Dos Locos Gringos

Sat 3 Jul 2010

Notes from the Crash:

Posted by Roberts Jones under Ecuador
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It’s a poor photo, but the fracture runs the length of my Scapula (shoulder blade)… enjoy

Notes from the Crash:

The sun had just set behind Ecuadorian mountains, I was exiting a fog bank, riding alone, cold and looking for a place to sleep. I saw a small mountain town, Tixan, very dodgy so I decided to press on. Dusk is the hardest time for me to see while riding, there are no shadows, the headlights can’t compete with the ambient light from the clouds, depth and form are hardest to judge at this time.

I was following a large tour bus rounding a corner at 55mph, seeing a passing zone ahead, I maneuvered to the left preparing to pass. The bus’s rear left tire just missed something sitting next to the yellow line, and my front tire was heading right for it, I only had a second before I would be on it. In the dim light, my brain computed, “that’s a strange place for a large paper bag.” I leaned hard to the right to try and avoid it. My mind was still committed this was a brownbag, one that the corner store hands out for a 40oz. I was almost on it knowing I was tracking to hit, I thought, “I hope there’s not glass in there” as I gunned it, my theory for small animals, potholes, pedestrians and I guess paperbags, momentum is my friend, unless I’m hitting an unmovable object, like a large rock in the road.

The rock – 16″ tall x 6″ wide

The front tire impacted, causing the bike and I to launch in the air as two separate bodies of mass. Later, I’d estimate the bike flew at least nine feet from pulverized rock to the start of deep gouges in asphalt, the scooter’s LZ. When I hit, my eyes closed and I was sliding before I knew it. I landed on my right side, with my shoulder and knee taking most of the hit. During the several seconds I slid downhill along a mountain road, I had a moment to open my eyes and recognize the beauty of the shower of sparks created by a Harley sliding at 50mph ten feet in front of me, grinding down the crash guards.

Gouges in the road – you can make out my bike 70 yards up on the left

I came to a stop before my bike. My first thought – wiggle my fingers and toes (I have the same thought whenever a chiropractor adjusts my neck). Fingers and toes all moved, sweet. Then it hit me, I was sprawled on the yellow lines on a mountain road at dusk, fortunately nothing hit me. I hopped up and stumbled off the road. Legs were stiff, right knee didn’t want to bend, my hands were really sore and my right shoulder was throbbing. Hunched over, looking at the bike resting on the center lines, I took a deep breath, NO sharp pain in my chest, which means no broken ribs and organs are cool.

Head is fine, thankfully I was wearing my fullface helmet

I’m starting to see why some guys are All The Gear, All The Time

During the slide, the bike and I passed two indigenous boys herding 4 sheep and a pig. “Ayudame.” First encounter with the indigenous people of rural Ecuador, didn’t go so well as they both continued on their way as if nothing had happened. I looked at my bike, without help, there was no way I’d be able to right it myself as beaten up as I was.

It was nearly dark, a wave of panic came over me, I was loosing light, if I wanted photographs of the accident, it would have to be now. I Frankensteined to my torn up windshield which rested 15 feet away from the bike. I placed it off the road and grabbed the camera out of the bag.

Being right handed, I held the camera in my gimp right hand, unable to lift the camera or bend down to see what I was shooting, I just took random shots of the road hoping to catch part of the bike in the frame.

Not my best framing, check out the mark on the front tire from the rock

The engine guards saved the bike. Oh, the guy in the truck was very confused about my why I was taking pictures

I walked up the road to an area of pulverized rock and gouge marks and took a couple more shots. I saw the lights approaching from both directions. My first thought – sweet, maybe their lights can help illuminate the street. I was photographing the bike as they stopped, jumped out of their car, and one guy asked if I was ok, the other guy asked what I was doing as if he thought I just laid my bike down in the middle of the street for some sort of photo-shoot. They helped me right the bike, pushing it off the road and then walked back to their cars. No, “Hey, you look pretty banged up, not to mention delirious photographing rocks in the road, think you want a ride to the hospital?” Nope, while they were walking away, I asked if there was a hotel near by, they said 20 minutes down the road, then got into their respective trucks and drove off. They did help me right my bike, which was positive, but leaving me banged up and confused, ditched on the side of the road makes this a neutral local encounter.

About 200 yards down the road, I saw a 24 hour gas station. At this stage, I just wanted some light to go over the bike, then ride to the hotel 20 minutes away, I needed a clear objective. I stepped over the seat with my left leg, the one that could bend. My right hand and wrist could bend, but my right arm hung at my side, the shoulder was fucked; this is bad, I thought, I’m going to need a right arm for the throttle. I leaned forward, grabbed my right sleeve with my left hand, and placed it onto the grip. I leaned back, slowly outstretching my right arm, the shoulder pain grew exponentially. I was in discomfort, but I just had to drive 30 seconds to the light of the station, check the bike out, then ride the 20min to a hotel, I had a clear mission, time to Man-Up.

I shifted into Neutral, reset the on/off key in the center of my tank. I wasn’t sure if the engine got trashed in the wreck, I toggled to Run, and heard the fuel injection prime, so far so good. Then I pushed the starter, the split second of adulation in the engine firing up was quickly replaced by excruciating pain from my shoulder as the handlebars vibrated violently. The staking of the handlebars at idle tossed my right hand off the grip, my arm dropped to my side. Man-Down, riding the bike is not going work. I let the engine run, listening for anything wrong while I thought of my options, alone, banged up in rural Ecuador, unable to ride.

After a minute, I killed the engine, got off the bike and limped to gas station. I made my way up to the Attendant, “Ayudame”. My Spanish isn’t near perfect, but I thought my limping and wearing a scratched up motorcycle helmet would aid in the translation, I’ve been in a motorcycle wreck. I said that my motorcycle was 200 meters up the road and asked if he could give me a hand pushing it to the gas station. He looked at me blankly, said yes, then turn around and walked back towards his pumps. I tried to point out that my bike was in the opposite direction, he ignored me, and walked back to the pumps keeping his back to me.

I was on my own, at one of the lowest points of my life.

I hobbled back to the bike, I needed to get it to the light of the station, but walking it wasn’t an option, running the motor was an inquisition torture, but I am a man that learns from my past mistakes. The gas station was downhill. I used the lesson I learned when I dropped the bike on the steep hill in Pasto, Columbia. Keeping the engine off, I mounted the bike. I put her in first and held in the clutch. Letting gravity do it’s thing, releasing the clutch whenever I gained too much momentum.

I silently pulled into the gas station. I think it finally clicked for the attendant that I had an accident on a motorcycle and he came running over. I needed to get my jacket off and sort out what was wrong with my shoulder, the attendant helped. I felt my right clavicle, no pain and best of all, no bone jutting from my skin, all very good news. I felt along my shoulder, sore, but no acute pain. When I was in high school, I partially-dislocated my left shoulder and the pain was very similar, I quickly became committed to this incorrect self-diagnosis.

Before leaving The States, I took the Nols Wilderness First Responder (WFR) 80 hour class so I would know what to do in an emergency far away from professional help, and I paid particular attention to setting dislocations (especially since in almost all instances, only doctors are qualified to do this, and I was about to find out why). The Attendant said Tixan, the small pueblo down the hill, had a clinic that would be open. You know how you meet a person and you know that everything they say is somehow wrong or ill-informed, well I took his advice away and hobbled into the sketchy mountain town with my WFR book looking for help.

The Mountain Pueblo of Tixan two days later

If you’ve been reading this blog, you may have noticed a theme, I generally see the positive or find some beauty in everywhere I go, well, Tixan is a shit-hole. I approached a country general store straight out of a spaghetti western, plank board walls built on wooden stilts. I asked an Old Man sitting on a small wooden bench if there was a doctor in the town. He didn’t know and went in and asked an Old Woman who looked like she spent every day of her hundred years outside under heat lamps, she literally looked like Oz’s Wicked-Witch. She already seemed put off the old man was asking her questions, looked at me and “phiff,” waving her hand like she was shoeing a fly. I’ve seen phiff written in bad novels before, but I’ve never actually heard someone say it. “Yo fue un accidente con mi moto, esta un medico en este pueblo?” “Phiff,” again. When it was clear I wouldn’t leave until she helped, she pointed across the dirt road to a two story/two room building with a large red cross painted on it. I actually stood in her store for 30 seconds, clearly injured, before she bothered to point to the clinic that was across the street, this is a woman with a dark soul. The town clinic was dark. I knocked, no one answered, it was time for me to take matters into my good left hand.

Sketch of Hanging Traction – DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME

Convinced I needed to set my dislocation before permanent tendon damage set in, I crossed back to the general store, handed the Old Man the WFR book, pointed to the sketch and stacked an old wooden five inch wide bench on top of an older wooden six inch wide bench. I laid my chest down onto the unstable platform of benches, raising me about 3 feet off the road, just high enough for my arm to hang holding my 5 pound camera bag. Now, the site of a 6’5 inch stranger in pain, sprawled precariously over a haphazard stack of plank benches at the general store spread through the village and a small crowd gathered.

Wanting to help, God bless him, The Old Man saw the sketch in the book, and sprung into action, grabbing my hanging right arm and started to massage my bi/tri/and shoulder muscles. Then he suddenly yanked my injured arm down to help set it. For three full seconds, I was in such pain, I couldn’t shout, whimper or even grunt. (Now I think it’s important to note – although I wouldn’t discover until the next day, my shoulder wasn’t dislocated, rather, my shoulder blade had a large fracture running the length of the bone, and Hanging Traction was painful, more than just counter productive and the kindly old man’s yanking was likely making the fracture larger.) :’-(

During the three seconds aggravated assault, The Old Man didn’t notice my wide eyes, nor the spittle dripping from my mouth, finally I made a cough like I was drowning in the ocean surfacing for air. Then I took a deep breath and whispered, “Alto, por favor.” The old man stopped, and I again regained feeling in my fingers.

I laid out for 5 more minutes while the angry Old Woman became outwardly annoyed at the growing crowd of locals passing around my WFR book, flipping the pages of sketches to other treatments, and discussing the general condition of the tall man, and likely taking bets on when the stack of benches and I would crash to the sidewalk. I decided to test my treatment, letting the bag drop off the curb and tried to lift my arm, massive pain. Having decided my shoulder wasn’t improving I looked back at the WFR book convinced of my dislocation and the treatment, but ignoring the note that said the treatment should take 1 hour. I fixated that the weight pulling on my arm needed to be 10-15lbs – I just needed more weight.

I slid onto my knee, off the benches, which toppled (two guys high-fived, I guess they won the bet) and with the help of The Old Man, walked in the general store. Now, I learned in the WFR class, 10-15 pounds is 5 liters of water, so I asked The Old Man for some bottles of water, and he pointed to a 5 liter plastic jug, what luck. Behind me I could hear some rustling as the angry Old Woman brought in the benches from outside. I thought, she must be bringing the benches in so I’d be out of the cold, the dear, but I was better off outside since I needed the extra six inches of curb over the street for my arm to hang. I smiled at her and took one of the benches back outside, before I could set it down, she ripped it from my good hand. She pointed a finger at me, “Salas!” Leave, why would she want me to leave?

“Que, yo neccissito ayudame.”

“Salas, Ahora!!” I couldn’t believe it, the Old Bitch was kicking me out of her store, it was now 7:30 and she was closing. I tried to appeal to her sense of humanity, none there. I offered her money to stay open, her mind was set, she was put-off with the stranger who needed her benches. She demanded one dollar for the 5 litter water jug, which was a good price since I truly thought that this jug would save my arm.

I walked out onto the street, with 10-15 pounds of water, my WFR book in hand looking for a lofty area to stretch out my arm. Someone handed me a cup of hot sugar water, which I gratefully accepted, hoping that there was some good left in the world. As the old woman was bolting her plank-wood door to her unpainted plank-wood store, the Old Man introduced me to a middle-aged woman in the crowd, then the Old Man’s reached out his hands in a cusp massaging fashion, I’d guess this was the town masseuse. I said thanks but no thanks, this wasn’t the night for a spa treatment. A teen came running up, followed by a tour bus. He must have flagged down a passing bus from the main road – yes Virginia, there is good and humanity left in Tixan after all.

The Old Man said the bus was going to the next town where there was a hospital. I thanked him and hopped onto the bus to Alausi, leaving my bike at the station, not entirely sure if it would be there when I returned.

I sat on in the second row on the bus, exhausted, beaten and hoping there really was a doctor in my future. Sitting next to me on the bus was my savior Victor (no, not the Panamanian child-soldier), a man in his 60’s, who has a son that lives in Connecticut and he spends most of the year in the States. He helped me with my bags and walked me into the medical clinic, later he would convince me that I had to get something to eat and even paid for dinner, despite my objections. Most importantly, he helped translate my condition to the lone doctor and nurse working I the small hospital.

The clicic at Alausi the next morning

Unfortunately the X-Ray machine was broken at the clinic, so there was not much more they could do than a shot for the pain. At first, I declined the shot saying that sitting down, I was just sore and not in any real pain, but if they would help me set my dislocation, I would need the shot. Humoring me, they agreed they would help me set the arm, the nurse prepped a needle, indicating that I needed to drop my drawers and bend over, and I complied. Stick. 20 seconds later, I felt a little woozy, and really wanted to use the bathroom. The orderly pointed that I had to walk through a storage room, I thanked him and opened the storage room door feeling really light headed.

Holy Shit – the floor of the storage room was covered in dozens of bloody footprints, as near as I could tell, someone must have run into this room during a massive surgery and frantically searched for something all over the room. The pain killer was really setting in, I was becoming very dizzy, and seeing the bloody floor, I became convinced the nurse gave me something to knock me out, maybe the bloody footprints were from the last tourist – a slight twist on Hostel, but pretty much the same story arc, I was a deadman. Fortunately for my psyche, I didn’t have time to work myself up too much trying to formulate an escape plan, I had to use the toilet. At least there were no bloody footprints in the john – man that would have been a bad surgery if the doctor had to step out for a minute. By the time I exited, I felt less dizzy, realized I’m an idiot, and carefully stepped over the bloody prints, not wanting to disturb the crime scene.

Victor and I went out to eat, and when I returned, I asked the Doctor Patricia if she would help me set my dislocated arm. Apparently there must have been a class in common sense taught during her eight years of med-school that may have been glossed over in my 80 hours Wilderness First Responder course, if my arm wasn’t in any significant pain, it wasn’t dislocated, and I should stop trying to reset it., i.e., if I wasn’t in discomfort, why in God’s Green Earth was I trying to doing something that would cause me extreme pain. There was something wrong with my arm, but before we started yanking on it, we might want to consult an X-Ray. After a minute, I saw her logic and decided it was time to put this day behind me. She offered me a bed in the recovery area, told me to stop my idiotic self-diagnosis (my words), get some rest as the follow day I would have to travel 2.5 hours North to Riobamba to get an X-Ray.

A tough nights sleep –

I was exhausted, and although I was in obvious discomfort, I was stoked to be lying down on a bed and off my swollen knee. I feel asleep right away, and then around eleven at night, I was awoken by the sounds of three women wailing and crying in the next room. I thought that it would subside, but the cries grew in intensity, and louder as more women came to the hospital. I had no idea what was going on, but the cries were building into a night long crescendo. It was clearly serious and suddenly everything was in perspective, I felt very lucky I was only banged up, and no one would have to wail for me that night.

Throughout the night, listening to the wailing from the waiting room, I had waves of feeling very alone and very, very far away from those I love, missing my girlfriend and family. Eventually the exhaustion overtook me and I drifted off to sleep wondering if these adventures were worth leaving what is most important to me behind.

Some more photos:

24hr Gas Station where I left my bike for two full days

Pulverized Rock

Gouges in the road

I hate wearing gloves when riding, but now I just might change my tune

Engine guards gave my bike the chance to help me get a few more miles

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Thu 24 Jun 2010

The Galapagos

Posted by Roberts Jones under Ecuador
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Galapagos - Swimming with Sea Lions

My favorite underwater experience, ever. Wearing two flippers, snorkel and ill-fit mask, I was sat onto a zodiac on my way towards a rocky breakwater, kicking myself for not bringing one of the two underwater video cameras I left on my bike in Quito, yup, two. I was shocked the boat didn’t sell disposable cameras, so I wrapped my spare digital camera in a ziplock, a poor result.

I had to try, but wrapping a digital camera in a ziplock doesn’t work, and neither did the Ziplock, it leaked.

I opted to swim without a wetsuit, so I’d be able to dive under the water easier. When we arrived at the rock wall, I rolled off the side of the dingy, frogman style trying to look cool, but it just broke the cheap mask’s seal on my face and filled with water, I surfaced flailing about. After doing my best to get my enormous hair away from the seal of the mask, I swam to the rock wall and within a minute, three young sea lions swam up to investigate

This … was … amazing, the sea lions swam an arm’s length away and looked me right in the eye, then swam quickly towards me, charging me and turning at the last second, darting around. They started circling, having a ball, playing and showing off. Sometimes blowing bubbles and chasing them to the surface. Suddenly there were six more sea lions, all circling me only a foot away. I wanted to touch them but in the Galapagos, the animals are so tame towards humans, we are told never to touch them as they might start developing a fear of man, so I took the strip bar approach, reaching out my hands – I can’t touch them, but they were welcome to touch me.

After thirty seconds, they would get tired or bored and swim towards the rocks to grab a breath of air. I’d surface, make eye contact with them, take a deep breath and dive down as if asking them to come out and play, the seals would jump off the rocks and dive after me every time. I would swim 15’ down, swimming, twisting, turning, flipping, trying to impress water mammals with my aquatic ability, I’d turn onto my back and see the seals mocking my movements. They’d imitate me, I’d try and flip and they’d do the same, although my lungs were burning after just 20 seconds, I was having the time of my life. This was an amazing experience and the highlight of my trip to The Galapagos.

I felt heart broken when I saw a juvenile seal with a six inch plastic band around his neck, at first I thought it was a really cheap Ecuadorian tracking device, but as he swam closer, I could see he was trapped in some sort of plastic junk. I didn’t know what to do, but I felt terrible. Other sea lions would swim next to him and bite at it trying to help. I wanted to do something, realistically, there was no way I’d be able to catch a sea lion underwater and rip off the plastic ring. I wanted to swear off plastics. I know that my brother will scoff, and to others this may sound like I’m a crazy Californian, but seeing how a piece of plastic junk directed affected a sea lion life, I wanted to reduce all the plastic waist in my life. Ok, I know this is waaaaay too preachy for a Blog about a dude and his Harley, and nothing about a selfish drive through the Americas screams conservation, but maybe this is my Motorcycle Diary moment – the Galapagos helps me realize the importance of conservation or at least reducing my absurd American impact of waste on this world. The seal swam off and I was angry and powerless, a terrible low.

A dingy from the boat trailed us, plucking all the other swimmers from the boat as they became cold, leaving an Italian guy and I alone swimming with the sea lions. Eventually the Italian and I swam closer to a beach, and as we got nearer to the dingy, an English girl shouted that there were sea turtles and sharks closer to the beach. Was she kidding, then again, all the other swimmers had gotten out of the ocean.

I swam towards the beach, excited to see sea turtles, assuming she was joking about the sharks. Now here’s where thankfully the Galapagos ‘survival of the fittest’ didn’t catch up with me as, unlike the zodiac full of people who had been swimming, I was still in a small bay, apparently with sharks.

The Italian and I swam past a huge school of white fish that formed a circle surrounding us, from the surface to the sandy bottom 6 feet below. We quickly discovered a huge sea turtle hanging out on the bottom, I presume sleeping. I dove down to get a better look, it was beautiful. About 20 feet away, I could make out the distinctive white-on-black leopard print of two Eagle Rays swimming, they are the definition of grace. The rays eventually got spooked and I followed them as they swam away. Then I saw the unmistakable outline of a eight-foot White Tipped Reef Shark hanging out on the bottom of the ocean.

My first Shark encounter outside of a cage, a White Tipped Reef Shark, totally cool

The Italian was a few seconds behind me, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he noticed the shark. Now I’m terrified of sharks, I can’t go surfing without hearing the string section of Jaws, and even swimming next to the shark tank at the Golden Nugget Vegas gives me with willies, but for some reason, encountering this shark merely hanging out by the beach in the Galapagos seemed natural and completely non-threatening. I looked up at the zodiac, which had motored near by. The English girl asked, “Do you see the shark?” “Yeah,” I replied. “I told you there were sharks.” I laughed, “I thought it was a bad joke.” I looked back down for the shark, but it had swam away. Ok, I thought, I no longer knew where the shark is and the string section suddenly got louder, it’s time to get out of the water.

After lunch, we took a nature walk back onto the beach, walks are a big part of the Galapagos experience. We saw more sea lions, finches, marine iguanas, and after an hour, we walked back onto the beach, where I saw there was a semi-circle of people around a sea lion. The little guy with the white plastic band wrapped around his head had wondered onto the beach. One of the Naturalist guides asked for a towel and walked up behind the sea lion. The seal knew something was up and as soon as the guide was 6 feet away, he made a break for the ocean. I ran along side him and cut him off, herding him up the beach. The little guy was terrified, but the guide eventually threw the towel over him and three people grabbed the barking sea lion. Within seconds another guide pulled out a Swiss Army knife, and the plastic tab was cut and freed from the plastic, the little guy made a break for the water.

The Sea Lion I saw swimming with the plastic band gets saved, and I feel a little better about humanity

A happy Sea Lion takes a nap after a stressful day

Later that night, thinking about swimming with the seals, I watched the sun go down from the top deck, looking down at a fleet of three dozen Eagle Rays swimming in formation around the boat, it was an amazing day.

Dozens of Eagle Rays gliding in formation

Eagle Rays – maybe the most Grace living creature in the water

It would take me hundreds of pages to describe my experience in The Galapagos, it was even cooler than I hoped, truly a place on Earth that I’d like to return and for a much longer period of time. When I read other peoples blogs, I don’t like to look at too many photos as I don’t want to know what to expect, but I hope you enjoy these photos non-the-less (spoiler alert, there’s picts of Boobies).

The Giant Tortoise:

Spotting a Giant Tortoise

These guys are huge – no, Travel was not allowed to ride it

The guide assured me that Tortoise poo is a Galapagos delicacy, chewy and delicious

A 2 year-old non-quite Giant Tortoise

Lonesome George’s enclosure at The Darwin Research Station, the most depressing place on Earth:

Lonesome George is Extinct, literally. He is the last of his species. George was brought to the Research Station in the 70′s, but there has never been another female of his species found. He’s refuses to mate with another giant tortoise – either that, or the guide suggested he may be impotent, which made the story of George all the more depressing. I asked about cloning him a mate, but that goes against the principles of the Theory of Evolution. George is the last, and when he dies, that’s the end for his kind – forever.

George should get a look at this action. I’m sparing you the video only because I can’t upload videos to this blog, it’s pretty hysterical

Sea Lions – The golden retriever of the sea

The Sea Lion chick may be the cutest animal on Earth. I feel in love with this guy, who kept calling for his mom who was out hunting.

After a some time on the beach, I was adopted by my new family

The call of the wild

Nap time

I got this shot sitting on my blanket. This bull would walk up behind unsuspecting sunbathers, bark, and scare the crap out of them. It was awesome, my kind of sea lion.

A sea turtle out for a morning swim. Two sea lions were swimming next to him, checking him out, but the turtle didn’t want to play

Reptiles -

Marine Iguanas

Male Marine Iguanas can dive to 55′, hold their breath for over 60 minutes and apparently Darwin made a game out of tossing them into the sea by their tails, true story – sort of.

A small Marine Iguana giving me the skink-eye.

A colony of Iguanas, patiently waiting for me to think up something to say

Land Iguanas eat fallen cactus flowers and the leaves of low lying trees

Land Iguanas have adapted into various sizes and colors depending on which Galapagos Island they live

Travel’s yellow coat blends with the locals

The Galapagos is for the Birds -

The Blue Footed Booby Bird, with out a doubt the greatest name for a crazy bird

My New Favorite bird – The Booby

Is there any other bird with googlie eyes?

A booby nest

A Nesca Booby (no blue feet)

So, here’s why I love Boobies, their mating dance is so much fun to watch. The male brings the female six to seven pebbles, then he does a dance for her, lifting one leg after the other in a sort of two-step, then lift his wings and whistle. This can take up to 30 minutes, the guide says the deed only takes 3 seconds.

A nesting Albatross turning her back to boobies in a mating dance.

The Albatross are huge, with wingspans of 8-9 feet

A Galapagos Hawk…

… Making a kill …

… and flying away with a small rodent

The inspiration for the Origin of Species – The Finch

This beak changed the world

Our guide said Darwin spent much of his time studying the mocking bird rather than the finch, but the finch’s beak proved to be a very clear example of adaptation, so the finch is what we read about in science books.

Turns out the mocking birds are a bunch of opertunists, looking for anything steal.

Oh yeah, Mockingbirds are bunch of a-holes too.

The Landscapes of the Galapagos:

Cactus Forest – Plaza Sur Island

Sunset at Santa Fe Island

Plaza Sur

Cactus Forest – Plaza Sur

Espanola Island

Sunset on our way to San Cristobal

Sunrise on the Summer Solstice

Sunrise from Leon Dormido – The following day

Having Fun:

Ok, while snorkeling I was excited to take a photo of a sea lion and a pelican in the water together, while I was framing this shot up, I had no idea that a sea lion Alpha male was sneaking up on me, and got within two feet, then started barking.

I was terrified, but had a good laugh.

I am looking forward to returning to The Galapagos soon, this place is Magic.

If you got this far, thanks for joining me on my little adventure in the center of the world.

Catching a Sunrise

Tags: Galapagos, Harley Davidson, Travel

Wed 23 Jun 2010

Medellin to Quito, Equador

Posted by Roberts Jones under Columbia
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The ride to Medellin was beautiful. I’m finding myself consistently being blown away by the Columbian countryside, it’s remarkable.

Riding through mountains covered by low level clouds was an amazing way to start the day

Rick took my duffle bag which made room for Victor to ride bitch using my half-helmet. The machinegun must add a few inches, because Victor seems much shorter without an assault rifle and fatigues. Victor looks much less than his twenty-five years, he’s a kid, maybe I’m getting older but I still thing of soldiers as men from the movies, square jawed and all-American, but looking around at the guys manning the checkpoint, they seems like boys, not quite child soldiers, but they look like they should be playing Army not shooting live ammo.

Columbia is breathtaking

And I am cheezy

It was a fun ride through mountains and hills to Medellin, although Victor almost launched off the back of the bike when I encounter an unexpected tope. We dropped Victor off in the city center for some R&R, and after lunch, Rick and I tried to find a hostel during Friday rush hour on a holiday weekend, taking a nice tour of the cities one-way streets.

The Lonely Planet only lists two hostels for Medellin, both are next to a park in a sketchy part of town. We parked our bikes on the street next to a midget holding a small sign for motorcycle parking. Rick went into the hostel to check the rooms while I watched the bikes. A strung-out teen whom I presume was homeless walked up and started talking to me about my bike, I don’t mean strung-out in some 1950’s “he’s on the dope”, I mean his eyes were glazed and he could hardly stand. Eventually he grabbed my helmet and put it on, laughing manically, I immediately weighed my options if he ran, do I chase him or stay with both bikes and the rest of our gear in case he has an accomplice – I opted to stay with the gear thinking that he wouldn’t make it very far before he lost his balance and took a header into the sidewalk – fortunately for him, he’d be wearing my helmet. The teen kept laughing, slapped his head a few times and then took off the helmet handing it back to me.

A guy in his late 40’s watch this exchange and walked up, shewing the kid away. His name was Jose, spoke English well, he asked the usual questions about the bikes and told me that we should think twice about staying in that part of town (which didn’t seem too bad, after all, I could see a casino on the next block). Jose said that he knew of a great hostel 10 minutes away in a better neighborhood that had a garage for the bikes rather than parking them in a public motorcycle parking lot guarded by a little person. Rick walked up, we weighed our options as he wasn’t too impressed with the hostel, and we’d let Jose lead us to Hostel Medellin. Jose’s wife dropped him off to go shopping, so he could ride on the back of my bike and direct us there. Sounded like a plan, and I gave him my spare half helmet which was getting a lot of use today.

As soon as we pulled away, Jose got onto his cell and placed a few calls. He was speaking Spanish very quickly, and I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but I could make out Harley Davidson and BMW. Um, ok, so either he’s on the phone with his wife letting her know that he doesn’t need to get picked up from the store because he got a ride on a Harley, or he was letting some accomplice know that an American Idiot on a Harley was actually driving to the site of his own murder. I clung to the thought that Jose was a middle-aged professional who was obviously very honest, after all he told me he imported fake jewelry from China, who would make something like that up? Just looking at him, I was sure that Jose has a wife, mortgage and likely two-point-five kids, he didn’t look like a murderer, that should be enough, right?

Jose leading me to my death?

Over the next 20 minutes drive, I thought about the decisions that I’ve made in life that brought me to Medellin Columbia with a stranger named Jose straddling me, ambiguously directing me to a place called Medellin Hostel that wasn’t in my Lonely Planet. I took some comfort in knowing that if Jose had a knife, I’d at least never see it, after all anticipation is always worst than the event itself, so I’d assume that ‘about to be stabbed in the throat’ is worst then actually being stabbed, right? I also decided that I’ve got to stop watching Dexter.

I was mentally debating if it would be smarter to dump the bike on the opposite side that Jose would be wheeling a blade, so it would fly away rather than dig further in my body or if I dumped the bike on the blade side he’d be more likely to drop the blade to protect himself from the fall when I saw it: Medellin Hostel. So he wasn’t going to kill me after all, or at least he’d wait until after we parked the bikes in the garage.

Jose is an awesome guy, someone who saw two lost bikers trying to check into a dodgy hostel and was willing to spend 20 minutes riding bitch through the rain, risking life and limb directing us through rush hour traffic to a better hostel. It turns out that he knows the owner, and they had a chat while he waited for his wife to pick him up. Medellin helped affirm to me that most people are good and the willingness to accept other people’s help is a gift.

Medellin Hostel is a common stop on the biker’s route through South America, and the garage had signed pictures of various bikers in their favorite locations. Apparently some bikers travel with 8×10’ glossy headshots. One of the pictures was of a German friend of mine, Marko, who, while on an extended round-the-world trip, spent several days crashing at my place in Los Angeles.

Seeing Marko’s smiling mug, I suddenly felt at home

Looking at a pict of Marko’s smiling next his tent in Mongolia, I suddenly felt that standing in a garage in Columbia was somehow right were I was meant to be. I couldn’t wait to hang up a picture of my little 1580cc scooter. Since I haven’t been traveling with an 8×10 glossy, the following day I printed several small pictures and made a collage of some of the fun I had so far in my little trip: deep river crossings, boat loadings, Prudhoe Bay.

Now here’s where I pussed out – I left room on the bottom to write a simple message to some owners of one particular brand of duel sport that think cruisers are limited machines that couldn’t possibly make a trip on-and-off the Pan-American: “Suck it BMW”.

I ran the idea by Rick, who found it hysterical, and since he rides a BMW and saw the humor, I had the blessing I needed – but a guy who’s been at the hostel for over a month, does not ride, overheard Rick and I laughing and wondered why I’d write that something that would be offensive to BMW owners. I tried to explain that in the future I’d likely own a BMW, but I was doing this trip on a bike that was completely inappropriate, and it was a friendly jab towards guys who spend thirty grand on a bike, kit it out with another five grand in lights and boxes and think they are superior to everyone else on “lesser” bikes, when they could have done the same trip on a used three thousand dollar KLR who’s only kit was a lambskin seat cover. He responded that he’s “partial to German engineering” and I could do what I wanted. He got into my head, I was sure that he just rip the sign down as soon as I left, and I pussed out, worry that I might hurt a BMW owner’s feelings and wrote : “Life is an Adventure!” Now I believe that we are meant to spend our short time on this planet exploring new places and pushing ourselves, but I missed a great chance for some comedy, and I regret not writing the jab. So, in the very unlikely chance someone comes across this blog while sitting next to the pool table in Medellin Hostel, you have my permission to extend some good will and change my message to something a little more… well, Harley.

“Life is an Adventure”, what a puss. Someone please help me man up

We spent three days in Medellin, it rained for most of the time and I didn’t really explore much of the city, opting to watch World Cup and try to catch up on the blog instead. I spent a several hours working on the bike, polishing mud that baked into the tin. We were asked to pull our bikes deeper into the garage, and I didn’t realize that the garage roof has a corrugated plastic skylight that would let rain pour onto the bikes that night. I love to give my bike a good polish, but the rain confirmed that mine is a Harley that doesn’t like to stay shinny.

Rick and I were planning on heading out to Bogotá around noon when a thunderstorm rolled in, scratching that idea. I’ve driven through plenty of lighting when out on the road, but it didn’t make sense to head out when we were comfortable at this hostel. As I’m going to be seeing Bridget in three week in Lima and would like to see the Galapagos, Rick and I opted to head directly to Cali bypassing Bogotá to catch up a few days.

A Cheeze shot, but a great hostel for bikers

Southbound to Cali.

The views are that good, truly stunning

Again, the roads, the countryside, the mountains, simply the Ride in Columbia is perfect (For now on I’m just going to cut and paste this about Columbia – The Riding is that Good).

Cali, Columbia:

Rick did a quick search of ADV Rider for a biker friendly hostel in Cali and we were off. The GPS lead us through Cali with very little problems, the first time since Mexico. Rick took me to Skeletor Choppers, a brand new biker bar Cali, run by Diablo. It was a motorhead’s dream, a mechanic in the garage in the back wrenching on multiple Choppers, pool table, small bar and loads of pictures of topless girls. It wasn’t so much a garage but a gearhead’s social club. Diablo is president of Skeletor’s, an upstart motorcycle club, it was cool as he told us about their first run, showing us pictures of him explaining to new riders how to park as one group, side by side, reving three times. He was really proud of the photos and his club, which I thought was really cool. I think it was lost in translation that I had a Harley in town, and I looked forward to bringing my bike back after the ATV ride. But when Rick and I returned with my HOG later in the night, Skeletor was closed, apparently they keep banker’s hours. If I find myself back in Southern Columbia, I’d surely head back to Skeletor for another game of pool, stories and cheep beer.

A dream way to run a garage

We stayed at Casa Blanca Hostel, the owner Mike is a biker who leads adventure tours throughout Columbia on duel sports and ATV’s. The following day Rick and I headed out for some trail riding above Cali, but not before I got my boots polished as I wanted them too look prestine for the mudding.

My first boot polish of the trip, very badly timed

We were ready for some mud. Rick was on his F650 and Mike and I were each on ATVs, for a while I was kicking myself for opting to leave the Harley at the hostel as the trail was terrible, but dry and passable; it would have been ridiculous fun on my FLHRC.

I finally got to ride through a herd of goats

Cali, Columbia

Then the sky opened up in a hellish downpour, the clay like mud quickly became uber-slick for the BMW’s mud caked road tires, even the ATV’s eventually had problems, and I’m sure if I was dumb enough to bring the Road King, I would have needed to be winched out, a repeat of Costa Rica’s stupidity (see mom, I do learn). When Rick told Mike that the conditions were getting too rough and we should head back, Mike seemed offended and hopped onto Rick’s bike, managing to pop it up the trail (editor’s note: Rick’s a puss).

Fun on four wheels

Mike has some serious off-road skills on both an ATV and two wheels. But eventually we got to a narrow section with a deep gully that was totally impassible on the ATV’s and we didn’t even try the F650.

Rick eating it into a bush

After an hour and each of us taking a dozen pathetic attempts, we headed down hill and I have total respect for Mike as he took the BMW down some really slick and dangerous conditions, only dropping it twice. Since Rick was planning on selling the bike the following day, he didn’t seem too concerned so long as it still ran.

My newly polished leather boots, duh.

At Casa Blanca, we meet up with two other bikers, Jason and Vinney. Jason’s heading North on a KLR and Vinney’s taking his time on an extended trip South on a KTM. Both were good guys and had a wealth of knowledge. Vinney’s total comedy, and rides serious competitions, including the Baja 500 & 1000, he’s a great guy to share some stories with over beers. Best of luck guys.

Bridget’s getting into Lima soon and I want to check out The Galapagos, so with only two days in Cali, it was time to start making our way to Ecuador. One of the girls hanging out in the hostel, ironically named Cali, was heading South to Pasto and since we were heading the same way, I offered her a ride on the bike. She had never ridden on a motorcycle, and man, was this a shitty way to break someone in. It was eight hours to Pasto on a rear seat that was a Harley afterthought, up and down tight mountain twisties, over topes, passing trucks around blind curves – I’ll hand it to her, she never complained, even when I dumped the bike.

A kid Hitching a Ride at 40mph

Um, Breathtaking?

Oh yeah, reflections on dumping a bike – the reverse power slide:

Pasto is actually a really pretty colonial city that is usually treated as a stopover between Medellin and Cali. We made pretty good time getting to Pasto in only 8 hours, two hours less than Mike estimated, but it was after dark and we were exhausted.

The Sunset 50 miles from Pasto, we still had two hours to ride

Rick claimed he knew the way to the hostel he saw a week earlier, but while we tore through the town’s one way streets, I quickly realized that Rick has a terrible sense of direction. Tired and grumpy, Rick made a right up a side street that was a ridiculously steep hill (think Lombard Street, without the curves). He flew up the hill and I was right behind him not wanting to lose momentum and stall on this incline. Near the top, Rick suddenly slammed on his breaks, the hill looked like it would meet another street, but was a dead-end. Shit. Given how heavy I was, two up with luggage, I had no problem stopping, my feet were down to keep me from dumping, that proved a mistake. The hill was so steep that the bike started rolling backwards, no problem, I’m on the front break right, but the bike was so back heavy, the front tire just started sliding. Um, this is bad. I tried to let off the front break, like an anti-lock, but now we were gaining momentum, um, things just got worst. I looked up at the tire mark I was leaving, then at Rick, I’m sure he was laughing behind his face shield as I finally tried using my foot break.

Now, looking back, there’s a couple things that I could have done in this situation, killed the engine and dumped the clutch would have saved my ass, or maybe slowly applying the rear break could have been better than the highest in the list of bad ideas: stomping on the rear break. The rear wheel locked up, causing the entire bike to pivot on the tire, swinging wildly to the left, I lost control. Now when I was a kid skiing in the Northeast, I had a theory, so long as you meant to fall in some sort of controlled manor, you’d be find, and I must have channeled my inner adolescent with a face full of Pocono snow, ‘cuz I knew I was going over, hard. The bike dumped to the left and slid another three feet, until the windshield slammed into a raised walkway.

Cali and I were fine, both thrown from the bike (I hit the wall). It was low speed, but loud, and pretty quickly we had a group of local Columbians shouting questions to the Gringo about why we’d drive a heavy bike up a steep hill on a dead-end street, a few thought that was how I meant to park my bike. The crowd weren’t there to help, just enjoy the foolishness of the stupid tourists. It was up to Rick and I to figure out a way to get right an 800lbs bike on a steep hill.

Rick and I made a couple half-hearted attempts before he actually suggested dragging the bike down the hill on its side, the dick. I could see that I the left footboard was at a new and odd angle, the windshield made a sweet 90 degree curve that would surely help my aerodynamics, but I was really concerned about the tank, in short, things looked bad, but there was no way in hell I was going to drag my Harley 100’ down a hill on its side.

I think my unwillingness to do any more damage to my bike disappointed Rick, but with my new incentive of not dragging the bike, I put a bit more muscle into lifting the bike and we bot it onto two wheels. A quick visual, the bike looked fine, the engine guards did their job, a tip of the helmet to the engineers at Harley, next time I’ll try harder.

With the engine off, I rolled the bike down the hill backwards. When I started him up, I nearly shit myself as I heard the worst pinging from the engine, oil had flooded the valves, but after a minute, the engine warmed, the oil drained and the bike stopped grumbling. We drove around still looking for the hostel, I was mildly concerned that the raised floorboard blocked me from shifting into second, and I’d wager that the remaining 8,000+ miles South would take slightly longer with only one gear. We found parking and the following day, I made a quick adjustment, raising the heal shifter, clutch problem solved.

Rick spoke with the Ecuadorian buyer for his bike and we were all set for a 3pm meet between the Columbian/Ecuadorian border. We said adios to Cali and I was heading out of Columbia (much to my mother’s relief).

Apparently the handwarms, aux lights and vibrator must have been too much for th alternator on the F650, the battery died only 30 miles from the Ecuadorian Border. The jumper cables I had made came in handy after all, nice.

The Columbian border crossing is the most efficient that I’ve encounter this entire trip. Rick and I grabbed lunch, and after it became dark, and clear the buyer for Rick’s bike would be a couple hours late, I left Rick at the border. For the first time this trip, I was finally riding on my own, going down the only road I’ve ever known, like a drifter I was born to walk… Anywho, I was on this crazy little adventure as Uno Loco Gringo.

Tags: columbia, Harley Davidson, Travel

Wed 16 Jun 2010

Cartagena, Columbia

Posted by Roberts Jones under Columbia
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Cartagena, Columbia

Old Town Cartagena is beautiful colonial walled city, narrow alleys overgrown with flowers, overrun with colorful fruit vendors, and energized by people going about their daily routine. I was afraid Old Town would be a tourist trap, but I really enjoyed it, struck by how clean it is, not overly done-up, still used by the residence, feels authentic and beautiful.

The Gates into the walled city of Cartagena

Flowers line the narrow streets of pastel buildings, it’s gorgeous

Doug would have loved this row of Sweet Vendors

I had two days to investigate the city before the shipping agent would release my bike. It was time to play tourist and explore.

The fortress of San Felipe de Barajas is huge, but there was very little literature or signs to tell me about the fort, I guess they figure everyone had iphones now and can google info for themselves.

Note the huge flag on the left (… wait for it)

Several dark tunnels run the throughout the fort, with small coves and rooms for storage of weapons and food.

Given the size of the fort, when I finally made it to the top floor, I expected a cathedral or enormous weapons cache, except there was simply a gaudy gift shop, depressing really.

The view from the top, I was expecting something more grand

Excited to be in Columbia, I wrapped myself with the flag (then was “asked” to leave)

The Gold Museum was pretty interesting, but much smaller than I thought and no free samples, what?

A dip in the mud volcano.

If you are a gringo tourist in Cartagena, check out the mud volcano, an awkward and otherworldly experience. With the bike still hostage on the boat, I took the minibus tour with some fun people and after a hour’s ride we arrived at the mud volcano, which I was assured is a real volcano, but looks less natural than the one out front of The Mirage.

Seriously, my sixth grade baking soda volcano looked less manmade.

I was eager to get neck deep in mud and ran up the stairs. I gave my camera to one of the locals standing by the top of the volcano to take some pictures (for a tip). A strange man in his 50’s told me to back down the stairs. I dipped a toe, the Mud was hot, and felt like I was stepping into a Jell-O mold. As I submerged myself to my chest, I became very worried that I’d get sucked under, trapping my mouth and sinking to the bottom – surely a top five horrible way to go.

But once I was at my chest level, I started bobbing around weightlessly. It was very difficult to move, once my arms were submerged, the mud didn’t want to let them go. The Fifty year-old man grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me away from the stairs, causing me to lay on the surface on my back.

Then he started massaging mud onto my chest, um, I heard about the massages, but I was expecting something much different. As the strange man worked mud onto my chest, face and hair, I had no idea what was above or under the surface, did I mention this was an awkward place? Looking around, I could see other tourist also getting rubbed down by older looking dudes wearing white baseball caps. I heard about the massages by the local indigionous villagers, but was expecting something more National Geographic – topless women with long necks full of beads, not an post-middle aged man sporting a Whitesocks hat.

My masseuse stopped when the mud volcano started to send up large bubbles of gas, that would pop at the surface in a white steamy mist. As more bubbles popped, he started to talk to another local in worried tones. Since I avoided roasting marshmallows during the volcanic eruption outside Guatamala City by only 10 days, I took this volcano’s threat very seriously.

“If it bleeds, we can kill it”

It was time to get out and head down to the lake. Ok, so I got the massage details wrong, but I was sure that indigionous women helped to bath you in the lake, maybe it was too much to expect the bathing scene from “Coming To America,” but I didn’t expect Creep Show.

I was the first to leave the volcano covered in mud and walk toward the lake, slipping on the muddy incline, as I approached the water I saw the ancient women of the lake, a walking undead, small bowl in one hand, arthritic fingers outstretched and reaching for me with the other, my childhood fear has been realized: I was in the Thriller video. I sped up my pace to try and get around them, careful not to slip in the mud as surely they would tear at my flesh. As a herd they moved to block me – I juked, and they jived – surprisingly nimble for corpus from the “Bodies” exhibit. I dove into the knee deep water and began to swim, thinking I was safe looking back at the shore, and just like I was in Crystal Lake, she must have rose from the bowels of the water behind me, and started pouring water on my head. She had me and she certainly earned her tip, so I let her bath me with the Ganges-like lake water. She seemed enamored with my ears, constantly sticking a crooked finger to wash the dirt away. I left the water less clean than I entered.

I really did enjoy the mud volcano and I’d highly recommend it as a once in a lifetime experience.

The minibus tour also included a trip to the beach where I finally encountered a life long hypothetical:

If you were on a beach in Columbia and you saw a large plastic box bobbing around in the water, do you investigate?

Imagine the possibilities

Oh, one more piece of valuable information: Also eating at the restaurant were a platoon of soldiers.

Risk vs Reward – I opted to let the plastic container remain a mystery.

Pie de la Popa.

The Harley has an alarm that flashes the indicator lights whenever it’s jostled – though I’m not sure what thieves would be deterred by blinking hazard lights without a siren or even a beep. On the last day of the sailing from Panama, I remembered that I meant to pull the master fuse to disable the alarm as the alarm would surely freak out over the motion of a boat on the ocean. Since the bike was covered I had no idea if the bike was strobing for five days, which would surely kill the battery. I spent the last day of the crossing thinking about the logistics of push starting a 800lbs bike on the deck of a boat, not going to happen. Having been a boy scout, and recently making a fool of myself trying to push start the bike at the Panama Canal – failure – I wanted to get a set of small jumper cables for the bike, and Trailer Park’s Columbian wife told me about this amazing strip of mechanics in Cartagena along a road called: Pie de la Popa.

A side road off Pia de la Popa

A ten minute walk from the Fort lies The Foot of the Pope, a gear head’s dream. Hundreds of small mechanic’s stores line both sides of the street – auto, motorcycle, marine, it all here. Note, this is a massively sketchy part of town, and I was warned not to bring my camera or anything of value. I walked around for two hours and had a set of small jumper cables to fit onto the bike made up and also a vest with my license plate – ROAD HD – which is compulsorily in Columbia, and I think “road-head” is hysterical to wear. If you need some maintenance done or a bespoke spoke, head to the Foot.

Mini-jumper cables

I spent most nights catching up with the guys from the boat, going out to local bars around the hostel and in Old Town. Every once in a while it would hit me that I’m out drinking in Cartagena, something that I would never have considered doing two years ago. But I felt secure for most of my visit, only having one run in with a window washer who demanded money, but I drove off. Another friend got mugged at a strip bar by thieves posing as police. But these are petty crimes, nothing like the fears of kidnap or shootings.

My Hostel, Holiday, has a really laid back atmosphere and the central patio was a great place to have a quite drink and most importantly, the hostel has a large garage for the bike. Holiday is my first stop on the biker’s hostel tour and I met a couple guys who gave me some advice, the guy on the KLR was really cool (Thanks Greg), the guy on the Beemer 1200 was surprisingly much less cool, curt, and annoyed that I was making the trip on my bike, simply put, he was a dick. Not sure why I felt the need to include that in my blog, but in case he comes a cross this one day, Dude, lighten up.

The Off-Load:

I couldn’t wait to get my bike into South America

This time Fritz opted to use a dock rather than loading my bike into a canoe

Fritz and his Girl Friend wanted to go for a ride

My sled started right up, no need for the jumper cables after all, Sweet!!

Milage entering South America – 37,499 – not bad in two years and three months

I needed to bring my bike to customs, but not before I swung back to the Foot of the Pope to find a car wash to get the salt water off the bike. So much for not bringing anything of value to this neighborhood. The guy at the carwash loved working on my bike, insisting his friends take pictures. He spent over 2 hours washing and polishing the bike, total bill: 4 dollars (he nearly fainted when I tipped him another three bucks for all his effort).

Time for a bike wash, so long sea water

I drove my newly washed and polished bike through the rain to DAIN – the Customs’ house. This was the nicest customs building that I’ve ever been to, air conditioned, flat screen TVs in the lobby, and a Coffee lady passing out shots of espresso (the Columbians love their coffee). The opening concert for the World Cup was playing on the lobby’s flat screen, and when Shakera preformed, the Columbians ran from their desks to watch one of their own play the world’s stage: clapping, cheering, a mini-wave – it was a great moment. The downside – customs was effectively shut down for 20 minutes, but there are worst ways to spend time than watching Shakera’s hips not lye.

A very cool moment to be in Columbia

Everything works out for a reason, while customs was shut, two bikers walked in and we started talking. Rick and Tony were planning on shipping their bikes the following day on Fritz the Cat. We arranged to meet up for drinks to discuss the road South.

Rick is very English, with a dry sense of humor. He’s at the end of a round-the-world trip and looking for a way to get rid of his BMW without losing his deposit on his Carne, he was considering just giving his bike to Fritz just so he could have an exit stamp and write the bike as a loss. Fortunately, Rick has a buyer in Ecuador who will meet him in the no man’s land between boarders, and with the exit stamp from Columbia, he expects to get his $1,500 carne back. We decide to meet up at 8 the following morning and ride to Medellin.

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Wed 16 Jun 2010

The Road to Medellin

Posted by Roberts Jones under Columbia
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The Road to Medellin

Riding through Cartagena during morning rush hour was like a video game. Now I’ve done some stupid stuff on a bike, but Rick is bringing my riding skills up to an idiotic level. He shattered road laws that I didn’t think could be broken. I thought that Doug and I were a little nutz in Mexico, but damn he’s fast, and I was pressing my riding limits keeping up in the turns, flats and construction zones.

Nearly forcing an oncoming bus off the road, Rick is nutz in an awesome way

He’s just passed 30,000 miles on this trip, I guess that gives him confidence

P6110083 1.jpg Things you usually don’t want to see in your rearview – Police truck with lights going.

Don’t worry, the cops in Columbia have much bigger things to worry about than gringos driving like idiots. And truth be told, I passed him allowing me time to get my camera out, things work a little differently here. Oh, for any bikers heading to Columbia, don’t worry about picking up a penny with your license plate and although insurance is obligatory, but when you consider that we have been waved through every checkpoint we’ve come across, we’ve never been asked for insurance.

The landscape and topography of Columbia is the most spectacular of the trip. The road to Medellin was beautiful, green like an Irish jungle.

At one stage, Rick tried to pass a disabled truck on the right shoulder, and ran out of pavement as the shoulder dropped into a ditch. It turns out the truck wasn’t disabled, but rather slowly rolling backwards down a steep incline, and since only an asshole would try to pass on the right, the 18 wheeler didn’t notice him and clipped into his bike (then again, maybe it did see him). The truck ripping off his Pannier. I passed the truck on the left and didn’t see the accident, but after 5 minutes without seeing him cut someone off, I knew that something was wrong. I drove through a large military checkpoint that was set up around a gas station. I filled up and waited for Rick. My bike was quickly surrounded by a couple Army guys asking the usual questions. It had been 10 minutes since I last saw Rick and I was getting worried when I heard his baffle-less BMW come roaring up, did I mention he’s an asshole.

Even pushing it as hard as we were, the mountain roads were eating too much time. It was dusk and we were still 80 miles from Medellin. We needed a place to stop, soon as neither one of us wanted to ride through the Medellin countryside at night. Rick thought the restaurant in the middle of the military checkpoint might have a room, we both figured it would be the safest place to spend the night, or at least we’d get some great photos if if anything went down.

Checkpoint Charley

The Columbian Army Photo Shoot -

The Columbian Army conscripts all males between the ages of 18-25 years old; yup, Columbian men have a 7 year obligatory service. A couple of the soldiers saw us park the bikes in a small garage and wondered over to have a chat. I asked one if he wanted a photo on my bike.

A big gun for a big bike

An option not usually listed in the Harley Accessory Catalogue

The soldiers were stoked to pose for photos on the bike and I used my portable printer to give them a couple pictures.

The soldiers with new pictures with the bikes

This lead to the Columbian photo shoot.

I guess these guys don’t get many photos taken of them in uniform and I would venture that they’ve never had a photo printed.

Over the course of the next three hours, as many as 10 guys at one time came into the garage to get photos on the bikes, pose with their guns, with each other, asking for multiple copies for their moms and girlfriends. It was out of control, but if a dude with a loaded gun asked you for another print, you gladly oblige.

(A quick thought for Columbian drug runners – you’re going about it all wrong, one guy on a Harley with a camera and a $50 printer managed to effectively shut down an entire military checkpoint maned by a platoon – put the AK away and pick up a Nikon.)

The Safest way through the Columbia Countryside

The guys quickly figured out how to use the printer and would print multiple sets for themselves, frequently asking for more photo paper. They did me a solid and let me play with their very large guns. I guess I have a trusting face as there was no limit to how many guns they’d give me, at one point I had access four loaded machine guns, two across my back and one in each hand, I was ready to rock.

The Bikes are safe for the night, guaranteed

One gun. How very English, Rick. Poor effort

The guys were cool and I bought six of them beers from the restaurant. It was funny, they are clearly not allowed to drink on duty, but a free beer on a hot night couldn’t be passed up, so they chugged the beers faster then I could funnel. The highest ranking soldier would stop them mid-chug, say they had too much to drink, then finish their beer for them.

My Columbian Posse

One of the soldiers, Victor, was heading into Medellin the following day and we asked if he needed a lift.

The following morning, as a thank you for all the photos, they gave us boot strap necklace with bullets glued on. Very cool. Of course I was happy to provide the morning shift with some photos too.

The Landscape was stunning

Travel wants a set of fatigues

After a quick snack, Rick, Victor and I were off to Medellin.

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Sun 13 Jun 2010

Panama to Columbia – Open Water & A Dolphin Visit

Posted by Roberts Jones under San Blas
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Blue Water Sailing – Panama to Columbia

Ok, I may have to have a serious rethink about this sailing around the world stuff, last night was hard core. Although the Catamaran is very stable in the water, three large thunderstorms tossed us around a bit. The seas were high, the boat was being rocked, and I got sick about once every sixty minutes for the first five hours until I finally broke down and accepted a sea sickness patch from Fritz, which helped out a lot, but I still dry heaved through my one hour watch at the helm. Sorry, no pictures.

Fritz was hysterically funny during the storm last night, he really let the Austrian expletives fly during frequent tacking as we were head to wind – now I understand what it means to curse like a sailor. Feeling raw, I was sleeping outside, when I was awoken from a dead sleep the first time he started shouting at Luis; with all the drama, I thought we were about to hit a Carribian Iceberg. Waking to an Austrian shouting German and English Curses and commands is intense, and I hope a once in a lifetime experience. After all the shouting, I watched Luis wench the jib from one side of the mast to the other, and Fritz settled, apparently the disaster was avoided. Holly crap, all that for a tack? As we were head-to-wind, it would be a rough night of sleep.

The seas are much calmer today, and I’ve been able to type on the computer, which is amazing, thanks Scopoderm TTS (my seasickness savior).

When I woke this morning, I became very concerned for my bike, when we secured the motorcycle to the side of the boat (strapped to the raised port keel), the bike’s weight was resting on it’s tires. While the boat was being tossed about last night, the rear tire slipped, tilting the bike until the tank was resting against the raised keel, supporting the weight of the bike, on rough seas – gulp.

I don’t know how if there is any damage as I can’t remove the safety straps to take a look at it, besides, why ruin the rest of the crossing looking at what could be a dented and scratched tank, Oops, I guess I just did. This morning, Fritz and I readjusted the placement of the bike so the engine guard is against the keel, something that I wanted to do in the beginning but when loading the bike I was too tired to be specific, it was my fault, I should have insisted we move the bike before we headed out into open water.

A highlight of the trip: Dolphin Surfing our bow. They hung out for 15 minutes, playing in the waves, swimming upside down, totally made the previous night’s sea sickness completely worth it – Buds, I guess sailing the world is back on the table.

The Dolphin were close enough to touch

This guy kept having fun, doing flips under water, while his tail would breach the surface.

And finally, I put on a shirt this morning, first time after 4 days, surely my shirtless adult life record.

After our last night’s sailing, we arrived in Cartagena at 3am!!

Soon, it would be time to unload my bike!!

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Sat 12 Jun 2010

Sailing the San Blas Islands

Posted by Roberts Jones under San Blas
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San Blas Islands – Heaven on Earth

The San Blas is a string of hundreds of tiny white sand Islands covered in palm trees in an autonomous region of Southern Panama, exactly what I invasion when I hear Caribbean islands. Each Island is independently owed by indigenous Kuna Yala, some islands appear abandoned, covered in lush vegetation, others have small huts made of palm leaves, almost all the buildings look natural and native.

Carti, the big city

Paradise

We spent the first night moored at Elephant Island, which has two active structures, a small bar built entirely from palm leaves, and a volleyball net strung between two palm trees. Considering we were an hours sail from the Cartin, Dollar beers seemed very generous.

Elephant Island

Scattered on the leeward side of Elephant are about a dozen sailboats of various sizes, my favorite was the 32’ Sunshine, which has served as Debbie and Wayne’s home away from South Africa for the last seven years. This is a small community of sailors cruising the San Blas, many have cut off their ties with land and are on extended journeys lasting years and in some cases decades.

About an hour before sunset, the dozen boats emptied and everyone headed to the Elephant Island’s bar, like all great bars, became a sort of community center. I felt lucky and privileged to join them for beers and good stories.

A community of world travelers

I was absolutely geeking out with every bit of information they had to offer. For some time now, I’ve seriously considered buying a boat, live aboard it for a few years paying it off and saving, then exploring the world by sail – now I know that it’s even possible for me to strap the Harley to the side. I cherished the opportunity to speak to people who are doing just that. Debbie told me about their little boat surfing 20’ seas over four days, then arriving in a Cartegenaa port in a state of delirium and hallucination. I found it really funny that she still gets sea sick for three days when they head out of port, but she considers it a small price to pay to see the world. Chris and Paul are English brothers in their late twenties who bought a 33’ Catamaran, left Southern England 8 months ago and are thinking of sailing backpackers to Columbia to help offset the 800-900 dollars it will cost to take their boat through the Panama Canal, then they are off to find out if the world is really round.

I heard stories of spear fishing every morning to stay fit and nourished, raising children on boats and living off less than $500 per month. It was great fun to hear what equipment is really indispensable and what expensive electronics are merely toys that will break after a year and won’t get replaced. The rest the party from my boat headed back in the dingy and I opted to stay, eventually getting a ride back a few hours later. Bridget, you and I are going to come back to Elephant Island in the San Blas, hopefully on a round the world journey.

Life in the San Blas onboard “Fritz the Cat” – Imagine repeating the best day at the beach, again and again. I’ve started most days with a swim to a Kuna islands and had a quick walk around, then snorkeling reefs. Between frequent naps on deck and below, I’ve eaten amazing meals prepared by Luis, the First Mate. Sailing around the San Blas allows for a great deal of time to read, sun and listen to good music. If you are on a similar journey and heading to Columbia from Panama, sailing is absolutely the way to go. I can’t want to come back.

Some pict’s of a couple lazy days:

Harley’s Happy

Getting around the islands, Kuna Style

Spear Fishing

Off for the Morning Swim

Kuna would come up to the boat offering the sea’s finest and the largest lobster I’ve ever seen

And Some Friends I Met Along The Way:

Fritz plays us off to start the journey

Sunrise – A room with a view (Jason)

Luis, 1st mate and a really cool guy (and a former tamer of White Lions)

Sarah enjoys the view while Peter passes the time reading a good book

Music at Sunset (Martin)

Line-fishing at sunset (Matt)

Tulit at the helm

Time for a good book (Dave)

Fritz is heading out to catch some dinner (some of the finest fish I’ve ever tasted)

Finally, heading out for a spin around the islands

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Fri 11 Jun 2010

The Road to San Blas

Posted by Roberts Jones under San Blas
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The Road to the San Blas Islands, Panama

I’m sitting on a 45’ catamaran at anchor, the Captain has Wagner blasting, a fresh Atlas beer at my side, waiting to sail for Columbia tomorrow. The sunset over the water was spectacular, I’ve been greeted by thousands of stars and two satellites tracing through the sky, and the view below me is more spectacular as small fish swimming through phosphorescence in the water. Simply, this is the perfect ending of an exciting day.

Doug flew back to New York the yesterday – I am a solo loco gringo. I woke up at 4am, packed up the bike and followed the minibus towards the San Blast Islands. The minibus ditched me at a gas station, which was cool because it gave me an opportunity to ask directions at a weight station and I took the opportunity to get the weight of me, my bike and gear: 560 Kilos (1,232lbs), ouch.

Once I turned off the Pan American towards the Caribbean, the road quickly disintegrated into dirt/hard packed gravel and fresh construction. The steep grade of the gravel hills made the trip interesting with my overloaded bike pulling wheelies as I on the uphill grades – I’m not complaining, I’m the idiot that packed so much crap (apparently hundreds of pounds of it). I paid $9 to drive into the Kuna territory (an autonomous region that runs the length of Southern Panama’s Caribbean coast line).

Then I came upon my first interesting test for the day.

A new river to cross, this one was larger than the river in El Salvador, deeper and not well maintained.

I hopped off the bike and waded through the river to the other side. This river is much faster than the crossing in El Salvador and waist deep in the middle.

I though I found a line to cross through the widest bit of the river, the water was 4-6 inches deep and although the river was fastest in this part, it seemed manageable. The problem was the very far side of the river, river was deep – the water lever was above my shin, I could tell as my boots suddenly filled with muddy river water – at it’s shallowest, 12 inches. I estimated that my air intake was around my lower kneecap – 14 inches which is very generous and not at all accurate. This didn’t leave much room for error.

I spent 20 minutes walking the river banks looking for an better crossing, but the mud was worst further down the river and I didn’t have the energy to blaze a new trail. There were a couple dugout canoes of the local indigenous tribe, but getting my bike into a dugout would require several hands, and no one was around.

I remembered coming across this vary scenario playing Oregon Trail in grade school: should I ford the river, wait, or try and find something to help get me across?

I walked up to the construction guys working on an unfinished bridge, I wanted to see if the bridge was passable. The road crew was in the middle of the bridge pouring concrete, the rest of the bridge was merely exposed eyebeams. I was satisfied, unless I wanted to ride through fresh concrete, drive 100’ straddling a 12 inch eyebeam and then go Evil Knievel with a 6’ drop on the far side, the bikes gonna have to go through the river. I took one last stab at asking if I could load my bike onto the back of one of the construction flatbeds. One guy suggested I load the bike onto the front plow of a bulldozer but I would have to get the Jefe to approve it, I smiled thinking this would make a great photo, and searched for the Jefe . When I found him, he wasn’t interested in losing several of his guys to help me load the bike onto a truck, and basically said that I needed to man-up and drive the bike through the river. Not for a lack of trying, my Harley was going to have to get wet.

I dumped all my bags and saddle bag. I even took off the small bags that ride on my rear engine guard, I reasoned that these bags strapped to the side of my Harley would create too much wake which could flood the air intake – I think that thinking about a Harley’s wake may be my first universally original thought. I pumped up the back shock to 45lbs in the delusional thought that I’d increase my ground clearance. I opted to ride without my helmet or coat, why get them wet if I ate it? I set up my SLR to auto shoot, keeping the frame wide not knowing where I could have trouble in the water.

I started up the engine – it’s times like these I think it could be for the last time. Without the 200lbs of baggage, I made it with easy through the mud bank and dropped into the river, making a hard right to the shallow section where I could keep my mufflers mostly out of the water.

The water ran quickly, but it didn’t matter as the rear tire soon started digging into the gravel. I put my feet down and took the weight off the bike. Man, I did not want to get stuck in the middle of a Panamanian River. I rocked back and forth riding the clutch, without my ass weighing down the bike I was able to straddle and walk the bike to a more firm riverbed, I was pretty sure the pipes were now out of the water, and I took a moment to pick a line through the 15 feet of deepest section left to ford before the muddy bank.

I looked up at the bridge, the entire construction crew looked on, and I’m sure more than a few guys were hoping the gringo would go down in a splash and steam, I know that’s what I would have been thinking if I were on that

bridge.

DCC_0989 River Crossing.jpg

I quickly rehearsed stroking my right thumb over the kill switch. If I dropped the bike in the river or the air intake gets submerged, this would be my only chance to save the engine.

A View from the Muddy Bank looking back toward the Hole that Must be Crossed

There are moments in my life when I realized that I’m an idiot. I didn’t want this to be one of them.

San Blas River Crossing.jpg

I gassed the engine, and slowly let off the clutch. The front tire rolled down above the breaks and I was committed, I dumped the clutch and the back tired dropped down. On the bike, white knuckled, I was left wondering what my pipes sounded like underwater? I stayed on the gas while the front tire bounced through larger submerged stones.

“Just keep your eyes where you want to go, just keep your eyes where you want to go,” staring down the least muddy bit of the river bank fast approaching. I was through the deepest stretch in five seconds, then hit the mud with some force. The front tire wobbled, unsure of a line, the back tire pushed through the river bed, forcing the bike up, and I let momentum carry me through the slickest/deepest mud. I stayed on the gas and popped up the hill. I was stoked, river cross and the engine sounded fine, sweet.

I left the engine running hoping if any water did make it into the engine, it would get cleared out when I returned my the first load of bags. I spent 20 minutes criss-crossing the river, bags in hand. To save time, I took the most direct route, which put me through waist deep water, I had taken my wallet out earlier, but I forgot to check my pockets on my thighs, where I left my keys with my electronic dongle, a security “feature” that doesn’t allow the bike to start without the keys being within 6’ of the bike. Fuck, it this things isn’t water proof, I’m going to have a very long, long way to push my bike back to a Harley dealership. I let the keys dry in the sun while I went back for the rest of my gear.

Fortunately, after my fourth trip across the river, with the heaviest bags left to go, a guy parked his pickup next to my gear and stepped out for a pee. Embarrassed I saw him, he was kind enough to let me load the remaining four bags into his bed.

My Support Team

I haphazardly strapped everything to the bike knowing that I have to unload it once I got to the boat and headed towards the Atlantic.

Right before the Cuna dock, I had one of my best experiences at a checkpoint yet. The Army guard was awesome and loved my bike, he had loads of questions which is common, but what is uncommon is he picked up his dog and put it on my luggage.

I got a kick out of this as I often ride with my dog on the back too.

She rides bitch

I asked the Army guard if he wanted to take a photo on the bike, he replied with a Spanish version of “Hell Yeah”. Then he picked up his dog and put it on my tank.

Shit. The dog got spooked on the slick surface, dug its nails down and jumped. The biggest scratches in my tank to date, due to a dog’s photo-op.

It was hard for me to be angry at a dude posing for a photo wielding a machinegun with a shit-eating grin.

I drove towards the sea, arriving at a Cuna dock. I asked one of the locals when the sailboat would pull up to the dock, and he pointed at a small yellow and blue boat, and made a Harley vrrooommm noise lifting his hands up pulling a mock wheelie. Um, I guess I’m meant to drive the bike onto the 15’ skiff bobbing in the water at the end of the dock; this was going to be interesting. After we both stared at the small boat bobbing around, and came to the same conclusion,

loading from the dock would be too unstable, a beach landing would be best. The small boat was backed up to the sand, the outboard removed, and they laid a thick plank of wood off the back.

Once again stripped down, I drove the bike onto the beach up to the ramp. I inched the Harley closer to the plank, one of the guys told me to stop and turn off the engine.

Whaaa?.jpg

Phew, they didn’t expect me to ride up this plank after all, I’ve got to leave something on my bucket list.

Suddenly I was surrounded by 10 guys who all help push the bike up the ramp, which was actually easy, but the skid plate would once again get some good use as the front tire rolled down into the boat. The bike slid nicely on the plate, until something caught, which I figured was the mount for the center stand. I would later find a half-inch tear in the trim around my front fender – no biggie, I was planning on replacing this eventually anyway as it’s starting to pit and corrode.

After loading the bike onto the small boat, we “reinforced” it with planks wedged next to the engine guards, which seemed easy, but likely not too safe once we got into the ocean. I thanked the Cuna, and we made our way out to the 49’ Catamaran “Fritz the Cat”.

My new favorite photo of my bike

Fritz the Cat

Fritz is a gregarious Austrian who clearly loves life. Even before we arrived at the boat, I could hear his infectious laughter over the sound of the outboard. Fritz comes onto deck wearing nothing but a Speedo, perfect.

Fritz the Man

I only read one review of the “Fritz the Cat” at Madalena Hostel, written by a girl with a very negative tone, she said that Fritz had 6 bikes loaded onto his deck, one with a sidecar – what was meant to be a ‘dis, but was music to my ears. Surely if he could load on a bike with a side car, he could managed my little monster. Still in a Speedo, he looked down at my bike and shook his head, in a heavily Austrian accent thicker than my governor’s, “This is a big bike.”

“Surely, you’ve loaded on bigger, right?” Fritz just shook his head, “This is a big bike. How many Kilos.” Proud that I went over the truck scale that very morning, “560.” A look of dread came over Fritz’s face. “Um, but that’s me and all my crap, just 350 to 400.”

“We shall make it work, now won’t we?” Then he started laughing. I liked Fritz already.

We strapped ropes to the engine guards, which wrapped around the tank. Today’s been a tough day on the aesthetics of the bike, considering the soldier’s dog tap dance and torn fender trim, but lifting by bike by sandy lines straddling the tank was too much. I stopped the everyone, and rapped the tank with my leather jacket, “If it can protect me, it’ll protect my bike.”

The bike was secured to the bottom of the boom and up it went.

The process took thirty minutes as we had to sort out how to get the rear tire onto the boat. I would hear “This is a big bike” several more times.

Once the bike was safely aboard and rolled to a piece of fiberglass we could secure it to, everyone left their guard down and I had my most scary experience of the entire trip: I was standing on the seaward side of the bike, wedged next to the unhooked lifelines which only came up to my knees. At easy that the toughest part was behind us, everyone had let go of the bike which was balancing on it’s tires. Suddenly it heaved towards me, rolling onto my knees pushing me backwards. Within a second, three sets of hand grabbed the bike to keep it from rolling over onto me, then falling onto the boat 6 feet below, and likely crushing me. I took a deep breath and laughed. That was a close one.

The Harley is now successfully secured to the side of the Cat. I wrapped it in large trash bags to keep it safer from the sea air (Fritz laughed as taping the bags down with ducttape, will surely prove useless against the sea). Fritz invited me in for lunch and a beer, did I mention that I like Fritz? I took a moment and looked at my bike and the Central American coast, tomorrow we’ll start our journey to South America and the next leg of my adventure has begun.

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Wed 2 Jun 2010

Panama – Yaviza & The Darien

Posted by Roberts Jones under Panama - Yaviza & The Darien
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The ride to the End of the Road – Yaviza, Panama and the Darien Gap.

The road from Panama City to Yaviza is new and in disappointingly good shape, I wanted something more (or less) from the End of the Road. It was a really pretty ride through jungle, farms, and past a gorgeous lake.

Lakes near Darien.jpg

The only indication that we were nearing the boarder with Columbia were the frequent police and military checkpoints, at one point, three within a mile.

Darien Checkpoint.jpg

I did my patriotic duty and helped this soldier meet two passing beauties by insisting that they also get in the shot with him, they were still chatting when I drove off.

The Road comes to an abrupt end in Yaviza, the fronteria (boarder) of The Darien Gap, the last lawless land in The Americas without a functioning government. A mountainous jungle without road accesses: a haven for Columbian drug runners, smugglers and the FARC.

Sadly, Yaviza is exactly what I was hoping for, a depressing shanty village of old weathered people and the very young who have yet to leave. The town sits on a small peninsula surrounded by the Rio Chucuaque, then nothing but a jungle canopy for 100 miles into Columbia. We drove down the raised concrete road only slightly larger than a sidewalk that horseshoes through town, pasted the suspicious look of the locals sitting on their decaying patios. I tried smiling and waving, they returned skeptical looks, I really felt like an outsiders who did not belong.

Yaviza #1.jpg

Crossing through the Frontiera

Doug saw a guarded gate to a Panamanian Army base and joked with me, “You should try and get a picture of your bike in front of the gate.” I agreed that I should give it a try and pulled my bike up to the gate. Doug remained hidden around the corner. I smiled at the eighteen year old guard, trying not to stare at his machine gun and trying saying in my best Spanish that I would like to take a picture of my motorcycle. Having no idea what I was saying, he looked back at another guard hidden behind a pile of sandbags. I wondering how many gun sites were currently pointed at me. Realizing that a photo in front of the Army base wasn’t really that important, I was ready to back up the bike slowly. The voice shouted something to the guard, who smiled and started opening the gate. Although I was unsure, I couldn’t pass up a photo from behind the gates, and I pulled in.

Darian Army Base.jpg

The Soldier indicated that I should park right next to a pickup truck, but the water tower made for a better frame, so I parked further up, first mistake. I hopped off the bike and start taking pictures, bigger mistake. Looking back, driving into the middle of the military compound, parking where I pleased and starting to take pictures may actually have been presumptuous. A new Army grunt came up shouting in Spanish, then yelled, “No Pictures”. He gestured to come with him. Still wearing my helmet, I gave him same the same confused look head-tilt look my dog gives when she’s caught doing something wrong. He became more animated that I need to follow. I gave a warm smile, with was returned with a firm, “Come.” In toe, I rounded behind a machine gun nest, past curious soldiers distracted from their soccer game. I was then escorted into a back building far from Doug’s view.

It was now dawning on me that I stumbled into the last Panamanian military outpost before The Darien’s No Man’s Land, or if you glass is half-full – the first line of defense against the Western Hemisphere’s Thunderdome. These guys were the real deal, raiding FARC hideouts, capturing drug runners and kidnapers.; and I intended to use them as extras in my little moto adventure, even I realized that I was in over my head.

An officer watches me from atop a raised counter sheepishly approach, he shouts “Passporte”. I gave an warm but awkward smile. ”PassportE!” Quickly realizing the two lesions of Rosetta Stone that I bothered sitting through never touched on conversations to placate Panamanian Army officers that have actually killed while on search and destroy missions (but I do know how to properly pronounce Egypt and Japan).

The only comfort I had in that moment was knowing that Doug was outside the gates and could maybe raise help if I was further detained. This hope faded as I heard his approaching voice. I would later find out the first armed guard walked out of the compound and told Doug that he would have to report into the base with his bike, which really scared the hell out of him. Doug looked at me still wearing my half-helmet, and said under his breath, “Dude, what is going on?”

“PassportE!!”

“Um, I think they need your passport.”

The officer starts writing down our passport information, firing questions about our time in Panama, our destination tonight, why we were in Yaviza. Fortunately, with each answer in broken Spanish and seeing Doug and I my behavior together made the officer realize that we weren’t a treat, just two really, really, stupid Americans who found themselves in a military base in the Darien Gap. Although I know nothing about Soccer, I figured striking up a conversation about the soldier’s pickup game with the guard who yelled at me not to take pictures couldn’t hurt. One of the Panamanian players was barefoot running on dirt and gravel, and it was agreed in a couple languages that playing on gravel without shoes was stupid. I kept having an urge to see if I could talk my way into the game, but I figured my motorcycle boots and a general lack of athleticism would only result in disaster.

After ten more minutes, the officer handed back our passports waving us away, the guard escorted us pasted the soccer player without shoes, past the machine gun nest, and back to our bikes. The guards were just doing their jobs checking out who we were an what business we had in Southern Panama.

As we walked up to the bikes, a distinguished looking Officer with one Star on each lapel was checking them out. He speaks English and we got to talking, he rides sport bikes and had loads of questions about the Harley. He was generally very cool, and clearly in charge. So “No Pictures” be damned, I of course I had to ask him if he wanted to take a seat on my ride.

The General

Doug and I both desperately needed gas , and we asked the General if there was any in Yaviza, he told us we could go buy a liter out of a 50 gallon drum from a guy down the street. During the course of this trip, I’m prepared to get a plastic water bottle of gas from a rusty drum, but out of necessity, I had nearly a gallon left and the General suggested we ride the 30 miles back to a proper gas station.

The guard opened the gates, and we started riding out of the base, smiling. A Panamanian guy ran up and we talked in English for a minute, he further confirmed that we should push on for gas – apparently the gasman has a reputation of watering down his drum. Doug was behind me and I didn’t realize that he was still in the way of the guard being able to fully close the gate. Apparently this secure Army outpost was much less so while the Gringos were around.

I am still unsure what the Panamanian Military will do with our information, but as far as I was concerned, we were checked out of Panama and clear to head towards Columbia through the Darien Gap, and where there’s a will there’s a way. Ok, trying to drive a full sized Harley into the Darien would be stupid, even for me, but I simply had to cross the river to at least get beyond The End of the Road and touch The Darien. So I looked around for a boat.

I considered asking one of the fishermen if I could load my bike onto his canoe, but we’d need at least 6 to 8 people to help.

Finding the means to cross into the Darien, but where do I load my bike?

I had to cross. I want to say Prudhoe Bay to The Darien, not just Prudhoe to Yaviza, but I needed to bring my bike that has carried me all these miles. Then the route to The Darien presented itself: I could cross the river via an old and pedestrian bridge in the distance!

The Darien Pedestrian Bridge

Although driving 1,000+ lbs of man and machine onto an old suspension bridge that I knew nothing about registers very high in my very, very long history of bad ideas, I was prepared to give it a try.

When I saw that each of the stairs leading up to the bridge had a small concrete ramp likely used for wheelbarrows, I knew I had to go for it. Looking back, I should have at least walked across it to see if it was safe, but if I did that, I would have been fuckin’ crazy to drive a Harley onto that bridge.

I handed Doug my SLR camera and said that I was going to give it a go, he thought I was joking, saying, “If the bridge snaps, I won’t give you a hand.” Not very reassuring.

“I’m serious, I’m doing it.” He shook his head, and started walking across the bridge probably thinking that I couldn’t even clear the stairs and make it up to the bridge.

I pulled the bike up the small ramp on the stairs, being careful to take my weight off the bike as each stairs’ apex was about to come in contact with my skidplate (a skill perfected on Mexican Topes). Doug took his time crossing the bridge, I was hoping that he was inspecting the bridge for any missing metal plates, but I think he was simply annoyed and wasn’t in any rush.

I sat with my front tire resting on the first metal plate and when Doug was safely off the bridge, I gave the bike a little gas, hesitating for a second of reflection and savored the anticipation, then slowly released the clutch.

The bridge greeted the back tire with a loud clang/pop as it rolled onto the first metal plate. The sounds were worrisome. As the bike rolled forward, the tension wires vibrated making a cool Star Wars laser guns noise. The suspension bridge started buckling under the weight of the bike and I felt like I was riding a wave, pushing me faster and faster. With only eight inches of clearance between the chainlink safety fence and my grips, I lifted my feet onto the floor boards, I didn’t want to get my foot caught up if I wiped into the side. As the bridge groaned and shifted, I decided I would ride it out, quickly.

I smiled as I road past the concrete pillars on the other side, apparently the bridge was safe after all, who knew?

I stopped and took a moment – I was in the Darien. Sure crossing this bridge wasn’t life changing, but it was sweet. I went a little bit further than most riders, regardless of the make of their bike, and I was proud of that. I turned the bike around, waited for a couple of curious pedestrians to clear and positioned the bike to head back.

I asked Doug to stand at a different angle and shouted “If I go through the bridge, don’t stop shooting!” And drove off with a cacophony of shifting metal as my theme music.

I’m glad I didn’t view the bridge from this angle before driving across, I don’t think I would have summoned the nutz.

When I cleared the stairs, I let out a deep breath and parked, waiting for Doug. A woman came up and started screaming at me in Spanish. The only word I made out was “Peligroso”, a word I’ve heard a lot on this trip. When she got most of her screaming out of her system, she could see that I was still amped and started to match my smile. I butchered if “Otros motos manajen la puenta a la otra sida?” (What I meant to say was, “Have other Motorcycles driven across the bridge”). She realized just how bad my Spanish was, and that yelling at me in Spanish was going to be a waist of her engergy, she replied “No” and rolled her eyes.

Doug made it across the bridge, and the woman said something about the bridge being very old and not good to cross even by foot. I guess the bridge is a bit safer than she thought.

Having vented, she walked off satisfied. My goal is to have an adventure, not to piss off locals, especially in boarder towns, so after a fun day of meeting new people (The General) and trying something new, it was time to get out of Yaviza and head back to the Hostel and go out for a night on the town with our friend Kevin, who recently moved to Panama City.

I checked my odometer: 8,216 miles from Los Angeles to The Darien (beyond The End of the Road). First Leg of the trip complete, what an Awesome Fucking Time.

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Wed 2 Jun 2010

Panama City

Posted by Roberts Jones under Panama City
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Panama City –

So I’ve included a bunch of pictures. Even after five days, I have very little ground breaking insight into this town, only anecdotal comments about Doug and My time running around acting stupid. Enjoy…

The worldwide credit crises hit Panama City hard. It is a mix of condemned tear downs and modern high-rises at various stages of construction – a skyline of skeletons buildings and still cranes. Driving into the city at night, it’s eery how completed enormous towers are mere silhouettes, without any lights. Real estate in Panama is expensive, and far beyond the means of an average Panamanian. It’s a modern city of condos and empty malls built for Western retirees who have yet to come.

Doug and I took a stroll to check out the city’s culture, walking through to Casco Viejo (Old Town).

We stopped by some very sad beaches which made me regret every water bottle from which I’ve ever drank.

Nightlife - I felt like PeeWee entering the biker bar, all eyes were on Doug and I walked through the saloon doors into this dive bar outside of Casco Viejo. The bartender told us no pictures, but we managed to get in a few shots.

The bar had two televisions, one playing a Merchant Ivory production (Jayne Eyre I think), and the other playing softcore porn (a jukebox was in the corner allowing you the opportunity to select your favorites, the porn not movies based on Jayne Austen books). You can guess which way Doug and I faced.

Local beers were sixty-five cents (although some crazy local woman who showed Doug how to use the pornbox talked him into buying her a $1.50 Corrona).

We walked across the street to check out a few of the other bars, I don’t know if I felt safer or much less so letting people outside know that I wasn’t packing heat.

Casinos – Holy crap, Panama City has dozens of casinos. Doug and I made a Casino tour, most are really nice, especially the Majestic which is an anchor store in a new mall next to the Harley dealership. The tables weren’t necessarily kind, especially for Doug, but I managed to maintain Even-Steven. The Casinos have loads of prostitutes hanging out by the bar, which was fine, but some of the oddest looking ones would sit next to me at the tables when I was ahead. I became convinced they are a form of cooler working for the hotel, pawing at me until I was skeezed out until and would lose.

Buses - We hopped on a couple converted old school buses. Man, these things are awesome, amazing paint jobs, light displays, Optimums-Prime mufflers, some are rumored to be on hydraulics. We’ve see versions of these throughout Central America, but Panama has got to be have the finest set of tricked out school busses on the planet. The painting schemes totally work, I refused to get on a few plain buses and opted for something more unique.

The Panama Canal - The Panama Canal was interesting and I was shocked to learn 12,000+ died of Yellow Fever during the construction of the railroad and a further 22,000+ died during France’s attempt at building the canal. The American effort (1903-1914) had a much lower mortality rate after a successful effort to eradicate the mosquito – you’ve just been fun facted.

I could tell you more about the canal, but you’re better off Googling for accurate information in stead of my typing a bunch of misremembered information. In a nut shell, it’s cool to see the canal, once, I think I’m suposto say it was an engineering feet and it is pretty impressive, and it is. The museum is informative, my favorite nugget of info: little train cars drive the ships through the locks, which I thought is genus.

Clearly a ship carrying US Exports

Safety Boat?.jpg

The Ship would have to be exploding before I would fall 8 stories in this life torpedo

A larger canal is being built to accommodate larger New Panamax cargo ships and is meant to be completed in 2014, but won’t use the little train cars relying on tugboats.

The highlight of the trip to the Canal was coming down a large set of stairs towards the parking lot, I saw some six year old kid propped up on my bike posing for a photo. Personally, I like it when people pose for photos on my bike, even when I’m not around. Then my friend Kevin pointed out that my lights were on. Shit, this is a really bad habit I have. I tried starting it, but the bike just cranked and clicked, dead battery. I tried my first push start, failure.

A big thanks goes out to the Panama Canal Bombaderos as they saved me from a long push home

Two miscellaneous photos:

I would ask for my money back, but as I’m in a Spanish speaking country, I don’t know how

One of the more disturbing road sign I’ve ever seen, but it got me to slow down

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Dos Locos Gringos

Notes from the Crash:

The Galapagos

Medellin to Quito, Equador

Cartagena, Columbia

The Road to Medellin

Panama to Columbia – Open Water & A Dolphin Visit

Sailing the San Blas Islands

The Road to San Blas

Panama – Yaviza & The Darien

Panama City

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