at least I could find bike parts in this town. We settled just across the peninsula from El Centro in the Manga district in an apartment that Claudio rented and were glued to the balcony every night watching the spectacular sunsets across the water.
It soon hit us that our stay in Cartagena wasn’t going to be as short as we thought, as the container never made it on the ship in Panama as scheduled. Cynthia and I had taken just our laptops and one change of clothing each as we had anticipated arriving in Cartagena and getting our things from the boat in a few days. As Claudio likes to say, we were living in hope, and that lasted for 17 days. We were stuck in Cartagena.

Even though we had more time in beautiful Cartagena, we didn’t go around as much as one would think. This is in large part because we aren’t on vacation, but are on a volunteer mission which involves endless hours of work between the two of us, and also, because we simply don’t have the money. We did enjoy walking around the Centro (the historical walled old city) at night a few times, and had a chance to explore the Spanish Castle, the largest standing Spanish fort in South America after asking for a reduced rate to get in. Best of all, I got to do my favorite activity in the world, going all over the city hunting for bike parts.

Since I broke the turn signal switch in Nicaragua, I set out to find another and I lucked out. I bought a new signal-light-horn combo switch from another bike for $12 USD. It has an on/off for the headlight, and it’s built like a tank. The downside was that it had 16 wires coming out of it with no instruction, and it took 2 hours with a multimeter to figure out what was what. I also bought two new marker lights $1.50 each, two spare relays, spare clutch cable (just the cable), two new tubes for the tires and a new H4 lamp for the headlight as the Chinese lamp I bought in Panama was absolute crap. I could do nothing with all this stuff since the bike was still missing somewhere on the Pacific Ocean. So we waited and waited and waited some more.

Life in Cartagena, Colombia

Day after day we waited for the bike to arrive, but it never did. And to irritate me more, our website disappeared from the worldwide web because apparently it was causing problems on our sponsored server. When I started this journey, Montana Internet Corporation sponsored the hosting of our website for 5 years which was very generous, but MIC wasn’t really set up to be a host. They provide wireless internet, and they are great at that. However hosting is not their real business so everything was pretty much outdated and couldn’t handle the load of our site. So they shut down our website, and it was time to move servers. Nevertheless, many thanks goes to MIC for putting up with us and giving us a helping hand when it was most needed.

I spent days trying to back-up our stuff with the horrible internet connections and started a quest to find the best host in the world and narrowed it down to one: Inmotion Hosting. My expectation from a good host was to be fast, reliable and up-to-date, and Inmotion fit the bill on every level. To make it even better, it’s a solid American company. They provide 24/7 customer service which is top-notch with no Indian accent like other hosts.
Inmotion hosting joined our sponsor team and now the website is faster, better and never down again. Many thanks to Alyssah Hastings for making this happen despite the difficulty communicating back and forth from Colombia. Inmotion is a great host, and I don’t just say that because they sponsored our hosting; every review on the internet is better than the other when it comes to this company. I like good businesses, and if you have a blog or website that needs a reliable and affordable host, give them a try. They won’t disappoint.

As I was busy with the website ordeal, days went by, and there was no sign of the container anywhere. I got an email from a fellow rider who had a bad experience with shipping his bike on boats, and he said that his bike was missing for 4 months at one time which didn’t make me feel any better. After 15 days we finally got the news that the container was at the port and it was time to pick it up. The paperwork took 2 full days and when we arrived at the port in the morning, it took us another 16 hours to get the container out. But the GS was safe. No scratch, no water damage, and she started right up.
The SRzero electric car had a little misfortune at the port and caught on fire all by itself. Toby put the fire out quickly and there was no visible damage, but it wouldn’t run. The RGE guys started troubleshooting and it turned out that we were staying in Cartagena for another 5 days so they can fix the car. Now that I had the bike in hand, I could start my routine maintenance before heading out on the road again.

I needed to solder the connections on the signal switch but my butane soldering iron was out of gas. We searched the whole city (I’m not exaggerating) for butane gas and didn’t find any. Either butane is not known to Colombians, or every store we went to was out of stock!!! I ended up buying an electric soldering iron and getting the job done. The electric iron is probably a better choice anyway since I have an inverter on the bike that will run it, but I just don’t like being out of options. The bike being ready and the website done, we used our time to visit clinics, orphanages and poor sections of Cartagena. Stay tuned.

Hi Chris
Glad to see you got your bike back, like the videos, its nice to put a voice to the face.
Julian

Julian,

I have over 100 hours of footage, the trouble is that up to this point i had no time editing and posting the videos. As i cross the amazon on the boat, i'll have time to crank out a short video every day. Thanks for watching and stay tuned.

THE HUNGER GAMES

Cartagena, and in general the Caribbean coast region of Colombia, historically has the highest rate of malnutrition in the country. The problem lies rooted in the severely uneducated and rural life in this region which has many refugees of the internal war between the FARC (Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia) and the federal government which has raged on for many years. The number of displaced refugees is not precisely clear but a short visit out of the touristy town of Cartagena to its surrounding neighborhoods changes anyone’s perception.

To get more acquainted with the problem, we visited a well known local institution, founded by a rich Colombian couple to battle malnutrition and focus on family control education. I can’t personally vouch for this organization as I have my doubts about its administration. It’s not their mission that troubles me; it’s their extravagant administrative expenditures which made me think twice. For example, the new building that they are constructing is a multi-million dollar project, which looks more like the “Mall of America” in Minnesota rather than a humble clinic. I might be overly paranoid, but the fact that tons of cocaine goes through the ports of Cartagena to be shipped to North America every week is enough to justify any profligate show to cover the drug movement. It’s a technique that many organized crimes utilize to smooth out their smuggling efforts. We stayed wary of giving any financial support to this particular foundation, but on the mission level it was eye-opening.

As I walked in one of the classrooms, I was shocked to see many girls in their early teens breast feeding babies. Many ranged from 12 to 15 years old, and their petrified innocent looks were telltale signs of abuse and abandonment by the society. These girls were barely old enough to hang up their nonexistence Barbie dolls, yet they had one or more kids already and were expecting more. They didn’t know any better. Nor had the luxury of finding out how.
To reach them in their “natural habitat,” a short 30 minutes ride out of the touristy Cartagena was enough to enter the heart of the slums that no tourist will ever see and even many locals would not dare to go. No paved roads, no running water, dirt floors, shacks with no roofs and the supermarkets in the area were guarded like jailhouses with bars to prevent the hungry population from raiding them.

These families lived on 40 cents a day a person, which itself was a fortune for them. A full day of work only provided them with handful of beans and some rice to feed five or six mouths, and many went hungry day and night. Catalina (not her real name) was a one of the many. Mother of one young one already and with another one in the oven, she was responsible for her seriously ill husband while taking care of her younger brother and sister at the same time. The dingy door-less shack they lived in was nothing more than a few metal sidings and a tarp overhead, with two beds separating the muddy floor from their bodies. Five people slept on two beds at night, cooked whatever they acquired outside, and the females in the constant fear of being raped bathed behind the shack in the open. The torrential rainwater seeped in from every corner and in the dim rays of sunlight sneaking in; it felt more like a ghost house rather than inhabitable living quarters.

It is hard to accept tea from people who have absolutely nothing, but not accepting is harder on their pride. Sometimes when I pack the bike, I stare at all the stuff I carry with me (which is extremely minimalistic by any American standards), and it troubles me to know that I have more things than many have in their entire house. It sickens me to think of all the money the European and American tourists spend in many countries without the slightest regard or even knowledge of the quality of life just a few miles away from their comfortable hotels.

The cost of one meal in a touristy restaurant in Cartagena could realistically feed an entire family in this village for over a week, but no one seems to notice or care. We are too occupied with our own egos, our own comfort and well-beings that we forget that there are souls just a few miles away taking their last breath because they didn’t have what we take for granted day after day: food. We travel with our damn mosquito nets, malaria medication, our specialized money belts and safe wire-mesh backpacks to deter the hungry thieves, yet we’re ignorant of the cause of it.

Cynthia passed some money through the jail-like bars of the supermarket which yielded in two 50lb bags of rice, few bags of beans and other provisions to keep five people alive for a little longer. Catalina had tears in her eyes when she heard that she could feed her family that night as they hadn’t had a bite to eat that day because literally they had nothing to eat. Tears kept coming down her face. It was hard to say what feelings they relayed, but whatever feelings they were; it was very alien to me.

Catalina’s family wasn’t the only one we fed in that village. It was unbearable to be in the position of making the call of who gets to eat and who goes hungry, when you can’t feed everyone. We left Cartagena with heavy hearts.
Don’t forget these people. Help us so we can help them. I hope you were thankful for your blessings on this Thanksgiving Day. I am.

Bike Trouble Update!!!!
 

UPDATE! The motor blew up on the GS850, and Chris is having the bike shipped. He'll get it in 2 days. The parts for the bike are non-existent down here so if he needs to enlarge the cylinder and fit oversize pistons in them-he will need some help with info as to what size pistons are available. He will be out of contact for now but I will relay all messages to him. It's certain that at least one cylinder has a very bad blow-by and oil is going everywhere with clouds of smoke and leaking outside of the engine badly. It may be a possibility of cracked head or block. He's safe and sound and will post when able. He asks for you to keep him in your prayers.

While on the road, I tried to catch up with the blogs but the road life didn’t allow that and I feel that it’s best to get up-to-date, rather than posting old stories from two months ago. I will skip the rest of Colombia, Ecuador, Peru and Chile and will get to right now. I will post all those blogs shortly so you won’t miss anything. That’s a promise.




I felt as if my right foot was on fire, but I blamed it on the wind. When the wind blows from the side, it pushes the heat of the engine sideways, hence the all familiar warm sensation, but this time my foot was actually burning. I looked down and found my right boot covered in hot oil and saw a cloud of smoke coming from the right tail pipe. The engine started to sound like a Chinese washing machine with a roll of quarters in it, and before I knew it, it lost compression all together. The tachometer needle dropped slowly from 6000 rpm to nothing, and I had to stop. I was broken down in Northern Patagonia, with 230 kilometers to the closest city, in temperatures as hot as Texas in July.

Two weeks ago, after 101 days of hard traveling, we rode gloriously into the end of the world, Ushuaia Argentina. With that I completed the longest leg of my journey, a distance of 26,400 miles from Helena Montana, to Arctic Circle and due south to the end of all roads: Ushuaia in Tierra del Fuego. I did this journey on a 28-year old motorcycle, which astonishingly made the grueling trip beyond the speculation of many.

It wasn’t just me who felt victorious, the Racing Green Endurance team was ecstatic. Setting a new world record, the SRzero electric car became the first electric vehicle in the world to successfully complete this distance on the longest road in the world: the Pan American Highway. The long journey was over and with that the filming of the documentary which Claudio shot from the back of my motorcycle.

Our parting was bittersweet as I bid farewell to Claudio and Paul as we had traveled together for so long. Although it was just another day for me, for Claudio and Paul, it was just the beginning as they flew back home to edit the hours of footage and get the episodes ready for the BBC. The eight-part documentary will start broadcasting on January 1st, from BBC World News so don’t miss it.

For the rest of the team, I wish them best of luck on their future adventures. They were a good bunch, and despite the differences we had, we got along well and worked towards a same goal in harmony. However hard it was to be on the road every day, it was an honor for me to be a part of this monumental undertaking and play a small roll in its achievement. These young guys showed how with determination everything is possible, even when they were laughed at every time the bottom of the super-low race car scraped on another speed bump. The electric car is a reality, believe it or not. I was skeptical from the second I laid my eyes on it in Mexico, but I was proven wrong. Big thumbs up to the RGE team.

The end of the world

Ushuaia sits at 54 degrees of latitude in the southern hemisphere and is the most southerly city in the world. Just a few kilometers to the south, the Beagle Channel separates the last sizable land mass from the rest of the freezing waters of Antarctica. Here at the end of the world or as the locals like to call it: “The Beginning,” life is as laidback as it comes. It’s really no different from the Alaskan communities I’ve visited and the mental attitude is the same. Since Cynthia was flying back to California, we decided to enjoy some time together in the wild expanses of southern Patagonia before saying goodbye.

We visited the penguins, and canoed to a few island south of the Beagle Channels and made some new friends. Between the touristy visits and recovering, I chased after new tires as the rear tire on the GS was worn out beyond safety (the horrible Pirelli MT66, of course) in only 3000 miles, and I needed new tires to cover the distance of over 3000km to Buenos Aires. The more I searched the less I found, and I had to ride on these tires from lack of a choice.

The bike needed some seals and gaskets to stop the oil leaks here and there, and since there were no parts available for this bike in South America, I contacted the Z1 Enterprise, a company that specializes in old Japanese motorcycles. I had a positive experience from my previous purchases from them and I knew if there was one place that could locate all the parts I needed it was them. With only one email (I had no phone access to call them directly), Jeff Saunders of the Z1 Enterprise answered my pleas and the Z1 Enterprise officially became our parts sponsor. I sent a long list of items to Jeff, and he started pulling parts off the shelves and direct ordering the rest from Suzuki. With that out of the way, Cynthia and I started the 600km journey back to Rio Gallegos in light snow.

The wind started to blow, and as Patagonia is famous for its mighty winds, we had every right to be apprehensive of this phenomenon. We crossed a 120km gravel section, survived a very bumpy ferry ride and camped on a rancher’s land at twilight the first day. The winds were still manageable and calmed down as we got to Rio Gallegos. We visited our friends, the Sanchez’s 100+ year old ranch, Chali Aike, on the way to El Calafate and got the taste of ranch life. In El Calafate we spent several days and after a day on the glacier, Cynthia got aboard a plane to Buenos Aires to see family before going to California.

Alone

In every relationship, there’s always a compromise. I always thought that you either have a choice to be in a relationship and be irritated, or to be lonely and not irritated. Now that Cynthia was gone, I was both! I felt alone. I was in a strange country with no knowledge of the language, or a single person I could call friend. We had rushed so hastily to the airport that I had no idea where I was in relation to the roads. I was truly lost, emotionally and physically. The only thing familiar to me was the old faithful GS850 that didn’t let me down. I walked out of the airport disoriented, sad and somewhat petrified. I had no GPS maps for southern Patagonia, and all I could do was to match the coordinates to my paper map and go from there. I rode out in mild winds towards Rio Gallegos with a million thoughts in my head and uncertain of the imminent future.

The wind

Somehow in the dark, I miraculously found the ranch we stayed at on the way to Calafate. Since the ranch was on a totally different road, I had no idea how I got there, but getting lost actually saved the night. The Sanchez family received me with a dinner of spaghetti and lamb and we capped off the night with Mate, the national Argentine drink.

In the middle of the night I woke up to the atrocious sound of the wind lashing the tin roof of the building and wondered how tomorrow was going to fare. In the morning, I walked outside and could barely stand straight as the wind forced me back in the house. The radio announced five days of wind averaging 80 to 100kmh in the provinces of Tierra del Fuego and Santa Cruz; where exactly I would be traveling. I had to make the call before it was too late. I could either stay put at the ranch and wait out the winds, or I could tough it out and try to out run it before it got worse. Since I needed the parts that Jeff was sending me to Buenos Aires, I decided to leave and dash for the capital city.

The wind blew from the Northeast and it was a tail-wind until I reached the crossing of the Ruta 3, the highway that runs North/South on the Atlantic coast of Argentina. This is where things started going from bad to worse. I’ve ridden this motorcycle for so long that I know its every move, every flaw and every handling glitch, and I was confident that I could ride it in any weather on any continent. And I have. I’ve ridden it in snow, in sand, in the mighty winds of southern Wyoming and New Mexico, the Dempster Highway in Yukon, the floods of Central America, and the high mountain roads of the Andes, so my confidence wasn’t from a macho ego; it was based on the hard-earned experience of thousands of hard miles. But there was something different about this wind. It was constant.

It pounded me hour after hour without mercy to the point my neck was hurting from the force of the helmet pushing on my head. Every little hill I passed was a dangerous wind-stopper as it stopped the wind for one or two seconds and unleashed its full furry on the other side all at once. Every truck that passed me on the opposite side promised a mighty blow and trashed me about the road. Sometimes there were three or four trucks passing me simultaneously and that was the absolute hell on earth. I stopped at every sheltered outcrop of rocks to catch my breath and relax my aching arms. I tried a few time to light up a cigarette and only once I succeeded. I took one puff, and the cigarette burned almost halfway with the wind.

And the land was flat. No shelter to pitch a tent or even a tree. I was sure that my tent would withstand these winds as it’s a four-season mountaineering tent, but the problem was pitching it. It was impossible for one person to hold the fabric down and erect the tent in this wind. I was ready to dig a hole and go underground if I couldn’t find a place soon as the wind intensified by the minute. The wind wasn’t just killing me; it was killing my precious fuel in a land that gas stations are more scarce than hen’s teeth. I could see the fuel gauge needle moving towards empty, but there was nothing I could do. I kept on rolling the throttle and hoped for a gas station, or I would be doomed.

In a distance I saw two giant hills and a wide open valley after that. I had a feeling I was going to get hit hard there as the valley dipped very low, and I knew it would be a disastrous wind tunnel. I just didn’t know how bad. As I entered the hills the wind stopped, but I could see a bridge over two small ponds down the valley that looked horrifying. The shallow water of the ponds had one foot or bigger white-caps, and every bush and tall grass was flattening to the ground. It was too late to stop, and I emerged out of the shelter of the hills. The gale hit me on the left side and brought the 800lb hunk of iron traveling 60mph to a halt. I had the throttle wide open and kept down shifting for a hope of getting out of this tunnel, but the bike came to a stop a few feet before the bridge in the middle of the road and stalled. I held on to it with everything I had as I knew if I dropped it, I would never be able to pick it up in this wind. I was at a 45 degrees angle with my left foot on the ground and trying to save the bike from blowing away.

I heard a loud honk from a truck coming at me from behind, but I couldn’t move. I tried to start the bike, but to no avail so I stayed put in the middle of the road motionless. The truck swerved hard to pass me and his blast hit me even harder than the wind. I had to get off the road but my legs were trembling and the bike wouldn’t turn on. Pushing it was out of the question as the wind was hitting me straight on from the side and front. I opened the choke all the way, and the bike rumbled to life. I ushered it to the shoulder with the kickstand down. Even with the kickstand down I still had to lean on it to keep it from toppling over.

I was pinned in the worst place I could possibly be, and I couldn’t move. So I waited. I started to see a pattern in the gusts. The wind blew a steady 90-100kmh and that was manageable; it was the gusts that made it impossible to move. The gusts weren’t short, they would last 15 seconds, and then they would calm down for 10 second before hitting again. For about 5 minutes I studied the wind and waited impatiently as my fingers started to get numb from the cold. The temperatures were well below freezing, and the wind-chill was intolerable.

I counted 1, 2, 3, 4,… and on 10 I made a run for it full blast on to the bridge to other side. I rode like a bat out of hell and finally stopped behind another hill to catch my breath. I kept the bike running this time. The temperatures were so cold and the wind so fierce that it cooled off the engine in less than two minutes where I was pinned down on the road, that’s why I had to choke the bike. I was scared beyond belief. If someone gave me a bus ticket in exchange for my bike on that bridge, I would have happily done so, but now I was coming out of the shock. I kept telling myself that this was stupid. It was suicide. I saw a building that looked like a gas station in a distance. I ran for it. Later I learned that two motorcyclists died that very same day on this road in the wind. I was very lucky to be alive. My heart goes out to their families.

Out of gas

I rolled into the quiet gas station and was disheartened to see a sign on the pump: Out of gas. I noticed two other motorcycles parked in front of the building and a guy who seemed to be one of the riders came up to me to give me the news. He asked me how much fuel I had left and when I shook my head, he said in perfect English: “Well, you’re ****ed brother.” There was no gas anywhere for another 100km.

Jorge Zmud or “Tati” as his friends call him is an Argentine who lived in Florida for 10 years. He and his friend Fokundo rode their 125cc Yamaha’s from Mar del Plata, Argentina to Ushuaia and were on their way back. They had a close-call as well on the bridge with Fokundo being blown over and falling. Tati told me they were going nowhere in this wind and they were waiting it out. That sounded like a smart decision so I joined them inside for mate and empanadas. The weather turned for the worse with snow flying horizontally and temperatures dropped even more. In the meantime, we sucked out 4 liters of gas out of their tanks to put in my gas-guzzler four cylinder engine to enable me to get to the next station.

Tati called his girlfriend, and she updated us with good news; the wind was supposed to die down in a few hours and we had a clear window to ride out of hell. While we waited, a group of Brazilian motorcyclists joined us with their disbelief of the wind and empty gas tanks. We waited for three and half hours before we could ride again. I wore everything I owned and still shivered as I walked outside of the building. Tati, Fokundo and I rode out north to the next gas station and from there we decided to travel together since we were going to the same town anyway.

These guys were heaven-sent as they knew the area and knew the language. They were both good lads with lots of stories to tell and they traveled the same way I do: camping and cooking their own food. We became fast-friends in no time. We camped the first night at a campground which turned out to be free since the guard wasn’t there. The next day we covered 500km to the coast on the Atlantic. The weather started to warm up and mercifully, the wind was almost gone. Occasional gusts shook the bikes but nothing we couldn’t live with. Our plan was to stop at Punta Tomba, the biggest penguin reserve in Argentina (top three in the world) to see the giant flightless birds. I saw the penguins with Cynthia in Beagle Channel, but it was so cold and windy that day that I didn’t care for them too much. This time we would see them in much better weather and on our own pace.

The tire dilemma

My rear tire started to get really bad to the point that the cotton threads holding the plys together started to show. It was scary riding on it, but I had no choice. We kept pushing towards Comodoro, the biggest city closest to us and the tire kept getting worse. After calling around for almost two hours, we located a no-name tire that fit. It was wider than the original, but the same height and size, so I went for it. In México City, I purchased four new Pirelli MT66 (they are awful, think twice before handing your money over for this garbage), two fronts and two rears and used three out of four. The one leftover was a front tire which I didn’t need, but didn’t want to leave behind either. I hauled this garbage tire all the way with me and in this town, I found a customer for it. A guy wanted the tire so I sold it to him for 400 pesos. My rear tire was 350 pesos and installation was 30 pesos. I scored 20 pesos which I tipped to the tire guy. Life was all good again. We stayed at a municipal gymnasium for free that night, thanks to Tati’s fast-talking, and treated ourselves to a hearty camp dinner and cheap wine. We crashed like logs.

Amongst the penguins

The road to Punta Tomba took us through the countryside with nothing but deep gravel. The roads were new with no potholes so we unleashed the bikes 60mph on deep gravel, occasionally sliding and skipping, but we just gave it more gas. In 100km we didn’t see any cars, and we rode Dakar style on the pegs over the rolling hills. It was a much needed joy run, and I was impressed with Tati’s dirt riding skills. I chased him for an hour to catch up with him, and when I finally did, he was slowing down because we were at the end of the road. There’s only one secret to dirt riding: being fearless enough to give it more gas when the bike goes where you don’t want it to go. I think most people who fall and hurt themselves dirt riding are those who are scared of going fast. This 28-year old road bike was nothing short of a KTM on these roads, it just lacked the suspension travel which wasn’t important anyway since the road was as flat as a mirror.

We reached the penguin reserve at dusk and were informed that there was no camping allowed anywhere, and it was closed until 8am the next morning. So Tati got to work and after talking to the park ranger for 10 minutes, we even got invited to stay inside the ranger’s house with steak dinner. I don’t know what he told him and I don’t care, but I’m loving this guy. The dinner was exquisite, and the company a typical warm Argentine camaraderie. The admission fee was 35 pesos each which they waved, and we were the only people walking with the penguins for two hours.

This reserve is packed with over a million penguins and they are as fearless as they come. They walked right towards us, and some even poked their beaks in the camera sunshade. The penguins I saw in South were lazy and stupid looking, but these guys were lively and cheerful. This visit was the most amazing experience of my stay in Argentina to this day, and it will be hard to beat.

The disaster

The weather kept getting hotter, and we started to shed off our long johns and ski gloves. We camped in a beach town the next night, and it was almost too hot to sleep in the tent. At 8am I ran out of the tent with sunburn as the tent turned into a solar oven. We cooked some eggs for breakfast and decide to leave after lunch so we can do some chores around the camp: cleaning helmets, chains, checking the oil, tire pressure, mending clothes and socks and of course drinking mate. Around 1pm, we finally got on the road and made 200km before stopping for fuel. I told the guys to go ahead as I would catch up with them on the road. I wanted to get my MP3 player hooked up so I could listen to some music. I got back on the road maybe only 15 minutes after they left and cruised about 70 to 75mph to catch up with the slow pokes on 125cc Yamahas. And that’s when the bike broke down.

The engine was so hot that I couldn’t keep my face close to it to see where the oil was coming from, and one small try to restart the bike (after adding oil) disheartened me. It sounded like the pistons were scraping the cylinder walls and I stopped. I was frying in my protective gear in the full sun, so after taking off my jacket, I tried pushing the bike. I don’t know what I was thinking, but after 2 inches of hard push I gave up. The bike wasn’t going anywhere.

I tried to stop some small pickup trucks but I soon realized that there was no way of getting the bike in the bed of a pickup without ramps and even with ramps, it would take a few people to push this monster up there with no power. The search for a pickup truck towing a trailer turned out to be futile, and as the sun blazed on my head, I got more nauseated. I flagged down a semi truck and he stopped. With my 50-word Spanish vocabulary I got the message across that the motor blew and I needed to get to the next gas station where the guys would likely be waiting for me. The semi was empty with plenty of room, but again there was no way of getting the bike 6 foot high in the air to load it in the trailer.

Thinking the unthinkable

Only one option remained as I was as far from any civilization as could be: to tow the bike behind the semi with a tow strap. Towing a motorcycle is illegal in the United States and for a good reason; it’s extremely dangerous. What keeps the motorcycle upright is the power of the engine to the real wheel which allows it to maneuver with accelerating and leaning under power. When it’s towed, the leaning becomes obsolete as the tow rope passes between the forks and the power is coming from the tow vehicle. The rider has to sit down on a death-trap and follow the tow vehicle with no control whatsoever and if anything goes wrong, the bike and riders are sure to be dragged behind the truck until the driver realizes the mishap.

I had no other choice. I wrapped the orange strap carefully around the frame and tethered my life to the semi truck ahead of me. The problem was that the strap was too short, and since I was riding behind the trailer, the driver had no way of seeing me. He asked me how fast he should go and the only high number in Spanish I remembered was cincuenta (50) so I uttered it with fear. He shook his head in agreement and started to pull me off. The strap tightened and off we went after a couple of jerks. The gas station we were trying to get to was 58km away and I think I lost just that much weight in pounds sweating and cursing at the driver as he sped up to 80kmh, well beyond my comfort zone. I held on for dear life and didn’t blink so I could take the slack out of the tow line every time he slowed down with gently using the rear brake. Every truck that passed us on the opposite way blasted me, and I shivered at the thought of losing control. Mile after mile, I sweated and held on for the safety of the gas station which seemed to be on the far side of the moon. Finally the truck started to slow down, and I kept a tight rope between us as he pulled in the station. From the corner of my eyes, I saw my biking buddies coming over camera in hands snapping pictures of the stupid scene.

Tati came to my rescue one more time as he worked out a deal with the driver to take the bike and me to the next town, 170km away so we could figure out a way to fix it. He agreed on 150 pesos but one problem remained. We still had no ramp. We rounded up a few hefty guys and as I watched in awe, they lifted the heavy beast 6 feet off the ground and into the back of the forty- foot trailer. We strapped it down and headed out on the road again, due north.

We stopped at a truck stop right before the town to figure out what we could do as Tati and Fokundo had a reunion to attend at 5p.m. the next day 450km away. Tati suggested taking the bike to his ranch, about 40km from Mar del Plata where I would have a place to work on it, and I could stay as long as I needed to for free. Again, I had no choice and his offer was hard to resist, so I agreed. The truck driver would take the bike to a transport company in the morning to be shipped and I would catch a bus to the ranch to meet the guys. I bought dinner for the very helpful truck driver and my new friends and we slept at the back of the semi-trailer that night next to rotting tomatoes and cabbages. The next morning, we shipped the bike for 450 pesos to Mar del Plata, and I got on the bus for another 150 pesos myself to meet it. The day after is a holiday in Argentina so I have to wait another day to pick up the bike from the trucking company. Then, I have to rent a small pickup truck to take it to Tati’s place 40km away and find out what’s actually wrong with it.

As I’m writing this very long post in the bus station, I’m grateful for all the help and suggestions anyone can offer as I’m in a pinch here. This bike is my only ride and what I have on it are my only worldly possessions. When I started this journey back in August of 2009, I sold everything and I donated every piece I had left including this bike to our non-profit organization. If I can’t fix it here, I’ll have no choice but leaving it behind to cut the losses. Purchasing another motorcycle would be extremely expensive in Argentina as every imported thing is taxed 200%. An old shaggy Kawasaki KLR costs around $8000 USD here, and I honestly have no more money to afford that kind of spending. If the heads and cylinders are beyond repair, shipping the parts from United States will be outrageously expensive even if I can find the parts for free. Cross your fingers and wish me luck as I’ll try my best to get this old gal back on the road.

I’m not giving up, bike or no bike, I’ll continue this journey. Donkeys are cheap down here so stay tuned.

Chris Sorbi

Well, More bad news,

Three pistons out of four have holes melted on the top. Last night that i took the pistons out, it was too windy (i have no clean inside shop to work) and i covered the engine right away to keep the dust out. I took a close look at the cylinders, there some score marks in all cylinders but they are not deep. In fact my finger nails doesn't even catch on them, so that's good.

Intake valves are perfect shape, exhaust valves not so much but workable.

The metal chunks from the pistons have melted and broke to pieces everywhere. i have to open the case completely to clean everything otherwise it'll be more trouble. (i found a empty garage that i can work in once i get to that stage.

The head is fine including the cams. the cam chain is not broken.

Now the bad news,

The metal chunks already have done the damage. #3 rod bearings are all gone. it has 1/8" play on either direction. the other three are suspected as well but not much of movement.

The camchain guides (the long plastic black thingys) are worn out and cracked, and all pistons and rings have to be changed. and that's just the internal engine diagnostic. I have to check my carbs, petcock and every possible air leak en rout to the motor.

I think this motor is just too gone to be worth fixing with what little tool i have. i don't even have a spring compressor to put the valves back on (i took them out with a short pipe and a hammer, the old hillbilly way.)

The guys on the Suzuki forum already found a replacement engine for me and they are trying to ship it down here, but i need a new bike in a long run.

Sorry to read this Chris.

How many miles has the bike done now?

I agree that a new engine is the best option, or one reconditioned in the US and shipped to you down there.

Or a new bike.

Good luck.

Doc,

The engine was barely broken in, it only had 57000 miles on it.

Deep Into South America

As you read previously, my motorcycle broke down in Patagonia after wrestling for two days with mighty winds, and I had to send it to the next town so I could start the diagnosis. Well the diagnosis is in. I took the engine apart and my suspicions were right on the money. I had three pistons with holes on top. To make it worse, debris from the detonations splattered all over the inside of the engine, and destroyed the rod bearings. Mar del Plata, Argentina was the end of this motor.

Although all the parts could be found either in US or Europe, there were virtually no parts available in Argentina for this bike. As I always do, I turned to my abundant faithful Suzuki friends on the GSR and in no time, Matt Hanscom, one of the GSR members generously donated a complete motor out of his own bike, and the rest of the guys gathered up the bits and pieces for the swap. Z1 Enterprise kicked in with all new gaskets and necessary parts to make the replacement engine as reliable as new, and as we speak, there are a few guys working on the engine to get it into shape. The big problem is shipping the motor down south, and although many has pledged donations or already contributed towards the shipping cost, it’s still not clear which route we should take to get it down here economically and quickly.

I’m eager to thank everyone who has helped with this dilemma, either financially or by moral support, but I don’t have the complete list of names here so I won’t mention any until I do. Thank you for all you’re doing and thank you for the encouraging comments and emails, they do make me feel that I’m not alone.
In the mean time while I’m waiting for the engine to get here, here’s the rest of the story from Colombia to Argentina as I promised.


Cartagena to Medellin

We stayed in Cartagena for so long that it felt like we were living there. For the last few days of our encampment we stayed at Claudio’s friends’ restored colonial home in the old walled city. Because of the owners’ fear of kidnapping and extortion, we can’t publish any pictures of the place nor even say their famous names, but it was an amazing place replete with servants, balconies, zebra skin rugs and a parrot truly worthy of a decorating magazine spread. While there, Paul Jackson, the very talented British editor of the Long Way Down, (the second BBC TV series of the adventures of Ewan McGregor, Charley Boorman and Claudio von Planta to Africa on two BMW GS1200) joined us for the rest of the journey to Ushuaia, Argentina. Paul will be editing the footage that Claudio shoots daily for the web episodes and rough cutting them for the upcoming documentary series, broadcasting from BBC World News on January 1st. The group is back to 9 people again, with me and Claudio on the GS850, two guys in the SRzero electric car and the rest in the van heading down the Pan American Highway.

We passed through the tropics of Colombian countryside and with temperatures soaring to the high 90’s, we sweated and cursed at the bad roads. Pothole after pothole started to take their toll on the suspension of the bike, and the awful Pirelli MT66 tires made the experience worse with yet another flat tire. This time the RGE guys stopped to wait for us, and the police escort led us to a tire shop on the side of the road to get the tire fixed. It wasn’t much of a shop, but the shirtless guy was very skilful as he changed, patched and installed the tire in a record time of 15 minutes with the sheen of sweat covering his body. I guess he saw the pretty race car and felt like he was doing a pit stop. The cost: $4.20.
From Monteria the scenery started to change dramatically. The high temperatures slowly cooled off, and the road started to head uphill for as long as I remember. From sea level we climbed to over 7000ft; in that distance, the look of people changed as well. The scenery was the most spectacular thing I’ve ever seen in my life; it looked like the jungles of Pandora out of the movie Avatar. Claudio and I kept looking at each other in amazement; we couldn’t believe our eyes. This is the place that cocaine is made. Men on horseback traversed the treacherous mountain paths, and every overlook was a scene from the heavens. If I ever settle down anywhere, that’s where it would be.

The weather cooled off to the point that we put on ski gloves to keep us from shivering, and we stopped frequently for the amazing Colombian coffee to warm us up. Colombia, unlike all the other Latin American countries is very motorcycle friendly. Motorcyclists don’t have to pay tolls to enter toll roads (everywhere else we had to pay tolls), and they always have the right of way. We never got stopped by the police or military while most trucks and cars did. And the police are mostly on motorcycle and are as cool as they come.

As we entered Medellin we had a motorcycle police escort and they didn’t leave us alone until we left for Bogota. The shocks had finally given way, and it was time to get the suspension back in shape, so Cynthia and I stayed behind in Medellin while the rest of the group went to Bogota for press events and sponsor duties. Our police escort had nothing else to do but to hang out with us, so we went out on the town to fix the shocks. Stay tuned.

Shock repair and going to Bogotá

Medellin is a peculiar city, but in a good way. It’s built in a valley and extends up into the surrounding mountainsides (literally) so it goes up and down indefinitely. The streets are mostly at 45 degrees angles, and it makes an interesting exercise on a loaded motorcycle when wet, which is all the time. Medellin was a notoriously dangerous place in the late 80’s and the early 90’s, and it was even home to Pablo Escobar, the infamous (or the Robin Hood figure to poor of Medellin) Colombian drug lord. However, in recent years, the city has transformed into a bustling cosmopolitan place which is just as safe as any other major city. It soon became my favorite city in Colombia, as the hospitality of its people was overwhelming.

At 9 am, our police escort was ready for us to go shock hunting and off we went. From the very first shop we went to, we were told that no one has these shocks in Colombia, and we were out of luck. So we settled for plan B, which was finding similar shock absorbers to make them work with this bike. We dismantled the old shocks and kept the progressive springs to install them on two heavy-duty shocks. These shocks were from a Taiwanese 250cc motorcycle with mono rear suspension system (one shock in middle), and they were unbelievably stiff.
We mounted the springs on the new shocks and modified the bushings and heads to fit the GS and installed them on the bike. It's a pain installing shocks on this bike since I have to remove the boxes in order to get to the shocks and we did this 7 times.

The shop that did the shock work was a specialized machine shop that only dealt with motorcycle suspension, so there was no shortage of tools or talents there, but we kept getting stiff shocks. In fact, they were so hard that 3 people couldn’t push the bike down to compress the darn thing. At 6 p.m we stopped after 7 hours of work and left the rest for the next day.

The cure to the stiff shocks came from enlarging the oil valves inside the shock bodies and diluting the oil viscosity by half. To make them even more adjustable, we cut 3 grooves on the outside of the cylinders to able to position the ring pin for the adjuster in 3 different positions 0.75 inches apart. After many trials and errors we finally settled down on an adjustment that worked. We configured the shocks for two people, the load and the biggest pothole we could imagine. The rear is very stiff now for just one person as I only weigh 150 lbs, and I can barely push it down but fully loaded with Cynthia on it, it’s just right.

The bill for 14 hours of machine shop wages including the shocks came out to $460,000 Colombian Pesos ($250 USD). I can’t imagine how much an American shop would charge for the same job if they even would accept it. I usually ask for a discount, but this time I happily handed the cash over since these guys went above and beyond to help us.
When the shocks were done, we lucked out again and met Diego José Aristizabal who owns a brake shop. Freno Motos is a well stocked brake shop which is one of the best I’ve seen. All they do is brakes, and they are good at it. I needed a set of rear brake pads and from México to Colombia, I searched for a replacement and had no luck but here I found them. Diego donated another set of metallic brake pads to us and after taking some pictures and drinks on the house, we bid them farewell.

We met a MIT graduate named Jorge at the university where the SRzero was being charged and he put us up at his parents’ house for the night. We were amazed at their gracious hospitality towards complete strangers. To thank our friendly police escort, we invited them to dinner and told them that they can eat anywhere they liked. Their eyes opened up and excitedly they said McDonald’s!!!! McDonald’s is apparently a luxury and hip food joint as it is expensive for the locals. A typical dinner for 4 people would normally come out to 12-15 dollars, but McDonald’s prices were the same as United States if not more. So we had Big Macs and chicken sandwiches for the first time since we left US, and I honestly don’t miss it at all. Passing under the golden arches did feel like home though.

Thanks to all the beautiful Colombians who made our experience an unforgettable one. After traveling in many countries, I think I can say that Colombia is officially my favorite country in the world. It’s one of the most beautiful places on earth, and it’s so diverse in scenery and climate that it never disappoints. I will come back here one day.

Heading for Ecuador

Ever since we left Medellin, the weather stayed glorious: sunny blue skies with temperatures ranging from the 60 to the 70’s. I checked the oil before we left and added some, but somehow I forgot to screw the oil cap back on. 30 miles of curvy mountain roads later we stopped for fuel, and when I looked down, I thought I was going to have a heart attack. Cynthia and I were covered in oil up to our knees. No one else was around so I blamed it on Cynthia not reminding me to put the cap back on :)

The roads turned out to be great and with one twist after another, it was a joy to ride in the beautiful Colombia. We still had over 600 miles to Ecuador but I secretly wished it would be longer. I guess my prayers were answered as Ecuador closed its borders to Colombia and Peru after its president was kidnapped and held hostage by Ecuadorian police force. Apparently the president took it upon himself to boycott the benefits of the police substantially while offering them different benefits, and that didn’t settle well with them. The president attended the police protest and after a while, he got hot-tempered and opened his shirt and yelled “Why don’t you shoot me?”, and so the police obliged. One thing led to another and they kept the president hostage for their claims. In the middle of all this, we were waiting patiently for the news as when things would calm down and if they ever would.

We set up a couple of visits for malnutrition programs while in Bogota but since the shock ordeal delayed us in Medellin until the weekend we weren’t able to make it to the appointments, so for the first time we went out with Paul and had a day of sightseeing. We visited the world famous Museo de Oro (Gold Museum) and the surrounding plazas. While jumping into the air for a picture, I landed wrong and hurt my leg. The pain stayed with me for the remainder of the stay in Bogota. I rode through 2 continents on the bike with no injury, and the only injury came out of my own stupidity of trying to act like a 10 year old kid in a 30 year old body. We finally headed for Pasto, a small town close to the border of Ecuador. This section as we found out later was a major FARC territory but since we didn’t know, we stopped at every scenic place and walked around like we were on holiday. I even saw a sign for zip lining after one of our stops and I had to do it. Cynthia, Clemens, Alex and I rushed for the line as it was only $5 USD and better yet, it ran from one side of the 3km long valley to the other side. It was by far the longest zip line I’ve ever seen. The one minute run between earth and sky was mesmerizing although we seriously shouldn’t have been there.

Claudio and I stayed back to film a bit more, and that’s when we did all the wrong moves (good thing we didn’t know it at the time). We stopped at a bridge to film a river, and the very same bridge was the scene of a bloody attack on a bus a few days before. We stopped at a non-functioning gas station and chatted with an old man while taking our time putting more layers of clothing and before we knew it, it was dark and the heavy fog settled in. The good roads turned into almost trenches and with detour after detour, we felt like we were on the moon. The look of modern and comfortable Colombia turned into a scene from a war torn country, and it didn’t get better until we caught up with the rest of the guys a few miles before Pasto.

At dinner in Pasto we were told all the horror stories that go on that very same road we took so leisurely, and we shuddered as we heard more. All in all, no one was hurt, and we all made it to safety. It’s just sad because this area had the second most amazing scenery in all Colombia after the road leading to Medellin. The FARC still fights the government and still kidnaps civilians to gain leverage and continue the chaos.

Here's the rest of the pictures:

DEC 24TH. CROSSING THE EQUATOR

Ecuador is one of the smaller countries in South America, but it was an interesting point in my journey. The equator passes through Ecuador and that means that by reaching the equator, I traveled from the furthest north in Yukon to the center of the earth. Crossing into Ecuador was by far our easiest border crossing in the whole trip as the guy we met in Pasto, Sebastian Moreno, a former Colombian Formula 3 race car driver, accompanied us to make our lives easier.

As we suspected, Ecuador was still in a political chaos from the president kidnapping incident of the week before. This time the president dismantled the police force so it doesn’t happen again. Instead of the regular police, he appointed Special Forces and the military to be in charge of security of the country. These guys were armed to the teeth and were the most formidable looking police force I’ve ever seen outside of the United States. But they turned out to be as menacing as puppies and a lot of fun.

They took it upon themselves to protect and serve us as we drove towards the capital city of Quito, and they never failed to entertain us. Right at the border I made some friends with some of them (distributing American cigarettes never hurts) and in return they took me shoe shopping, opening the way in the busy streets with M-16s. At one point, they pulled over in the countryside and loaded their guns for us to shoot at some plastic bottles while they stopped the traffic for the festivity. As Claudio puts it “It’s always good to make friends with the guys holding big guns.”

Upon reaching Quito, we settled into our hotel with the plan being to leave in 2 days for Peru, but the craziest thing happened (beside another flat in the crappy Pirelli MT66 rear tire.) The RGE team had a press event at the university the next day, but they had partied all night and were still a little tipsy in the morning. The normal presentation involved going really fast and braking hard to demonstrate the amazing braking power of the SRzero electric car, but this time, Nick Sauer, the RGE guy who was driving the car for the demonstration, forgot to brake a little earlier and the SRzero crashed into the wall in front of the TV cameras and the few hundred spectators, just missing Clemens and Claudio. A cheer went up from the crowd, and with that we got stuck in Quito for 5 more days while the guys fixed up the car.

I always thought that Ecuador was a tropical place and since it was on the equator, it was warm. Man, was I wrong. It was mountainous and snow-covered peaks loomed everywhere you looked. It was quite cold, and it rained on and off. I took the time to change the oil on the bike, flushing the brake system with new brake fluid and complete some other due maintenance. Ecuador also turned out to be a really long country as Claudio and I had the longest riding day of the trip trying to get to the border. We left at 6:30 am with only a few hours of sleep and reached the border town at 11 pm, after 17 hours of riding through banana plantations, deserts, mountains and tropical patches.

As we got closer to the Peruvian border, the once nice and clean countryside turned into pile of garbage. There wasn’t a pit stop that we didn’t mention what a shithole it was. If the garbage and the foul smell wasn’t enough, we met our most vicious predators: dogs.

These dogs hunted in packs and somehow they evolved to know that speed bumps are the best place to hunt for innocent motorcyclists. They hung around the giant speed bumps, and as we slowed down to go over the small hill, they attacked us from every side. Claudio and I kept our legs up, and I rolled on the throttle as they lunged at us with bared teeth.

Into Peru

I was really looking forward to seeing Peru, especially western Peru and the magnificent Andes, but as it turned out, our route was going nowhere near the Cordillera. Instead, we hugged the Pacific Coast on the Pan-American Highway and went nonstop through the country. But that didn’t mean that we didn’t like Peru.

In fact, the very first night we got to Peru, Claudio and I stopped for a cup of coffee as the rest of the team were behind at least an hour (the GS850 was unstoppable on the perfect Peruvian highways at sea level and clocking 100 to 110 mph was not uncommon) so we walked in a restaurant to kill some time.

The first thing I saw was a charcoal grill the size of small swimming pool with a giant pig roasting away above the embers. Claudio suggested that we eat there so we walked in to the back where a band was playing. I literally stepped one foot in the room, and I was handed a beer from a semi-drunk guy at the next table. Long story short, we downed 6 bottles of beer (the beer in South America comes in two sizes, the small bottle which is a normal 12oz and the big one is a 40oz like Old English) courtesy of our two new Peruvian friends and settled down for a long conversation which none of us could understand. They spoke only Spanish, and between Claudio and me, we spoke six languages, but none even came close to Spanish.

One thing that they did manage to get across was that we are all brothers no matter where we come from, and they welcomed us to Peru. They were both bikers, and I suppose a loaded motorcycle was enough to bring out the hospitality. We had an amazing welcome to Peru, thanks to our new friends and Crystal, the fine Peruvian social lubricant.

Western Peru is dry. In fact we didn’t see a drop of rain the whole time we were there. Since the climate is so dry, nothing really grows on the coast, and the food staples are chicken and fish. Fish come out of the ocean and the chicken farms are set right on the beaches. In fact, chicken must be the national bird of Peru as it’s served everywhere and is the specialty of the country. One night Claudio, Cynthia and I went out to town for dinner, and we honestly couldn’t find any restaurant that served anything else besides chicken. There are thousands of chicken farms right on the beach as you travel down the coast highway and with every breeze, chicken shit smell filled up the air.

We visited a very poor town and got to hang out with some volunteers and the children that they were working with. After lunch (chicken, of course!) we set out for the town of Huacachina in the Ica region of southwestern Peru, which boasts an actual oasis. The landscape changed from coastal sands to full-fledged desert and it looked much like Sahara. Sand dunes piled up to 1000 feet, and every gust of wind shoved a little more sand into my helmet. The oasis was a fascinating place straight out of Lawrence of Arabia with an emerald green lake surrounded by palm trees sheltered by sand dunes as high as mountains. Cynthia, Claudio and Paul ventured up the biggest dune to take pictures and film while I slept like a baby, glad not to be in the 100 degree heat outside.

DEC 29TH. PARANAL AND THE CHILEAN WHOREHOUSE

Lima marked the last big civilization in Peru, and the worst traffic I’ve ever seen in my life. In the first hour entering Lima, the SRzero ran into a semi-truck in the mayhem and broke the rear fiberglass fender. The RGE guys fixed the car in no time, and soon we entered Chile, to attempt crossing of the Atacama Desert, the driest place on earth. Ever since we left Ecuador, seeing a tree was like a Bigfoot sighting and the Atacama was living up to its name. Occasional desert flowers and green moss were signs of underground waters, but they were far and long in between. Even cactus were few and far in between in certain areas of the desert. Atacama is a giant desert, and it is a fascinating place. In the day time, the temperatures soared to the point that asphalt started to melt, and at night they dropped down to freezing.

To say that the region is dry is an understatement. My rear tire was down to almost nothing, but considering the impossible chances of precipitation, I chose not to change it until it was gone completely. We continued along a mostly flat moonscape which seemed to go on endlessly, but would occasionally wend along and down into fantastical yawning canyons.

Despite having to have the bike inspected and the entire van unloaded to x-ray all the contents at the border, we made it out of Peru and through Chile in a record-breaking time. Chile is unlike all other Latin American countries. The European and in particular, the German influence, is tremendous, and all the natural resources have made this very long country a success in the relatively poor South America. We proceeded to Arica, a coastal town with more German flags than Chileans, and we promptly got lost. Through most of Central America and some of Colombia we had police and/or contacts meeting us and escorting us from point A to point B, but now as we were traveling independently, we were to experience travel the way most people do, which I much prefer. The RGE guys usually set up the route and chase Google maps on their Ipads religiously as we follow along, but occasionally I had to turn on the GPS to help us find our way back to the right direction.

Just like In Oaxaca, Mexico, we got stuck behind a strike in the middle of the highway which was in this case for a customs checkpoint. Again we could get around the ordeal on the motorcycle, but the SRzero and the van had to wait out the festivity. Claudio was so dead tired that he slept right on the side of the road while I used the time to go fishing and Cynthia picked up shells. When the road cleared up, Cynthia got on the back of the bike, to her delight, and Claudio slept in the van. Since there was no filming to do, we went ahead and took our time fishing and stopping for pictures while the slow pokes followed behind. In all of our time on the road, I have never seen so many pick-up trucks. In fact, pick-up trucks are rather few and far in between in much of Central and South America. However, there seemed to be almost more pick-ups than cars which we found out later belonged to the miners.

At around 5 pm, we arrived at the mining town of Antofasto and waited at the entrance for the rest of the guys to catch up. We waited an hour and half with no sign of them with the temperatures dropping as sunset approached. Around sunset we gave up, and drove into town looking for internet to email the guys and get some food. Claudio wrote to say that they stopped about 80km before Antofasto as the car ran out of charge and to just get a hotel and let them know where to find us in the morning.

We considered sleeping on the beach as there is no shortage of coastline, but A. we didn’t have our camping gear with us as everything was in the van, and B. the locals strongly cautioned against this, saying that the area was quite dangerous. Thus began a three hour ordeal to find a hotel as apparently during the week, the hotels are all full from all the miners and business people. We even had one hotel call other hotels for us, but there was only one room vacant and it was $250. I was very tired and sleepy and not happy to have to drive back to Mejillones where the rest of the group was, but not wanting to pay a fortune for a night sleep, we started on the way out of town, when Cynthia spotted a tiny motel which looked promising.

As we rode inside the gate, a plump lady ran towards us and asked us “How many hours?” All night was the answer. I had my own girl with me otherwise she would have supplied the lady for the night as well. The whorehouse was” homey” and cheap, and we had our own private garage. We rented a pink room with hardwired speakers that played love songs all night. It even had a sighting window with light in it for peep show I suppose. Now that we had our room, we went back into town to email Claudio our address and GPS coordinates for the next day, and on the way back the clutch cable broke. Again. Thankfully, I had a spare bare cable which barely worked with some heavy modification. When I closed my eyes it was 2 am already.

Paranal Observatory

Much of the area looked liked Mars, with no humidity or even a cloud in sight. That’s why 14 European countries got together, and built the largest and most impressive observatory on earth in the middle of the Atacama Desert. The European Southern Observatory (ESO) or the Paranal is the one and only in the world, and we had the privilege to visit it. The last James Bond movie was actually shot there, and if that wasn’t enough to persuade us to go there, we were offered to stay at the observatory overnight, and would get a tour of the inside of the telescopes at night to see the far far away galaxies.

The roads to the observatory weren’t marked, and we had a hell of a time finding our way there. The sun burnt through my black riding gear and the engine felt like a million degrees in between my legs. We asked for directions three times, and every time they sent us on a wild goose chase. After much frustration, we finally found the road and started to climb high up in the desert until we could go no further.

Paranal’s remote location was selected due to the unique feature of being one of the least humid and driest places on earth which makes for ideal clear skies for the telescopes. While checking in and getting our ID badges, we were told that tourists could only visit on weekends but were not able to stay overnight or go up to the observatory at night. Being able to stay at the observatory where the workers and visiting astronomers stay was a pretty big deal. The site has many workshops and storage buildings clustered together. Towards the West is a large object that looks like a Frisbee or a giant UFO sitting on top of the earth. We descend down the path into the disc and found ourselves in a man-made oasis with tropical trees, birds, flowers, vines and a pool in the middle. Inside the bubble, there was a cafeteria that served delicious food, made by world class chefs, and the James Bond hotel consisted of three stories of bedrooms where the astronomers stayed. On the hill several kilometers above the bubble was the observatory.

Despite the amazing location, I had to put aside any thoughts of relaxation as the bike was in desperate need of some TLC. I was pleased that they had a workshop where I could change the bald rear tire and the oil. The kind mechanic gave me free oil and the complete use of his shop. I arrived at the Paranal on an empty tank, (gas stations are few and far between in the desert and getting lost three times to find the place didn’t help) and was grateful that they generously filled up my fuel tank as well. In the evening, we went up the hill with the group to look at the stars and the observatory. It was almost impossible to see any black sky due to the infinite number of brightly glittering stars. The view was truly spectacular. We went inside for a tour of the control room of the observatory and were able to see the image of a far-away star pulsating on the computer screen. However, frankly it was disappointing. We thought we were going to peer through the telescope and see many stars up close, but apparently they don’t do that. Computer screens are what they spend their time on, but it was a great experience nevertheless.

In the morning I finished up the maintenance on the bike, and we headed out into Atacama again. While it was somewhat warm at the Paranal, it became bitingly cold and windy as we descended down to the valley, so we bundled up like Eskimos. Surprisingly we started to see more signs of life as the road came closer to the coast again and we started to catch glimpse of patches of green interspersed amongst the rocky terrain along with cactuses and various desert wildflowers in purple, yellow, and white. After so many days of sand, dirt and rocks, these little bits of green seemed to be from a Technicolor dream. I wanted to eat the flowers rather than looking at them! Eventually we made our stop in the sleepy little fishing village of Tongoy at a seaside hotel situated directly on the water. With furnishings straight out of a 1950’s time capsule, the hotel had a sunny, airy feel to it with floor to ceiling windows and view of the Pacific dotted with bobbing yellow fishing skiffs, pelicans, and seagulls, as well as a perfect sunset. We weren’t disappointed to find out that due to the low amperage electricity, the SRzero would not be fully charged in time to leave in the morning which meant that we could enjoy a rare full rest day in this delightful locale.

Out Of Chile

It was 9 a.m. by the time we headed out of Tongoy and headed for Santiago. The morning started out overcast and very cold with Claudio back on the bike. As we rode on, the landscape gave way to more eucalyptus and fir trees and the roadsides were lined with clumps of yellow flowers. We arrived in Santiago by late afternoon and promptly got lost again. Santiago is the capital of Chile and is nestled at the base of the Andes Mountains. It is a very modern, fashionable and wealthy city, and its culture is more regimented in following procedures and rules. Chile is the only country in South America that you can’t bribe the government officials including the SS looking police. Their uniform was straight out of the 1940’s Nazi Germany with pea-green long trench coats, high leather boots and gloves. In fact they were very strict and not once did they cracked a smile. After so much freedom in all other countries, Santiago seemed very uptight and didn’t feel right.

We had a few days in Santiago to cool our jets and do some work. I celebrated my 29th birthday by spending a fun relaxing day with Cynthia. This was the first time that we were able to enjoy a stop in a big city for a few days WITHOUT having to do any maintenance to the bike. Chile has a strong economy and is one of the top Latin American countries for security. Chile has eradicated malnutrition through extensive government efforts, and several locals that we talked with were quite proud to share how the government provides fortified split rice which is used to make soup for elderly pensioners which has actually, along with the fortified milk, helped to increase longevity in the elderly. On Wednesday, the RGE team, Paul, and Cynthia left to Talca. Claudio and I stayed back in Santiago to wait for Claudio’s replacement video camera to arrive via UPS from the UK. The next day we tried to pick it up only to discover that Claudio would be required to pay an exorbitant customs fee ($700 USD and hire a customs broker to get his own camera out of the greedy hands of the Chilean customs officials). We said, “Hell no,” and rented a camera instead, and headed out to catch up with the group in Talca. The drive down got progressively more beautiful as the very green countryside was dotted with vineyards, trees of all sorts, and loads of yellow flowers along the roads and in the fields. With the view of the white-capped Andes in the eastern horizon, we slowly traversed the longest country on the map towards Argentina.

JAN 7TH. ARGENTINA, TIERRA DEL FUEGO

We intended to start out around 9 a.m. to finish our last leg in Chile and cross the border to Argentina. However, somehow the RGE team’s Nikon SLR camera went missing which caused a delay as everyone searched around for the camera. Unfortunately, the camera was nowhere to be found (most likely got stolen out of their hotel room). With only seven days left to the finish line, I offered the use of my Pentax SLR and we got out of dodge.
The scenery on this last leg was absolutely breathtaking. It’s almost impossible to describe how lush and verdant the terrain was. The mix of fields, mountains, trees, and profusion of flowers make it jaw-dropingly spectacular. For me, Claudio, and the guys in the SRzero, there was a bit more to contend with as not only did we have rain, (the first real rain since Colombia) but it was bloody cold. We had all kinds of layers on to help ward off the chill, but it wasn’t working

And at last, there it was, the white and blue flag of Argentina waving in the wind. Since I was eight years old, I had wanted to visit this country, and 21 years later, I rode my motorcycle to it. It was the hot summer of 1990 when the Argentine national football team lost the final World Cup match to Germany, and I cried for two days. I wanted to be a football player, but it turned out that life had a different path in mind for me.

Upon our arrival at the border, the bike was completely out gas. Trying to get gas from the van was a no-go as it had an anti-robbing screen in the way. A kindly policeman came to my rescue who went out to town and got some gas for us. Finally the stern Nazi-like Chilean police had given way to helpful and laidback Latino police we came to know.

As soon as we entered Argentina, we came across patches of snow much to Claudio’s great delight. He wished only for two things on the last leg of the film as we had pretty much seen everything else in the long journey: snow and penguins. As it turned out, he would never get to see the penguins, but at least snow was better than nothing. As we got higher into the mountains, the snow covered the landscape and the freezing rain turned into ice. The weather was blustery and cold in earnest, and we were relieved to enter Bariloche and settle into a cozy chalet with heating (a novelty in these parts). The host was incredibly accommodating to our every request, including parking the bike on the covered balcony by our room

The next day dawned bright and sunny although it was still bitingly cold outside. Then it changed again. In the space of a few minutes it rained, snowed, and hailed. Cynthia and Claudio braved the elements for a walk to the beautiful lake to film and take pictures, elated that we weren’t leaving until 2 pm. Our next stop was Esquel, a beautiful ski town in the foot hills of the Andes, and that marked our entry into the Province of Chubut, the start of the Patagonia. I didn’t get a minute of sleep that night as two busloads of high school rugby players checked in the hotel the night before and kept us up all night with their rowdy antics. I was so tired that the thought of driving 400 miles was out of the question. Paul Jackson, Claudio’s film editor, took on the task of riding, and I slept in the van the whole time. All I remember is peeking out of the dusty van windows between naps and seeing millions of sheep scattered all over Patagonian landscape.

The Patagonia has a peculiar landscape. It has so many living things in it that makes it so alive. From flamingos, armadillos, deer, sheep, guanaco, (wild lama) and ostriches to of course cows, it is home to giant glaciers, formidable mountains, and barren deserts. It has some of the most extreme temperatures from minus 30F in winter to 100F in summer. To add to that are the freakish winds which blow in the summer at such vicious velocities that it makes the locals wish for the freezing but calm winters.

The next day proffered a bizarre scene from a horror movie. Millions of grasshoppers covered the road as we left tire tracks on their corpses. The motorcycle engine was covered with torn off legs and heads, and it smelled like a bakery as they sizzled on the hot engine. As we caught up with the rest of the group, we found the electric car being pulled out of a ditch. The SRzero had spun off road trying to avoid a large pothole and broken two shock absorbers. A three hour roadside wrenching party started, and a guacho came by on horseback with his dogs from his hillside home to see if we were ok. Luckily we had spare shocks, and replaced the broken ones and got back on the road to finally enter Tierra del Fuego.

Tierra del Fuego is an island, and that’s where Ushuaia is located. To reach it, large ferries are used to cross the Strait of Magellan, which can haul pretty much anything, and that’s the only way of getting in and out besides flying. Tierra del Fuego is also co-owned by Chile and Argentina, which means you have to cross into Chile again and back to Argentina 100 miles later. The no-man’s-land is heavily protected with mine fields and barbwires as Argentina and Chile have a long dispute over these parts. Argentines are not too fond of Chileans and vice versa, and it’s apparent everywhere you go. To give the Argentines credit, they are warmer people than their aristocratic neighbors. Besides, they make one hell of Asado (Argentine-style BBQ) which is hard to beat. Argentina is a meat lover’s paradise.

For the first time in the long journey down, I took a turn riding in the SRzero for a ride to Rio Gallegos. I rode my bike inches from it for thousands of miles, but now for the first time, I truly got to appreciate its powers and smoothness in that 200km ride. The SRzero is an electric car with no internal combustion engine. It makes no noise, no pollution, has 400+ horsepower, sits 2 inches from the ground, it’s pretty and holy crap, it’s fast. Unlike gas engines, all the power is available at a split second at all time, and it takes off like a rocket the second the accelerator is down. It was a fun drive to Rio Gallegos, but as my bad luck would have it, the bike broke down soon after we started out in the middle of nowhere while Claudio and Cynthia were riding it. We had long passed them not realizing they had broken down, so it took hours for them to find us at our destination as they had a hard time flagging someone down amidst the ostriches and guanacos to help them get the bike started.

The stator was fried and with our deadline closing in, I had to fix it fast. I ruled out spending time to find a replacement for it as I quickly learned that parts for this bike are almost non-existence in South America. That left me with the only option: rewinding it. The entire next day, which happened to be Cynthia’s birthday, found me and Cynthia in a shop trying to fix the stator while the rest of the team went out to enjoy a day at a sheep ranch owned by the Sanchez family, our new friends. The guy who did the work wound the coils wrong on his first try, so he had to do it again. Wrong again. At 10 pm, after three tries he said that he’ll fix it the next morning, but we had to leave the next day at 7:30 a.m. and that wasn’t an option. I asked him if he would let me do it in his shop (the bike was torn apart there) and he amazingly agreed. He gave us the key to his shop (total strangers), and he even came back himself after midnight to help some more. By the time we redid the coils and got it working it was already 4 am. That left us with two hours of sleep and on the road again for Rio Grande, the home to Malvinas heroes (or as the English call them: Falkland Islands intruders) our last stop before Ushuaia. But I didn’t care. We were so close to the end that it was hard to sleep anyway. We even made it to our meeting place at the appointed time a full half hour ahead of the RGE team.

The Racing Green Team would finish their long journey in Ushuaia, the southern tip of Argentina and also the southernmost city in the world. From there, I would spend some more time enjoying Argentina with Cynthia on our own before she went home and then resume the rest of the journey as a One-Man-Band again. The days were numbering and with only 2 days to go to Ushuaia, it almost didn’t feel real. We had traveled together from México to the end of the world, and with all its ups and downs, it was a fantastic experience. I got to learn many things from Claudio on professional videography, and numerous film editing tips and tricks watching Paul do what he does best. And most importantly, I got to share it with the amazing Cynthia.

Although Cynthia joined the expedition in California, she played a tremendously invaluable role in starting out our budding non-profit organization, and was a diligent expedition partner throughout the journey. She never once complained in any kind of riding or weather conditions, woke up early and went to bed late. She dried my clothes with a hair blow dryer in tropical rains of Central America, stood by my side anytime something went wrong, took amazing pictures to document the journey, coordinated our visits to clinics and poor neighborhoods, constantly translated for me, went out of her way to fix anything and everything she could, and she gave more than I could give. The decision to part was not easy to say the least, but it was necessary for the completion of this expedition, even though she may not think so. This could be a decision that I will regret for many years, but it was the right thing to do for me and the expedition. She will still be actively involved in the organization, and I know that if I ever need something, I can always count her, no matter what. She will be missed dearly.

The odometer is clicking fast and Ushuaia is only a rock-throw away and with that, I covered 120 degrees of latitude on an ancient motorcycle from the Arctic to Equator to Antarctic. We made it to the end of the world.

JAN 10TH. PATAGONIA BREAKDOWN AFTERMATH

Tati and Facundo took to the bus station and made sure that the driver knew where to drop me off. I was supposed to get off the bus 40km before Mar del Plata at the Otamendi Junction, and the guys would pick me up to take me to Tati’s farm in Otamendi. He even wrote on a piece of paper for me: I need to get off in Otamendi, in Spanish just in case the driver forgot.

The bus ride was only 400km long and I figured it would take no more than 6 hours, but I guess the Argentine buses are like Greyhounds; it stopped a million times to pick up passengers along the way. I was dead tired and I slept pretty much the whole time. Tati was supposed to call me at 6pm to see where I was to pick me up so I kept the phone on for his call. Around 6 pm the phone rang, and it was Cynthia who hadn’t heard from me in a few days and had no idea yet about the motorcycle motor. I told her that the bike motor blew up, and that I was on a bus and asked her not to call me as I was waiting for a phone call (the phone battery was almost dead) and hung up. She took it as I was blowing her off, and called again. It took 6 more phone calls and precious battery life till to literally beg her not to call, and by that time the phone died for good.

At dusk, after 8 hours I got dropped off at Otamendi road, a long country road with nothing in sight with no phone or even knowing where I should go. The clouds started coming in and a light drizzle started as I waited over hour and half at the side of the road for a phone call that I couldn’t answer. I tried turning the phone back on and it started ringing immediately. It was Tati and all I said was that “I’m here,” and it cut off again. As I was preparing myself for a bivouac for the night, I saw a dim motorcycle light approaching me, and that was the Calvary.

Facundo took me to the farm where we had a reunion. Four other guys with their bikes were there and along with a German woman who the guys had seen riding her Suzuki DR400 heading for Buenos Aires and invited her too. The giant grill at Tati’s farm was in full operation with chickens and chorizos roasting away, and the endless flow of wine took my mind off the pickle of a situation I was in, at least for the night. We would go to Mar del Plata after the holiday to see about the bike.

The next day Tati took me to his mom’s house where I could stay. Fortunately they had the much needed internet and I started the search for the parts. Not knowing what was wrong with the bike yet, all I could do was to wait. Finally the holiday was over and we picked up the bike and rented a truck to take it back to the farm. Loading and unloading this beast on back of a pickup truck is not easy as we had no ramps and with the bike not running, even if we had ramps it would be a nightmare. When we got to Otamendi, there were only three of us so we opted for a solution. Tati ran into town and picked up couple of drunk guys from a local bar to help out for $2 each. With five us, we picked up the bike and lowered it to the ground.

I immediately started to dismantle the engine and the further I inspected the worse it looked. Three pistons out of four had dime size holes on top and with further inspection, it turned out that the rod bearings were shot from the debris of the blown up pistons. The engine was beyond repair. It was repairable if I had the parts, a clean place to work, tools and access to a machine shop, but I had none of that. I reported my findings and dismay on the GSR (the Suzuki forum) and went to bed.

When I woke up in the morning, the guys at GSR were already on top of it and were making things happen. Matt Hanscom, a member and a friend, donated a complete engine out of his own bike, Z1 Enterprise, our parts sponsor pitched in with all new parts to make the new engine road worthy, another member donated a complete final drive, and Jared Williams, our public relation director (also a GSR member) lead the whole orchestra.

Despite Christmas closing in and family responsibilities, Jared went out of his way and picked up the engine in Maine, then disassembled the whole thing in his kitchen to fix it up. More GSR guys pitched in and they had a wrenching party at Jared’s house to finish the work. In the meanwhile, many members donated money for the shipping cost, and all I had to do was to stay put. And put I stayed. I stayed at the farm. Alone.

I read the two books I had with me twice, watched every movie I had on my computer, wrote blogs, edited videos and even tried to compose music on my computer, but there was nothing that could cure my boredom. I spent the Christmas alone and the New Year. My only transportation was a lousy ancient bicycle that went flat every day, and heading to the town of Otamendi became my only getaway. I would go to an internet cafe to catch up on the shipping process despite the ungodly slow connection, and busied myself shopping for food. Cynthia served as my only contact many days with the outside world, as even my parents couldn’t get a hold of me.

My only pastime became killing flies at the farm as with a pig farm next door, there was never a shortage of flies in my room. Sometimes there were a few hundred files hanging upside down from the ceiling, and one movement from me sent them buzzing all over the place. The first few days I bought bug sprays to kill them, but it got expensive quickly. Then I learned to spray a few shots, and close the door for a few minutes. It wouldn’t kill them but made them a much easier target for my rolled up newspaper.

With flies came spiders too. All my life I liked spiders or at least I left them alone until this farm. One night as I was watching a movie, I felt something walking up on my foot, and as I looked down, I threw the computer to the side, and jumped up a few feet in the air. I could hear my heartbeat in my head, and I was frozen. The giant tarantula-looking hairy spider was more afraid of me as I was afraid of him, but that didn’t matter. As I hit him on the head with a flip flop and thought that it was over, an even bigger one came out from under the bed, and headed right at me. This time I ran out of the room and headed straight for the town. I came back armed with bug sprays and sprayed the whole room until I was about to pass out myself. I never found the body of the second one, but I’m officially staying out of like with spiders.

Days went by and the shipping situation became a problem. Courier services like UPS and FedEx were way out of our price range, and our only hope was airfreight. After a long search (not me, I only take credit for staying put) the rescue team finally figured out a way to send the motor down here. Jared meticulously packed up all the stuff and built a crate for it and was on his way out to send it off when the worst winter storm of the decade hit the northeastern United States. With snow piled up everywhere, over 7000 flights were canceled, and I had to stay put even longer. A few days later, finally the engine went out of Boston, MA and it’s en route to Buenos Aires as we speak.

I’m deeply indebted to all of you who gave moral backing, hands on assistance and financial support to rescue my ass from Argentina. I don’t even know how to repay you, but I want you to know that I’m blessed and grateful to have friends and supporters like you. Thank you, thank you and a million times more: thank you.

JAN 13TH. GETTING THE MOTOR OUT OF CUSTOMS

Jared emailed me with the delivery date of the engine and the waiting was over. The crate would arrive in Buenos Aires on Monday, and it would be ready to be picked up by Tuesday. I packed a little backpack with a shirt, my knife, my small laptop and headed out for the capital city, 500km to the north.

While we were searching for parts in the early stages, Rich Suz, a fellow motorcyclist emailed another GSR member, Adrian Sayanes, in Argentina for help. Adrian emailed me his phone number and offered his assistance, so I took him up on it. He would pick me up at the bus station in Buenos Aires when I arrived, and would help me to get the engine out of the customs.

I had to take two buses to get to B.A. One from Otamendi to Mar del Plata and another to B.A. The main Buenos Aires bus station is the size of the Atlanta airport. With hundreds of bus companies, gift shops, restaurants, and piles of luggage, it was overwhelming for a guy who spent the last two months in one of the most desolated part of the world. The area was packed with Bolivian immigrants who were sleeping behind the fences in the open.

I met Adrian and his brother Esteban at the station. They had to take a long train ride and a bus to get to me, and from the first moment they were nothing but helpful. After a drink at the station, I was relieved to find out that they both spoke very good English, and we got along well. They generously put me up in their mom’s house, and fed me the most delicious pizza I’ve ever had.

I was tired and fell into a peaceful sleep, but woke up at 3:30 am to a racket. The skies were as bright as day, and small rivers were forming in the streets from the massive thunderstorm outside. The rain came down with such ferocity that it killed nine people in a flash. I kept thinking of the poor immigrants that were camped out in a canal next to the railroad tracks under plastic sheets and inadequate shelters.

At 7:30 am, we tried contacting AmeriJet, the airline which shipped the cargo, but there was no answer. We called and kept calling until at 8:30, we finally got through. They didn’t have the engine nor did they know where it was! The guy said that AmeriJet doesn’t fly into Argentina, and they must have put it on another flight. He asked for some info and said he’d get back to me on that. He didn’t sound very promising, so Adrian and I headed out in search of internet so we could call the AmeriJet headquarter in the US to find out what to do. We found a little café with internet, and set up our command center. For the next two hours, I called everyone I could, and we finally succeeded. The engine came on another flight from Florida and it was at the airport already.

With no time to waste, we started our quest at the airport in the hot and humid weather of B.A and it didn’t stop until 8:00 pm. Since we didn’t hire a customs broker, we had to do everything ourselves, and not knowing what to do, we walked around aimlessly and did our best. Actually Adrian did his best. I was just the guy who followed him to the bank, and coughed up money for this paper and that paper. Right off the bat, the airliner charged us $95 for something they couldn’t even explain themselves. It had something to do with the storage and transportation inside the airport. We chased papers one office after another until at around 4 pm; we first got to see the crate. It was monstrous as I expected. The boss man came to inspect the contents, but they had to get into it first. It took a guy with an electric drill a good while to extract twenty or thirty screws from the top cover just to expose the top of the engine. So they weren’t too enthusiastic to dig in further which would reveal the expensive new parts from Z1 enterprise.

The boss man said that importing a complete engine for personal use was illegal in Argentina, but he made an exception; reading Jared’s letter explaining the situation in English and Spanish. He appraised the value of the complete motor at $400 (the new gaskets and seals alone were 400 bucks) and set the tax at 200%. So we walked back to the bank for the 6th time and paid the money. As we thought it was over, they charged us another 90 bucks for storage fee, inspection fee, (for the guy who wrestled with the screws to get the top off) and forklift before releasing the engine to us. They charged us for two days of storage, but in reality, the engine arrived at the airport at 11 pm on Monday, and we were taking it out on 6:00 pm on Tuesday, not even a full day! But who can argue technicality when bureaucracy prevails every time. So again I paid the man.

Now that we had the engine, we had no way of getting it back home. Adrian’s car is a small BMW and the crate was as big as his trunk. Opening the crate was out of question. Adrian found a guy and after negotiating, they loaded the box in the back of their van for another 100 bucks to take back to town. (Adrian paid for the van and would not even consider being reimbursed, thanks again Adrian). The van driver suggested for us to go ahead, and he would follow, but I wouldn’t have any of it. I jumped through way too many hoops to get my hands on this engine and I wasn’t about to hand it over to anyone else. I rode in the back with the engine while Adrian took the lead to his house.

If getting the engine out of the customs was hard, we were faced with a bigger problem. The bus company refused to take the engine as my luggage due to its ungodly weight. The train turned out to be full and not going to Otamendi, and renting a car from B.A to Otamendi was $350 one way plus gas. We called everyone we knew for hours, but no solution came out of it. So we gave up for the night.

Adrian invited me to his place to have dinner with his girl friend, and they fed me delicious foods until I was about to pop. He dropped me off at his mom’s house gain and this time I slept the whole night after three days. The next morning I woke up with good news. Adrian found a cheap trucking company to take the engine to Otamendi, but we had to drop off the crate at their terminal. Adrian’s mom called around and found a van with a driver for $45, and once again we loaded the crate and headed for the terminal. Another $40 later, the engine got loaded up and it will arrive in Otamendi on Friday. The madness was over. Esteban, Adrian’s brother, took me to the bus station and put me on the bus to Mar del Plata, and I was home free.

Adrian and his whole family literally spent two days on the phone to make all these arrangements, and I have no clue on how I would have done it without their help. Adrian skipped a day work without pay, (despite getting in trouble) and spent every minute of it helping me with anything and everything. I don’t know how I could even begin to thank these amazing people who extended their generosity to a complete stranger with just an email.

When I came to Argentina, I was impressed with its vast landscape, towering mountains and beautiful glaciers, but what most strike me is its people. Nowhere in the world have I ever been this welcomed as Argentina. It’s an honor to be in this beautiful country.

JAN 22ND. TO THE NORTH

I checked very connection, every bolt, every cable, but I just wasn’t ready to push the start button. I lit up a cigarette and stared at the bike for the longest time. It was 45 days since the last time I road this bike, and 44 days that I was stuck in the village of Otamendi in Argentina. The whole world went above and beyond to get a new engine to me down here, so it felt surreal to be only a push of a thumb away from freedom. That’s how prisoners must feel I suppose.

When the engine got here, I immediately got to work and retracted a million drywall screws out of the crate to free the engine. It was so well packed (thanks to Jared’s hard work) that the airliner could have just air dropped it at the farm, and it would have survived. By the time I got the engine out it started to rain, and it didn’t stop for the next two days. But I could care less if concrete blocks came down from the sky let alone a little water. It was like Christmas. There was a complete motor, lots of shiny new parts from Z1 Enterprises, and a replacement final drive to swap out the battered leaky unit. With the help of Juan (my very helpful neighbor at the farm) we pushed and shoved the entire block on the frame, and fastened it tight.

For the next two days I scavenged everything I could from the old motor that was in a better shape, and installed it on the new motor. I swapped the drive shaft, final drive, stator cover, ignition cover, bolts and even the oil pan with all new seals and gaskets, and proceeded to time the engine, adjust the valves, replace the air filter, and installed new plug wires on the coils. Then I fired up the soldering iron and soldered every connection. It looked greasy and dirty, but beautiful.

It was time. I poured a gallon of fresh gas in the tank, filled up the crankcase, final drive and transmission with oil, flipped the petcock to prime and pulled the choke. Finally I pushed the start button. The motor turned a few times and it roared to life. My eyes were wet and I couldn’t believe that I was free at last. Hearing the perfect sound of the new machine was like a lullaby, and I listened to it like a good song. The job was done. I turned off the engine and fell asleep as the skies outside poured their hearts out with rain.

I woke up the next day to take out my baby for a ride. As I pulled out of the driveway the front tire slipped on the mud and I went down. I was baffled. A deep slippery mud covered the driveway, and I hit the ground no more than twenty feet from my room. I picked up the bike and mounted again. Mud or no mud, I was going out for a ride. The road from the farm to Otamendi is 3km long, and the rains turned the soft-dirt road to chocolate pudding with standing water in every pothole. In the first 500 feet I fell three times and I finally gave up. The tires were covered with sticky mud to the point that the front fender was scarping on the mud. With much difficulty, I picked up the bike for the last time, slipping and sliding in the process, and headed back to the farm defeated.

There was nothing I could do but to wait for the sun to dry up the road. I had better luck the next day and I finally hit the tarmac with no fall. I took the bike straight to a carwash and for six dollars; two guys washed the bike for 45 minutes. (I needed it clean so I could spot oil leaks.) Then I went out for a 100 miles test run. It ran great, and to my delight, there was no oil leak, except a little sip from the clutch shaft seal which wasn’t a big deal. (I’ll replace it in Buenos Aires). I checked the spark plugs, and they were all black and whitish with no excessive carbon, no caked white stuff, and no oil. She was ready to roll. I took my time to organize my stuff, fix little things here and there, and wash my cloths before getting back on the road. I said my goodbyes to Tati and his family in Mar del Plata, and threw a thank you BBQ party for Juan’s family which helped me immensely during my stay at the farm.

I’m leaving tomorrow morning for Buenos Aires. The route is set to go north for Uruguay, Brazil, Paraguay, Bolivia, and in western Peru load the bike on a dinghy and float the whole length of the Amazon River to the Atlantic Ocean. From there finishing up Venezuela, Surinam, New Guinea… and finally jump the big pond for Africa.

I can never thank those who helped me get back on the road enough. My gratitude goes to Jorge (Tati) Zmud for putting me up in his mom’s house and his place for 48 days free of charge, and for showing such generosity and hospitality to a complete stranger. I made a friend for life. I also like to thank Juan de Martin and his family for feeding me countless home cooked meals and the much needed help with fixing the bike.

I’m indebted to the GSR community for all their troubles as they literally put together a complete motorcycle in one month, and shipped it down here. It’s inspiring to know that I have so many brothers that I’ve never met, but with a single line, they come to my aid at the time of need. I’m honored and humbled to be a part of this great fraternity for I know that they are as selfless as they come.

I’m also indebted to Z1 Enterprises for sponsoring this expedition and delivering the much needed parts with such short notice. Jeff Saunders went above and beyond the call of duty to order everything he didn’t have in stock from Suzuki, and ship them to Jared for the engine makeover. They are great folks who know our bikes inside out, and serve us with care.

I would be remiss not to thank Matt Hanscom for donating the engine, Cliff Saunders for donating the final drive, Sean Pringle for his magnanimous donation which covered the biggest portion of the shipping cost, and those who covered the rest: Jared Williams, Gregory Quinn, Gib Acuna, Barron Fujimoto, Lynn Minthorne, James south, Tom Kent, Joshua Russo, Brandon turner, Robert Hayward, Eric bang, Merrill Oates, Richard Stiver, Dale Dunn, Howard Fairfield, and Daniel Provencher. Forgive me if I’m missing any names here, I don’t have the updated list.

And last but not least, I’d like to thank Jared Williams for his diligent and attentive service to this organization. Time and time again, he has proved to be a blessing, and he continues to impress us all.

Thank you guys for everything. Stay tuned as I hash through the Amazon jungles.

Hey guys,

I haven't been in a good enough shape to even try to post the blogs here, but here is the run down. The last two blogs are at respectively:

Feb 6th. Touring Uruguay | Motorcycle Memoir
And
Feb 5th. Entering Uruguay | Motorcycle Memoir

They cover my travels to and out of Uruguay and the stories of fixing the bike and more at Eliseo's place. Here's the latest one to be up to date:

FEB 11TH. NO MAN KNOWS MY HISTORY

Is it the struggle towards the goals, which makes mankind happy? Or is the goal the struggle to stay conscious in the midst of ghastly twinges? What is the value of having goals for our own sake? After 30 years of living on this green and blue ball, I know one thing… they all vanish… It is merely a question of time.

All I remember is the screech of the car tires behind me trying to avoid collision, and the sound of metal scraping on the wet asphalt in the Paraguayan tropics. Just moments before the slide, I tried to pull over to the shoulder to wipe off my visor, and that’s when I went flying to the middle of the road.

When I left Argentina for the beautiful Uruguay, I was happy with no worry in the world. The bike was fixed, the hospitality of the locals was top notch, and the weather was glorious if just a little hot. But my mind quickly tuned into the ever-changing state of this expedition, and with that came the thoughts, and agonizingly hurtful memories of my recent relationship. Explaining the causes and details is not something I’m willing to do, but the outcome was devastating nevertheless for both of us. And with every mile, this pain became more tangible to the point that it was unbearable to carry on. Somewhere in northern Uruguay, I got sick. I started to vomit few times a day and eating became a chore. I tried to force-feed myself, but I couldn’t hold anything down, and the burning fever skyrocketed to compound my misery in the already hot weather. But my deteriorating physical condition was no match for the despondent mental state I was in.

I rode day after day with no real destination as my compass pointed north towards Paraguay and Bolivia. The perpetual fights and indecisions went on with Cynthia via emails and phone calls, and I hoped against hope just to have something to cling on to. I met amazing people on the road and they all showed me nothing but the greatest care and love, but I failed time after time to even take out my camera to snap a photo of them to remember them by.

For two thousand miles I hallucinated. So when I found out that I washed my passport inside my riding jacket in the washing machine for two cycles, I wasn’t one bit surprised. My only identity and my ticket out of this land now looked like a watercolor painting of a shity story as my stamps resembled the famous painting; “Persistence of Time” only more incoherent. My importation papers for the bike looked like a wet clump of toilet paper, and I didn’t even notice that until I reached the border of Paraguay.

I spent hours at the border going from one office to another to beg the apathetic officials for mercy, and at last I succeeded. This was a true test of my Spanish limit and, I was exhausted when I received my entry stamp and stepped foot in Paraguay.

I rode towards Asunción, with nothing on my mind but Cynthia, and I lost my focus on the road and my surrounding. For the first time in my life I hit the ground while riding a motorcycle. I spent years perfecting the art of alertness in traffic, but I succumbed to what I knew too well. I let my guard down, and I simply didn’t think of what any idiot would already know. I pulled into a muddy shoulder after heavy tropical rains at speed, and the rest is history.

I have to get my focus back, and this country is going to be the place to do it. Paraguay is beautiful, but also is one of the poorest countries in South America with a real grip of poverty, and malnutrition chocking its population. Countless skinny and dirty innocent little faces made me realize once again that nothing in the world is ever worth fighting for than standing up for those who can’t. I’m here to stay and I’m here to do what I set out to do. I tried to take a trip, but the trip took me.

We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.- John Steinbeck

]

Great trip!
 

Hey Chris-
When I saw that someone was braving South America on a vintage bike I started reading and couldn't stop. My girlfriend and I are leaving Colorado bound for Argentina in May, and we spent a good deal of time choosing a bike. I'm a vintage guy, and thought a 1971 Moto Guzzi Eldorado would be suitable - a 41 year old Italian motorcycle in rural South America, what could possibly go wrong? ;-) Anyway, her common sense took over and we got an '04 V Strom 1000...oh well. Back to the point - thanks for doing this trip the way you're doing it. Reading through your posts it seems that about half of your experiences and new friendships have come about due to the bike's character, and that is an aspect of adventure travel I fear people with modern machines miss out on. I look forward to reading of your continued travels, and hope that we can cross paths if you are still in the region this Summer/Fall. Your efforts capture the spirit of adventure I feel we are all seeking, and your charity and awareness efforts are an admirable motivation. Good luck, and please keep posting!

Thanks buddy for all the kind words. And i tell you that you did the right thing by going with the Strom rather than a Guzzi. Old bikes are like gold here and everyone loves them, but if you have a job to go back to or actually care about riding rather than reinventing the wheel, Classics are not a good choice :)

I'll be down here and slowly making my way back up towards Venezuela, crossing the Amazon. Drop me a line when you get closer and we can have a beer somewhere.

Cheers,

Chris

FEB 15TH. BACK TO TROPICS, PARAGUAY

With every fall we learn something new, and with every rise we stand taller. This only holds through if we accept the reality and move on. And best of all, it gives us a chance to evaluate who’s a friend, and who’s a foe, and who to keep and who to let go. My friends list is much shorter now, but more realistic.

As I have been blessed many times, I managed to meet some of the best people I could wish for in Paraguay. I met a cute and very down to earth girl in Asunción named Leticia. To my delight, she spoke very good English, and showed me much of the city. We became friends and by the time I left, she was like a little sister to me that I never had. I stayed at a flat all to myself, and recuperated. I spent the next few days getting back to shape by force-feeding myself and trying to get a grip on reality, and Leti did her best to cheer me up. It was nice to have a friend to talk to and fight like teenagers about music and travel. Leti and her mom looked after me, and I’m very gracious for their hospitality.

While I was still in United States, a friendly biker named Robert Rolon from Paraguay sent me an email, and told me to count on a friend when I get there. Robert is a civil engineer and economist who studied in the states, and one hell of a genuine guy. I called him up in Asunción and we all went out to dinner joined by his beautiful wife, and his good friend Christian. Robert works at a sugar mill in a beautiful country town of Teibcuary, and of course he invited me to go visit.

Paraguay is landlocked between Brazil, Argentina and Bolivia and it truly is a lovely country. With only 6 million inhabitants, it’s a wide-open country with miles of nothing especially in the north. Most of Paraguay’s economy comes from agriculture, and farming and it’s no surprise. Everywhere you look, there’s an exotic tropical tree with shiny, and delicious fruits hanging from it. The people are amazing, the weather is almost perfect with a permanent chance of rain, and it’s nice to know that Paraguay is the only bilingual country in South America. Spanish is spoken everywhere, but the native language of Guaran

FEB 21ST, THE BEAUTIFUL PARAGUAY

All the struggles, up and downs, and self mutilations finally found me in an emergency room. High fevers and not being able to breathe didn’t leave me much choice, but to listen to Robert and see a doctor. Robert generously put all the medications on his company account as if it was for himself, and I started medicating with colorful pills and drops.

The doctor urged me not to get out of the bed, but the prospect of staying still was too much to even consider. So we loaded up and headed out to the countryside to have a look at the beautiful Salto Cristal water fall, joined by Leti, her mom and grandma. The climate was tropical and very hot, but equally beautiful. Lush vines and green trees obscured the path down to the fall, and we trekked down for a good 45 minutes to get to the bottom. The route was almost 90 degrees down with class 5 scrambling, so we had to leave Roberts’s 8 months pregnant wife Sandra, and grandma at the base camp.

I’ve seen a lot of waterfalls, but Salto Cristal stands out because of its secluded location, and climate. The water was cold and it was a welcoming relief to my fever. We spent a few hours swimming, and laying in the sun before leaving the heaven. Now that I look at the pictures, I look whiter than Casper himself, and all the weight I lost concerns the hell out of me. So the next step was to fatten up.

The next day I made some Persian Kababs for the family, and although I couldn’t taste anything myself due to being sick, I devoured as much as I could to get some needed fat back. I visited the fascinating sugar factory with Robert, and we did some riding around Tebicuary. This town is very clean, with almost no garbage anywhere. The people are laid back, friendly, and always ready for a good fun. As most of South America, Dirt rallies are very popular in Paraguay and we had a chance to go and see the first race of the season. Although it rained a lot before the race, people pushed through the flooded roads on bicycle, motorcycle and small cars not to miss the race.

With Subarus and Mitsubishis being the predominant race cars, these amazing drivers cut through hard corners, and mud with unbelievable speeds and managed to keep their wheel on the ground. It was an exciting race and the locals did everything in their power to make it more fun, whether throwing their shirts on the track to have the tire mark as a trophy, or by jumping after the cars.

My stay at Robert’s house was a great experience and I got to know him and his beautiful family. He’s an amazing guy, with high hopes for his country. He welcomed me to his home and showed me nothing but good times. Paraguay is not a tourist destination by any means, and for no good reason. It is safe, beautiful, relatively cheap, and quiet. It’s a perfect getaway. Don’t miss out on this country, you’ll love it.

Totally unrelated but just for the change of scenery:D Because how often do i get to hang out with Miss Paraguay again?

MARCH 3RD. CIUDAD DEL ESTE, PARAGUAY

Some people can’t travel alone. They have to have at least one other person with them so they can even begin to consider making any plans. Well, that’s not me. Ray Charles played piano, Hannibal Lector ate people, my gig is meeting people. Traveling with another person or group has its advantages (unknown to me), but in reality it kills a good trip. When you travel with others, you automatically have a company, so you’re less likely to initiate any interaction with others. Traveling alone doesn’t mean being alone. In contrary it affords you the time and interest to meet other people. And they are always a lot more interesting than the ones you take with you.

When we were at Salto Cristal with Robert’s family, we met a French guy on a bicycle touring South America. Robert naturally invited him to his house so the family number grew by one more. The weather turned unusually wet and it rained day after day until the ground couldn’t take it anymore. Dirt roads turned into mud pits, and prevented me from venturing south, and my visit with Action Against Hunger. (I cover the full story from there in the next blog.) So we stayed and watched the rain pouring down.

We finally packed up at the first break, and got on the road. On the way I visited a small town called Campo 9, and stayed with a couple of Peace Corps volunteers. In all my travels south of the borders, I always managed to find English speaking locals and travelers, but never any American. Now in the middle of nowhere, I sat with two American girls, Lyna and Julia, sharing stories, and laughing our asses off. Things got more interesting when I was informed that local supermarket stocked a few American condiments for the gringos in the area, and that included Ranch. Not Hidden Valley Ranch, but I wasn’t complaining.

It’s a cliché to make fun of Americans when they ask for Ranch at foreign restaurants, but now I know why they do it. Having chicken wings and ranch is like flying the American flag; it’s patriotic. So we dashed for the supermarket, and started our festivity. Pink Floyd played “Wish You Were Here” on the radio, chicken wings sizzled in the pan, and Budweiser lubricated the conversations. Only the Super Bowl was missing, and the occasional passerby cows reminded us that we weren’t on American soil.

I stayed with Lyna for two nights, and headed for the border of Brazil. One of Robert’s friends, Edson, came out to meet me and took me to his house in Ciudad del Este. Just when you think people can’t get any nicer, another guy shows up, and blows you away. Although Edson doesn’t speak much English, we got along great right off the bat. His family welcomed me with utmost hospitality and I felt at home right away.

Ciudad del Este is an interesting place. It’s a border town that sits between Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay, and according to US state department, it’s a place no American should dare to go. In reality, I like it. It’s a gigantic market with people from all over the world. Everyone is selling something, from cruise missiles to tampons; you can find something to your liking here. I had no use for armaments, but I needed new tires. Edson kindly took me to the market, and we found some 60/40 dual sport tires for the Bolivian Chaco. The Chaco region of Paraguay is mostly paved, but Bolivia has no paved roads except around big cities. My current tires are only good for highway use, and they have been bothering me to no end every time I go on muddy roads and sandy areas. Since I’m planning to cross the whole section of Amazon Rainforest inland, I need some serious preparation to see me through. Very few people have done this route so there’s practically no information available on the road conditions, and availability of gas. The only guy I know who successfully crossed the Amazon on motorcycle is Emilio Scotto, an Argentine rider who rode around the world on his Honda Gold Wing for 10 years. Although he didn’t cross the whole section, his account is terrifying nevertheless. The tires we bought are only for the “bad roads” in Bolivia, starting from northern Bolivia, I’ll switch to full knobies before going off the map.

When traveling, you have to keep your mind and schedule open. You will meet people who change your life, you go places that you never want to leave, and most importantly you find harmony and peace within yourself. That’s all traveling is; enjoying the little things as they come your way.

Dear friends, readers and supporters,

As you might already know, the recent rains in central South America has created disastrous floods especially in Bolivia. La Niña (oceanic atmosphere phenomenon) has damaged many regions in Bolivia. There are over 60 confirmed deaths and over 68,000 victims and still counting. Seven out of nine departments in the country are severely affected, and the rain continues to complicate the rescue and disaster relief. In department of Cochabamba alone, more than 20 rural towns are flooded, leaving more than 6,000 people homeless with no shelter or food.

After a long “linger” from the federal government, the president Evo Morales, caved in and finally, and declared a state of national emergency due to severity of the disaster. The National Contingency Plan La Nina 2010-2011 of the Defense Ministry gave priority to the most vulnerable municipalities, and has allocated a budget of about 20 million U.S. dollars.

We are organizing shipments of food and emergency supplies on the ground in Bolivia. I’m in Contact with the local rescue operation, and I am arranging the transportation from Paraguay and will travel with the convoy personally to the ground zero. Bolivia doesn’t have the infrastructure to deal with such disasters, and their only hope is foreign aids. Please join us in helping these people in the time of need, whether you can volunteer your time, your expertise or just cold hard cash. Every penny counts here, and there’s no time to spare.

I’m looking forward to your support and generosity.

I have written many words in the past two years. I have made my life a public pastime for your boredom, and in fact I have shared many personal moments in my life with you people; my relationships, my hardships, my laughter and my triumphs. So if you found it all so amusing, and awaited more of it, here’s a bit more. The problem is that most of you will not give a damn. It’s saddening that I get personal kudos by the dozen for posting pictures with hot girls, but not a word when I break the news that people are suffering somewhere not too far away.

Sometimes ago, someone mentioned that my readers don’t want to read about disasters and catastrophes because they want to read about beautiful places and to see exotic pictures. That they don’t want to think about hardships of others when they already have problems of their own. Maybe he was right. Maybe what I’m doing should be just a joy ride to fulfill just that. But I can’t. So I beg again. And I won’t stop.

Many set out to change the world, with their mosquito nettings, Ipads and hand sanitizers to arrive at an NGO in a strange country to do what they think is right. After a while they give up and head back home with a camera full of pictures to show to their friends, and although deep down they resent what the outcome, they justify it because that’s the way it is; living with guilt is not easy.

We need help, pure and simple. And by help I don’t mean prayers. So instead of sending me your non-perishable prayers, send food, medication and emergency shelters. Although my heart goes out to victims of the recent tsunami in Japan, I am NOT in Japan. I’m tired of Kansas City shuffles. I’m tired of humanitarian organizations and governments shifting their focus and resources once every hour to some other place that’s more news worthy. When an earthquake hits a place, nobody ever mentions Darfur anymore. No one cares about India anymore, and certainly no news organization will ever cover a “not so news worthy” disaster concerning bunch of brown people when a bigger and better one is brewing somewhere else.

This is not a one man job, but I’m pulling the rope one handed. Give me a hand. Whatever you can. If you’re good at cold-calling so call the damn corporations and get the money. If you’re good at selling lemonades, sell the lemonade. If you’re good at drinking $5 cups of latté all day, spare a cup and help these people. It won’t change your lifestyle, you won’t go broke, and I promise you that you’ll feel better at the end of the day. The following is my address to our board of directors, take a minute and give what you can. I’m begging you.

La Niña Flood Disaster Relief Assessment And Actions
Bolivia, 2011

By Chris Sorbi, On-site Ambassador

NATURE OF THE EMERGENCY:


Torrential rains heightened by the effects of la Niña weather phenomenon have flooded seven out of nine departments in Bolivia. The most affected regions are in the Amazon basin, to the Northeast where multitudes of Amazonian tributaries cross these plains. The rains have flooded several major rivers such as the Beni, Chirnore, and 14 de Semptiembre. Due to the unique geographical location of Bolivia, all the water from the Andes highlands will continue to flood this area well after the end of the weather pattern. It is my strong prediction that the scale of the damage, and loss of lives will increase as the waters inevitably continue to flood these lowlands.

The major complication has been the loss of crops with over 25,000 acres of growing-lands being under water in these regions amongst severe damages to houses, roads and basic infrastructures. The affected families rely heavily on their crops, and the floods not only have destroyed their source of food and income; it has destroyed the food reserve of the region as well.

According to the official reports, over 60 people have lost their lives, and several hundreds have been injured. These statistics are underestimations at best, as most of the disaster area is inaccessible by roads, and the predominant population consists of indigenous tribes of Yuracares and Yuquis. The Bolivian civil Defense has catered to number of families since the end of February, but they have reportedly exhausted their resources and are unable to provide further assistance.

NEEDS:

Beside basic food and clean water needs, we require immediate assistance to obtain temporary shelters. Schools have been used in the area to accommodate the refugees, but the number of refugee has increased dramatically, hence the need for improvised shelters in the area.

Staple foods to be delivered are flour, corn, rice, beans and vegetable oil. Transportation of live stock or meat to the area is next to impossible due to difficulty of crossing flooded plains, and lack of refrigeration. Priority in food distribution will be given to children, women and the elderly. Drinking water will be collected from rain, and by treatment of existing sources to simplify the operation and cut cost on transportation.

The need for volunteers to work and distribute the food is great, so a public announcement for immediate help is suggested. I’m in process of recruiting volunteers among foreign travelers in the area, but help from the United States and abroad is required. Professional volunteers are needed with experiences in the medical field as well as constructions.

OBSTACLES:

The food prices have increased radically in Bolivia so finding outside sources to truck-in the food into the region is imperative. I have requested the cooperation of the Bolivian government, and have been promised of logistical assistance on this matter. Furthermore, I have requested military and police support to secure the convoy through the region, and unrestricted passage through borders from the south. We will collaborate our efforts with the existing NGO’s and other international organizations in the field for the best possible results.

OPERATIONAL COSTS:


The work will be done on volunteer basis as always with no salaries to be paid. The operational cost will include the supplies, and transportation of the good into the region.

Average food prices are as follow:

Items Price
(USD)

Quantity in Metric Ton
Rice $850 1
Vegetable oil $1700 1
Flour $700 1
Beans $650 1

Immediate donations and sponsorships are essential to tackle this calamity, so I urge all the directors of the Transcontinental Humanitarian Corp. to use all the possible resources including public assistance, churches, schools, … to procure the necessary funds.

Sincerely,

O. Christopher Sorbi, Founder and CEO

March 8, 2011

MAY 13TH. THE LONGEST SHOPPING TRIP IN THE WORLD

When I was just a handful of years old, my uncle had an old Canon SLR camera which he babied throughout his life. He wasn’t a professional photographer, nor did he have a clue when it came to capturing stills. Nine out of ten photos were out of focus and badly framed, but no one knew any better. His camera was pretty much the only camera in the family, so my entire childhood turned out blurry and out of frame. Oh and if we ever touched that old dinosaur. Our only chance to examine the fine equipment was when he went to work. My cousin and I used to sneak in to take the camera out of its leather case, and touch the shutter release so carefully so not to snap a picture accidentally and get in trouble. I always wanted a camera like that, but all I could have was an ancient and broken black and white camera which used 126 roll films that were so old you could not even find them in museums anymore.

When Thomas Edison invented the first motion-picture camera, he fully understood what a breakthrough that was, but with today’s technology, we get to see a series of seamless stills at 30 frame per second and we take it for granted. When I first learned the physics of the motion picture I was very much interested in finding out more for myself. But again those days a professional film camera was more than a few years salary of a decent job. It took a long time for me to transition from stills to motion pictures, but when I did I never looked back. To me, a still picture only tells one fraction of a second of the story, but one second of video tells 24 to 30 times more of the same situation. I still love to take still pictures but I don’t get all hyped-up about a photograph the way I drool over a good video footage.

There are some professions in the world that don’t require the best tools of the trade. For example it would make no difference if Shakespeare wrote his entire collection with a broken goose feather or a Parker ballpoint pen; the result would have been the same. But if James Cameron shot Titanic with a cell-phone camera it would have been disastrous. He knew better. 200 million dollars later Titanic received 14 Oscar nominations; eventually sacking 11 of them. Titanic became the highest-grossing film ever made until Avatar came along in 2009. And that was his own film too. James Cameron was a school drop-out who drove trucks, and he had to take his first rental camera apart so he could figure out how to actually use it. It’s true that in most cases tools don’t make the artist, but in videography it plays a tremendous role.

From my early days of sneaking my uncle’s camera out for inspection, I knew that I had a good eye for pointing out the mistakes of others (and I arrogantly seldom acknowledged the good parts), so I became a critic. And like every critic, I was like eunuchs in a harem; I knew how it was done, I had seen it done every day, but I never did it myself. I arguably have seen more films that most. At times I watch five films a day. I watch them from credit to credit. I want to know the name of the soundman, the carpenter and even the location of the stock archive footage they used in the said film. I can tell instantly if a scene was badly shot, or edited by a crappy editor. I can point out the slightest awkward scene blocking that was not intentional, sound bites that start too early or music that fades too late. In a sense, I hardly enjoy movies anymore because I’m constantly thinking of what could make it better. It has got to have one hell of a story or a superb cinematography to watch it again. So sitting out of the ring and trying to judge the punch was getting old. I picked up a camera and started shooting.

When I set out on my mission, I honestly didn’t know how to get the attention of the audience to make them “aware” of the real poverty issues, and if I ever succeeded, it wasn’t because I was good at it. I followed the notion of persistence. I kept doing it until I got it somewhat right. I figured that if you leave a monkey with a typewriter long enough, he’ll eventually write Hamlet. I didn’t come close to writing Hamlet but I learned how to push the keys.

There’s no better exercise that doing the deed itself and filming is no exclusion. I could go to a film school but I chose a better way. I traveled with a man who understood videography better than anyone I could hope for, and by videography I don’t mean dollying an IMAX camera on tracks on a set, I mean guerrilla-style filming at its finest. Claudio von Planta spent a better half of his life in conflict zones and jungles around the world filming what made him tick; from Mujahedin struggles against the Soviets in Afghanistan to freedom seeking rebels of New Guinea fighting against Indonesian army. As I traveled with Claudio, I took notes every time he picked up the camera, from the way he positioned himself for the shot, from getting up-close and personal, from being a shadow on every move and from his absolute persistence on getting the best shot and not settling for an easy one. He became oblivious of his surrounding once the tally light came on. He climbed hills, hung from trees, walked in the middle of protests and he never got his eyes off of his subjects for anything. Honestly I can barely remember him when he didn’t have a camera in his hand. For 15 hours a day, and for over 100 days, I was in a company of a few professionals who took their work seriously, and I learned little by little the things they don’t teach you in schools. For the rest, I read as many books as I could find on films, from its history to odd ball techniques for arctic photography just In case I found myself filming ‘The March of the Penguins’ one day.

As Claudio shot his BBC series, I shot the same scenes, one from his angle and one from another perspective and compared my work to his for feedback. I shot over 90 hours of footage and I remember Claudio asking me what I was going to do with them. I didn’t have an answer for him then, but I knew what I could not do with them. They were shot on a crappy handheld camcorder with such mediocre image quality that I wouldn’t even consider it good enough for projection to a group of retarded monkeys. They were mostly mediocre B-rolls since I wasn’t filming anything in particular. But I knew they were good works in style considering I had no tripod, no light, no microphone to speak of and the camera didn’t work half the times.

My mistake was not getting the best tool for the job before I even started my journey, but again I didn’t know 100% how I was going to make people aware of world hunger. I had a vague idea but it was just an idea. I researched every possible camera for almost two years, spending hours at time reading pros and cons of each system for certain situations, but I could never find the “perfect” camera for my traveling style. I simply wanted a camera to match my limited space and unpredictable environment. There was no such a camera in existence. I wanted the system to have interchangeable lenses, shoot well in low light, have excellent image quality, full manual controls over every aspect, and preposterously I wanted it to be light, packable and in my budget too. Two years of agonizing research returned absolutely nothing until I had to alter my traveling style and budget to match my shooting needs. I finally got to a conclusion that if I was serious about videography, I couldn’t put a price or limitation on the equipment I needed. What exactly Claudio told me over and over during our conversations. I lost precious opportunities when I didn’t have the right equipment, but I was on the right track at last.

I settled for the best camera I could possibly budget for by cutting my two meals a day to one ration. I also planned on selling my DSLR camera and put the cash towards the video equipment. (At the end I kept the DSLR as I knew I would regret selling it later.) The new camera weighed a whopping 10lbs with no accessories. It was a shoulder-mount, and I could be spotted from a mile away as a Yankee, but that’s what would do the job for my meticulous taste. The whole package including professional audio equipment, tripod, lenses and storage drives was so heavy and expensive that I couldn’t get myself to ship it to South America trusting the postal service. Even if I managed to get all those goodies shipped to where I was, the customs would kill me on importation taxes the same way they killed me in Argentina when I was getting the motorcycle engine out. So I had to make an out of schedule trip to go shopping in the United States and bring the equipment back personally. I left my belongings behind in South America and hitched a free flight out of Asunción, Paraguay to São Paulo, Brazil sitting in the back with the flight attendants and keeping them company. It was a great ride, with unrestricted access to peanut bags and beer. It goes to tell again that it’s not what you know; it’s who you’re sleeping with.

My plane landed in the enormous city of São Paulo a little after midnight, and I hitched another free ride to New York City a few hours later. TAM Airlines only fly to Florida and New York and I picked the Big Apple since I had a few friends around and I wanted a change of weather from the hot tropical South. I had no time to waste so I started my shopping frenzy the second I landed, and walked the Time Square to B&H photo, a sprawling photo and electronics emporium on the 9th Ave. After a couple of hours of being mesmerized by the American life after a long time of being off-the-grids I wanted to buy everything. I shoved giant New York pizza slices down my throat as I walked from one store to another to find what I wanted. When I was done going crazy in NYC, I hopped on a Greyhound to Boston, MA where my friend Jared Williams would pick me up.

It was nice to be back in the country even for a short time. A few times I ordered my food in Spanish by default, but I got used to speaking English full-time again. The downside was that I could understand everything that everyone said, and that was a lot of useless information to take in. As I kicked back with Jared fixing up his new Suzuki GS850 motorcycle and using the super-sonic internet connections of the Northern Hemisphere, the UPS guy kept on bringing boxes after boxes until I was penniless. I made a side-trip to New Hampshire to see one of my old friends, and before I knew it I had to get back. I had to take all these electronics back with me to South America, and most importantly I had to fit them somehow on the bike safely. The GS850 is like a freight train so I wasn’t too worried about the weight, but I had to make sure that they would stay dry and safe while riding.

Jared and I spent days looking for a suitable box to fit everything in, from Pelican boxes to even amplifier hard-cases, but we couldn’t find anything that would reasonably work. The Pelican boxes were tough and waterproof, but they weighed almost 30lbs empty and they were monstrous, not mentioning the steep $300 price tag either. So we improvised. We bought a semi-hard duffel bag from Marshall’s for 30 bucks, and made our own waterproof/shockproof case, making Jared’s living room a big mess once again. It had to be big, strong and absolutely waterproof and we accomplished that. When we were done with it, I could fit the video camera and two lenses, my big laptop, my DSLR camera and two lenses, jumble of audio cables, batteries, hard drives, light, microphone and a small pillow inside with ease and nothing moved an inch from their position.

As much fun America was, it was time to go. When Jared dropped me off at the bus station in Boston, I was loaded with two suitcases, a backpack and a giant camera in my hand. From Port Authority I chased the airport bus for 300 yards and I spent the next 6 days dragging this stuff behind me because everything that could go wrong did. As I touched down in Brazil, I was arrested. I had no visa for Brazil which wasn’t a problem as long as I was in transit and stayed inside the airport, but my Paraguayan visa turned out to be a single entry visa rather than multiple entry which I thoughts it was. Automatically my ticket was canceled, and I was scheduled to be deported back to US at 6 am the next day. No amount of begging in my nonexistent Portuguese made them sway so I played their game. The “law” was to have a valid ticket and valid visa to be considered a transit passenger, so I bought a valid ticket for a country that didn’t need a visa only three hours away rather than going half the planet back to United States again. For the 7th times in a row in five months I entered Argentina. They should make me an honorary citizen; I’ve never been to any other country that many times.

And the timing couldn’t be worst. That week was the Holy Week; the Easter weekend. South Americans take their religion way too seriously so the whole country was shutdown from Thursday until next Monday when I could get another visa in Buenos Aires for Paraguay. A good thing about Argentina was that it was relatively close to where I was going, and the food is exquisite. Specially the chorizos (sausages). So I indulged in a perfect weather in the capital of Argentina for 5 days, taking my time to see my friends and enjoying the Paris of South America. I had a royal welcome even without a notice, and I was taken care of as well as I could wish for. Finally on Monday, I managed to get another visa and took a bus from Buenos Aires to Asunción, Paraguay for another 22 hours to be reunited with my bike. I miss Argentina already. I could call that place home in a heartbeat.

The whole point of this excursion was to get the right tool for the job and I finally did. But I had some homework to do. If my limit was the camera before, now I was the limit for this camera. With a gazillion manual buttons and settings to mess with, it’s a not a point and shoot camera and it takes a skilled operator to produce a good image. I knew I could shoot half decent in available light, but the hard part was recording good footage in low-light and run-and-gun situations, trying to focus and set the exposure manually at the same time. I have an excellent 3X wide angle lens which is perfect for these situations, but as my luck would have it the back focus was faulty, and I had to send it off to be fixed. So to make the best out of it in the meanwhile, flashing my press-card I attended every night-event in the city, from concerts to parades and plays. And since it’s the 200 year anniversary of independence in Paraguay, there’s no shortage of entertaining events for another month. I kept on rolling films until I mastered the lowlight manual focusing, gain and proper exposure and got to know my machine as best as possible. To this day, I have not used this camera in automatic mode and I probably never will.

I’m shooting a Docu-Film (It has no boring interviews with the characteristic of a feature film) on “Over Population”, with its effects on economy, religion and poverty, combine with the adventure of motorcycling through the jungles. It is witty, shocking, truthful and chiefly entertaining [remember that I’m a critic, so if I say it’s good; it must be:)]. In a world where I can’t get the attention of people with anything else, the motion picture stands head and a shoulder above any tool I could use. If you have made it this far down this post, you are a rare breed, not many read for that long any more. My hat is off to you.

Stay tuned.

P.S. I was turned down on my first book proposal. Bastards. Who wants to read a random chapter and give me some feedback?

P.P.S I entered Argentina for the 8th time yesterday again. I had to renew the motorcycle papers. I can’t get enough of that country.

JUNE 3RD. OVERPOPULATION AND ITS EFFECTS

Poverty in simple language is: Deprivation of essential chattels that others take for granted. The more I traveled, the more I became aware of these “others”. These “others” were the middle class and higher class. And out of these two classes, the upper class took the cake every time. On average, the world poorest 20 percent holds a share of only 1.5% of the total private consumption in the world where the richest 20 percent amounts to 77% of the consumption. The middle class sneaks in somewhere in the middle with not much of an impact.

But somehow the poor and rich argument didn’t satisfy my curiosity. The more I looked around, the more I shuddered at the frightening population increase in the world. From the start of the human civilization the world’s population increased steadily, but something happened in the last 100 years. The population figures jumped off the chart. In biology overpopulation is a condition where an organism’s numbers exceed the carrying capacity of its habitat. It doesn’t necessarily depend on the size or density of the population, but on the ratio of population to available sustainable resources. For example, Antarctica is a giant piece of land – almost twice the size of Europe, but only has a few thousands human inhabitant. So besides the fact that it’s one hell of a cold climate, would it be possible to populate this landmass with millions of people? Perhaps. But that comes with adverse effects on the continent’s eco system as it cannot sustain that size of life.

Our planet is not big at all despite what many think. You can circumnavigate the entire globe in less than three days in an airplane. And almost everywhere you look you’ll see a sign of human intervention, whether farms, cities or ships on the ocean. So we are many. And we are here to stay. At the start of the 20th century, the world’s population was roughly 1.6 billion. By 1940 this figure had increased to 2.3 billion, and at some point in the year 2011 it finally reached the staggering figure of almost 7 billion.

Poverty doesn’t come out of nowhere just because rich people eat the share of the poor. It’s a big factor but not the only factor. The main factor is that there are too many mouths to feed with vanishing resources. Sure the world produces twice the amount of food needed to feed everyone, but at what cost? A very dear one: deforestation of the earth, poisoning the environment, melting the polar cap, genocides, slavery, wars, and turning the planet earth into a giant human feedlot to name a few. So what causes overpopulation? A simple answer would be too much sex. But to outlaw sex is sure to bring out every opposition from every group in the world. And since I’m guilty of enjoying this pastime myself, I will leave it alone because of self interest. But what can we really do to control the population?

Overpopulation in human accrued because of a very few simple factors: increase in births, a decline in mortality rates due to medical advances, increase in immigration, and industrialization of agriculture. There are hundreds if not thousands of organizations working on the environmental aspects of overpopulation except one: increase in birth rate. No one with a head on his shoulder has seriously tackled the biggest factor in overpopulation. And if they tried, it has always been vetoed by the media, the society and different interest groups to keep this taboo at bay. And those who work diligently to cover up the issue are our trusted friends in governments and various religious sects. All to make another buck, and control the people.

For start, one simple condemning of having more than two children from the Catholic Church alone could result in cutting the population growth in half and the poverty rate by landslide, but we never hear that from the Vatican. As a matter of fact, the official policy of the Catholic Church is very clear on this issue: a firm NO to contraception, contragestion, and abortion. And if we thought that disapproving the control methods was the only thing that the Vatican was concerned about, we’re in for a surprise. The Vatican doesn’t only condemn the population control; it promotes having as many children as “God wants you to have.” In simple words: as my children as you can possibly conceive with total disregard for their well being and their effects on the society. If that’s not what they mean, at least in reality that’s what happens.

Before you start bashing me I need to clarify one thing: to make it very clear I’m not attacking Christians, Jews, Muslims or any other religious groups. To me people are just people. Believing in God or not doesn’t constitute goodness or evilness. It’s what we do that makes us good or bad. The same way that millions of Christians are wonderful people so are the Jews and Muslims. But we often sadly relate the wrong doing of a few bad apples to the whole, and it does nothing but to generate hate. My goal is not to generate hate, my goal is to explore the truth and if the truth comes out to be what you didn’t want to hear, don’t shoot the messenger.

And the world is not getting any smarter either. There is a strong tendency for countries with lower national IQ scores to have higher fertility rates and for countries with higher national IQ scores to have lower fertility rates. And as many would like you to believe, it’s not the out of wedlock pregnancies that are the problem. In fact most children are born in legally or religiously bonded families. Worldwide, nearly 40% of pregnancies are unintended, some 80 million unintended pregnancies each year. An estimated 350 million women in the poorest countries of the world either did not want their last child, do not want another child or want to space their pregnancies, but they lack access to information, affordable means, and services to determine the size and spacing of their families. In the United States alone, in 2001, almost half of pregnancies were unintended.

In the developing world, some 514,000 women die annually of complications from pregnancy and unsafe abortion. Of those who survive, they give birth to 8 million infants who die needlessly every year because of malnutrition or preventable diseases. And what happens when the United States tries to help? Everything gets mixed up with the politics and thousands die because one senator who wants to get re-elected needs a catchy slogan: “Pro-Life”. Then millions of American can’t wait to line up at the voting booths to support what they think is moral without weighing the consequences.

I am personally Pro-Choice. And it’s not my choice to be for, or against abortion. Women have to make that choice. But shockingly to many Pro-Choice advocates, I don’t regard abortion as a population control method. The same as that I don’t regard wars as such. Killing live people is not going to solve overpopulation. What does help eradicate overpopulation is planning for that kid. And that comes with education not with abortion. Our best option is to focus on education about overpopulation, family planning, and birth control methods, and to make birth-control devices like condoms, pills and intrauterine devices easily available.

Knowing where I stand on abortion, I will say that the real matter here is not the abortion, whether you are in favor of it or not. The fact is that most women who are willing to have an abortion will go through with it even risking their lives, whether it is legal or not. In 1984 Ronald Reagan implemented a profane policy dubbed the Mexico City Policy or better known as the Global Gag Rule. Its main objective was to direct the United States Agency for International Development (USAID) to withhold funds from NGOs that used non-USAID funds to engage in providing advice, counseling, or information regarding abortion and family control, or lobbying a foreign government to legalize or make abortion available. If you didn’t get it the first time, I repeat it. This policy was NOT to prevent the foreign non-governmental organizations from spending the USAID contributions on family planning; it was to prevent them from even using their OWN funds that didn’t come from USAID for that matter. In a sense bullying these organizations with threats of sanctions and punishments to achieve a religious agenda.

And the Reagan administration knew too well that these foreign organizations were often the only health-care providers in remote rural areas, but elected to greatly contribute to extermination of 78,000 poor women who died because of unsafe abortion every year with its policy.

This policy prohibited aids even for:

Providing legal abortions even where a woman’s physical or mental health was endangered
Providing advice and information regarding the availability and benefits of abortion and from providing referrals to another health clinic;
Lobbying their own governments to legalize abortion, to maintain current law and oppose restrictions, or to decriminalize abortion; and conducting public education campaigns regarding abortion.
In 1993 Clinton administration stopped this policy, but history repeated itself when George W. Bush wanted to run for presidency and needed the “Moral Majority” vote. On his first day in office, Mr. Bush reinstated the Mexico City Policy as a thank you present to all his Pro-Life voters, but somehow he went on to exterminate millions of innocent people in the next eight years in the name of the good Lord. So the term Pro-Life is a selective term. It means that we get to choose who lives or die. Brown people should die and babies should be saved to be turned into dead soldiers when they grow up.

And of course a calculated political move; when Barak Obama took office, one of his first acts was to end this policy yet again to satisfy his Pro-Choice supporters, and this time the whole Christian world collapsed on him. The Vatican issued an amusing statement so colorful in language that baffled the media. Archbishop Rino Fisichella, head of the Pontifical Academy for Life (Supposedly there was a need for an academy of this nature, like the Vatican stance wasn’t clear enough!), responded that the repeal of Mexico City Policy was done with “the arrogance of those who, having power, think they can decide between life and death.” I believe they wanted to sue for copyright infringement more than anything.

It’s truly a sad thing that Iran is the only country in the world that contraceptive courses are required for both males and females before a marriage license can be issued. The Iranian government emphasizes the benefits of smaller families and the use of contraception. And it’s important to know that abortion is illegal in Iran. In the Iranian society these days, having more than two children is considered backward thinking. And yes, we are talking about the very same Iran that George Bush included in Axis of Evil.

Paul Ehrlich, the American biologist and environmentalist says in his book, The Population Bomb: “A cancer is an uncontrolled multiplication of cells; the population explosion is an uncontrolled multiplication of people. Treating only the symptoms of cancer may make the victim more comfortable at first, but eventually he dies – often horribly. A similar fate awaits a world with a population explosion if only the symptoms are treated.”

Enacted in 1970, Title X of the Public Health Service Act of the United States provides access to contraceptive services, supplies and information to those in need with priority given to persons of low-income. Title X as a percentage of total public funding to family planning client services has steadily declined from 44% of total expenditures in 1980 to 12% in 2006. Title X does NOT fund abortion and never has since its establishment. However, abortion opponents often take issue with Title X since 25% of all Title X money goes to Planned Parenthood affiliates. Although Planned Parenthood is prohibited from using federal funds to perform abortions, Pro-Lifers argue that any money given to Planned Parenthood from Title X frees up more non-federal money that can be used to perform abortions. Title X clinics and funding may represent the sole source of health care services for many of their clients. Of the 5.2 million patients served in 2009, 70% were below the federal poverty line and around 66% had no health insurance. In 2006, over 60% of women who received health care services at a Title X clinic identified that as their usual source of health care. Speak up people. Your silence is playing with lives of millions.

The truth is: reducing population from today’s level of over 6.8 billion to 4 billion would take slightly longer than 50 years if every couple, worldwide, agreed to produce an average of only two children. But it will not happen if the church continues to hamper all the efforts. We need to stand up and say enough is enough. Believe in whatever you like, that’s your freedom. But speak out when an arcane law is being shoved down your throat as a biblical fact. A law that doesn’t just affect the church followers, it affects the whole humanity.

So am I saying that not to have kids anymore? No. Not at all. I love kids and I would never say that. All I’m saying here is to be mindful of your actions. If you truly love kids, you should think about their children too. How is their life going to be affected when they live in a world that has 15 billion inhabitants and not a tree in it? Would you want to live in that world? How do you rationalize your large family when you know many more kids will die somewhere else in agony because your kids will take priority on the resources? How are you doing the gods work when over populating the earth will effectively set worldwide famines and horrible wars on its population? Is this truly what the lord wants? What would Jesus do? It’s a principal Catholic teaching that Jesus was an only child – so why not follow Mary’s step in life? I’m just tickling your conscience here, that’s all I can do. The rest is up to you.

The German monk and theologian Martin Luther once said: “God makes children. He is also going to feed them.” But I’m here to report from the heart of the disaster that God is not sending food baskets down here. God gave you brains also. Think for yourself. Teach these facts to your kids. Adopt a kid. There are millions of them out there. Have a family plan. Don’t have as many kids just because you can afford it; the world can’t. Take part. Sponsor a family and help them to change the world one less dead or poor kid at a time. I promise you, you’ll see the difference in your lifetime.

As for me, when most people blamed me for staying in one place for too long, I was working on two things. I started a comprehensive micro-finance program in Paraguay which includes over 30 children. These families were selected out of many qualifying families based on their willingness to better their life, their immediate needs and NOT their religious views. In fact they happened to be all Christian families extremely loyal to the Catholic Church. My conditions are simple: First rule is honesty. If they return the loan, they can take double of that amount the next time. They are obligated to cultivate their lands by growing what they can, raise chickens and small farm animals for their own consumption. Plant a tree, burry their trash and most importantly send their kids to school not one excluded. No stupid thank-you letters, no phone calls or picture drawings. They are supervised by locals and best of all they are not given a free charity. That’s what most organizations overlook. Charity makes people lazy and ashamed – putting them to work makes them proud, useful and productive. They are hard-working and they are determined to make a difference in their life. I actually come to like this so much that I’m going to set this up in every qualifying country I will travel to

And I’m getting as poor as any down here. I own no house, no car, no real-state holding, no nothing really. I have two cameras, a cooking pan and two sets of cloths. I eat once a day, take a shower once a week, and the last time I drank a beer was three weeks ago. The motorcycle, the laptop and everything else on it is not even mine; I donated them to the corporation along with thousands of dollars of my savings. To be honest, I have $1300 in one bank account and $600 in another. And I don’t get paid for what I do, nothing, nada, zero. But it’s a satisfying job, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

I have invested the remainder of my meager funds to film as much as I can for the upcoming documentary. When it runs out, I’ll push a broom to roll another tape. It’s a film from the heart of these people, regardless of their religious views or political party. It’s a first-handed struggle of the masses mixed with my story; uncensored and unbiased. I won’t ask you to buy me a beer, but I’ll ask you to help them to help us. We are more dependent on these people than we think.

“Freedom consists not in doing what we like, but in having the right to do what we ought.”— Pope John Paul II

Running a non-profit organization and going on a blind-date is not all that different – in both you never know where you are going to end up; home with a bottle of cheap whisky alone, or in bed with a big titted blond. The non-profit sector has become every bit as greedy as the for-profit sector, and in some cases, it has surpassed the latter. In today’s market, the administrative cost and executive compensations have become a direct derivative of the organization’s net income. The more the organization receives, the higher the salary of its executives will be. A 10 million dollar corporation will have a surplus of 1.5 to 3 million dollars to candy out to its executives and other expenditures.

As in the for-profit sector and specially the financial sector, the non-profit laws had been wacked to pieces to insure that top players can enjoy their private jets and multi-million dollars homes in the Caribbean. The IRS has a laughable term describing the circumstance which gives the green light to this shameful money sacking: “Reasonable Compensation.” Reasonable compensation is defined as “the value that would ordinarily be paid for like services by like enterprises [for-profit] under like circumstances.”

Going by this vague standard, the 2.5 million dollar salary of William Barram of the American Cancer Society, or the 1 Million dollar salary of Gail McGovern of the American Red Cross is rightly justified, because the net income of their respective organizations is comparable with the for-profit enterprises of their class. And when watchdog groups disclose these numbers with public and a few souls raise their concerns, the kind of Miss Betsy Brill, publish defensive articles in nation’s economic papers like Forbes to tone down the criticisms. In her article for Forbes Magazine, titled “Nonprofit CEOs Are Worth Every Dime”, Miss Brill goes on and on to why these thieves are entitled to public donations that were intended for a different purpose than buying another Rolls-Royce:

“…critics may cause donors to question–or even to pull back–their charitable giving at a time when nonprofits are struggling to meet an increased demand for services in the face of government cutbacks and dwindling private support.”

What did she just say? “At a time when nonprofits are struggling?” Miss Brill never explains why the “struggling organization” is paying a man a seven figure salary if it is indeed struggling. But she is quick to add: “Keep in mind that the highest paid CEOs are overseeing complex multimillion-dollar ventures.” Does she have alternative motives? You bet.

For many years prior to the market collapse of 2008, over-fed, over-paid, white-color financial analysts told us the very same thing, “AIG is doing wonderful, Lehman Brothers is at the top of its game. Don’t fear, invest, buy this, give them your money…” And when the economy collapsed and 700 billion dollars came out of the taxpayers’ pockets to bail out these criminals, these very same analysts justified their deceptiveness by saying that what they said was “just an opinion”. They got paid to put AAA ratings on worthless Collateralized Debt Obligations (CDO) and investors bought these high risk worthless pieces of ****s because credit rating agency’s like Moody’s and Fitch endorsed them and backed out later. Miss Brill doesn’t work for a Credit Rating Agency, she owns a counterpart of it in the non-profit sector. She is the President of Strategic Philanthropy, Ltd., a philanthropic advisory firm in Chicago. Same ****, different name.


The non-profit entities are not that different from for-profits either. Where there is money there will be always greed. Where there is money there will be also power, and mankind is prone to abuse both. In for-profit corporations, the share holders and investors question the executives on how their money is being played, but in non-profit world, the faith of the donors are in hands of a few volunteers and more often than not, the organization’s CEO holds a dictatorial power over the governing body. It is irrelevant that the board has the power to hire and fire the CEO, the CEO in a non-profit organization is nevertheless the dictator and the law maker of the organization with only the IRS to answer to. And the IRS position is already clear: “reasonable compensation.”

The only difference is that when a for-profit corporation goes bankrupt, shareholders and investors lose money and their outcry makes the evening news, but when a non-profit organization goes under, there is no one to take the hit. Donors give less than a **** – hey, they gave the money away in the first place – and in most cases they don’t even want to know where their money goes as long as the organization has a picture of a skinny black baby or a woman with one breast cutoff on the header of their website. The real victims are the poor, the class that was supposed to be served, but they have no voice. Their voice, if any, gets lost in the roar of the private jet engines and sport cars of the thieves who stole their money in the name of making a difference.

We are being told on an alarmingly increasing rate, that being non-profit doesn’t mean not making a profit. More and more non-profits are running mafia-style businesses as they hire and compensate their own relatives inside the organization with many six figure incomes. Then the seven figure elite supporters come in and tell us that only those making these ungodly sums have the intellect and capability to pull off the operations in these large entities. But, long ago, before there were these salaries, people did just that and the poor received the majority. Imagine that.


It’s not the legality of these gruesome compensations that is the issue; it’s the morality of the whole business. I founded a non-profit organization because I was compelled to help people and I surrounded myself with those who had the same inkling. Do I have the power to abuse them? Absolutely. But at the end of the day I know, what I take is what could have put a smile on a child’s face. To me that’s the drive not the salary. Maybe I’m radical but I do see the struggle of the poor first-handed on daily basis.

I leave you with one question: is the job of managing a charity really more “complex” than running a 300 million population country? If not, how do you justify salaries as large as six times of the US President? Don’t we have any talented people willing to manage charities in the same unselfish spirit as their donors? If not, we should outsource these jobs too China too, they sure as hell will do a better job it for a much lower wage.

AUGUST 23RD, 2011 - ENTERING THE ARGENTINE CHACO

I’ve ridden a lot of miles and visited a long list of places, and it makes it hard to answer the age old questions of, “What’s your favorite country? – Where was the most beautiful place? – What country has the prettiest girls?” They are almost impossible to answer as every place has its own unique ways of life. Town to town and time zone to time zone, everything changes. The language, the food, the people, and of course the weather, but I can competently say that my recent trip was one of the most enjoyable trips I’ve ever taken.

Saving you the headache on the charity work, I needed to renew the permit for the motorcycle and not wanting to pay the customs and immigration a 300 dollars fee; I decided to leave Paraguay for a few weeks. My options were Bolivia to the north, Brazil to the east and Argentina to South and West. From the day I left Argentina, I was disappointed that I didn’t get to visit the northern regions of it. In fact, most Argentineans I know have never been to these parts, let alone the tourists. Northern Argentina holds a big portion of the Gran Chaco, a sparsely populated, hot and semi-arid lowland region of the Río de la Plata basin, divided among Bolivia, Paraguay, Argentina and a small portion of Brazil. Those who have visited the Chaco region are divided into two groups, they either consider it hell on earth or they love it so much that can’t shut up talking about it.

My destination was the foot hills of the great Andes range on the border of Chile to west, then I had no idea where from there. I had no map, my GPS was of no use in this alien land and I could care less about any of that. I decided to take my friend Lourdes with me on the trip as she had never been to that part of the world either, but we had one problem. Ever since I added a giant box for my camera gear to the back of the bike, I only went for short rides and I had no idea how it would act in strong winds. Also, the box covered the back rack and now I had no place for my dry bag. Going solo was not a problem with all the gear but adding another person to the mess was just too much. On the morning of our trip, we hauled everything from Lourdes’ apartment on the 7th floor to the underground parking and I started to fill the boxes. In addition to my normal provisions, we were packing arctic clothing since I figured it would be bitterly cold in the mountains (It’s still winter down here), my guitar and 40 lbs of camera equipment. The mound of gear was unnerving and every minute passed I got more frustrated. There simply was no room for another person and sensing that, Lourdes suggested that I should go alone with a sad look on her face. I couldn’t do that to her. She was so excited to go on her first motorcycle trip and I didn’t have the nerve to turn her around at that point. I emptied the boxes again and got rid of anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary with the exception of the guitar. Once I was done with packing, the bike was so heavy that I could barely get it off the center stand.

We rolled out of Asuncion and reached the Argentine border around noon. The border crossing (my official 10th entrance to this country) went without a glitch and soon we were on the open roads heading northwest with no maps to where I thought the Chaco region was located. The traffic dwindled down and apart from the occasional kamikaze bugs, there was just the hum of the engine and the wind. The bike handled marvelously and I soon got used to the additional weight. The scenery started to change dramatically from the lush green tropics to brownish dusty landscape, with patches of boreal forests, funny looking Palo Borracho trees and occasional palm trees. The Palo Borrachos have a giant trunk not unlike a drum and they hold an enormous amount of water in their trunk, a rare commodity in these hot and sunny regions. The road was as flat as glass, and straight as an arrow. We stopped in a middle of nowhere where I saw a sign for meat and bought 3 pounds of ribs for dinner. There was no refrigeration or USDA stamps, the meat was simply hanged in a dark room from the ceiling, with maggots visible here and there – just the way I like it. At sun down I spotted a working ranch in the distance and headed straight for it. As I tried to slow down I flipped my helmet up and as my luck had it, a wasp flew in and as I tried to get him out, it stung me on my cheek. I cursed all the gods and continued for the ranch. A tiny Indian lady with her kids and a herd of dogs greeted us and we asked for permission to camp out at her place. She was the caretaker and the ranch was a beautiful place, with cows, goats, pigs, horses and as it is common in this region, a coal making oven. We pitched our tent and cooked the meat on the lady’s grill (they cook on open fire all year long, the grill is their only stove) and shared it with the family. She brought out homemade empanadas and after a countless rounds of Mate, and a few tunes on the guitar, we retired for the night. We would start the next day for the heart of Chaco. Stay tuned.

While I edit the pictures and write the rest of the story, don’t forget to checkout Greg Powell and Coburn and Erin Black’s adventures here and here. They are our ambassadors on the road and living a dream of their own with lots of great stories and pictures.

AUGUST 25TH, 2011 - DRAGONES, THE WEIRDEST PLACE ON EARTH

We woke up to a strong orange light shining through the tent’s rain-fly and we were baking already. The anticipated cold weather was definitely not the case, and our mound of winter gear was just dead weight. We packed up and left the ranch heading west again. I kept a steady speed of 55mph to calculate our gas mileage, and I was pleased with how little the consumption was; we were getting 43mpg out of an 1100 pound motorcycle with aerodynamic of a brick. One full tank of gas carried us an average of 250 miles, and that was a critical advantage in these parts of the country.

Gas stations are scarce, even more than the vast Patagonia, and the water a nonexistence commodity, so we rationed that too. Temperatures soared to high nineties and in a landscape with no shade; we had no choice but to keep moving and marvel at the vastness of this unpopulated place.

After the second fill-up, we had no luck finding another station and the fuel gauge needle started to go down. I slowed down even more to conserve fuel, but there was no gas station to be found anywhere. Sun was going down quickly and running out of gas with no shelter was definitely not in my (vague) plan. We passed two guys on a small motorcycle stranded on the side of the road, and I just had to turn around. We hadn’t seen a car in hours and we surely were their only hope. They had a flat tire with three holes in it and they needed tube patches to get them going. Lucky for them, I carry a whole motorcycle shop with me so I hooked them up with patches and glue, and they returned the favor with two liters of gas. But two liters wasn’t enough to get us to the next station which was 130km away. They told us of a town about 40km away which we might find gas in, and we started back on the road.

The sun was already down when we got to the town. It was called Dragones, (dragons in English) and the name was very fitting. There was no gas station – actually it wasn’t even a town. It seemed like a scene from the Mad Max movies, and the people looked like the village people. We asked around for gas and they sent us to someone’s house who sold gas out of Pepsi bottles, but as our luck would have it the guy wasn’t there. We had no choice but to stay in that town and wait till the next day. The problem was that this town had no hotel, and from the look of the place, I was apprehensive of camping anywhere in the open.

Then it hit me. There was an Evangelist Church across the street and that became our salvation. We talked to the pastor and he agreed to let us sleep there after the mass. He seemed like a nice guy and the church’s yard had a gate which would keep the bike safe. We unloaded our gear and headed out to eat something as we hadn’t eaten anything that day. We walked around and found a joint that sold empanadas. The woman who took our order was retarded – literally. We ordered the same thing four times and she kept coming back and asking us what we wanted to order. Then she disappeared for 40 minutes as we sat there looking at each other in disbelief. From where we sat, we could see the whole town. It had eight streets (all dirt covered) with buildings right out of the Soviet Block, a few hundred inhabitants, a jail-style mini supermarket complete with bars, and three cars. Everyone walked in circles around the block, from children to elders. Every 10 minutes or so, we saw the same people walking passed us, and the same cars going in the very same loop. On the corner, there was a girl talking to herself out-load and worst still, there was a dripping carcass of a freshly slaughtered and skinned baby-pig hanging from the post next to us to add to the horror. When I tried to take a picture of it, we were yelled at, and they took it away! We started drinking beers to bring down the thirst and taking the edge off the post-apocalyptic join we were in. The empanadas finally arrived and to my surprise they were delicious.

When the feast was over, we went for a walk around the town and we had no problem blending in. On the first day, Lourdes’s boot lost one heel and she limped with one heel alongside me in the dirt streets of Dragones. We stopped at the supermarket to pick up some things, but the woman at the counter scared the hell out of me. She looked like the Wolfman as I can swear to any god, she had more hair on her arms than I do, and I’m a hairy guy. The town was just too much to take in so we went back to the church to get some sleep, but the night wasn’t over yet. As we walked in, the church was in full assembly and before we could sneak passed the gate, the pastor called our names and we had to sit down. The problem was that we were both a little drunk, Lourdes was already hopping on one heel and none of us was religious, let alone evangelist. We became the center of the attention and all the prayers ended with the North American visitors names.

I was hauling a guitar on the bike and taking a musical instrument in a naturally music loving church is not a good idea, especially if you have a few beers in you. As we later found out, all the people in the church were either the pastor’s children (he had 12) or their cousins – it was more of a cult if you will. The pastor informed the audience that I was going to sing and that wasn’t a suggestion either. I never having played a Christian song in my life was dumbfounded. My only advantage was that they didn’t speak a word of English so I resorted to slow rock songs like “Dust In The Wind” and “Wish You Were Here” while they ate it up as English church tunes with their Amens. I’m sure if I sang the Wizard of OZ, they still would have said Amen.

All in all, they were wired, but very nice and generous people. We didn’t have to get our sleeping bags out as they gave us a room with a bed in it for the night and we retired. We slept in a room with no windows and I was sure by the end of the night that this town was a government concentration camp for FDA drug testing. The next morning I tried fixing Lourdes’s boots, but I had no luck finding any nails. She limped to the gas-house and after getting some very questionable gas for double the normal price we rode west towards Jujuy to see what else is awaiting us in the Chaco. The official sign of Dragones read “La Perla de La Ruta” (The pearl of the road.) Whether it a was a joke or not remains a mystery. Stay tuned.

AUGUST 27TH, 2011 - SALTA, THE BEAUTIFUL

We left Dragones and all its glories behind and headed west again towards Salta, the Capital of Salta province. The first thing I did was to find an empty jug and fill it up with extra gas just in case. The next was finding a shoe store to fix Lourdes’s boots, but we never managed to find any; they were either closed or the locals sent us on a wild goose chase. In northern Salta, we had to turn south at a junction that split the road in three. One went to Bolivia, one to Chile and the one we took went south for the wine country, a 2000km long section of vines and spectacular scenery.

The dusty landscape of Chaco started to change and massive Andean peaks started too loom over us. The Sahara like heat finally gave away to much cooler breeze and we emerged from the Chaco in one piece. At one of our stops on the road, we walked into a field and unbeknownst to us, it was filled with tiny Velcro looking seeds like burrs which stuck to everything. I was wearing my riding pants and I only got a few, but Lourdes’ pants got covered with these sharp little burrs. We spent hours picking them up with tweezers and that definitely wasn’t fun. we stopped for lunch at an ungodly unsanitary place surrounded with stray dogs. They circled around the table and followed my fork every time I put it in my mouth. Of course they wouldn’t go anywhere close to other patrons as they would beat them off, so they stuck with the dog loving gringo in hope of a bone.

We stopped so many times that before we knew it, it was getting dark and we only racked 100km that day. As we were in no hurry to get anywhere, we camped at a police station on the highway and called it a night. Salta was only a short ride away and we arrived there the next day well before sundown. Salta is charming city, far away from the aristocrat Buenos Aires province and heavily influenced by its close neighbors Bolivia and Chile. In fact, Salta is everything that Buenos Aires isn’t and in a good way. Salta still has its South American charm of the 70’s before the McDonald dominated the world. Small pastry and deli shops were found on every corner and the people were in no hurry to get anywhere. We liked Salta.

Six days before we entered Salta, two young French girls were raped, beaten and murdered execution-style outside of the city while hiking, and this news was a horror to the locals. “Salta is not Buenos Aires, these things don’t happen here”, and they are right. The circumstances of these crimes steered so much attention to this quite city, as I’m sure no European female will ever set a foot near this province again for some times to come. Although my heart goes out to their family, it’s unfair to judge the population based on a single terrible crime. We were warned about the danger of traveling, but I don’t pay too much heed to these kinds of warnings; that’s how I keep my sanity.

We bought some salami, olives, cheese and bread for dinner and headed to another favorite crashing place of mine: fire stations. The first station had no room but the second station gave us a room to stay in. In much of the world, fire stations, churches, schools, and even the city administration provide assistance to tourists, and not too many people know about that. I have slept in so many different places that I can’t even remember, but the major advantage is that you always meet new people. The firemen were super cool, helpful, and we had a lot of fun at the station. They helped me out with rigging up a second camera on the bike and best of all they had internet, shower and a kitchen too.

Before entering Salta, we found a map of the area and finally I could navigate with more precision. Our next destination we decided was to be Cafayate (not to be mistaken with Calafate. Calafate is in Southern Patagonia, and the story from there is here, If you haven’t read that one you definitely should), 250km to the south. We had no idea what we would find there but the few pictures we saw from the map was enough to make me itch. The caption read “Salta, Tan Linda Que Enamora.” This 250km section would turn out to be one of the most amazing landscapes I’ve laid my eyes upon. Stay tuned.

SEPTEMBER 1ST, 2011 - CAFAYATE, ARGENTINA

We finally woke up early, took hot shower at the fire station, and headed out due south for Cafayate. We went five blocks and I was hungry already so we stopped for one last salami and bread in Salta. We only had 250km to go and it was early in the day so I wasn’t too concerned about the time. At one of our stops, there was an all familiar shrine built for someone who had died in a car accident. In most of South America, when people die on the road, their families build a little shrine for them on that spot. Depending on wealth of the family, shrines differ from a simple cement box to elaborate granite covered cabins. All year long, people leave water, candle and flowers in them, and in some I have even seen food. (Just in case they come back from the death and are hungry I suppose.)

This particular shrine had something I had never seen before. Apparently the deceased was a smoker, so people had been lighting up cigarettes for him instead of candles, and leaving a few unlit ones just in case he came back to life. That was a touching gesture and I liked it so much that I left him a few cigarettes too. So this is my will: when I die, leave me cigarettes too and don’t forget the lighter either. If you’re feeling generous that day, a few liters of fuel would be nice too since I always run out gas.

The road started nice and turned gorgeous. We entered a landscape so extraordinary that the 100 degrees heat had no effect anymore. This was a land of massive sand stones, tall cliffs, blue sky, and a sun the size of a football field. I have spent a lot of time in Moab and Zion in Utah, but the enormity of this place makes Moab look like a dirt parking lot. The road with its class A asphalt twisted through cliffs after cliffs, and we rode from tropic to desert up and down with each ascend. What we could see from the road was a drop in the ocean of what was beyond, as the real beauty was always a mile off the road but it was mesmerizing nevertheless.

I don’t think I ever used the 4th or 5th gear as we stopped constantly just for another picture. The 250km trip which should have taken three hours at most took us nine hours to complete, and we arrived at the wine producing town of Cafayate at sundown. Cafayate is a beautiful little town surrounded by vineyards and most if not all of its income comes from the barrels. Cafayate is a touristy town and being poor means that you don’t get to enjoy it the way the others do, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t stop there.

We needed a place to crash for the night. We started by looking for the Police Station, but they were no good, and the tourism office was less than helpful. The hotel prices were arm and a leg so we went straight for the fire station again to see if we could find a place to sleep there, but the station was so small that it barely had room for their own fire-engine. As always, somehow things worked out. A guy at the station called around, and found us a place to camp at his friend’s yard. When we got to the place, I saw no yard. The house was a colonial style mansion with an open area in the middle and the only way to get inside was to ride the 1000lb street motorcycle up 6 stairs with no ramp. I looked at the stairs and shivered but there was no other way as I wasn’t going to leave the bike on the street. My first try almost ended disastrous as the bike simply wouldn’t go up – it stalled in mid-air and started to roll back down. On second try, I gave it hell and she climbed all the way up the stairs and we settled down for the night; munching on salami, cheese, olives and bread yet another night.

I grew up not eating pork due to ridiculous religious taboos, but as soon as I reached the age of reason, I took revenge by indulging in this wonderfully delicious animal whenever possible. Now don’t get Vegan on me, pigs are not cute, they are not funny, and they are not smart either. They are just what the good lord had intended them to be – stupid and delicious. In Argentina, pigs fulfill their destiny by voluntarily going into casings with white pepper corns, garlic and salt, and they get reincarnated into some of the best Salami in the world. The word Salamé comes from Italian and Salami is its plural form used in English to describe this product. Salami is produces in much of Europe and Americas, and it’s an assumption that the Italians are the masters of this craft, but I beg to differ. In my opinion, Argentine salami is the best salami in the world, with Hungarians taking the second place, and then Italy. On average, it takes 30 to 40 weeks for salami to be ready for consumption, and to clarify something, I’m not talking about the garbage you find in supermarkets in United States sold as hard salami or Genoa salami. Genoese salami is a fantastic salami which comes from Genoa, but it has nothing to do with the crap they sell in US by the same name. It’s interesting to know that salami was originally made by peasants as an alternative to fresh meat as they could keep it for years. Now days, it’s not uncommon that a good salami (once a peasant food) to be priced as much as three times of best cut of fresh meat.

Argentina is heavily influenced by Italian and Spanish cultures, and they created bests of both worlds out of this merger when it comes to food. On my trip to Uruguay, I discovered a very small village on the border of Argentina that was like heaven on earth. On both sides of the street, there were shacks with signs that read cheese and salami. Once you enter one of these huts, you can get high on the smell alone, and it doesn’t help much that pretty farm girls shove samples into your mouth. I left that town almost broke as quickly as possible, as it was a sure way to get me to settle down.

I wanted to write a travel blog but somehow I ended up writing a whole page on salami and I haven’t even scratched the surface yet. Now that I wrote about salami, I kind of want to write about hams too (again not the kind of ham you see on your thanksgiving table, that’s not ham, that’s an abomination to Spanish Jamón.) I’ll cut this post short here so stay tuned for the rest of the story, but I can’t promise that it won’t have any salami in it.

Wonderful ride with a very noble cause :) Awesome clicks
God Bless you loads of miles of pleasure :)
Ride Long and Safe

Thanks mate. Sorry i didn't see your comment, for some reason i'm not getting notifications anymore. Enjoy the reports and thanks for tuning in.

SEPTEMBER 23RD, 2011 - THE BEES, TREES, AND A DEAD COW

When I find a road that is not on the map, my first reaction is to always roll on the throttle and ride straight for it. This time I found a road that was not charted, was reasonably short, and from the GPS Topo maps, it seemed to be passing through some beautiful landscape. Little did I know that this 50km section would prove to be one of the most isolated, hottest, and sandiest roads in entire Argentina.

When we left Cafayate, the only way back was to ride north for Salta again, and go east from there. But not wanting to double-back, I steered the bike into a single lane road which was a shortcut that would save us 150km of redundancy. We rode until sunset but finding a spot to camp became a problem. Before dark, we found a campground, but when I was told $15 for the night to pitch a tent, I bolted out of there. We finally found a nice spot by the lake at sundown and pitched the tent. It was a quiet place, the weather was cool, and not a single soul around for miles. I headed into the bush with my axe and headlamp, chopped some wood, and we settled in by the campfire. I skewered some meat, made a pot of rice, and since Lourdes had never made a fire before (City Girl), I put her in charge of the pit. Mate and a couple of guitar tunes later – we passed out for the night.

I woke up to a strong buzzing noise all around the tent, and I immediately knew what it was. The night before, in the dark, we pitched our tent under a low hanging tree which happened to host a giant Africanized bee nest. Call me a wimp, but I spent most of my life dodging Asian Giant Hornets. Almost unknown in US, these gigantic killing machines were the most fearsome intruders of my childhood. At two inches long with a wing span of three inches, these hornets are the deadliest and most feared of any flying insect. If the sheer size of these bugs doesn’t give you nightmares, they have five eyes – two on the sides, and three on top of their head- a stinger the size of your pinky, and they can fly over 50 miles a day. They attack in groups and they spray acid in your eyes before proceeding to tear your limbs apart. I was attacked twice in my life by these out-of-this-world bugs and I have a scar to show for each one. So it’s safe to say that I systematically avoid anything that flies that’s not a bird.


I crawled out of the tent slowly and looked around for the source of the buzzing. I found a bee-ball a little smaller than a football, (American) and they seemed to be on the edge for some reason. As I was taking pictures and showing the nest to Lourdes, they went apeshit, and 100’s of bees started to swarm around us. I didn’t care what they were selling – I didn’t want it – so I started to run for my life and Lourdes followed hopping on one heel (One of her boots lost a heel early on the trip). We stayed by the lake until the bees were gone, then packed up and got the hell out of there.

The hot weather turned for worse and our water ran out. The pavement ended abruptly and the road started downhill which twisted and turned at a steep grade, and what covered the road was only loose gravel and sand. We were riding on a side of cliff, and the bike kept shifting towards the drop-off. As calmly as I could, I told Lourdes that if I tell you to jump, don’t think twice, just jump off the bike if the bike starts to go down. The sand was unnerving. It would get very deep around the corners and my bald rear tire didn’t have a prayer. As we descended into the valley down below, there was no going back. The road we came from was too steep and sandy for the heavy bike to climb back up, and not having good tires made it impossible. We had to ride this road out, no matter what.

If the road condition was dreadful, the valley was unquestionably beautiful. A turquoise swift river ran through the landscape, and tall cliffs surrounded the road – wild flowers, cactuses, occasional birds, and no sign of a human life anywhere. At the lower parts of the valley, the river had washed off to the road, and river crossings became the new challenge. As I was filming, I had to set the tripod and the camera, cross the river on the bike, and have Lourdes ferry the rest to the other side. Before and after every river crossing came a long section of deep sand as fine as table salt, and the road would climb up again yet for another hill.

We started at 9 am and it took us five and half hours to cover 50km. When we finally got out of this paradise, I wanted to kiss the asphalt. We were on the verge of exhaustion, hungry, and severely dehydrated. We found a roadside Parrilla (similar to steak house) and parked the bike. I told the waitress to bring on the drinks with as much meat as she got. She showed up with a giant platter, and we ate and drank for as long as I remember. The bill was the most expensive I paid on this trip: $25. That was for two 40 oz. beer, soft drinks, two racks of ribs, five sausages, two steaks, unlimited salads, and bread. We stayed at the grill for hours before heading back into the boiling inferno. I looked at the GPS and the closest town was called Joaquín Víctor González, (named after a politician of the same name) and the next was called Pampa del Infierno (Land of Hell), so I figured we had enough hell for today so we headed for González.

On the road I started seeing big nice yellow lemons here and there, and wondered where they came from. Then I started to see them more frequently, until I saw something that stopped me on my track. A semi trailer had flipped over on the road, and yellow lemons covered the highway. We apparently got to the truck just minutes after the accident, as there was no one around. The driver was OK but very frightened, and rightfully so. The air smelled like lemonade factory and besides the misfortune, it was a beautiful scene. Then people started to show up and proceeded to steal lemons. The driver seemed not to care or if he did care, there was nothing he could do. Ten ton of lemons that takes a crew of workers a few hours to load, disappeared in front of our eyes in matter of minutes. Things disappear in South America without a trace, and the driver knew it too well to try to stop it. Stay tuned.

December 19th, 2011 - I’m well and alive

I’m well and alive and was for a long time computer–less. About a month and half ago, I was going to the parking garage to leave the motorcycle, and I asked my friend Lourdes to open the sliding door of the garage. The door was stuck because of some gravel on the rail but she got it open just enough for the bike to pass through. As she turned around towards me, before I could say a word, the 25ft long steel door collapsed on her head and buried her missing and the bike by less than an inch. The gigantic piece of metal was so heavy that I could only lift it a few inches off of her body, but she couldn’t get herself out. Finally people arrived and with some help we lifted the metal gate and rescued her. She still had her motorcycle helmet on, and it undoubtedly saved her life. She came out with lots of cuts and bruises, and as she was wearing a backpack with my laptop in it, the laptop was crushed as well. Everything is almost fixed now and I have a lot of catching up to do. For now, happy late Thanksgiving and early Christmas to everyone.

Am was glad to see your post, beginning to wonder how you were getting on. Looking forward to the catch up. Merry Christmas.
Julian

A trip gone wrong from hell. Couple shots of the road until I find internet to post the hell stories from Bolivia. In the mean time, if you know any Bolivians, run'em over a few times with a loaded truck.

The Damned Bolivia – Part One

A whole century later, I must have had the same look as the Sundance Kid as he stepped off the train in Bolivia. I stood in front of a mound of rubble, no sign, no road, no nothing, but a narrow mule track straight out of the 1900 which marked the border of Bolivia.

To tell the story of the damned Bolivia, I must first tell the hellish story of getting to Bolivia. Imagine yourself sitting under the August sun in Texas, dressed in thick black Kevlar pants and jackets, full-face helmet, pair of gloves and black combat boots, then fancy sitting on top of a black motorcycle with 300lbs of film and travel gear with an engine hot enough to fry bacons on. Now add another person with the exact same outfit to your pillion and for the finishing touch, imagine sipping boiling hot water and you might get a grasp of what I felt as I left the capital of Paraguay for the Chaco region to the north. I visited the Chaco in Argentina in winter and came out just short of a heatstroke, yet I was riding in the middle of summer to one of the most isolated and hottest places in South America.

The ordeal of getting a visa for Bolivia is a story of it itself, but to not make the long story longer, the Bolivian Embassy doesn’t really give you a visa. What they give you is a piece of paper that you take with you and then you have to find the immigration office somewhere past the border deep in Bolivia to get your actual visa. And as everything takes a million years to get done in South America, my visa process took so long that when I finally got the paper, I had only two days to get to the border, almost 900km away.

Visa in hand, I went to the parking garage to bring out the motorcycle for oil and tire change, and as Mr. Murphy had it, the battery was completely dead, reading zero volt on the voltmeter. I took out the battery and took it to a shop to recharge, and I had to wait until the next day to get it back. When I finally got the battery back, I tore the bike apart until I found the short but it was already too late to get on the road. The next day I changed the tires for a pair of new dual sports, changed the brake pads, and loaded the bike for the marathon to the border with only 12 hours left on my visa.

Paraguay has very nice highways, and discounting the occasional wandering cows, you can rack up pretty good time, but this road wouldn’t end. From 10am to 7pm, we rode straight shot only stopping for gas and a short lunch break and we made it to Mariscal Estigarribia, the last frontier town in the Chaco in Paraguay. We got the passport stamped and I was officially out of the country, although we had 250km from Mariscal Estigarribia to the border and 150km more to Boyuibe, the first town in Bolivia. It was already 7pm and the sun would set in an hour or two so we kept pushing on to get at least closer to the border.

As we went deeper into the Chaco, the road started to get worse and potholes the size of a fin-tailed Cadillac started to cover the road. I double checked a few times on my GPS and it seemed that we were going the right way, but the total lack of traffic was telling me that either people don’t go to Bolivia for some reason or this was going to be a road from hell. As my luck had it, it turned out to be both. Potholes steadily grew in size and worse yet, the ground turned into some sort of sand that was finer that Baby Johnson ass-powder. Going on a straight line was impossible and the more I dodged sandpits, bigger and wider versions kept showing up. It was like a DMV test, except that if I ran over a cone, I would send us crashing in a ditch.

I was thinking that there is no way in hell that we could make the border, but there was nowhere to stop either. Both sides of the road were like the Atlantic beach with that powdery stuff going down to China and I just kept going with hope of finding a solid ground that we could crash at night. As I was thinking about all this, we hit a deep sandpit and went flying on the ground. We were Ok but the bike was stuck. We were both exhausted from the long ride and as much as we tried, we couldn’t even upright the bike in the sand as we kept slipping on the soft ground. There was nothing we could do so we waited, hoping that there would be another idiot going the same road who would give us a helping hand. A cigarette or two later, we spotted a fruit truck in the distance and our deliverance came in a form of an 8 man team. All these guys pushed and shoved and I kept on the throttle until the bike made it out of the long pit.

We thanked our saviors and knowing that there won’t be a sole on the road if we got stuck again, I chased after them and got in front just in case. I don’t remember how long we rode in the dark but I know that it felt like eternity as we kept going in and out of sand pits, and the bike trashed about every direction. Finally we saw a light. A lone dim light of a common house on a cattle ranch and I raced for it. We asked for permission to stay there and we were home free – for the night at least. The fruit truck arrived a few minutes later and we bought a dozen bananas and a giant watermelon for the dinner.

The watermelon turned out to be as white as Dick Cheney, but I didn’t care, I was so dehydrated that all I wanted was something with water in it. We pitched the tent next to an old abandoned Jeep, and a three legged calf, and retired for the night. My face was so burnt from the sun and it was so hot outside that I stayed awake for the longest time before falling asleep in my own sweat with the three legged cow howling nonstop next to my head until dawn. As it would turn out, the road to hell was just about to begin; the past section would be a walk in a park in comparison. Stay tuned.

The Damned Bolivia – Part Two

It wasn’t until I saw the road in daylight that I knew what kind of misery I was in for. This road was supposed to be paved, but it was under construction at the moment and the ranchers said that it would be like this for another 100km. As it is customary in South America, when you hear a number related to distance, you should always multiply it by three for good measure so I figured the whole way to Bolivia would be like that.

And the sand started yet again. Now that we could see better, we kept on zigzagging and making a miserable progress but it all came to a halt when I caught a sight of a water truck spraying the road. The guys on the truck stopped to see what in the hell we were doing there and sent us off with evil smiles and good lucks on our muddy journey. I literally rode 100 yards before I stopped the bike and gave up. The fine sand mixed with water created a thick gravy and the giant bike wasn’t going anywhere in this muck. The tire grooves were filled with mud with no traction whatsoever and I had no choice; I pushed the bike to the sandy shoulder.

For the next hour, I rode with both of my feet on the ground, frequently asking Lourdes to get off and walk in hairy spots. Sweat kept dripping off my nose and sand filled my mouth and the road went on. The mud started to dry out gradually in the sun and all there was left was fine sand again. Now I had more appreciation for the sand and I just picked up speed and ripped through it. The faster I went, the easier it got until it felt like I was riding on the clouds. The bike would sink momentarily but would spring back up and keep going. Lourdes asked me if it was dangerous going this fast, and my answer was “Yes, but If I slow down you’re going to end up walking” and I don’t remember hearing a word from her again.

Patches of asphalt started to show and we picked up speed and life got easier. We filled up the gas tank from Pepsi bottles at a small shack and pushed for the border. At last we made it. At this border, there were two wooden outhouse looking offices with two guys running the whole show. Checking out the bike at the Paraguayan side went smoothly and we walked in the Bolivian office to do the paperwork for temporary importation. The guy kept looking at the documents and kept making excuses and asking stupid questions. I got the feeling that he was setting us up for bribe and I wasn’t budging. Then he finally said it: “You have to pay $100 USD here for the fees”.

My answer was NO, there aren’t any fees for importation of temporary tourist vehicle. In the middle of the shakedown, some other guy walked in and all of a sudden he forgot all about the “fees” and we bolted out. We rode a few feet and we had to stop. There was no road. Not even a sign. There was a mule track barely wide enough for a car next to a giant tree that blocked the way with a mound of dirt on it. I was confused. I looked around but there was no other way. This was Bolivia.

There seemed to be a semi-paved road above were we were standing, but it was blocked with trees and dirt piles. Down below in the ditch, this secondary hell of a road was to be used until the main road was completed. It was covered in soft sand, deep potholes, lose rocks and broken beer bottles. So our Bolivian odyssey began. In only 10km the bike bottomed out a thousand times, every bolt was shaking lose and at last we hit a deep pothole so hard that the giant camera box on the back broke and stuff started to fly out on the road. This road was impossible. Now I started to really see why there hadn’t been a single soul on the road for the past 300km. Bolivia was a shithole and Paraguayans knew better not to venture it.

We gathered up the banged up stuff from the road and devised a new plan. If I could climb up the ditch and get to the main road, we would be home free. The trouble was that the ditch had deep trenches dogged in it by the construction workers to prevent this exact scenario. I kept on looking and finally found a spot that seemed promising so I gave it hell. The bike shook up and down and miserably climbed up to the heaven above. No more potholes, no more sand.

We celebrated the victory by drinking piss-warm water and got on with it. But 2km ahead, the road ended again with trees and dirt blocking it. We climbed back down the ditch and as soon as we found another suitable spot, climbed back up on the road. Sometimes the blockades were passable and I would run them over, but most of the time we had to get back down and up again. Sometimes we had to backtrack a few kilometers to where we went up because there was no way to get down. Long story short, we were covering 30km an hour hill climbing with an 1100 ponds street motorcycle.

We were stopped by the military at a check post and searched. These guys looked like jungle rebels, no shirts, sombreros, camouflage pants and guns. At least we found out for certain that we were in Bolivia and going the right way. We kept on ditch-hopping and made our way towards the town of Boyuibe where there would be food, gas, a bank and we could get my visa. But things in Bolivia are never that simple. On one of the ditch-climbs, the bike came out short and the rear tire slipped on the brush covered sand and send the bike flying. This time the bike was lying on its side, leaking the precious fuel and transmission oil all over the ground. Now we were going north aimlessly with even shorter supply of gas and low transmission oil.

Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw a sign for the Immigration Office in the middle of nowhere. I was thinking that this can’t be it; Boyuibe is a town with banks, gas stations, and actual human beings in it. At least that’s what I was told at the Bolivian embassy in Paraguay. Nevertheless I turned around to check it out. This place didn’t resemble a government office. It was a stable with animals running around and no one in sight. We knocked on the door of a house nearby and a guy with no shirt walked out and said that this was it. I turned to Lourdes and the first thing I said was there is no bank here!

When we left Asunción in Paraguay, I took out 800,000 Guaranies (roughly 200USD) and that was the last time I saw a sight of an ATM machine. With almost no gas station taking credit cards, we resorted to paying cash for gas and food and kept looking for a bank that never came. Now we were at the immigration office, where I had to pay $130 for my visa and all I had left was barely enough for a few liter of gas!



A bald headed short guy came out of the house and took charge of the process. I tried to tell him that we had to get to a bank to get the money for visa but he kept shushing me, telling me to be quite and asked for a photocopy of my passport. I said I didn’t have one and explained that the embassy already has all the information, including million copies of everything and this paper is all he needs but he flipped out. He huffed and puffed, cursed at us and shoved a form in front of me to fill out. I filled out the form and tried to tell him again that I had no money but he cut me off again and told me to be quite. This was ****ing unbelievable but I just went with it. He kept saying that he was doing us a favor, and wouldn’t let me talk.

Then he looked at my passport. In my passport, it states my birth place which is Shiraz, Iran. He flipped out again and said with utmost hatred that Iranians are not welcomed in Bolivia. “You can’t come in”. It’s impossible to describe how long it took to explain to this waste of a sperm that he was holding an American passport, and my birthplace had nothing to do with anything. He had to call for his wife, and all the other dimwitted short people he had around the stable to hold a council on whether to let an Iranian terrorist inside the “wonderful” country of Bolivia or not.

To say that I was furious is an understatement. The only thing kept me from killing this pest was the mere fact that I was out of gas and couldn’t get far. Finally he was convinced and before I could tell him that I had no money, he slapped the visa (while still cursing at me) in the passport and asked for $130 USD. Then came the moment of truth. Oh god, his face was priceless when I could finally get a word in and tell him that I had no money. He threw the passport in his desk drawer, locked it and walked away. We were kept captive, knowing that it was Saturday, and there wasn’t a bank for another 200km to the north or 650km to the south. Welcome to Bolivia.

Stay tuned.

Ok dude. It's time for a $*%#ing Reality Check
 

Dude. Seriously? Let's get real here. You know where you are, where you have been, and how long you have been there. What the HELL is going on in your mind that can even begin to let you be so uncivil as to call Bolivia a shit hole?

Can we set the story straight?

It seems from your last two posts that your entire ire and dislike for Bolivia stems from one very bad road, and a ridiculous border crossing.

Can we suffice it to say that you chose BOTH of those options?

What else? You are attempting semi-adventurous overland travel on an overloaded motorcycle not suited (in the least bit) for ANYTHING that you are attempting accept carrying your excess of equipment and passenger load down a tarmac road.

You are in the Chaco my man. It is as hot as a witches tit in a brass bra in the middle of an Arabian summer. No shit. We ALL know that. At least you are ATGATT. But you have to deal with it, not bitch to the masses about it.

Roads are not good in that part of the world. That road has been under construction for a long, long time (By Western Standards). You speak Spanish, or so it would seem, and your companion does as well. Are you trying to tell the Horizon Unlimited community that you are so naive a traveler at this point as to completely negate the benefits of asking about the road ahead? Even in spite of the ridiculous effort involved in interpreting the answers your are bound to get, you can nearly always get information from your questions.

Your bike has already blown an engine, become broken and battered, been repaired, cost you thousands of dollars (your donated dollars), but yet you blame the road? Allow us some time to consider that for a moment. A Ural Patrol with a sidecar would benefit you by now. You may be limited to 60mph on the open highway, but you can carry your lady friend and as much gear as you like. But each to his own. Carry on.

The border crossing of your choice is well known for it's lack of amenities, be it food, lodging, banking facilities, or even road side commodities. That is why, unless we are prepared for it physically and mentally and our gear is thoroughly prepped, we adventure overland travelers don't go to these types of places. And when we do, we go prepared.

I refuse to believe that you have allowed yourself to become so complacent as to not have carried US dollars to the Bolivian checkpoint that you were determined to receive your visa from. Especially as you admit to knowing in advance of it's requirements. Unacceptable.

As for the border guard / checkpoint officer / underpaid patrol man... They are all the same. You have crossed numerous borders, and seen it all. Or so it would seem, but yet you still allow yourself to be surprised. Common amigo! If they are nice, they are nice. If not, then it's time to bust out your Zen Buddha patience and settle in for the ride. You ride up hoping for something / expecting a visa without so much as the ability to pay for it, and then profess an inability to believe what has happened after the man locks up your passport? You express your anger towards a man that is obviously undereducated and unaware of the cultural differences that make the world what it is. Yet having had the opportunity for the last MANY MANY months of experiencing it first hand, you are still unable to accept it. Was he obviously biased against your Iranian birthplace. Yes. Was he ignorant to the fact that you are very clearly American? For the time being, of course he was. And yet, by some manner, you prevailed.

And I quote:
"He had to call for his wife, and all the other dimwitted short people he had around the stable to hold a council on whether to let an Iranian terrorist inside the “wonderful” country of Bolivia or not.
To say that I was furious is an understatement. The only thing kept me from killing this pest was the mere fact that I was out of gas and couldn’t get far."

Are you now "holier than thou" and have some type of manifest destiny behind you that allows you to doll out such public hatred? You insult not only the man, but his wife, and his fellow community members. They don't know you, they just know what little they see, and from what I see, I can imagine that it's not very impressive.


Give the man something to work with, and give us a lousy break dude. What kind of petty man would you have us believe that you are?

Will you tell us why you didn't just ride into Argentina and then up through Villazon and into Bolivia? The road is shit there too, but passable. At least the Harley rider on his 1600cc machine will tell you so. Why you didn't simply plan ahead and prepare for the worst is something that I am left pondering.

Will you tell us why you didn't have a couple of hundred US dollars on you in reserve? Or a stash of cash somewhere to keep you on track?

Will you tell us what part of your charity involves the support of a secondary person whose function is at least slightly questionable and mostly unrelated to events, but simultaneously seemingly more so related to the stability of your personal character? A support team for your instability perhaps.

And please, can you show us more of what you have done for your charity, and for your cause, and for your fight against world hunger? I believe that you are fully invested both mentally and physically, and I believe that you truly aim to make a difference. So please do not take this as an affront against your goals. However, what I can't believe is why we haven't seen more of what is real about your charity, and what it is that you are doing for it currently. Where do the donations go?

I've read your entire, impressive website. I know about your struggle to create your non-profit organization and the costs involved. I have at least read about your struggles, even if I don't fully understand them. Can you clarify though which funds you are using for your travels? Are they yours, or that of the non-profit that you are in charge of?

Again, let me say that you champion a very noteworthy and aspiring cause. You are to be complimented for that sincerely.

Yet in this last duo of posts you have simply succeeded in showing yourself to be as racist and discriminatory as your accused perpetrators; be it the individual guardsmen, or the country of Bolivia as a whole.

You have shown a lack of spirit, and an obverse lack of patience, humility, and personal pride.

You have personally, publicly insulted to the highest degree another human being and proven your lack of character in a moment of described injustice.

To me, sir, you are not any better than that man, and at most are his equal at the moment.

Your distinct disgust for what is not your norm is despicable.

Your voiced inability to allow flexibility is disgusting.

The negative vibe that is present in so many of your late posts as to describe as the majority; is disheartening.



Is there another part of the picture that we as the readers can not see? I hope so, for I read of personal failure when I read your posts, not success.


--Alex Smith

It is true Chris, you have lost your way, I sincerely hope you find the right path again. It's time to reflect and get your self back on track.
Good luck with that.
Julian.

It’s most amusing that in 3 years of writing these stories, not once I got a comment half as long even for the “noble” things that I have done, and not once in all my life, I was judged and executed based on two paragraphs that was clearly and open ended story without the ending revealed. And most certainly not once have I had a commentator to post the exact same comment on two different forums, HU and ADV for no apparent reason. Here’s a lesson for you, next time write your comments backward, and omit the first million sentences and only leave the last part.

“Is there another part of the picture that we as the readers cannot see?”
For some reason you seem to have fixed your mind directly under your nose, and before you see the object that is there, you use a telescope upon the horizon to see where it came from and you get carried away with what you think I should have done.

“Again, let me say that you champion a very noteworthy and aspiring cause. You are to be complimented for that sincerely.”

So sincerely, how have YOU complimented me for start? I don’t recall a single word from you on that matter. I don’t recall seeing a single black penny coming out of your tight pocket attached to your big mouth when I was drumming up food and emergency supplies for the very same country when it was flooded less than a year ago. Where were you reading on “my Impressive website” that you miraculously blanked out on where I’ve been and what I have done? Or is it maybe your extensive dealing with the Bolivian government and people that put you in the position of their pseudo savior?

“So please do not take this as an affront against your goals. However, what I can't believe is why we haven't seen more of what is real about your charity, and what it is that you are doing for it currently.”

I’ve written double of what I have written on traveling on poverty and malnutrition, yet I don’t recall YOU ever bothering your fingertips to type a single word, let alone contributing to it. Then all of a sudden to justify your single minded criticism, you are all holy and you have the urgent need to put me down to justify your criticism by giving extra ammunition to yourself.

“Will you tell us what part of your charity involves the support of a secondary person whose function is at least slightly questionable and mostly unrelated to events, but simultaneously seemingly more so related to the stability of your personal character? A support team for your instability perhaps.”

Yes I could, but I’ll tell you that it’s none of your ****ing business. How’s that for an “instable bigot?” No one is paying me in my charity; I don’t take a single penny out of the (non-existent) donations (thanks to giving souls like yourself of course), I don’t have an expense account with any god damn organizations including THC, and I have given thousands of dollars of my own funds to this organization, another thing that you would have know IF you actually read my “impressive website”.

So to sum it up for you so you can see it with your telescope beyond your nose again, I don’t get paid by the organization, I don’t touch a single penny of the organization’s income or outcome, I have given over $20,000 dollars to this date to this organization, I have worked as a non-compensated slave for this organization single handed day in and day out, and I don’t owe a soul a god damn thing. So when I say that it’s none of your ****ing business, I mean it in the most polite ****ing way.

As far as I’m concerned, I could travel in a limousine with a gang of strippers and it still wouldn’t be any of your ****ing business or anyone else, because it comes out of my own god damned pocket.

So you wanna know how I make my money? I’m a web developer and that’s what pays for my travels, not you, not anyone else. And to most of you that think I’ve lost my ways, please, either be a champ and pick it up and carry it on from now on, support it, or don’t hide behind words.

If you would have read my “impressive website”, you would have know that never in my life have I said a bad word about people or countries as a whole, nor have judged anyone or anything without facts and firsthand experience.
If you are so irritated with my writing and my ideas as you clearly are, just click on that pretty little X on the top corner and save yourself from my “bigotry”. There are thousands of other posts here that you can marvel on or better yet, do something useful with your time rather than writing bullshit about subjects that have no clue about. When comes down to it, I say what’s on my mind and I don’t apologize or repent to no one.

yep
 

BigAl makes some good points about how your recent posts come across. I'd guarantee you that many others reading them have similar thoughts to varying degrees. No reason to take too much offense - this kind of interaction is what the forum is for. Take what BigAl's said and use what you can and dismiss what you can't.

This is an incredibly noble cause that you've taken on, and I don't think that anyone would fault your aims. Perhaps you've simply found a few pitfalls in their execution. I submit the video on the home page of your website for consideration:

Motorcycle Memoir on Vimeo

Just a mildly melodramatic rendition of a guy traveling around the world on his bike. Awesome. Its what everyone riding their desks all day (like me) come here to see. However, there is nothing here that even hints about the nature of the humanitarian endeavor.

There are a million charities out there and one factor in my deciding where my hard earned mula goes is accountability of the organization and ability to demonstrate their impacts. I cannot find even a clue on your site what would happen to donated funds. The volunteer page is equally confusing - what on earth do you set up opportunities for volunteers to do? Your difficulty in raising funds that you alluded to is surely at least partly due to this vagueness. Typos on the board of directors page don't inspire confidence either.

One solution is simply to partner with an organization that already has the infrastructure set up to work on solving the problems that you aim to bring attention to.

The Damned Bolivia – Part Three

Unlike the majority who travel with sightseeing as their goal; I have no interest in museums, touristy spots, beaches, sky scrapers, nice roads, or historical sites. That doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy all these things, I do, but the drive behind traveling for me is to know the people themselves not what they have created or destroyed.

I was going to Bolivia to try to establish a local branch of our organization so when another fiasco like the 2011 floods happened, we wouldn’t be at the mercy of the utterly corrupt and incompetent government of that country to give a helping hand to their victims. But many things changed that idea and it wasn’t the hot weather or the bad roads either. It was the Bolivian people themselves who did that.

What I’ve written and will write until the Bolivian chapter is done is my first-handed account of this journey, whether you find it amusing, unbelievable or naïve, it’s the reality and I won’t apologize or change a single word of it. So if you are looking for beautiful pictures of majestic mountains and Indians in colorful dresses, you are in the wrong place. Not that Bolivia is not a beautiful country, which it is, and not that there aren’t any pretty things to see, which are plenty, but when it comes to hospitality, warmth, generosity, honesty and decency, Bolivia fails on a grand scale.

Ad this is not an opinion of a gringo in a strange land, this is the opinion of most anyone you meet in their neighboring countries, with Argentina being the champion for a damn good reason too. From the southernmost part of Patagonia to northern Jujuy, there isn’t a place that hasn’t been taken over by Bolivian immigrants and when I say taken over I mean it literally. Imagine the immigration chaos in the united states with all kinds of people screaming that these immigrants are taking over our jobs – well, now imagine these same immigrants take over your land or your house when you went on a vacation, and come back to see another family living in your living room and you can’t do a thing about it. That’s the reality with the Bolivian invasion in Argentina.

Not only the Bolivian immigrants abuse the soft and too welcoming laws of their neighboring countries, they do it with utter disrespect, destruction and air of arrogance that I have yet come to see anywhere else in the world. From parks to residential buildings, there isn’t a day that a Bolivian family doesn’t occupy someone else’s possession unlawfully and take it as their own. Take a trip to Buenos Aires alone to see it in action for yourself.

I was aware of these facts by my numerous trips to Argentina and even witnessed it first handed myself one day when my friend Tati and I were going to his (empty) uncle’s house in Mar del Plata and we walked in on a Bolivian guy already living in the house. But I dismissed this odd behavior as hardships of immigration and desperation, but to come to witness the same behavior in their own country among their own peers is something you can’t ignore.
From the moment we stepped foot in the customs office at the border and being robbed right off the bat, to refusal of water at the military checkpoint, to when we stopped at the immigration office, 200km deep into Bolivia, my mind was just dismissing one shity Bolivian act after another for a few bad apples in a bunch until we met the whole family of Bolivians who were to insult us to no end, for no reason other than that they could.

Not only the immigration person (I don’t think you can call a no shirt fat guy behind a desk an officer) insulted, ridiculed and bullied us around, he was joined by his wife, a bigger bitch than himself, and two other con artists who joined the prey. I asked the guy to take out or void the visa out of my passport as I had no intention of going into Bolivia anymore, but he refused. He wanted money and refused calling the embassy as well. He kept calling us any profane word that he could remember and wouldn’t null the visa. Then the good cop bad cop started, one guy came over and said what valuable do you have on you? And this was my time to give them back a little taste of my land. They called me an Iranian terrorist not knowing that in 7000 years, among many things like art, mathematics, civilization, poetry,… which these jungle duelers were clueless about, Iranians have also mastered selling feathers to Indians and making them believe they got a good deal.

I brought out two video cameras out of my tankbag, one a worthless broken Canon that I should have trashed a long time ago, and another a good but cheap HD camera that worked. I told them that the canon was $250 (a big lie) and the small HD was $130 (also doubled the price), but I’m not giving them the Canon for $130. That automatically fixated their greedy eyes on the broken camera. But would they just take the camera? No way. They were worse than that. The negotiation took over an hour and Lourdes once heard them saying that they have some money, take the camera and all their money too! And she relayed the message to me in English.

First they wanted all the money (we had just enough Paraguayan money for a tank of gas), and both cameras in exchange for the visa. I said hell no. Then they said that deal was off again and we were captive once more. Then the negotiation went on and finally we agreed on the gas money and the Canon camera. I handed them the camera and the change, got my passport back and told the guy one last time to at least say welcome to Bolivia. His reply was “you are not”. I wished them happy filming with their wonderful new camera and we jumped on the back of the bike and got the hell away.

They had a smile on their face as we left and we had a bigger smile on ours. I wonder if they ever understand why they got screwed, but I doubt it. I wonder if they ever figure out why their next event is filmed on a broken old camera with no sound that cuts off with the smallest shake. I doubt it. Best of luck to them anyway. When you deal with hyenas, you got to put the decency aside and treat them the way they treat you. That’s the law of the jungle and in Bolivia it’s the only law.

Now that I had my passport, I decide to put as many miles as I could behind us so I rode like a bat out of hell. Instead of going on the detour road again, I hopped on the fresh asphalt of a new road on my GPS and rode straight-shot without stopping until we came to a disheartening stop. The road was blocked completely over a bridge, and this time there was no going around. To the left was a giant drop off and to the right a jungle. Going back was not an option as we had to go all the way back to the immigration office to take the other road and even if we could sneak by them, we had no gas left to double back the past 80km.

We looked around and found a blue tarp in the jungle with a family living under it. These people turned out to be the only nice and helpful Bolivians we have met on this trip. The women got to work with a shovel to bring down the wall but it was too risky to go over that 10ft hump as if the bike rolled back, I would fall at least 50 ft into the bottom of the jungle below. Then a cheerful drunk old lady came along and suggested to bash through the jungle on a single track and go around the obstacles. Everyone thought she was crazy but frankly that was a much safer and somewhat doable alternative.

So I turned around and headed down the hill on the single track. It was hell maneuvering this giant bike through, but I came out the other side in one piece. I gave the lady a couple packs of cigarette, dumped the last bottle of reserve gas in the tank and bid farewell to the north, away from the immigration office.

Low on gas, transmission gear oil and with no money we made it to the town of Villamontes. The only gas station in town didn’t accept credit card of course so we went bank hunting. Two ATMs were out of cash, and the third one only had American dollars which I happily took. I exchanged $60 USD to local money and headed back to the gas station to fill up. The gas pump said 3 Bolivianos (name of the currency) per liter and I got 23 liters which should have come out to 69 B or roughly $10 USD. But I was charged 207 B or $30 USD, that’s $6 dollars a gallon. No this wasn’t the gas station attendant being a crook (nice for a change); this was the set price from the government of the West-hating Evo Morales to overcharge the gringos with foreign plates triple the price for gas. (See, Bolivia has a lot of good ideas for attracting tourists)

And to clarify something, I have no problem paying the extra “tourist tax” at poor countries for different commodities as the money compensate for the cost of the living difference, but in Bolivia? Extra tax for what? For the amazing roads? For the non-existent hospitality? For the daylight bribery at the customs or for the world class welcome we received at the immigration? You could have stabbed me and you wouldn’t see a drop of blood.

This is getting a little too long so stay tuned for the next part.

Isn't it true that to understand a group of people, you need to look at their history, the environment they live in ( natural or man made) and the political structure they live with in. *All these element can be found in museums, touristy spots, beaches, sky scrapers, roads, historical sites and art galleries. Meeting people from other countries is one thing, understanding them is another. We can't put our selves in there shoes because of our own preconceived ideas through our own experiences, we need to talk, look, learn, and help where we can.

The Damned Bolivia – Part Four

We made it to Villamontes and after an early dinner of really bad chicken and rice, we found a lubricant shop to buy some gear oil. As I was coming to stop in front of the shop, my left arm went completely numb. I could neither move it nor hold it up, and an excruciating pain started to shoot up from my wrest. I pushed the kill switch and stopped the bike and got off holding my arm. Lourdes thought I was having a heart attack and was hysterical, but I had no chest pain. It was just my arm that was a dead limb and I had no idea what was causing it. After about 15 minutes some sense started to come back and I could move my fingers again. I filled up the transmission and called it a day as I couldn’t risk riding with something like that happening at high speed.

Our options as finding hotels weren’t great, there was a whorehouse for $8 a night without a fan (I really felt sorry for the whores), a rundown Favela looking motel with fan for $10 and a Holliday-Inn looking hotel for $150 a night. We settled in the Favela as it at least had a yard with a gate for the bike. After a shower under a cold 6-trickle-a-minute showerhead, I headed downstairs to take care of the poor bike after this hell. I pulled out the air filter and with it came out the whole Arabian Desert. How this bike survived through this dust and sand is beyond me but special thanks goes to Jeff at Z1 Enterprises for sending me a K&N air filter instead of the original foam one. Not a particle of sand was anywhere passed the filter.

I washed the filter with soap and toothbrush for half an hour and hung it to dry, topped off the oil, cleaned the bike as well as I could, and crashed in the oven-like room to the sound of the mosquitoes whizzing by.

Now that we were inside Bolivia and well rested, we went out for lunch before heading north. On recommendation of the locals, we stopped at a little seafood (actually just fish from the muddy river below the bridge) restaurant and took the first swing at the Bolivian cuisine. We kept it simple, fish, rice and a salad of lettuce, tomato and onions. We ended up with cold fish, salad with rotten tomatoes minus the lettuce, and a bowl of boiled cold popcorn that was impossible to eat. We asked the waitress for the rice and got an evil eye and she disappeared and never came back.

Note to self: Never ask for food recommendation from locals in Bolivia again.
The road going north was paved with a nice coat of asphalt which was refreshing. The scenery started to change as we climbed up to higher altitudes and the weather cooled off. We rode passed herds of horses, wandering cows and beautiful pastures with the mountains in the distance. But something kept bothering me. Every so often I would start to smell a strong stench and shortly after a village or a town would pop in the view. It took me a while to figure out the pattern but it was horrible. I would start to smell the garbage before the city sign was in view and long after the urban area ended. My goal became racing for the countryside as soon as possible for some fresh air.

The triple price for gas was getting on my nerve, and I being still pissed off at the treatment we received so far, decided to not obey the gringo pricing. We found a few empty 2 liter coke bottles (not a hard task at all, considering there’s a pile of garbage at any given human settlement in Bolivia) and we set to work. I would park the bike out of sight and Lourdes would go to the gas station to fill up the bottles at a normal price. Then we would dump the gas in the tank and repeat the process until it was full. We needed a few big jugs to be able to fill up the 6 gallon tank in one shot so we looked around for some. The first 4 liter jug we found was an empty oil jug, and the guy happily gave it to us. We thanked him and we were about to leave as he stopped us and said, $2 for the jug. $2 for a used plastic oil jug? From then on, I learned a very important lesson. As a tourist, you are a walking dollar sign in Bolivia.

The next jug shopping proved to be the same, this time a 7 or 8 year old girl asked for the extortion fees for useless plastic jugs. I wonder if it ever occurred to these people that giving away a piece of their garbage for a reasonable price or god forbid for free would help out another human being?
Armed with 2 five liter, 1 four liter, and three 2 liter coke bottles, we solved the gas prices for good. Although I wouldn’t pay a penny for the industrial sewage they called gas in any modern country, we had to live with it. It broke my heart every time I dumped this dirty gas into the tank as I could see the stuff floating in it that didn’t belong in refined petroleum. I would let the bottles settle down and I always dumped the last part out as it had way too much crap in it.

Around 7 pm we arrived in a remote village and bought some very questionable meat from a lady with no teeth for dinner, and hit the road. The plan was to camp out that night in the countryside and we started to look for a suitable spot. Both sides of the road were farm lands with a few shacks here and there. We stopped at one of the houses to ask for permission to camp on their land and the answer was no. So we went further down to the next farm and asked for the same and the answer was no again. Not only we weren’t welcome in the country from the start, now the regular people would deny a 4 foot by 6ft ground to travelers for a night sleep in their own tent. Something so uncustomary in Latin America.

Needless to say, we had no luck finding a spot to camp and quite frankly I was hesitant to camp anywhere knowing how inhospitable these people where. I saw a sign to my left for Vallegrande, where Ernesto Guevara was killed some 40 years ago and wondered about the very same people who ratted him out. Hospitality and decency is a rare commodity in Bolivia so we stopped searching for it.

We made it to another stinky town called Cabezas, and looked for a hotel. The only joint in town was a big open style motel with a courtyard in the middle. It had a safe spot with gates and the rate was 25 Bolivianos per person. We took a room and I went from the back alley to bring in the bike. The alley was filled with the all familiar soft sand and I fell on my ass right in front of the gate. When the bike fell, my tankbag was pressing against the horn button and the hotel owner, a very big guy (equivalent of a Bigfoot sighting in Bolivia), walked out to see what was going on. He saw me struggling with picking up the loaded bike, took one look at me and without a word turned around and went inside. I suppose I would be expecting a help in any normal country, but by now I was used to it. Lourdes came out and we picked up the bike and settled in.

Our room had no fan, the water was shut off, the beds were filled with moldy corn husk, which were harder than rock with a permanent hole under our backs, and as a lullaby you could hear the bugs moving under the sheets. Still better than begging a Bolivian peasant for a grave size space on their land for a night. I always thought that posted signs in countries are the best indicators of human development. These signs always show the level of civility, ignorance and social issues and Bolivia is full of signs. The sign behind our door read:

“Forbidden to take the covers or sheets
Do not stain the beds
Do not scratch the furnitures or the walls”

As much as I tried to like this country, they always came back with something more to change my mind. Stay tuned.

I have just came across your trip Chris. Your website, Non-profit, blog post and pics. After reviewing during the last hour, I see an angry, frustrated, resentful motorcycle traveler. Much of the feedback has been what I might have said too.

But really Chris, it might be time to re-think what is going on. It is your life. Things change in life and adventure. It just seems like you are not having much fun.

There has got to be some way of taking better care of yourself in all ways.

Anger and resentment saps your needed energy and positive attitude you need. It may be hard to get this stuff processed out, but it may be important to do so. Again your peace of mind in important to all of us, yourself most of all. Consider trying to find that again. I don't think the answer is out there anywhere... How well we cope with life and its challenges, is about how we choose to respond to lifes challenges...

I am about to embarke on a RTW trip myself and will travel with a cause, but I am backing down from that a bit because it exhaust me and i need to focus on the proper planning and have a good time on my adventure. Kent Rides The World | Facebook
I hope I don't find myself in the state you seem to be in lately and I hope somebody would say something if I was, and I could not see it. I hope I could hear the feedback from those that may care.

You are a tough caring guy. Thanks for all you do. Now take good care of yourself.

Kent

Chris,

You need a break, man.

Thanks for clarifying the money issue regarding how you fund your travels and what the donations do and don't pay for. Probably many people, including me, had wondered about that - not necessarily in a negative way, but people always like to know where their donations go and what they get spent on.

Ride on. After a good rest to recharge your own batteries.

The Damned Bolivia – Part Five

As you can tell from the last four posts, I grew steadily more skeptical of finding a trace of hospitality in Bolivia, but as everything in life, we don’t evaluate the facts at hand and we always search for a better or more acceptable answer. To not believe the duck syndrome, we went deeper and deeper into Bolivia hoping to prove ourselves wrong.

When we arrived in Santa Cruz de la Sierra, the city was in high fever for the upcoming carnival, the most extravagant event of the year. (I have to mention that Santa Cruz is a center of all things happening in Bolivia. It’s the most “modern” Bolivian city and supposedly this city holds the most educated, most open minded Bolivian population.)
Every year in Bolivia, people from all over the country organize the biggest party of the year, an ancient 40 days long Andean religious ceremony which with time has turned into a Catholic driven Virgin worshiping madness. And of course the Bolivians celebrate the last few days with incomprehensible amount of free flowing alcohol, nudity, fights, destruction and to cap it off, by showing their immaturity and rudeness in the truest possible way.

Watching this display of pandemonium on TV is one thing and being caught in the middle of it is another. Whether to blame these odd behaviors on Aldehyde Dehydrogenase Isozyme deficiency of the Bolivians who can’t have a drink and not be walking on their heads, or their general assholeness, this is a party to be avoided at all cost. It sorts of tries to mimic the famous Rio Carnival, but not really, as at least Brazilian girls are not miniature sized nor implausibly revolting. The performances are poor at its best as the whole group of dancers run wild with no imaginable coordination or grace, and to enhance the madness, children and adults of any age stand ready with water cannons to spray toxic un-washable paint at every living soul. The religious and ancient meaning of this event gets lost in devil dances, virgin miracles and other imaginary acts of valor from nonexistent figures that Bolivians wholeheartedly devote their life and respect to.

The biggest and most famous version of this lunacy happens in the piss-poor mountain town of Oruro, where the legends all come together to make the basis for this embellished event. This carnival costs hundreds of thousands dollars in each city and according to the locals; it’s not uncommon for the participants to spend 400 to 500 dollars on their splendid costumes – a big fortune in a country like Bolivia. A country where 80 percent of its population live under poverty, 23 percent of the entire population sufferers from severe malnutrition, and is second in human development, corruption, diseases and mortality rate only to the post apocalyptic Haiti in Western Hemisphere. I guess coming second to a country ravaged by earthquake calls for a celebration of this magnitude.

The city of Santa Cruz was a fascinating city and not in a good way either. Leaving the ungodly stench aside, the city is cut with an invisible line. One part is filled with the lower class, selling anything and everything from cell phones to chicken milk with their malnourished children either begging or eating garbage off the ground wearing shredded cloths with their stomach the size of a blimp, and the other side, only a few blocks away, the rich drove their Mercedes, talked on their iPhones, and snaked on the food that they would throw at the poor like the pigeons. It’s no coincident that Bolivia is a high roller when it comes to income inequality to add to their distinctive “qualities”.

In this mayhem, we found a somewhat decent hotel and checked in. The constipated looking receptionist could have not been less rude or helpful. She downright refused to let us park the bike inside the garage, reasoning that there was not enough room to get passed by the only car that was parked inside and when we asked her that if she could move it, she claimed that it was broken and it never moved. After 15 minutes of arguing she finally agreed with an attitude that I could bring the bike inside only if I could get it in from the front door (so she didn’t have to move here ass off the chair). There was no way I was leaving the bike in the jungle outside so I cleared it with only millimeters on each side and parked it close to our room. (The next morning the broken car started right up in front of my eyes with no problem.)

If you remember, my camera box broke from the constant potholes in the first 200km in Bolivia, and I had been strapping it down and keeping it light until I found a shop that I could get it fixed. The problem was that I had an expensive camera in that box, and with the walls of the box collapsing, the strain was on the camera and with every bump the walls came in a little further. While riding around Santa Cruz, I found a metal and welding shop five blocks from the hotel and asked them if they could fix it, as I wasn’t going another mile with the box in that condition. They said “of course”, “no problem”, they even gave us a quote and told us that they would be open until 9pm.

As soon as we arrived at the hotel, we got to work and unloaded everything inside the box, unbolted the million bolts that were holding the box on the rack, and took it to the shop for repair right away. As we walked out of the hotel, one of the obnoxious drunken Bolivians that were standing on the corner sprayed us with his water gun full of paint. He saw us coming with a giant box in our hand, we had no carnival clothes on nor did we have any painting on our faces or clothes, yet he proceeded to shower us with paint.

We made it to the shop and to our disbelief (well we should have known by then), they refused to fix the box. Claiming that they didn’t have the right material first, and when I pointed at the pile of aluminum angle that they “didn’t have”, they just said we don’t wanna do it. When we asked them “so why in the hell did you say to bring the box here?” they just put up their shoulders and went back to drinking. This was new to me as refusing paid work takes a different kind of assholes than the ones I’ve already got used to in Bolivia. We walked back the five blocks, box in hand, and the same son of a bitch sprayed us again with paint gun.

There are a few times in my life that I truly hated a place, but I can’t think of single place that even comes close to Bolivia. I was done spending another dollar in this shithole of a country, we were going to get the hell out or at least try by sunrise.

When it’s in front of your eyes, don’t try to reason with it, fight it, or sugar coat it. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, swims like a duck – it ain’t going to be what you hoped it would be – it’s a ****ing duck.
Stay tuned.

Reading this ride report reminds me of the most valuable lessons I've learned in my years of travel.

The importance of maintaining a positive mental attitude in the face of adversity.

Compassion and tolerance for those less fortunate.

Having a stubborn and determined spirit.

This fellow seems to have one of those characteristics. Probably the most important one. Without the other two a journey of discovery can become a tedious affair.

Seeing the world through ethnocentric eyes makes for interesting reading.

Kindest regards,
John Downs

Chris ...

Good to hear you are getting out of this country. Find a nice place, rest your soul for a couple of days and have some beers.

On a historical perspective you have probably experienced the beginning of a kind of Indio reconquista of Bolivia and neighboring territories. This might explain the generally rude attitude.

We had an Argentinean exchange student here in Germany last year. She obviously was not happy with Bolivians as well.

I am going to have a cold one on you and your friend this evening, Chris. You will soon see greener pastures.

Happy trails and take care.

Mate. You've got a few things wrong.
I've been following your blog since Alaska, and I'm a bit pissed off about how you label Bolivia.
Buddy. You're on the wrong bike and on the wrong expectations.
When you do something like this, expect everything. And if you're meeting the wrong people, ask why.
If you get covered in paint, laugh, ffs.
Your attitude ain't gonna do you any good like the way you are going.
God bless Bolivia!

Chris,

It's your right to write about Bolivia the way you experience it. It's a pity you don't enjoy Bolivia but I sure hope the next country is treating you better.

Looking forward to your next photos and stories!
Have a safe trip.

Gr Edwin

I agree with BigAl and BugonmyBoard's comments mate. Despite having found your recent posts rather amusing due to their tone filled with incredible anger and cynicism, I am puzzled by your lack of understanding of the very things you are claiming to "fight": poverty and hunger.

Seeing how you are faring in a place where roads and good food are nonexistent--despite carrying a lot of US dollars in your bank account--I'm wondering why you don't understand how the very people you are verbally abusing throughout your posts might feel living in this situation 365 days a year.

As BigAl also mentioned, your motorcycle is totally unsuitable for the trip you are taking, and you are obviously ignorant about local road conditions, the availability of ATMs, gas, and other such things.

Additionally, I'm not sure I fully understand what exactly you are doing to eradicate poverty or hunger, especially considering your mindset, cultural arrogance, and virtual racism (calling people names because of their physical appearance, for example). Your website claims that huge amounts of money are spent every year on military spending and other such things, and you make it look like poverty eradication is as simple as showering dollars on people rather than armaments, and then hoping that poverty and hunger will somewhat magically disappear.

Perhaps you aren't aware of this fact, but large international organizations such as the UN and the World Bank donate, every year, billions of dollars in aid to so-called Third World countries, yet poverty rates, especially during the 1990s, have actually grown or been maintained. Giving money to people does not provide incentives for sustainable development and for long-term growth. You make it look like the problem of poverty is so simple, and one is appalled by your apparent lack of education (for starters, work on your typo. "Quite" and "quiet", only to give one example, are two different words). If you are truly serious about poverty eradication and about economic and social capital development for underdeveloped countries, I would suggest (re)turning to university and perhaps looking forward the completion of an M.A. or Ph.D in developmental economics. That would make you look smarter and more equipped to understand what people who have nothing on their names go through every day.

Anyway, good luck with your trip, but I can say for sure that I will not spend a single dollar of my hard-earned money to encourage your "organization." I hope you will soon start to enjoy traveling again, and that you will perhaps tone down your anger and verbal abuses towards the people you are purporting to help.

I have to disagree with some of the previous posters.

Being rude to foreigners has nothing to do with hunger or poverty. I have met people who were very poor and were struggling to get food for their children every day but they were friendly and helpful to us "strangers'.
As you also may read in other travelreports on this site, poverty does not make people bad, but a bad attitude makes people poor. (For example: if you are not friendly to tourist, tourists will not spend their money in your town)
A rude and corrupt customs "officer" who tells you that you are not welcome has nothing to do with poverty.

I understand the frustration and hope you get out of that country soon, to a nicer country with friendly people.

Maybe it comes as a heavy shock to some people that the world is not made of marshmallow, all bees don’t have honey, or people are not all equal, or even grasp the idea of Santa Claus not being real. I don’t see the world from behind a computer screen in a Lazyboy, nor do I see it through rose colored glasses. I write they way I see it, wrong or right, it’s my narrative, my experience, and my journey. If you wish to see it differently, by all means, get out and see it for yourself and then throw in your towel.

And to call short people “short” is not bigotry, as it’s not calling tall people tall or white people white. It’s a form of descriptive language and if you find it offensive, you have deeper issues and a racist mind to take it that way. A melon is just a melon to a kid, but becomes giant knockers to a perverted mind. I don’t use euphemism and I don’t bu!!shit myself, so if you don’t like the way I describe things or people, there is that pretty little X on the top corner that you can click on and get lost.

And most importantly, these blog posts are my travel narratives, they have nothing to do with my humanitarian work nor am I begging for donations here. You keep your pity money, I don’t need it, and on behalf of the poor I work with I can say to shove it.

And my sincerest apology for misspelling a few word here and there. I promise to pay utmost attention the next time I’m writing 3 pages for your amusement in a tent, in the middle of nowhere on low battery. Maybe I should send my posts to a professional editor to refine and hone them so you can have a print-quality story to criticize.

And please, have the decency not to sanitize your comments by “good luck”, “we love you” and “be safe”. I have more respect for those who say what’s on their mind even if it’s a simple “fvck-off” than those who try to be holier than thou.

Forgive me if I’m cutting this short, but a “vertically challenged person”, who happened to be “big boned” (or hefty if you may), who seems to have “un-comb-able hair” is waiting impatiently behind me to use the magic box to access the World Wide Web.

To those of you who really wished me well, thank you sincerely and please stay tuned.

Good for you!
It's your journey, you have worked hard to make this trip happen and most importantly you are out there doing it!
As a previous post says, poverty isn't an excuse to be rude. The vast majority of 3rd world countries experiencing poverty are nations full of friendly, generous and helpful people.
I look forward to experiencing Bolivia myself at some stage and through your posts and that of others I find myself better prepared. I now know that fuel prices for tourists are set by the government (86 pence compared to £1.40 in the UK, sounds like a bargain...), and I can expect the locals to be unwelcoming. So when I am fortunate enough to be there I can hopefully have a smile on my face and be mentally prepared for a similar level of courtesy to you and hopefully have a better experience.
Freedom of speech, it is the cornerstone of our society. Keep it up!
I look forward to the rest of your journey.

Even crossing a simple border crossing such as the US to canada crossing border workers have been known to check forum postings.

Hi Chris,

It has been a few weeks since your last report on the HUBB.
How are you doing ?

I hope you did not stop writing because of some negative comments you had.
I'm looking forward to read about the rest of your adventures.

Yeah Chris, I hope all is fine with you. Hope to hear from you soon!

Hi guys, thanks for checking in. I didn't get any notice to my email that there were new replies here, sorry about that. I went down with Dengue Fever pretty bad for a couple of weeks and i'm just coming out of it. I'll resume posting pretty soon.

Stay tuned :)

The Damned Bolivia – Leaving the hell behind

The alarm clock went off at 6 am and I sprang up from the bed. It usually takes me a dozen snoozes to get rolling but leaving Bolivia was too exciting to sleep through. As I opened the door, I saw a thick cloud of smoke coming from the middle of the hotel (an open area between the rooms) from a bonfire only meters from my bike. With four 5-liter plastic jugs of gasoline strapped to my bike, the hotel staff decided to have an open fire right outside of our room at 6am to celebrate another bogus Bolivian ritual.

When I asked the woman in charge of the fire what was going on, she grunted that “it’s a Bolivian thing, foreigners wouldn’t understand.” And she proceeded to put more shit on the fire. Well she was right; foreigners don’t have a comprehension of why there should be a bonfire outside of their hotel room next to a vehicle! We packed the bike in record time and got the hell out of the hotel. I was determined to leave Bolivia that day - no matter what - and I chose the shortest direct route out of this godforsaken country. Not wanting to go back through the same border crossing that we came in from; the only route was going southwest towards Argentina.

The distance was 900km but I didn’t care. Town after town, we filled up the bike and proceeded towards humanity. The sky opened up and a torrential rain started to come down and if we stopped anywhere, we got showered with water balloons and paint from the passing cars and trucks. Each tollbooth was a shakedown scene as the corrupt Bolivian police tried tongue in cheek to collect bribes and each gas station was a highway robbery of charging $9 a gallon for gas. At one of the checkpoints, one of the “officers” bluntly asked for “contribution” in a bright daylight with no shame at all. My answer was always a hell no.

After 16 hours of riding finally we got to the border town of Yacuiba and we found the town flooded. Water was running like rivers in narrow streets with garbage floating on top. There was no sign as where in the hell the border was, and I tried for almost an hour following the misdirection of the locals - wading through waters as high as my exhaust pipes to no avail. Against my will, we had to stay one more bloody night in this country and hope for the waters to go down in the morning. We found a very questionable hotel, parked and triple chained the bike and settled down for the night.

At 9 am, we packed our soaked gear, and after another hour of looking for the invisible border crossing we arrived at the immigration. The stench of the town was truly unbearable and as the sun came out it got even worse. This last Bolivian outpost was a scene straight from a Mad Max movie. George Miller should have filmed Mad Max in Yacuiba and would have saved millions on studio sets and extras.

The paperwork for getting into Argentina was done in 5 minutes, but the Bolivian office took their sweet time. They took the passports and closed the door and told us to wait for another two hours to put an exit stamp in my passport. At last we were free. We rolled into Argentine side of the town and it might sound like an exaggeration but everything changed in a blink of an eye. In only 1km, the streets got cleaner, the stench went away and we saw smiles on people’s faces again.

We had a delicious lunch at a super clean restaurant for less than $8 for two people including desert. The owner even sent out one of his boys into Bolivia to exchange our useless Bolivian money, and sent us away with best wishes. Five miles down the road we stopped at a police check point and after a friendly chat we were welcomed into Argentina. The officer actually apologized for taking our time and stopping us.

Maybe it’s worth mentioning that North-Western Argentina is not a rich region; in fact it’s one of the poorest regions in whole Argentina. The difference is the hospitality of its people, their warmth, their helpfulness and their open arms. A few hundred kilometers down the road, we rolled into a very poor town in hope of finding a shop to weld the broken box that Bolivians refused to fix. We found a shop and the guys got to work, and in no time, the broken mount was welded and ready to go. The Argentine mechanic refused to take any money for the welding as he said it was “nothing”. The Bolivian shop in Santa Cruz wouldn’t fix the box even for money!

We needed a place to stay for the night and since the small town had no hotel, a young boy on his bicycle tried to find us a place and when he couldn’t, he invited us to stay at their home. Home is an exaggeration to call that place. There was a metal roof, a few brick walls, dirt covered floor, an open cooking pit and a few threes, not counting the pigs and chickens. In this muddy place, I found some of the most generous, down to earth, and giving people that I could ever hope to meet. They were poor, but they put every Bolivian we met to shame with their generosity and their smiles.

We bought a kilo of fresh chorizos (Pork Sausage) from the Grandma next-door, more knickknacks to share with the family from the store and settled in. The boy and with his younger brothers and sisters proceeded to grill us to no end about what’s in the outside world. They were so eager to learn, so curious and polite, and so much full of life that it was hard not to answer their questions. They had no television, and they loved watching videos and pictures, and I had plenty of both. They were glued to their wooden chairs and watched pretty much every video on my computer.

We combined our chorizos with their dinner and we sat with the family and a few of their relatives. Given their situation, there wasn’t much to go around so we insisted that we weren’t really hungry and nibbled on the bread. I sharpened all their knives, and gave them my favorite diamond knife sharpener as a thank you gift. (I’m running out of things to give away.) We slept under open skies in their backyard and were relived to be out of Bolivia.

The next morning, we bid farewell to our gracious host and started the 950km long leg to the Paraguayan border. It rained on an off but we just kept on riding. Fifteen hours of riding put us in Asunción, the capital city of beautiful Paraguay and we could rest at last. I never get tired of the Chaco; it’s a peaceful place, packed with extraordinary people, and little gem towns that still have the old ways of being decent, hospitable and welcoming. This was my 12th trip to Argentina, a record that I don’t mind breaking at any time.

Touring Brazil on Motorcycle – Part One

Once out of Bolivia, there was much work to be done. First the expedition funds were dwindling to oblivion so I had to design a few websites and write a couple of programs to get the ball rolling again. Then there were my troubling teeth which took a few painful visits to the dentist to dig, cut, dress and fill. Then it was the bike that needed a few maintenance such as beefing up the camera box, fixing a few leaks here and there, and a good tune-up – not counting the painstaking job of getting the Bolivian dust and mud out of every hole of the bike. All said and done, I was in a position to start back on the road again.

The plan was to visit Brazil, but since Brazil is a gigantic country I had to break it into two trips. One trip would cover the southern and eastern parts, the next and big trip would cut through the western parts and through the Amazon jungle and finally crossing into Venezuela. From Caracas in Venezuela, I’ll ship what is left of the bike to western Africa and the journey will continue inland from there.

Taking on the first voyage to Brazil, Lourdes was my passenger, and we packed very light. We left out every piece of winter clothing as weather in Paraguay and all over Brazil was in high 70’s and 80’s. Also I wanted to lighten up the load since Bolivian roads almost destroyed the bike’s suspension and I was going to fix that after the first trip. The weather started perfect and on the hot side, and we covered the 400km to the Brazilian border the first day. Crossing the border to Brazil was a pleasant and very professional experience. The Brazilian custom officer spoke English, and she took care of all the paperwork by herself. This border crossing was a treat indeed.

We spent the first night in Foz do Iguaçu, at Lourdes’ cousin’s and I passed out at 8pm from being so tired. The next day came bright and sunny and we packed the bike and headed out going east. While we were packing, I had the bike parked on the sidewalk out of the way in front of the apartment. For the first time, a police officer gave me a warning for bringing the motorcycle on a sidewalk. Parking bikes or even cars on the sidewalk in Latin America is equivalent of the god given right to breath! No Police Officer will ever bother to say a word about it unless it’s blocking the whole sidewalk and even then, it’s unlikely. But Brazil is different.

Although counted as a Latin American country, Brazil is not Latin in any sense that would be associated to the rest of the continent and it shows it in its laws, art, culture, race, language and food. First the language is Portuguese not Spanish. People are taller and fair skinned, cities are very clean, and stop-lights and traffic signs actually mean something. I was amazed at the architecture and city planning of Brazilians and this is not based on big cities, even the tiny nowhere towns are well laid out and extremely modern. There is no shortage of street and highway signs in Brazil and public roads are very well maintained and in my opinion even better than the US highways.

We quickly got off the tolled interstate and hopped on a series of short and tangled highways that went through the less traveled parts of Eastern Paraná and Santa Catarina states. These roads were absolutely beautiful and packed with so many twist and turns that after a while I was wishing for a straight stretch. The only problem was that navigating through these roads became a chore as they all intersected here and there and they had no numbers or name. I had to memorize the name of the towns for the next 50 miles as all the signs pointed towards the towns and since pretty much every settlement in Brazil is named after a Saint somebody, to me they all sounded alike.

We spent the second night in Francisco Beltrão, the biggest city in Eastern Paraná. We got there after dark and most hotels were full and my GPS was taking us on a wild goose chase through the hilly city. A nice motorcyclist stopped and helped us find a cheap hotel and we settled in. For some reason, the town seemed deserted. Even though it was the weekend; all shops and restaurants were closed at 9pm. For the next two days everything stayed closed all day long in every little town we wandered into.

The weather started to get colder and colder until we were shivering. The high 80’s turned into low 40’s and drizzling rain and cloudy skies made for some beautiful but teeth shattering ride through the Santa Catarina mountains. We put on everything we had with us which were all short sleeves and I gave my rain gear to Lourdes to use as wind breaker. Our traveling hours changed dramatically as we waited for the warmest time of the day to start and we got off the road before 5pm when the temperatures dropped to almost freezing.

We looked high and low for some warm cloths but not a single store was open on Saturday and Sunday. On Monday, we found a few stores in a small town but the asking price of $60 for a not-so-warm sweater sent us back on the road. The cold aside, the route that we took was a beautiful section of Brazil which not many people travel to because there is nothing touristy there. The people were friendly and talkative without exception and since Spanish and Portuguese are very similar, they somehow understood what we said and we tried hard to understand what they said. This worked out well until I had to fix my banged-up suspension and I wished for a Portuguese translator.

Brazil is by far the bumpiest country I have ever seen. México can’t even hold a candle to the number and size of speed bumps that Brazil has to offer and México is a pretty bumpy country. The good news is that every single bump is clearly marked at least by 100 meters but my sagged springs didn’t like all the ups and downs. The bike kept bottoming out at every bump to the point that my back started to hurt. In Medellin, Colombia, I had a great machine shop make a set of custom shock-absorbers for the bike which worked extremely well until my Bolivian odyssey, but I used the springs from the old shocks.

Now I needed to adjust the tension on the old spring further than normal to limit the free travel and for that I needed a hefty hydraulic press. Relaying what I needed to the mechanic shops was fruitless so I kept looking around until I found a shop that had a honking 20 ton press. We found a hotel across the street and I took off the shocks in their garage and went back to the shop. They guys at the shop were really cool and left me alone with the machine to do what I need to do. They refused to take money for the use of their equipment but I insisted anyway. Thanks to their press, the bike is not bottoming out anymore but it needs a new set of springs sometimes very soon. Stay tuned while we inch our way towards the Atlantic coast and hopefully see some sunshine soon.

Touring Brazil on Motorcycle – Florianópolis

The weather stayed cold and we kept riding through small mountains towards the coast. It was crucial to stop every half hour to drink some Mate to warm up our bodies and we nibbled on local salami every time my right hand wasn’t twisting the throttle. Brazilian salami is a bit different from Argentine or Italian salami. They don’t use garlic or peppercorn in the mix hence it’s milder. For the brine, they use their local wines and that tends to make it a bit sweeter too but they are delicious nevertheless.

Santa Catarina is a big state and is most famous for its beautiful sandy beaches and cooler climate compared to the rest of Brazil. Some of the best oysters and seafood comes out of its waters and when sunny (or when you have a sweater), it truly is a wonderful place. The weather started to warm up as we descended from 1100 meters to sea level and the sun came out for a minute or two. As we rolled into Florianópolis, it started to drizzle a bit so we stopped at a Subway sandwich shop (the first I’ve seen since leaving US) to use the internet to find a hostel. It turned out that they had no internet but we had a great time with the kids who worked there. Ordering a sandwich at Subway in English is a long process but doing it Portuguese is just pure comedy.

Finding a hostel in Florianópolis center turned out to be impossible and the rain made it even worse. Florianópolis is tourist destination and everything is priced as such. A run-down hostel was asking $25 a bed in a shared room and I wasn’t going to pay this kind of extortion. As we searched we got soaked and finally settled in a beautiful ocean view hotel for $55 including breakfast.
The next day the sun came out in full blaze and temperatures went up to high 70’s. For the first time we could appreciate the beautiful Brazil without shivering and being wet, and we decided to make the best of it. We went out hostel hunting and the prices started to go down and the scenery turned spectacular. We stopped at a seaside restaurant for lunch and we lucked out.

After a few beers, I met a local named Clayton and we got to talk. He gave me the rundown on how to survive in the expensive city and told me about the house next-door which was owned by the restaurant owner. After a short talk with the owner we moved into our beach house, no more than fifty feet from the water and best of all, we got it for $15 a day. The house was fully furnished, with complete kitchen, shower, and it was at the end of the road.
The food at the restaurant was exquisite and I had the best seafood I had in a very long time. Live music every night on the beach and a roof over our heads was a nice retreat from the cold days of the week before. Florianópolis is a wonderful city and packed with warm and beautiful people. This is a place that I wouldn’t mind calling home.

Beach and good food out of the way, we had to start heading north but my motorcycle didn’t quite agree. We were ready to get on the road but the ignition switch wouldn’t turn and the bike was not going an inch without fixing the issue. In any other place, I would have been bummed but break-down in paradise is just an excuse to stay longer.

I got to work and removed the ignition switch and the steering lock and with my meager tools, performed the required surgery and fixed the broken lock. I won’t bore you with technical details but if you find yourself in this situation, I wrote a complete tutorial on it which you can find here.

Now that everything is fixed, we have no excuses and have to leave the paradise behind and head north. I’m very impressed with Brazil and can’t wait to explore more of it. Stay tuned.

What Happen?
 

What ever happen to this guy?

Its been almost two months since the last post.

Hope you are OK, Chris.

Hi guys,

Thanks for checking on me. My laptop broke a while back and i just got my new one. I'll be posting back stories shortly.

December 12th, 2012 - Touring Brazil on Motorcycle – Curitiba

I know I’ve been away for an eternity but I’ll try to catch-up with the back stories as best as I can. My laptop took its last breath and finally gave up and left me hanging. I ordered the best mobile workstation I could find which took over a month to build and 40 days to ship down to South America. Now that I have no excuses, here is the rest of the story.

After the ignition switch repair, it was time to pack up and leave the beautiful Florianópolis but I was told to visit the south of the island or I was going to regret it. With that in mind, we rode south to see what all the fuss was about.

South of Florianópolis is the oldest part of the island with colonial houses and cobbled roads, and in more ways than other, it reminded me of fishing towns of the northeast except that it was tropical. The whole town revolved around one commodity and we soon found out why. The shallow waters of the bay produced some of the biggest oysters I’ve ever seen and the sheer size aside; they were the best I’ve ever tasted to this day. Again with the suggestion of the locals, we found our way to the best oyster joint in town and walked in. The restaurant was way too fancy for my traveling budget but the smell of seafood won the battle. They had nothing but seafood on the menu and the cheapest item was $15 which luckily was the oyster plate. I could write pages on how delicious these oysters were but pictures should do the justice.

Belly full and beautiful blue skies in sight, we headed north to my friend’s house in Curitiba. The 400km ride was beautiful with the blue ocean on the side and lots of twisties and the weather was the warmest in days. I started enjoying the ride until we took the first rest stop. The oil seal on the back of the transmission was leaking and it wasn’t a small leak either. My entire rear wheel was covered with slippery gear oil and the rear brake was useless. I could go without rear brake, but the condition of the slippery tire was unnerving and we were still 200km away from Curitiba.

At every opportunity I got on the sandy shoulders to clean the tire and topped off the oil. We limped away with me clinching my teeth and waiting for the deadly slide which never came. As a result the 200 remaining kilometers took almost five hours to cover and we got to Renato’s apartment well after dark. Renato is a mechanical engineer and university professor who I met while I was hired to develop a website for him. Renato and Patricia welcomed us into their home and a new friendship was born. They are awesome.

I started my search for the oil seal and as it was already the weekend, we put the work aside and went out to the countryside for a perfect Saturday picnic at Renato’s friend’s farm. Lush, beautiful, and rustic, this little farm was a place I could stay at forever. The festivity was not short of the 4th of July and we ate seemingly nonstop until the sun went down. Brazilians sure know how to BBQ and good company always make it doubly better.

When I finally came out of the food coma, with Renato’s help, we located the oil seal and got to work. To get to the rear transmission oil seal, I literally had to disassemble half of the bloody motorcycle to get to it, but it had to be done. In the process, I also found two broken bearings from the swing-arm pivot points. One bearing was completely destroyed and the other was broken in multiple places. At this point, I was glad the transmission started to leak as I would have never known about these problems.
We had to put everything on hold again until we found the right size bearings locally or have them shipped from the US. Stay tuned.

P.S. It was brought to my attention that the website contact-form is not working. If any of you have tried to contact me through the website for the past few months, I never received your message so my apologies. I’ll look into it ASAP.

December 16th, 2012 - Touring Brazil on Motorcycle – Santos

With two useless shocks, leaking fork seals, broken swingarm bearings, and a leaky transmission; the possibilities of going further into Brazil was growing dim, but you just have to keep fixing and rolling. After a few visits to different shops with Renato, we finally located the bearings and the oil seal. The problem was that we couldn’t find the right bearings as the original bearings had built-in rubber dust caps and the ones we found*didn't.*Since Renato taught a machining course at the Curitiba University, we headed to the university machine shop and we built our own. Taking off the old bearing races turned out to be a time consuming job without a welder, but nothing that a turret head milling machine*couldn't*handle. Finally, we cut two aluminum caps for the bearings and it actually turned out better than the original ones.

Curitiba is a nice city, with a very cool climate. Compared to the rest of Brazil, Curitiba is rather a cold place and when the rest of South Americans were in short sleeves and shorts, we bundled up with everything we had. We had a great time with Patricia and Renato and as much as they tried to teach us some basic Portuguese, I’m afraid I’ll never be able to pronounce a word correctly. Portuguese is an easy language to read but as soon as they speak it, all hopes go out of the window. From their apartment in the middle of downtown Curitiba, you could see a large flock of Herons that had made the tall trees of the city their permanent home. It was fascinating watching the giant birds, maneuver in the air so gracefully. Three feet tall with wing span of 5 feet, Great Egrets were almost driven to extinction at the end of the 19th century so that their feathers could decorate ladies’ hats, but they’ve bounced back in numbers and now they rightfully shit on hat of others.

We visited a local fair and a cool classic car show while there and passed time drinking Chimarrão (Brazilian version of Mate) and coco water. In good company, the time flies by and by the weekend, the bike was back on the road and we had to head north again. We were all set to head out on Friday but a sudden invitation back to Renato’s friend’s Farm was too good to resist. If I thought that the first festivity was the best that Brazil could offer, I was in for a surprise. Back at the farm, we ate and drank to a level which will be hard to beat, even by South American standards. As it turned out, Anderson also made homemade liquors so a tasting session was in order. All in all, when I tried to put on my motorcycle pants on Sunday, I*couldn't*button it up, no matter how hard I tried. I must have gained at least 10lb since entering Brazil. We said our farewell to our gracious friends and they sent us away with beautiful local woodwork gifts and Chimarrão for the road.

We headed north along the Atlantic coast for the coastal city of Santos in São Paulo State. Traffic started to get heavier as we got closer to São Paulo and it came to a halt 50 miles outside of the city. With 12 million souls in the city limit alone, São Paulo spreads out seemingly to no end and sheds its population on weekends to the nearby beaches. Those who have money go north or south, and the rest go straight for the beaches of Santos. Covering the last 50 miles to Santos became a Nintendo game of lane splitting between rows of cars with less than 5 inch clearance on each side.

We arrived in Santos around 8pm and found the city unnerving. With a long stretch of beaches, giant buildings, rival gangs, drunks, and drug dealers; Santos mirrors Miami in every sense except the language. Santos is a city that you could very well be killed for a nice pair of shoes if in a wrong place at a wrong time. As unnerving the city was, the people we met were extremely helpful and hospitable. Our couchsurfing host was a guy named Valmique and he bent backward and forward to make us comfortable. He arranged for the bike to be parked inside the garage, we chained it down and unloaded every piece of gear and hauled them up to his apartment on the 12th floor, and then we went to his friend’s house for a little party. It was at Shirley’s house that I remembered that it was my birthday so we doubly celebrated it. We had a great time in Santos, thanks to our new friends and we stayed another day. Lat day on the way down to the garage, a naked drunk guy walked in the elevator and rode down with us 12 floors in complete silence while staring at us. It was definitely time to leave Santos for a less happening city. Stay tuned.

Lov it
 

Nice story.
Doing the same in oktober 2013

Djin