http://www.MikeHappens.com Mike Ellsworth Travel Blog en-us Sun, 15 Nov 2009 00:00:35 GMT Sat, 28 Mar 2009 08:18:24 GMT MikeHappens.com http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss mike@mikehappens.com (Mike Ellsworth) mike@mikehappens.com (W3Now Web Design, Inc. at http://W3Now.com) http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_50777.cfm Well, I haven't updated this is ages, have I? Let me summarize it in a few short paragraphs. From Perth, Australia I went north a few hundred kilometers to Dongara. I don't remember this place at all really. But I remember the next few days.   I moved north to Kalbarri on the coast and attended a kite surfingf competition. That night I randomly met up with two Dutch dudes who were taking their truck around Oz. We gate crashed the kite surfing party and after-party, then camped out with other travelers and created our own party with pirated booz from the previous parties. We got in trouble with the police. Actually what they said was, ‘If there were any police around they might tell you to put your open alcohol away' - this they said from the window of their patrol car. We took this to mean ‘drink what you've got open and don't open any more'.   Hungover, I drove north through the endless outback and hit a town called Carnavon, which was a bit of a dump and not much to report from there. I met several other travelers, mostly Asian, who were doing berry picking on farms for a few months. They mostly did it for some ‘experience', whatever that means, but there were a few guys who just ran out of money in Oz and didn't have much of a choice but to settle down and pick berries for pennies.   Through the ride up to Kalbarri and Carnavon, temperatures hit at about 117 degrees for most of the day. I know this because I stopped off at every gas station and asked the clerk. I stopped at every single one because they were several hundred kilometers apart and I needed fuel, water, and a bit of air conditioning. Driving through 117 degree heat in full motorcycle uniform isn't fun. It's actually hell. Also, along the way, I kept getting asked ‘Oh, are you the American the two Canadians were looking for?' Bob and Wayne had stopped at every gas station as well a day before and told the clerks to keep an eye out for me and told them to tell me where they were headed. I don't know why they always thought Bob was Canadian as well.   Anyways, after Carnavon I kept north and hit the Fortesque River, middle of nowhere. It was just about that time of day where I start to look for a place to camp and up ahead it looked as though I might hit a storm if I kept going.   I parked under the only tree I've seen in days and setup the tent, and right then it started raining, hard. I stuffed my entire luggage inside the one-man tent and sat there a while, quite cramped, and smoked. The first lightning strike didn't scare me, but the next one did as it landed about a few hundred meters away. I thought, ‘Here I am, under the only tree in 1000 kilometers with a very large metal motorcycle just beside me. Good planning'.   Actually I was scared shitless. The rain stopped within 5 minutes so I got out of my tent to view the storms progress. I could still see it raining about a kilometer away and the lightning was going crazy striking everywhere. It was moving from east to west and I was just on the southern edge of it. I watched it move along well into the night and saw one of the best and scariest light show ever.   I remember that night quite well even after the storm because the ground was too hot to sleep on. I was sweating beads inside my tent lying on top of the sleeping bag, which quickly became soaked. Not pleasant. I finally moved my sleeping bag on my motorcycle and slept on the seat. Not comfortable, but still able to sleep.   I finally met Bob and Wayne, randomly, at some random stop off - The Sandfire Roadhouse, as is listed on the map. So random, there wasn't even a town name associated with this area. I had meant to just stop for gas and head a couple more hours north. I saw them standing there ordering some cheeseburgers. The rest of the day we sat in the hotel trying to get the air conditioning to work not daring open the door to the outside for fear of the intense heat and the infuriating hoard of flies. I was supposed to meet them in Perth but our paths got crossed somewhere. It was good to see them again.   The next day, riding with the two guys, we finally hit green grass and beautiful scenery. It was such a fast and drastic change to the brown bushes that we all three just stopped and stared at the green. As Wayne put it ‘What the hell, now all the sudden we're in Canada?' Bob was the only one who didn't like the foliage; he prefers desert, being from Arizona and all. Wayne and I loved it. Later we hit Fitzroy Crossing and stopped there for the night. I don't remember much about this place except for the Aboriginals singing along to fifties and sixties American classic songs at a bar. The three of us were the only white guys in the place.   Sadly, the Australian stereotype about Aboriginals is, well, true. They get money from the government and do nothing but go to bars and sit around in parks. I asked one what he does, meaning what he does for work. He said ‘Oh, there is a lot to do around here'. He was either avoiding the question or didn't know what I was asking, but I didn't press the question. All that aside, I met many Aboriginals and they were all very friendly.   We kept heading east along the north of Australia, our focus on hitting Katherine. When we got there we'd make the decision to head South towards Alice Springs, the middle of Australia, and also Ayers Rock - or we'd get out of the heat and head north to Darwin and ship over to Singapore. Bob was back and forth on the idea. Wayne was going to do what Bob did, either way, but I was set on getting to Southeast Asia because I was running out of money. Oz is expensive.   Anyway, we hit a place called Kununurra, where we were told we could not go any further because the Victoria River was over 20 feet above the bridge. We were told we would have to wait a couple weeks for the water to recede. Luckily, Kununurra was a proper town - it even had a grocery store. We setup camp at a hotel and had a ‘barbi' out back. We went to the grocery store and bought some kangaroo, wallaby, and crocodile. I tried cooking some of the vegetables that we bought but I was kindly told to stay away from the grill because I don't know what the hell I'm doing. Fair enough. I sat on the patio, smoked some cigarettes and drank some wine. The food was superb and better than any restaurant I've been to anywhere in Oz, and it's about ten times cheaper cooking ourselves.   We only waited about four or five days in Kununurra and we got word that the river went down quickly. It was weird to think about - I was nearly killed in a brush fire in Tasmania and we're being drowned here in northern Australia. Anyways, we crossed the river safely and we were surprised to see that a new bridge was being built beside the old one. And the water had even reached above the new bridge, we could tell because of how dirty it was. We were also told they had to redo the foundation of the new bridge they were building because of the floodwaters.   At Katherine Bob and Wayne had decided to head South to Alice Springs. I went north to Darwin. I had planned to meet Bob and Wayne in Singapore when our bikes arrived, assuming our bikes got on the same boat. I was in Darwin less than a day and I managed to drop my bike off at the warehouse since it was a very simple process to ship the bike. The motorcycle would be shipped seven days later and would take a week to get to Singapore. So, I had two weeks. I flew straight to Singapore the next day.   On the flight to Singapore I had to fill out the entry card. On it said ‘Penalty of Death for Drug Smuggling'. It wasn't a problem for me, but I figured that Southeast Asia would be as liberal about drugs as South America was, but apparently not. I soon learned that chewing gum was illegal, as was smoking within fifteen feet of public entrances to buildings. All cigarettes are highly taxed and had to be purchased within Singapore or else you got a two hundred dollar fine. Strict. A police state for sure.   Singapore is modern and on the top ten most expensive cities to live in the world. A hostel was forty dollars, and a beer at a club was fourteen. The only cheap thing in Singapore was the food - and good food it was.   From Singapore I took a train to Kuala Lumpur, the capital of Malaysia, and stayed just a few hours. I had enough of the city life in Singapore so I took a bus up to island of Penang (the fourth largest bridge in Southeast Asia connects it to the mainland), the colonial capital. Penang was okay - lots of culture, languages, and neat architecture, but still very busy.   At the hostel I was staying at I met a guy who was riding my same bike, BMW 650 Dakar and we became pretty good friends. He was a forty something English fellow. I also met another guy on his motorcycle. This was a guy from Belgium, late twenties, and he rode a small thirty year old 150cc motorcycle. He went from Belgium, all across Europe, Turkey, Iran, Pakistan, India, and shipped his bike over to Bangkok, Thailand and headed south. I thought I had balls until I met this guy. His motorcycle can hardly go 50 miles an hour and it looked like a scooter. I don't know how he fit his bags on it. He was headed to Australia and I told him he'll have trouble with the distances across the outback because of his small tank. He smiled and said ‘I'll manage'. I didn't doubt him.   After a couple days in Penang I took a boat up to Langkawi Island and chilled on the beach for a few days at this backpacker central spot. I met a few guys there and we rented a couple cars for the day. They were English style stick shifts so the driver's seat was on the right hand side. I took a turn and drove about five kilometers and decided it wasn't a good idea. We went around the whole island. We visited some waterfalls that cascade down smooth rocks and we invented an awesome ‘rock-slide', like the Slip ‘n Slide from my childhood.   I went with a friend on a bus ride over to the Perhentian Islands on the east coast after Langkawi and hung out there for a while but soon got tired of the beach. I can only stand the beach-bum life for so long before it starts to get old. I prefer mountains over beaches.   Anyways, I flew back to Singapore and spent some more days there hanging out with new friends and trying desperately to get my motorcycle out of Customs. They wouldn't accept my paperwork from the USA and told me I was allowed to import my motorcycle but not allowed to ride it. What?   Bob and Wayne I met for only one day in Singapore and they had no problems getting their bikes out. I, however, spent several days there trying to fight the system to no avail. I ended up getting a tow truck driver take me from the port in the south to the bridge that connects Singapore and Malaysia. Malaysia was a breeze to get into.   I went straight up to Kuala Lumpur and was stunned to see how rich people were. I figured Malaysia would be a third world country. I thought wrong. They have so much expendable income. People were driving Mercedes, BMW, Ferrari and other expensive cars all down the road. I met a friend at the hostel there and we visited the Petronus Towers. I think they are the tallest buildings in the world, or they were, and have a massive bridge connecting the two. They were featured in that movie Entrapment with Sean Connery and Catherine Zeta-Jones. The towers are quite a site in the evening, lit up and all.   We went out to a club one night because the hostel owner was friends with the owner of the club and we all got free drinks. All the girls there were tall Eastern European and Russian models that are featured on the shampoo commercials or something that requires tall, hot, anorexic, white girls. Apparently companies want the face Westerners on the product instead of Asians for some reason. Anyways, they were all several inches taller than I was and never smiled so I didn't talk to them. I don't know where that story was going but I just thought I should mention it for some reason. Anyways.   In Kuala Lumpur I got the bike serviced because it was overheating on the way up. So the bike was all clean and tuned up when I picked it up from the BMW shop and I headed north. Bob and Wayne were already days ahead of me and I wanted to catch up. I had already visited a few places in Malaysia so it wouldn't be completely out of reality to just head straight for Thailand, and that's what I did.   I took the main highway north and entered Thailand a couple days later. There are only a couple things I want to do in Thailand:   Number one is go rock climbing in Railay. The sheer cliffs that peak out from the water is world renown for rock climbing and I've seen a few rock climbing videos that were filmed here.   Number two on the list for Thailand was to go to the Full Moon Party on Ko Pha-ngan (you say it like Ko-Pan-Yang). Anyways, it's the largest party in all of Asia and obviously takes place on the full moon, which isn't until April 9 th .   Number three on the list to do in Thailand is visit Bangkok. I don't really know what's there to see but I've heard pretty cool things about it.   Anyways, I missed out on Railay already. I need to make it up to Bangkok and get some work done on my website because I'm running out of money and I owe people money. Hopefully in about 10 days I am able to take a cheap flight down from Bangkok to visit Railay and Ko Pha-ngan.   Right now I'm two days into Thailand in a place called Chumphon. Out of all the countries I've visited on my motorcycle I'd have to say that Thailand has the worse drivers. They don't check their side mirrors (if they have any) and never look behind them while they drive; like a proper third world country. They also have no respect for motorcycles. None. Just today some guy rammed me on the side and I hit another car. My foot is a bit messed up and the bike, like a rock, is perfectly fine. The guy who hit me just kept driving. Other people got out of their cars to help me pick up the motorcycle. Don't worry, Mom, I'm fine. Just a flesh wound.   Anyways, that's my summary for the last two months. Sorry it's taken so long. And if you've read all my rambling sentences down to here then give yourself a pat on the back, you've earned it. Sat, 28 Mar 2009 08:18:24 GMT http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_50777.cfm http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_98870.cfm In the morning, after I had my revenge against the annoying teenage kids by stealing their shoelaces and locking them inside their tent while they were still passed out, I rode down to the ferry. The next service across the Spencer Gulf to Cowell left in just a few minutes so I quickly purchased my ticket and hopped on board.   The ferry was large but nowhere near the size of the one that took me to Tasmania from Melbourne. There were several other motorcycles on the parking deck, mostly Harley, and many cars. The passenger deck was more like a café and had large windows for a brilliant view of the water. I sat down at a table, ordered a couple cappuccinos' and conversed with an old couple for most of the two hour journey.   When the ship docked and rode off of the ferry I followed the other motorcycles because I wasn't sure of which direction to go to reach the main highway. They led me to the main road east to Lock; about 100 kilometers. At Lock I went north about 50 kilometers to reach the main highway called A1.   It must be said that I don't enjoy riding my motorcycle on these roads. Simply put, they are boring; straight, flat, bushes on the left, bushes on the right. And it's hot, very hot. Having not slept too well the night before and only driving three hundred kilometers I decided to find a place to camp near Ceduna. I couldn't find any proper campgrounds so I just pulled over, entered onto a large field through a gate and pitched my tent on private property.   One thing about Australia I cannot stand, and the number one reason why I would never live here, are the flies. They're bastards. If they land on my hand and I try to shake them off they won't budge. They also know when both of my hands are in use, like when I'm setting up my tent and take advantage of this knowledge by landing on my face and buzzing inside my ears.   Once my tent was erected I crawled in, zipped myself inside and killed all the flies that made it in. Since smoking regular cigarettes is too expensive here I bought some loose-leaf tobacco. I spent an hour teaching myself how to roll them and being satisfied with one of the results I lit up and blew smoke at the flies sitting through the mosquito netting of my tent. Later I read a book until it became too dark. The rest of the evening I lay staring at the sky searching for falling stars and satellites.   I woke to the sound of buzzing. It was light outside when I opened my eyes. Every square inch of my tent was covered not in flies but mosquitoes; thousands of them. I sat inside at least a half hour deciding how best to exit my tent and pack up my gear. The only idea that came to mind was to put on a jacket to cover my arms, slap myself repeatedly in the face every two seconds and wave my arms frantically, while I run in circles screaming swear words once in a while. It wasn't a good morning.   Stats of the battle: 2 bites on my neck and over 50 mosquitoes killed. Not bad.   The rest of the day didn't go too well either. The chain on my bike was sagging badly and there was no room left to tighten it. I also noticed that my rear sprocket was wearing. I figured that I would still be ok to get to Perth without changing them out. I was wrong.   My chain fell off more than a few times. The first time it happened I thought a link had busted. I coasted to the edge of the highway and noticed that it had simply fallen off because it was too long. I put it back on and took off. I didn't make it ten feet before it happened again. After a while I found that I had to accelerate slowly, very slowly, and couldn't go more than 50 miles per hour.   I made it five hundred kilometers to the border town called Eucla (on the states of South Australia and Western Australia - another 45 minute time zone change). I made it to a hotel, the only hotel in this town of 50 people, and asked the cute Irish receptionist if there was a mechanic in town.   "There is just one mechanic in town and he lives just up the road there. I don't know if he works on motorcycles but you can ask. Hopefully your problem isn't too big because he's booked with work. My car is at his place and he's still getting around to looking at it. I was just passing through, like you, and my engine blew. I decided to take a job as receptionist here because I couldn't find anything else to do with my time. May as well earn a bit of money, right?"   "How long have you been here?" I asked.   "Oh, about six weeks now", she smiled.   I stared at her. I'm so screwed, I thought. "He's the only mechanic in town?"   "He'll probably let you use his tools if you have parts and know how to fix what you need. But it's Sunday, he might not even be working today."   I had all the spare parts, sprocket and chain, but it definitely wasn't a one man job since I didn't have any way to stand the bike up while I took off the tire. I also had all the tools I needed except for a tool for the chain links. If I had to stay in a place like this for more than a day, let alone a few weeks, I'd slowly die inside.   I walked down to the mechanic. At first I wasn't sure I was at the correct place. It was a residence, not a shop. A nice older man answered the door and he looked over my bike and chain.   "I have some tools you can borrow if you want to do this yourself; I'm a bit busy at the moment." He motioned to the cars in the lot. I have only worked on my bike once, and even then it was under supervision. "I'll help you get the bike up on a crate so you can take off the tire." We setup the bike out front of his house, in the sun.   It turned out that we needed to saw off the chain since there wasn't a master link. He did this for me. He helped me take off the tire then took it back to his shop and put on the new sprocket for me. He didn't have any tools for putting on the new chain so we used hammers, pliers and raw force to join the two ends. This took a couple hours. We put on the tire and only then did we realize that we forgot to measure the chain; it was five links too long.   I was getting frustrated. He told me to come back in the morning at eight and we'll work on it then. That was fine with me, the flies had been bothering me the whole time we were working, along with the sweat in my eyes and too much sun on my face.   At eight the next morning I arrived back at the mechanics. He didn't answer the door so I waited on his doorstep for a half hour before he showed up. He said he had stayed up all night to finish working on a car. He dropped it off at her house this morning and walked back. This is why he was late and I was no longer mad at him.   We took off the new chain without problems and sawed off five links. Putting it back on was easy as well since the o-rings were already compressed. I was very pleased that the bike was fit to ride and I could finally be on my way. I asked him how much I owed him. He shook his head, "Ah, no worries, mate. No worries."   What a guy. I love Australians. Sweating in the sun with flies buzzing all around helping some stranger fix his motorcycle for free - you won't find that in the States.   Making up for lost time I spent the entire rest of the day riding west through the Outback. One stretch of road had a sign that boasted "Australia's Longest Straight Road - 90 Miles without a Single Turn!" or something like that. But yeah, 90 frickin' miles of straight road, not even a hill.   Riding it reminded me of the Roadrunner. Remember that cartoon show? When the coyote is chasing the roadrunner the background keeps repeating itself. The same tree goes past fifty times, same with the bushes, cactus and canyons. Except here there are only bushes. If only I had a rocket I could strap myself to, then I'd get to a civilization faster. Beep-beep!   I made it to a small town (what's new?) called Norseman. I decided to stay at a hotel because of my newfound fear of mosquito thickets. Plus air conditioning wouldn't be half bad. At the hotel I met another receptionist. This girl was Canadian and she told me that she actually applied for a job in the middle of nowhere. She tried to explain why but my mind couldn't grasp it. I kept thinking, who the hell would want to live here? She'd been there two weeks and had another eight to go before she went back to Perth. I wouldn't have lasted a few days.   I drank a few beers and played a game of pool with a guy at the bar. He was a local and worked as a police officer. He wanted to check out my motorcycle so we went outside and brought our beers. I found it amusing that it was illegal to drink on the street. He said he didn't take his job seriously. I believed him. He looked a bit drunk and I asked if he was driving home. "Yeah mate. I'm the only police officer on duty tonight". I had to laugh.   The next day I made it to Perth just in time for Australia Day, which is equivalent to the American Independence Day. Last year I was in Whistler, Canada with my friend Andrew and I actually celebrated Australia Day there since every person who worked there was an Aussie. People were binging in bars for 24 hours straight and the parties where quite great. I hoped that Australia Day in Australia would be better.   I made the mistake of arriving in Perth without a reservation for a hostel or hotel. I hadn't at all imagined that the hotels would be booked, but I thought wrong. I went to the Northbridge area of Perth, where I knew all the hostels to be located. I drove around and tried booking into three or four hostels, all of which were completely full. I had to settle for an expensive hotel with a not so lush room. Whatever, I will checkout tomorrow and find myself a hostel, I told myself.   I checked email for the first time in ages and sent messages to my friends in Perth hoping they would get my message in the next few hours so I could hang out with them for Aussie Day. By ten o'clock they hadn't responded so I decided to go to a bar and hopefully I'd meet some people to hang out with.   I went to a place down the street. Every man in the bar wore a t-shirt, shorts and flip-flops and all the women wore miniskirts and heels. I was the only guy in there with jean pants and black boots, and I oddly felt overdressed.    I ordered a beer and found it to be outrageously expensive, like everything else in Australia. I listened to the live band for a bit and tried to talk with some people but they were already drunk. For the sake of my budget, sanity, and feeling uncomfortable about being around so many people after being in the outback, I left. Australia Day in Canada was better.   Next day, the 27 th , I moved down the street to the Underground Hostel on Lake street in Northbridge. They had free parking for my motorcycle in an underground garage. My roommates were pretty cool and all Irish. As a matter of fact the whole hostel was full of Irish. I spoke with a few of them and learned that jobs were hard to find there, so they were all moving to Australia for a year or two. I imagined a great exodus like the great famine but they all seemed to be healthy. I spent ten days at the hostel and began to wonder if there were any more Irish people in Ireland.   During those ten days I hooked up with my friend Nav who I met in Buenos Aires, Argentina seven months ago. She still speaks in her broken Spanish phrases (I don't know whether she actually learned a whole sentence in Spanish) and chats to some of the other friends we met in Buenos Aires. I went out with her and her friends to a few bars and house parties, all of which were fantastic.   I also met up with Tristan, my first real friend when I started traveling in the summer of 2005. He was throwing a ‘going away' party because he and his beautiful girlfriend Sasha were headed to South America for six months and working in Canada for six months. His party was a costume party but I hardly dressed up. I was going to go as Che but figured everybody would be dressed as him. Tristan was.   The party was fantastic and the girls were beautiful. Since Tristan was headed away for a year he had to spend time with his other friends as well so I didn't get to talk to him as much as I wanted. We both got supremely drunk and made asses of ourselves, just like old times. Thu, 19 Feb 2009 22:58:06 GMT http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_98870.cfm http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_98510.cfm Patrick and I spent one more day in Florianopolis hoping for the sun to blast through the soggy clouds, but we waited in vain. We decided to head north through Sao Paulo onto Rio de Janeiro. Patrick was keen to get to Rio because he had a beautiful girlfriend living there. But I wanted to stop along the way, at least for a night, in Sao Paulo because I wanted to catch up with a Brazilian friend that I had met at the Clan Hostel in Buenos Aires in July. Her name was Marcella. Having talked to her a few days before she said she would show me around the massive city.   For the rest of the time I traveled with Patrick I let him lead - mostly because he was a better navigator but also because I tended to take more risks passing cars, lane splitting and generally going too fast. I let him set the pace, which was usually set a bit above 70mph on the highway. Along the way we met thick patches of fog and wet weather. Nearer to Sao Paulo the clouds lifted just enough to dry out the streets but the overcast gloominess still lingered - which was suitable I suppose considering Sao Paulo is grey and shabby. The streets there would have been next to impossible for me to navigate so I was extremely happy that I was following Patrick. Although he is competent at finding his way around we ended up driving up and down streets for more than an hour trying to find a hotel that wasn't seedy, not already booked, and not too expensive, which in Sao Paulo is quite difficult considering that there aren't many hotels to choose from.   I hadn't done laundry in ages and most of my wardrobe had a damp musty stench to it. The process of handing over my laundry was an hour long difficult process that I'd rather not go into just now. When it was ready it would be dropped off at my room early the next morning. In the lobby I went online to see if Marcella would be available to hang out tonight. Sadly, her only free time, because of university and work, was a few days away. I, nor Patrick, wanted to stick around that long. I was disappointed because I really wanted to see Marcella again.   By now it was time for dinner and Patrick found an Indian restaurant on the internet. He hadn't stopped talking about Curry since he left the Clan Hostel. I'm not big on Indian food, in fact I cannot stand anything spicy, but the last time I had Indian food was longer that I can remember so I thought I should give it a try. I randomly ordered something off of the menu (a dangerous decision) and ended up with a tasty salmon dish - not spicy at all. After our meal we smoked sheesha out of a hookah - also something I hadn't done in a long time.   For the route to Rio we decided on a coastal road. At the time this was probably an unwise decision considering the last few days of riding in the rain. This road would undoubtedly take a lot more time than the highway and would surely be wetter considering the closer proximity to the ocean. But we set our hopes high.   An hour after setting out the skies cleared up and we saw the sun for the first time in days. The coastal road gently swayed left and right making it a pristine road for our motorcycles. It was set in what might be called a mountainous area. On the high passes there were many times I could see for miles out into the ocean. I saw islands set in turquoise water, yachts bobbing up and down, many beaches, and even a bikini or two. We were finally on our way towards paradise.     Again, like many other times, we misjudged how long it would take to get to Rio and we only made it half way to a touristy cobbled stone town that is Parati. Just before we reached Parati the rains returned, this time in a fine mist that slowly but surly seeped into my riding gear and luggage. Not a terribly beautiful end to an otherwise perfect day. We decided to let a hustler usher us to a hotel in the town center. The brochure he handed us had beautiful girls in bikinis sunbathing near a swimming pool. Obviously it was nothing of the sort considering the weather and the low season for tourism. We were the only guests but we made the most of it by drinking a few pints at the outside (but covered) bar near the vacant swimming pool.   Later in the evening we ventured into the town walking in our rain gear. We came upon a restaurant called Che Bar. How could we not go in? Patrick had invented a drink (Martini and Smirnoff) and we drank that until an older gentleman introduced himself as the owner. He asked about our adventures and cursed the rain because it's bad for business, but he seemed to be enjoying himself. At his table sat just one other man and about 7 liters of beer.   The next morning the sun was shining and we set some of our stuff out to dry while we ate breakfast. We got a late start but the sun held out and the roads were beautiful as before. Later in the day traffic picked up and the roads became wider giving us the indication that we were close to Rio. For thirty miles we had our eyes on the lookout for the giant statue Christ the Redeemer - all too famous to the Rio landscape. Patrick saw it first. At a stoplight he pointed it out to me. "Look, I think it's that over there" he pointed. "What the hell" I said, "It's supposed to be gigantic. It's absolutely miniscule!" And Patrick agreed with me. To be fair we were still a good distance away from it but one still expected it to be quite a bit larger.   Once we reached the beaches of Ipanima and Copacabana we parked our bikes outside of a large restaurant. We smiled and gave each other a handshake. We had made it and this was the end of our journey together. We settled down for a beer and rejoiced at the wonderful weather - not one cloud in the sky and I was sweating.   Rio really is a beautiful place. It's a drastic difference between both Sao Paulo and Florianopolis, which, to be completely honest, were disgustingly ugly cities. Rio seems to be cleaner, friendlier, warmer, and richer.   We found a hostel close by that didn't have a garage but allowed us to park our bikes right outside the front entrance on the sidewalk.   I only stayed two days in Rio. It's all that I really had time for since I still needed to sell my motorcycle in Argentina and somehow fly back on the first week of November. Staying even two days was pushing it.   The first night I sat at the bar and drank with Patrick and some others. Later Patrick went out to visit his Brazilian girlfriend who lived miles away from the center. I ended up going to a club that was recommended to me by the hostel staff. The club consisted of seventy percent men and thirty percent prostitutes - not my dig so I left soon after I arrived.   The second night Patrick's beautiful Brazilian girlfriend, Mayra, showed up. For three weeks all he talked about was his girlfriend and how beautiful she was - I figured it was just that, talk. But he had really outdone himself. I pulled Patrick aside later after dinner and asked if she had any friends. He smiled and said he already asked for me. We were to go out that night and meet up with them. Thank you, Patrick, again.   In the cultural center of town we went to a bar/dance club and played a few rounds of Pool. My partner, Mayra's friend whose name I have forgotten, was quite stunning. We were all dismally horrible at pool and the last game went unfinished and so we went upstairs to dance.   Neither Patrick nor I can dance - at least not before a few (many) beers - so the Brazilian girls did their best to teach us. One of them was even a professional dancer. Patrick and I just pretended like we were dancing. What were really doing was watching the girls dance. We had never seen girls dance so provocatively and I had been to quite a few dance clubs around the world. I can now say, without a doubt, that Brazilians dance the best, and the sexiest.   That night I told everybody that I was leaving back to Argentina in the morning. I was begged to stay by Mayra and her friends. They said that a few more days wouldn't make too much of a difference. I considered it and told them I'd sleep on the idea. That night I had dreams and memories of riding through Colombia with Bob and Wayne and in the morning I felt nostalgic and I took it as a sign. Patrick was still asleep by the time I was packed and ready to leave on the bike. I woke him up and shook his hand and told him it was a pleasure riding with him. "See you next year", I said.   I took the main highway south to Curitiba and headed west towards Iguacu. It's a long ass way and I made it in two full days of riding. I passed through the border to the Argentina side quite fast and very easily. In the morning I went back to the small town of Puerto Rico.   Puerto Rico is the town where, two weeks before, Patrick broke his chain and we got picked up by Dani, a local, and we stayed at his place for a few days while we worked on the bike. Before we left to go to Brazil Dani said he would like to purchase my motorcycle. So here I was, back to sell the bike.   Dani, and his beautiful girlfriend Vanesa, were very accommodating. I had planned on staying a few days, just enough time to handle the motorcycle deal. Dani had a few problems with wiring money outside the country and Western Union was quite expensive so I settled for it all in cash, USD. Legally, I never did sell the motorcycle, I abandoned it. Dani ‘gifted' the money to me. It's not legal to sell a used foreign motorcycle in Argentina. Dani will have to wait two years to declare the motorcycle officially as ‘abandoned' so he can register it and this was perfectly fine with him. There's the ‘Legal Way' to do business and then there's ‘Latin Way'. We chose the latter.   I arrived in Puerto Rico on a Saturday and left on November 1, also a Saturday. I said goodbye to my bike and even went as far as to give it a hug. I gave Dani a handshake and Vanesa a hug. I will miss them both but when I come back to Argentina I will be sure to visit them, perhaps next year. The sixteen hour overnight bus ride was very luxurious. Blankets, pillows, food, in suite, a chair/bed and ‘flight attendant' - all included in the very reasonable price of sixty dollars. Even Champaign was included.   I arrived in Buenos Aires refreshed (something that's never happened after a long bus ride) and found the Hostel Clan again. This is a hostel I always come back to because I know all of the staff and I consider it my Home when I come to Buenos Aires. I was greeted warmly and they helped take my luggage to my room. After quick shower I was all set to roam around. But it was still just eight thirty in the morning and it was a Sunday, everything was closed.   I decided to see if I could change my flight. It was set for Wednesday and arrived in Colorado on Thursday. I knew Bob and Wayne wanted to get to LA on the first week of November. So I called Canadian Airlines and asked if they had any availability for today or Monday. The lady on the phone said I could fly out later today if I wanted. I considered for a moment and figured I may as well. I felt bad about staying just one day at the Hostel Clan. I got to say ‘hello' to all my friends again, then ‘goodbye' for a year to come all in one day.   I took a taxi to the airport and was surprised that I had a stopover in Santiago, Chile - something that wasn't listed on my ticket. My other stopover was in Toronto, Canada. I passed through security, immigration and customs without problems and passed the two hours on the flight reading. In Santiago I was happy that I had fifteen different currencies in my wallet because one of the bills happened to be the Chilean Peso.  I ordered some snacks and waited to board the new flight. I waited and waited. The flight was delayed by an hour. I soon began to get worried about missing my flight in Toronto. Then the intercom above me came to life, "This flight is now canceled".   "Fuck", I thought.   There was a sudden rush to the front counter and I was among the first but didn't get any information for another two hours. Those two hours were a mess of utter confusion on both sides of the counter. I heard several different stories about why the flight was canceled and one of them was that the pilot of our airplane had a heart attack and the plane had to land somewhere besides Santiago.   It was finally decided that I would be taking a flight on American Airlines that departs an hour later - one of the worst airlines in the world, but it beats having to stay overnight. The stopover was in Dallas, which I considered to be better than having to change planes in Toronto. I asked about my luggage and if it would be transferred and they assured me it would arrive in Denver without problems. While I was waiting to board I met a beautiful girl from the Czech Republic who was also supposed to be on the flight to Toronto. We had a long conversation about travel and where we've been.   So I took the nine hour flight to Dallas on the terrible AA and asked about my luggage. They had not been transferred to my flight and the lady couldn't give me an idea of where they were. "Go figure. You're American Airlines, it's to be expected", I said.   I called the parents in Dallas to inform them they should pick me up earlier than expected due to the flight change. The call came at five in the morning, which they weren't too thrilled about.   It was only an hour and a half flight from Dallas to Denver and in Denver, again, I asked about my luggage and, again, no luck. I was worried because one of the bags contained all my motorcycle riding gear that I needed to take to Arizona in just a few days.   Back home I had a few things to catch up on. I needed to figure out what exactly I needed to load up my motorcycle on the boat for Australia. I need a Carnet (a document for customs and importation in other countries - $1,750), I also needed to get a license plate for the bike since I only had an expired temporary plate ($70), I needed to figure out how much shipping would cost (Bob found another shipping company that would ship all of our bikes for $850 each - shipping Cargo will take 6 weeks), I needed to buy a plane ticket to Arizona ($230), and do all the other normal research that involves traveling.   Bob and Wayne were still getting their stuff handled so I will be flying out on November 11 th to Arizona and we'll take two days to drive to southern California to load up the bikes. I'll probably fly back to Colorado from there and spent the rest of the year as a Ski Bum before flying to Australia to pick up the bike. Wed, 28 Jan 2009 14:42:57 GMT http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_98510.cfm http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_35728.cfm Australia is a larger country than most people realize. I considered it would take at most just three days to reach Perth, riding from nine in the morning to seven in the evening with stops for breakfast, lunch, dinner, coffee breaks and petrol.   The first day of riding, on January 21 st , I had driven the tourist infested Great Ocean Road, averaging the speed of forty miles per hour. Looking at the map was a bit disheartening. I had made it just one-eighth of the way to Perth. From Melbourne to Mt Gambier it was 280 miles. I still had 1950 miles to go.   I had wanted to make it to Perth for Australia Day on January 26th, equivalent to the American Independence Day, so I could meet up with a couple of my friends who I met in other countries. There was Tristan. I met him three and a half years ago at a hostel in Dublin, Ireland when I began my travels. Tristan was my first real travel buddy that I met and we went all around Ireland together. He also introduced me to Joan, a Northern Irish girl from Belfast, and since then I've met her in three continents and four countries. She's currently living in Spain.   My other friend in Perth is Nav, who I met at the Clan Hostel in Buenos Aires, Argentina. I hung out with her for nearly an entire month while my motorcycle was being fixed at Dakar Motos. Our birthday is on the same day and we celebrated together at that hostel.   I had made it to Mt Gambier on the 21st. I had 1950 miles left. If I traveled at a constant speed of 60 miles per hour it would take 32.5 hours of solid riding, with no stops, to reach Perth. Given I would drive a solid 7 hours per day I would make it in nearly 5 days. If nothing went wrong I would make it to Perth at the end of the day on the 26 th - in time for the evening of Australia Day.   (Note: For this post I've converted kilometers to miles for the Metric Illiterate. You're welcome.)   If something went wrong and I didn't make it for Australia Day I still wanted to make it in time for Tristan's going away party on the 31st. He's headed to South America with his girlfriend. I can only imagine the kind of outrageous parties that Tristan would throw and I didn't want to miss it, nor did I want to miss him before he's headed off. The party has a few themes; Carnival, Jungle, and South American Revolutionaries. I was going as Che of course.   In the morning at Mt Gambier I woke to the sound of birds that didn't chirp, but whistled. I lay there in my one man tent listening to the beautiful sound for a half hour before deciding to start the day. Having lived off of my motorcycle for a couple weeks I worked on autopilot disassembling my tent and packing up the campsite.   For the first time since beginning this journey I took a good look at the map and noticed several things. I had passed through a state border without realizing it. I was now in South Australia and also passed through a time zone. (Oddly, the Australians set it just 45 minutes earlier.) On this day I'd be passing through Adelaide. I considered whether or not to stay in the city but decided against it almost at once. I don't know anybody in Adelaide, I haven't heard much about it, and really didn't have a desire to go back to civilization. I was enjoying the seclusion that camping offers. The last thing I noticed was a ferry service crossing the Spencer Gulf, going from Wallaroo to Cowell. This would save me from driving hundreds of miles.   I set my daily goal for Wallaroo. It was a fair distance away; 375 miles. It would be mostly desert bush riding and the only obstacle would be passing through Adelaide since speeds generally slow down with traffic.   Time has a different meaning for me on a motorcycle, especially when I'm driving on a straight, flat road in the middle of the desert at a constant speed for hours at a time with nothing to look at but bushes - and sometimes not even a bush. I zoned out. I was still paying attention to the road of course but I really wasn't thinking... about anything, really.   Cars were few and far between. One thing I did think about was how few cars there were on this road. I even did a bit of math. I went 220 miles from when I set out and when I first filled up the motorcycle with gas. I passed 24 cars from the opposite lane. On the main highway between to of the largest cities in Australia, Melbourne and Adelaide, I passed one car every nine miles. Sometimes there'd be two, three and four automobiles at once - that leaves thirty plus miles of driving with the road as the only piece of civilization in existence, as far as the eye can see.   Once in a while I'd pass catchy slogans on road signs that read, "Fatigue is Fatal", or "Drowsy Drivers Die", or "Survive the Drive". I can see why they need these signs as the desert causes a sleeping disorder called Boredom. One of these signs I saw was run over and just beyond was a destroyed bush with tire tracks leading to it. How ironic, I thought.   I also passed road signs that demanded I look out for kangaroo, rodents, camels and emu. I passed all of these animals, except the camel. Thankfully and thoughtfully they had all been run over for me. I saw first hand as a large bird was eating road kill and blew up in a cloud of feathers as it got hit by a car. How ironic, I thought.   I passed through Adelaide but somehow missed a turnoff to stay on the highway. I ate at a McDonald's (Hey, don't give me shit about this. It's the only cheap food in Australia. I'd rather not pay 20 dollars for a bowl of soup, thank you very much), and asked for directions. I got lost again but a half hour later I was on the highway and soon in the desert - back to nowhere, while still going somewhere.   I made it to Wallaroo by seven, where the ferry service was located - the perfect time to arrive as it gets dark by nine. The only camping site I could find was a caravan park but the reception area was shut. Whatever, I thought. I decided I'd just find an area to throw my tent and blend in, pretending like I belonged there.   I parked and threw my tent next to two teenager kids. I enjoyed their company at first but soon regretted my decision to camp there as they couldn't handle their alcohol as the evening wore on. I was tired and went to bed early but I could hear their drunken shouts and talk all night.   In the morning I had my revenge. Outside their tent, along with their empty beer cans, I saw their hiking boots and tennis shoes. I stole their shoelaces. But, with one of the laces I knotted it around the zipper of their tent. It was a good knot, too. Wed, 28 Jan 2009 10:07:40 GMT http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_35728.cfm http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_65394.cfm Because of his bruised and broken ribs from his motorcycle crash, Wayne stayed behind in St. Helens as Bob and I went out riding the beautiful Tasmanian roads for a day trip. The roads were a wonderful and dangerous thing. The lanes were thin, almost like a path, with no shoulder, several switchbacks and stray gravel on all the corners. Once in a while we'd pass a car, but seemingly only when we didn't expect it. I took the lead for the start and pushed as fast as I could go through the tight turns.   There was very little traffic and I took the liberty to use both lanes. I came around a corner at full speed to see a car coming directly at me. I brushed past it on the left and, I didn't know this before he told me, Bob swerved to the right of the car. Neither Bob nor I had enough time to see the facial reaction of the driver so I could only assume it would read of surprise, not of the good kind, and fear, but only for a split second before it turned to anger as he passed the two out of control motorcycles on his left and right. Bob and I hardly flinched as this type of thing happened all the time in South America, but it was still something to talk about at the end of the day.   A minute later we arrived at our first stop. This stop was not planned as we were just halting our journey whenever we found something of interest. This particular point of interest was the Columba Waterfall in the South George River.   After viewing the falls we were back on our bikes. As we wanted to finish Tasmania and the rest of Australia alive we slowed down and kept our bikes in control. I let Bob lead; he's better at navigation and riding within the speed limit.   Tasmania seemed to have a very diverse landscape. One moment we would be in an almost tropical climate then just ten minutes later we'd be in treeless dry plain. Around every corner the theme changed and a new scene would greet us.   Our small daytrip journey also led us to a long gravel road with a cliff on one side and a wall of dirt on the other. I was still not comfortable about driving fast through gravel roads, especially around the turns but I kept up pretty well, until I fell.   I was riding too close to the edge of the road, not the side with the cliff, and ended up riding in a small trench. I tried several times to pull out of it but I ended up smashing into the side of the wall and toppling over. I was fine, I wasn't going fast. I pulled up the bike, which was a bitch because it's so damn heavy, and shuffled it out of the gutter to the side of the dirt road. Bob came a few minutes later. He estimated that it was better that I crashed in the gutter rather than pulling out of it and going over the cliff or causing worse damage.   We made it back to the hotel sometime later and Wayne hadn't moved. He still sat on the edge of the bed with his pillow tucked between his arm and ribs for comfort. We stayed with him a couple more days to make sure that he was at least well enough to grocery shop and get around a bit. Bob and I felt bad about leaving him but there wasn't much we could do for him. He just had to wait out the pain.   We took south on the eastern coastal road towards Port Author where the old Australian Prison was. We didn't much fancy taking a forty dollar tour of the prison so we checked out the Tasmanian Devil Reserve instead. This was our only chance to see an actual Tasmanian Devil as they only come out at night time and, even then, are rarely ever seen in the wild except the dead ones that are smashed up on the side of the road.   They are cute little rodents with jaws that have strength second to the Great White Shark. They are scavengers that eat every part of the animal, even the fir and bones. Strangely, they don't resemble Taz from the Loony Toones.   From there we went back up to Sorrell and down the center to the southernmost point in all of Australia; a place called Cockle Creek. It was a beautiful area but it was drizzling a bit of rain. We were lucky though. That part of Tasmania gets 3 meters of rain every year. The clouds could easily have been pissing instead of spitting.   We went back up to Hobart where we took a few pictures of the capital city from an elevated position and kept riding north to Queenstown where we settled down for a night. In the morning we went back up to Devonport, where we began our Tasmanian adventure, and got back on the ferry at 8pm bound for Melbourne on the 11 hour cruise.   Bob and I made plans on the boat. Bob wanted to visit some friends in Melbourne and Adelaide. I had already met up with my friends from Melbourne before we went to Taz and I didn't know anybody in Adelaide. So I was set for going to Perth right when the boat docked. We said good luck to each other before heading in separate directions on our motorcycles. I took the road to Geelong, which is the beginning of the Great Ocean Road.   The Great Ocean Road is a thing I heard about when I first started traveling three and a half years ago and it's a road that I have wanted to visit since then; seeing the massive rock formations of the Tweleve Appostles (now 8 because of natural erosion) the other beautiful scenery and cliffs along the way. I believe it was this anticipation, embedded in my mind that it was spectacular, that made it quite a boring journey. There were so many tourists going 20 miles an hour looking over the side of the road and none of them using the slow driver turnoff points. I cracked and started using both lanes and zooming between cars and going three times the speed limit. The road was actually quite good because it swerved left and right and resided on the edge of a cliff. If there was no traffic and no speed limits the road would be fantastic.   Inevitably I got stopped by the police. The cop was cool about it though. "I think you must have kilometers and miles confused on your motorcycle there, sonny. The sign says 80 kilometers an hour, not 80 miles an hour, yeah? ", he mused. "Anyway, we didn't stop you for speeding as you were going too fast for us around the corners to pull the trigger on the radar gun, but we did catch you, several times in fact, going in the other lane across double lines in a safety sensitive zone. It took us three or four kilometers to catch up with ya and I think you even may have done 130 in a 60 kilometer zone. How long you've had the bike? It would seem like you've practiced this type of daredevil speed riding before."   I couldn't help but smile. In all of Central and South America it was expected that I'd ride like a maniac, because that was the norm. I did that for about a year and got quite good at it. To me it was a compliment that he acknowledged my illegal driving skills but at the same time I was thinking "Man, you haven't seen anything yet".   He checked my US drivers license, international driver's license, and registration for the motorcycle. I was a bit worried because I don't have a motorcycle permission on my US license, my international drivers license was forged, and I didn't have proper Australian registered plates like I was told that I needed. All three documents that he asked for were in some way corrupt. Luckily (I say that word lightly), I only got slapped with a $180 dollar fine and told to slow down and keep to my own lane.   I asked the cop what would happen if I didn't pay it. He shrugged and said, "Well, nothing would stop you from leaving the country without paying it I suppose, but you'd have to handle it if you want to revisit Australia."   Well that settles it, I'll handle it in a few years. I really cannot be bothered right now.   The sun sets at about 9pm so it is best that I start searching for a campsite on the side of the road at around 7pm so I don't get caught in the dark while setting up my tent. I made it to Mt Gambier, a few hundred kilometers away from Melbourne, where I started my day. At the campsite that I chose there were hundreds of massively tall pine trees rooted close together and their entire trunks would sway with the wind knocking into surrounding trees.   Within a minute I erected my tent upon the two inch thick floor of fallen pine needles in the middle of these trees. At first glance it would seem that this would be uncomfortable bedding, but the pine needles created a kind of cushion.   In the swiftly fading soft light of the forest with my portable home arranged I climbed backwards onto my parked motorcycle and leaned back against the handle bars with my feet propped up on the panniers. In this comfortable position I read the pages of my new favorite book called Shantaram and lit up a hand rolled cigarette.   When the light ceased and I could no longer focus on the words I closed the book and listened to the wind in the trees and the sound of pine needles falling and thinking "Damn, it's a good life".   It's a beautiful feeling knowing that my whole life, everything I own and need is right there. My transportation is a motorcycle, my career is a laptop, my house is a tent, and my freedom is the combined three. It's only then when your smoking a cigarette, staring a the stars, and feeling the breeze pass through your hair that you begin to realize how much you don't need in life. Tue, 27 Jan 2009 12:03:05 GMT http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_65394.cfm http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_57808.cfm In the couple months after dropping off my motorcycle in Long Beach to be shipped to Melbourne, Australia I mostly spent my time in my favorite country, Colombia. Half my time was spent in the major cities like Bogota and Medellin and the rest was spent in a very small Caribbean beach town known as Taganga. In all of these places I visited in Colombia I managed to get myself into trouble, in one form or another.   So, for the sake of governed normalcy and the anti-anarchism that is my readership I'll simply report on travel related happenings, although I cannot completely guarantee the respectability of all the material.   Towards the end of December I returned from Colombia for a week to join my family for a nice Christmas holiday. For New Years Eve I celebrated for a week down in Cancun, Mexico where I spent way too much money on God knows what and even managed to get myself mugged. I've been to nearly 40 countries around the world and I ended up getting myself mugged at a beach resort town that's basically owned by America. I have concluded that rich beach towns in third world countries suck.   I arrived back in Denver on the 6 th of January and I was to leave on the 7 th for Melbourne, Australia. I didn't have much time to repack my bags with what I'd need for a year long motorcycle journey but I have to say that my packing skills have become expert.   I had a layover in LAX where I met my Canadian friend Wayne, who'd be joining me on the motorcycle trip on his Kawasaki KLR 650, and we took the same plane to Melbourne. The flight was about 15 hours but the time change was 19 hours ahead so we arrived two days later, on the 9 th .   I had a few worries about passing through immigration in Melbourne because it's illegal to fly into Oz on a one-way ticket without having an exit route from the country. But no questions were asked and my passport was promptly stamped for entry.   Bob, our other friend who'd be joining us on his 650 BMW Dakar, we met him two hours after we arrived at the airport as he was on a different flight. The three of us rented a car but we designated the driver seat to Bob since neither Wayne nor I wanted the responsibly of driving on the wrong side of the road.   For his part Bob drove pretty well, considering. One time we tried entering a parking garage. When the toll booth manager failed to come out of his cage, I had to knock on his window to ask if he could let us through. He laughed at me and asked if I was from the States. I took a look at the car and realized that Bob had tried entering through the exit, on the right hand side of the road. The three of us smart fellows hadn't realized that we were on the wrong side of the road.   During the weekend, since the customs office was closed for picking up our motorcycles, I stayed with an Aussie friend named Ben. I met him in Buenos Aires, Argentina in early October. He lived thirty miles north of the city in the ‘bush'.   He still lives with his parents and they were pretty cool about me hanging around for the weekend. His mom was a killer, very good looking, and I had a bit of a crush on her. His dad was awesome as well and he's an avid traveler. For dinner they fed me Kangaroo which turned out to be a new favorite food. I did, however, feel bad that I was eating an animal that I had never seen.   Back in the city on Tuesday we passed our bikes through customs and quarantine pretty quickly, but it was mostly about money I believe, over five hundred dollars. It cost nearly as much to ship the bikes as it did to retrieve them. Not wanting to spend too much time learning how to drive on the wrong side of the road in a major city we drove to the port in the south of Melbourne to purchase tickets to Tasmania.   It was still early afternoon when we bought our tickets for the ferry but it departed at 8pm so we had time on our hands. I left my motorcycle parked near the docks. I took the train back into the center and walked around and bought necessary items such as an adapter for the electrical outlets so I can actually plug things in, like my laptop.    It was a massive ferry, eleven hour and overnight to Taz, with eight decks, the bottom three for motor vehicles. Our seats were on deck seven at the bow of the boat overlooking the water from large windows. We spent most our time at the bar on deck six watching Cricket and pretending like we knew what the hell was going on.   The boat was to arrive at Devonport at seven in the morning but the intercom woke us up at six fifteen so we had enough time to get our stuff together and have breakfast in the cafeteria on deck six.   Not wanting to waste any time we drove straight off of the ship and headed towards Launceston. This short ninety kilometer journey from Devonport to Launceston was pretty wonderful scenery. I wanted to stop and take a few pictures but we were on a main highway. We stopped for a coffee then headed out on smaller roads that turned into dirt. We were on these small roads for most of the day.   Bob and I had just stopped to look at road signs; Wayne was still riding behind us. I watched as Wayne was riding up to us. He hit a bump while he was slowing down and his front tire locked and started to slide. The bike went out from under him and he landed on his right side, tucking in his head. Bob and I pulled up the bike and let Wayne lay there to catch his breath, he couldn't breath. He didn't look so good.   A few minutes later he got up but was holding his ribs, he thought something was broken. Our destined stop, St Helens, to spend the night, was only a half hour away. We made it there and Bob and Wayne booked a hotel. I went off to find a campsite near the beach because I wanted to try out my new camping gear that I bought before I shipped the bike; a one man tent and a sleeping bag - both of which easily fit in one of my panniers. The campsite was bit rubbish but it was free. I set up camp there (I'm proud to say I setup my tent correctly the first time around and it only took a few minutes) and I went back to check on Wayne.   Wayne ended up going to the hospital and they just gave him drugs. They wanted to transport him two hours away to Hobart (capital of Taz) to take x-ray pictures but he wouldn't have that. I'm pretty sure he broke his ribs. He'll stay around St Helens for a week healing up while Bob and I explore around the island.   Sleeping in the tent was very nice. Very roomy for a one man tent I'd have to say. No sore or achy bones in the morning, the sleeping bag was very comfy. Sun, 18 Jan 2009 04:12:45 GMT http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_57808.cfm http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_56487.cfm In mid November I flew to Phoenix, Arizona where my friend Bob lives. Bob is a 70 year old retired airline pilot who I met on the boat from Panama to Colombia. We also rode together through Colombia. My other friend, Wayne, had arrived a couple weeks earlier. Wayne is 59 year old retired postal worker from Williams Lake, Canada and I met him in Mexico. He too was on the boat from Panama to Colombia.   All three of us gathered at the house to get our paperwork together and ride our motorcycles to the loading dock in California to ship them to Melbourne, Australia. Both Bob and Wayne had many problems getting their Carnet de Passage (paperwork for temporary importation into foreign countries) and so I spent a few days wondering around town and getting extra parts for my motorcycle and I also stopped at REI and bought a new sleeping bag and one person tent for camping in Australia. Before the flight to Arizona I purchased my Carnet for $1700 - about the cost I expected but still I was weary about paying that much for some paperwork.   The day before we left for California Bob taught me how to maintenance my motorcycle; such things as changing the oil and other liquids, and the oil/air filters. With my other motorcycle I just had the BMW dealerships maintain the motorcycle at every large city I stopped at along Central and South America. I never once changed my own oil. But Australia will be a different story; large cities are few and far between and sometimes I won't see a city for days or weeks. I will need to know how to maintain my own motorcycle.   Others might view my lack of motorcycle knowledge as being a naive motorcyclist, but those people don't know the difference between a mechanic and motorcyclist. Those types of people spend weeks fixing up their leaky Harley's and ride through the mountains for a day or two and think they've been on an adventure. I simply don't enjoy the ‘Art of Motorcycle Maintenance'. I find it terribly boring and time consuming. I'd rather ride the damned thing.   Bob's brother arrived in the morning. He'd be trailing us in a car with all of our gear inside. Bob and Wayne were going to ride with him on the way back to Arizona. I had plans of flying up to San Francisco from Long Beach simply because I hadn't been there yet and it was a short flight.   That first day we mostly stuck to the interstate. It was a very long, very straight and very boring ride. Absolutely nothing of interest happened. We stopped at a Motel 8 and went out to eat.   In the morning we followed Bob to some back roads that went through small mountain passes. Some of the best roads I've been on. At first Bob was leading us and I was behind Wayne. Bob and I like to go as fast as possible through the tight turns so I passed up Wayne and it took a few minutes to catch up with Bob. He saw me in his mirror behind him and he gave me thumbs up and I waved back.   I felt a bit embarrassed that I had trouble keeping up with a 70 year old man, but the dude can really ride. We lane split between cars and took turns at 70mph. He rides just like I do. We stopped a half hour later to wait for Wayne and Bob's brother in the car. Bob got off of his bike and came over to me. We were both smiling because the ride was fantastic compared to yesterday. He complimented me on catching up to him, saying that not many people can. This made me feel better. The others showed up a few minutes later.   The rest of the ride went like that until we reached the outskirts of LA and Long Beach where traffic began to pick up. The shipping company came up on us faster than we expected and the end of that journey was a bit sudden. We handed over our keys to the shippers and signed some papers. Wayne had some trouble because he was supposed to get some documents at the Canadian/American border. He didn't have them and this could potentially cause trouble with US customs and getting the bike shipped. I hope all goes well with that.   We were told that once the bikes cleared customs then it would sit in a crate for a while waiting for it to fill all the way up. Then it would take another six weeks for the bikes to reach Australia. They estimated that the earliest the bikes would arrive would be just after the New Year. I think it will take longer. Sat, 03 Jan 2009 17:42:28 GMT http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_56487.cfm http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_91091.cfm Twenty minutes after being back at the Clan Hostel in Buenos Aires I was introduced to Patrick (22 - we're the same age) from England, who is fellow motorcyclist. He had shipped his bike from England to the Florida then drove to California and down the Baja in Mexico. From Panama he shipped his bike to Ecuador skipping Colombia. He also did southern Chile and Argentina. But for the most part our trip held the same route.   As I've noted in previous blog posts I had a finalized plan to head south to Ushuaia. I eliminated that route once I found out that Patrick was headed to Brazil. I hadn't been to Brazil yet, with or without the bike. I also reasoned this: would I rather ride alone through the middle of nowhere in the extreme cold with straight roads to reach the bottom of South America or would I rather ride with a new friend through Brazil where there's beautiful women in bikinis and warm weather?   I arrived at the hostel on a Thursday and we had planned on being out of there by Monday. In the meantime I had a few things to do. First, I had to pick up my bike from Dakar Motos. Javier, nice as always, offered me strong coffee and started her up. I smiled and revved the engine. I hadn't heard the engine purr since June. It brought back a flood of good memories and right then I seriously considered whether or not to sell her like I had planned - but it had to be done. Riding the bike back was a great feeling. It took three seconds to get back into the bad habit of lane splitting, running lights, and breaking other unenforced road laws.   When I got back to the hostel I listed the bike for sale on Craigslist, the HUBB, and ADV Rider. I got two responses from ADV, six or seven from the HUBB, and over twenty from Craigslist - certainly no lack of attention. On Saturday I showed the bike to a potential buyer. He seemed very interested but said he had to talk to his lawyer and make a few calls regarding the registration and import fees (he ended up writing back a week later saying it's possible to buy the bike). I tried showing the bike on Sunday morning (after just three hours of sleep) but the guy was a no-show. That really pissed me off. A few others wrote saying they would definitely buy the bike after I get back to Buenos Aires from Brazil - even a guy in Montevideo, Uruguay said he'd buy it if I took it to him. All this eased my mind quite a bit as I was stressed about the sale.   But I had a problem. I had lost the entry papers from the Bolivia and Argentina border - papers that I would need if I got stopped by the police or tried to exit Argentina. A pretty massive problem - but this same thing happened before when entering Bolivia from Peru when I didn't bother to stop at the border at all (I didn't feel like paying a hundred plus dollars for entry into Bolivia). As I recall I talked myself out of all the police stops in Bolivia and even managed to not pay a dime when exiting the country and entering Argentina. I felt confident enough about getting into Brazil without any problems - others, including Patrick and Javier, weren't so optimistic. If I didn't get out of Argentina then it would be impossible to sell the bike with faulty papers. I needed to re-enter Argentina to get new ones. Also, the maximum visa for my motorcycle to stay in Argentina was three months - it had been here three and a half.   While at the hostel I met up with Dan (a friend I met in July at the hostel) but didn't get around to doing much more than going to a Chinese restaurant and drinking beers back at the hostel (I had a rough hangover from the night before). I promised that when I got back from Brazil we'd make time for a proper night out at the clubs.   Patrick and I had intended on leaving on Monday. We didn't get around to it until Thursday. The border we wanted to cross was at Foz do Iguacu in Northern Argentina in the state of Missiones. Iguacu is known for its massive waterfalls that stretch into Brazil. It's also the only border that allows me to get a Brazilian Visa (Patrick is British so he didn't need to pay for a Visa). The bus, we heard, takes about 16-18 hours so we had planned on making it in two short daytrips seeing as we can go faster than a bus. The first day we got a late start and made it to Concordia, a city much less than half way to Iguacu. I also got caught by the police for lane splitting and bribed my way out of a ticket.   Next day we drove maybe two hours when Patrick's chain busted near a small town called Puerto Rico. I pulled up beside his bike and saw that his chain was in a knot and his sprocket was completely warped. Also, his license plate went missing - an even larger problem. I didn't see it fall off but made a small attempt at finding it by driving five miles back and looking along the side of the road. It was gone. When I got back to where Patrick was parked I saw that two guys in a truck stopped to give him a hand. One guy, Daniel was his name, helped link the chain for a temporary fix and offered for us to follow him to his house to work on it properly.   His house was amazing. It was a large, nicely furnished, one story house that had a large yard with a chicken run and five dogs. In his garage he was already working on another bike for a friend, a nice sports bike with custom paint and stickers. Before we started working on the bike he introduced us to his girlfriend (his girlfriend for eleven years or something). She's well fit. She is a brilliant cook and offered us to eat lunch with them and we sat around the table trying our hardest to speak the only language we all knew - Spanglish.   Daniel was a pretty accomplished mechanic and his cousin just happened to be a sign maker who could replace Patrick's license plate. Luckily Patrick had taken many photos of his bike so we could see exactly how the plate looked. We spent a few hours with the cousin while he designed it in on the computer at his office/chill out pad. He said he would drop it by Danni's place tomorrow morning.   After feeding us lunch and dinner and driving us around to different stores around town to find a certain sprocket and chain links and doing other favors he offered for us to stay at his house for the night. He's quite an amazing guy. The next day the license plate arrived and it looked very original with reflective material. For breakfast we went into town and got something to eat. During the day we worked on the bike a bit more and mostly sat outside chilling out with Danni and Vanesa and their friends passing around Mate and beer. Danni was interested in purchasing my bike so he called his lawyer and asked if it was possible to buy it. It is. I offered him a much better price than what I'd been advertising. I'll have the original title sent to his place from the States (since I'm still using the forged copy for the bike).   In the evening they took us out to a club. Get this... The club had an electronic Bull! Not quite what we expected. I told Patrick I would take a turn if he did. He went on and lasted about five seconds but people still cheered. I didn't think he would actually do it so I didn't take a turn (which got me a much deserved punch to the shoulder). We were introduced to at least twenty people at the club and danced and drank with them until the wee hours of the morning.   Needless to say we got a late start to the day and getting everything together. So, after saying our goodbyes and thankyou's we left around five o'clock. Danni had picked out an alternate route for us to get to Florianopolis faster. We would still go to Iguacu to check out the falls but we wouldn't cross there. From Iguacu we would head southeast to a small border crossing into Brazil.   In Iguacu we stayed at a nice hotel in the central part of town. We went out and ate dinner at a pretty cool restaurant outside. Weather was perfect. We had a few beers and went to bed early. The next morning we loaded up our bikes and went over to Iguacu Falls which is about two kilometers outside of town. We parked and bought our entry tickets. We didn't realize that we had to walk another mile or so to actually reach the falls. It was blisteringly hot in all my riding gear and sweat was pouring from my face. But it was worth it because the falls were so spectacular they were almost beyond imagining. While watching the falls Patrick commented with a big grin on his face, "It's just a bunch of water falling down; it's not really that amazing". He got a few strange looks because some nearby tourists didn't know if he was joking.   We only spent about an hour at the falls because we had to get back on the road to get across the border down south. We had to go 200km and cross a 40km stretch of dirt road but it was pretty well maintained so we stuck it around 60mph until I nearly killed myself on a turn and told Patrick to slow down the pace a bit. My bike wasn't meant for this kind of stuff.   We reached the border around two o'clock and I was hassled for not having my papers. The main manager of the border talked with me for a bit and asked to see my passport. He flipped through the pages and said something about a having a beautiful life as he checked out every stamp I had. He basically handed back my passport and said I was free to cross the border into Brazil. Along the way to Iguacu we got stopped three or four times by the police at checkpoints and none asked for the entry papers. Now here at the border I only had to spend a half hour to get across. How easy was that?   Then shit hit the fan. I forgot I wasn't able to get my Visa for Brazil at any other border except for up north in Iguacu. I pleaded with them to let me cross but they weren't having any of it. I would have to backtrack to Iguacu and cross tomorrow after acquiring a visa. Patrick and I split ways and made plans on meeting back up in Florianopolis in Brazil. The good news is that I had to re-enter Argentina so I got proper entery papers.   A bit pissed off at myself for not remembering this important bit of information I returned in bad temper to the same hotel in Iguacu 200km away. That evening I got a haircut and went back to the same restaurant. In the morning I got up early and went to the place down the street to fill out some paperwork for the visa. The friendly guy behind the counter told me I could pickup my passport and 30 day visa at 1pm. I had lunch and arrived a back a little before 1pm. There were other Americans there and a few Mexicans waiting for their visas. At 2pm I was set to leave. I easily got across the Argentina border and drove 1km to the Brazilian side and that was also an easy process. Once on the road to Florianopolis I did a little dance on my bike and shouted happily, "Brazil!"   The drive was mostly uneventful but I made it to the city of Guarapuava, about a hundred fifty miles into Brazil. In Guarapuava it was already dark and I was having trouble finding the center to get a hotel. I drove past a group of teenagers having beers at a restaurant on a small side street. They smiled and waved as I drove past. So I drove back and asked for directions. They told me the way and asked if I would like to join them for a beer. Conversation was very difficult as I knew no Portuguese and they knew no English and little Spanish. Once we finished up with the beers they offered to show me the way to a hotel in central. They each had Honda 250ccs all jacked up to be extremely loud. They were popping wheelies and riding on their front tires with the rear tire lifted at an extreme angle. They were very good at showing off. I popped my own first wheelie on accident. I didn't see a car coming at me from a side street and gunned first gear. The front tire lifted quite high and let down slowly. I was quite impressed with myself but shocked that I almost got smashed by a car. Whoops.   We drove around to five or six different hotels. All were booked and just one hand only one room left, a master suite with Jacuzzi and all - I took it. Before checking in I shook hands with my new Brazilian friends and said goodbye. The room was on the top floor and was pretty sweet. The shower had three water heads pouring down from different directions. Sadly I didn't make use of the Jacuzzi. I walked around town for a bit and settled for a filet mignon and beer at a restaurant near the hotel. For my first day and night out in Brazil I'm very much impressed. Everybody has been extremely friendly.   In the morning I made the most of my suite and slept in until ten or so. At checkout I asked for directions for the highway. The first part of the day was beautiful with sunny skies. Much of the road was twisty and not at all boring and I had a few close calls with lane splitting - not at my entire fault. I didn't know Brazil uses huge yellow brick blocks atop the yellow lines to make sure nobody passes where they're not supposed to. I hit a few of those passing a truck and nearly hit a VW bug coming the other way. Ok, so maybe it was my fault. But I really wasn't expecting the big block things.   Later in the day it started to pour down rain. I put on my rain gear (first time ever, I usually settle for getting soaked) and drove at 60mph trying to avoid the puddles of water for hydroplaning. I got into Florianopolis and drove around for a bit getting myself lost and settled for a hotel near the center. I was checking into the Ibis Hotel when I heard my name being called from behind me. I turned around and who should be there but Patrick. He saw my bike parked outside - he was staying at a hostel around the corner. Florianopolis is quite a huge city. It's the capital of it's state here in Brazil. So believe me when I say that it's a pretty enormous coincidence that he should notice my bike - quite unbelievable really. I cancelled the checkout process and went over to the Youth Hostel Pat was staying at.   It was still raining so we were quite concerned that it would continue to be like this. What's a beach town without being able to go to the beach? That evening we went to a famous pub called John Bull Pub. It was completely ridiculous to say the least. They had an Elvis impersonator on all night. We ordered more beer to make it bearable but he actually wasn't at all bad. It was entertaining but still ridiculous. At the end of the night we were proper drunk. After getting our picture taken with Elvis we took a taxi to a McDonald's and ordered cheeseburgers.   Today was cloudy and rainy again. The weather isn't supposed to improve so we're going to ditch this place day after tomorrow and head north. Patrick took his bike to the Yamaha shop and found out that he has a broken frame - and he didn't even realize it. Earlier he was making fun of me when Javier told him that I was riding around with a missing bold from my frame. Pat's was completely severed. Right now it's being welded back together. This evening we went to a steak place that serves meat on swords and sushi on plates. Expensive but worth it. Fri, 17 Oct 2008 17:49:38 GMT http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_91091.cfm http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_23979.cfm Yesterday, September 1, the weather didn't change. In fact it actually got worse than Sunday. I saw, when I woke up, the rain was coming down in sheets and it was 39 degrees, and I went for it. I was almost instantly soaked and freezing and my fingers were nearly frostbit just 30 miles down the highway. I was thinking I could outrun the weather but then it started snowing/raining 20 miles later and the rain was freezing on my facemask. Fuck it, I'm cold and shivering and my fingers are numb and turning colors so I pulled over to the next motel I saw - in Neihart, Montana which is situated in the mountains. Everything I had on was soaked including my pants and shirt. No hair-drier to do my clothes this time.   Once I got freshened up the best I could I went to the bar at the motel and I met other bikers from Minnesota doing Montana on dirt bikes. One guy, I swear to god, was George Bush's brother - he looked and sounded just like him, only this guy was smart. They were both airline mechanics so I hung with them drinking at the bar and in the evening went to the hot tub out back (that I hadn't a clue about). I told them about my adventures and I think they thought I was bullshitting them the entire time (I wasn't of course) but I got a kick out of it.   In the morning the weather cleared up and the temperature was warmer - in the high forties. It was a gorgeous drive south and I stopped in Livingston to get a bite to eat and I met a couple other bikers - one guy from California and another from the Netherlands. They were full of good information about motorcycle gear and suggested I buy a heated vest. The Netherlander started in northern Alaska and is traveling south for a year to Ushuaia, Argentina - so I gave him a few tips of where to stop along the way. California only had 10 days to travel around Montana.   On my way south again I soon reached Yellowstone, which was not at all what I expected. The drive was beautiful and scenic but the trees were uber small - it made me feel like a giant (if only I was on mushroom) - and there were sulfur hot springs everywhere making it smell like a rotten fart. Up in Glacier people knew how to drive, but not here - 20 miles per fucking hour (MPFH) the whole way. I thought about stopping off at Old Faithfull until I saw how many tourists were there.   I pulled over south of Yellowstone in the Tetons and found a posh resort lodge with an AMAZING view of the Grand Tetons - $129 a night, totally worth it. Right now I'm just writing and drinking a local beer and eating calamari and checking out the beautiful Teton Mountains on the back deck. Sunny and great - light jacket weather. Only staying here one night and taking pictures for sunset/sunrise and heading out early!   The above was copied directly out of my hand-written journal. Thu, 25 Sep 2008 20:53:26 GMT http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_23979.cfm http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_36697.cfm On the evening of the sixth I ate dinner with my host family. The entire household sat around the table and talked in both English and Spanish. It was very lovely - no TV, nor music. Just conversation.   All the students here are my age and all girls - which is good and bad I guess. It would be nice to go out with a guy to get a beer and it would be awkward to go out for a beer with one of these girls here since I live with them.   Later I went back to the hostel and shared my birthday with Nav (its here birthday too, 25) and people at the bar bought us shots and beer and I was already buzzing by the time the Irish lads wanted to go out to a pub.   At the pub we just talked to a few girls while the guys kept buying me birthday shots. I was once told that I should never keep up with an Irish guy - I need not be told again. After arriving back at the hostel I don't remember anything. I was awoken at 3pm next day and when I stepped out of the room the first thing somebody said was ‘I heard you were drunk last night!' - I'd never seen this person before.   Here is what I'm told happened: For some reason I walked into the girls' bathroom (thinking It was the guys, of course) and I forgot which door was the exit. I ended up banging on a locked door for an hour yelling ‘let me out!' quite hysterically. A girl come up, tapped me on the shoulder, pointed to a door 3 feet away and said ‘the door's there mate'. ‘Oh, right' I said. In the morning while eating breakfast I heard people talking about a loud banging that kept them up part of the night. I didn't enlighten them.   Later that night the Irish guys wanted to exchange emails with me because they were leaving the next day and they handed me a blue pen. I thought he was handing me a cigarette and put it into my mouth and sucked on it. It exploded. My teeth and tongue were vivid blue in the morning. There's a bunch of other stuff I did but I really am too embarrassed to write it down.   Around 5pm on my birthday I was in a café and was watching the news - a riot was breaking out somewhere in the world. Something caught the corner of my eye and I glanced outside the window and people were running. I walked over and I saw people with sling shots pelting the police. Then I saw people with whomping sticks beating the shit out of a police car - then they set it on fire! Cool! I looked back at the TV and the same police car was burning. I joined in.   I didn't do any damage or anything like that but I followed the riot. Heavily armed police on foot/motorcycles/trucks were casing them down - I ran along, blending in. I tried to stay along with the rioters because the police were getting the shit kicked out of them and I like being on the winning side. I had to dodge a stray brick and rocks and whomping sticks once when I somehow ended up in the middle of the madness.   Each time the police tried to arrest somebody the crowd would jump the police and set them free - so I really wasn't too afraid of being arrested. By the end I followed the rioters to a safe house in an ally where the police didn't go. A news person wanted to conduct an interview with me, but hell, I didn't speak Spanish that well and had no clue what the riot was even about.   Later several people from the safe house were taken to the hospital - one guy really didn't look so hot.  I wish I had my SLR for this - it was back at the home stay, but Susie, a girl I was with at the time, took a few shots.   That evening people from the hostel went to a drum concert, one of the coolest things I've seen, ever; Ten or twelve guys on different drums on a stage making the coolest beats while hundreds of people danced and Moshed. I joined in the Mosh but it was a bit rough and I was too sober. Well, I was still a bit drunk from the night before but I had been chugging water all day.   I met a girl there, Ali from San Francisco. She invited me to a famous steak place in BA along with her mates from the hostel. Food was brilliant and had an excellent time. Thu, 25 Sep 2008 03:42:41 GMT http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_36697.cfm http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_54185.cfm So, here's what I did throughout the rest of July. I had moved into the home stay, which turned me into a vegetable because massive meals were served nightly (like huge Thanksgiving dinners, no kidding) and I sat around and read books in the living room couches all day and surfed the internet without getting much work done. Most evenings I would go back to the Clan hostel and hang out with my old friends (like Nav and Dan) and new friends (everybody else) and partied way too hard - drinking, smoking (joints, spliffs, and cigarettes) and doing other stuff I probably shouldn't write down (hey, come on, it's Argentina, everything's cheap). I'd feel wrecked during the day and do the same thing all over again.   I gave up trying to learn more Spanish because the Argentine accent was throwing me off and I didn't want to relearn what I already knew - plus I was being a lazy bastard to say the least.   The roommates were pretty cool, they really were - but we just didn't have a whole lot in common. Britney wanted to study all the time and hang with her school friends. Nikki is awesome but she was usually working and too broke to go out. And the other roommates I really didn't converse with to be honest. Everybody, including my home stay parents, were nice and friendly, but there really wasn't a whole lot for me to do - the hostel would have been the better option (but not for my sanity).   I checked in with the mechanic weekly to see how he was doing with my bike. I made the mistake of telling Javier (the mechanic) that I'd be around for two months and to take his time so he didn't end up getting to the core of the problem with my bike for a while.   I'd had enough of the partying, boredom, being unhealthy and decided to get a ticket back to the States to chill out for a bit while my motorcycle was being fixed. This caused a bit of a problem with my home stay parents because I had told them I'd be there for 2 months, and they make their money on the rooms for rent, so I felt quite bad about that. I said goodbye to all my friends at the hostel although Dan will be there when I get back (maybe). Javier (mechanic) told me which parts to order for the bike and send back because they will be much more inexpensive in the States. So, when I get back, I'll have a working motorcycle (hopefully). I left August 7 and arrived in Denver the morning of August 8.   Below Inserted September 6th, 2008 I've cleaned up my act since I've been back home in Parker, Colorado (mostly because there's not a whole lot of partying to be had here and I only have one friend left here, which is quite sad). I'm just working on my website design business and getting ready for the Australia/Asia/Middle East/Euro motorcycle trip that I'll be undertaking with Wayne and Bob - shipping our bikes from California in mid-November. I also bought a new bike, a F650GS Dakar - the bike I'll be taking.   I fly back to Buenos Aires October 1st and will continue on down to Ushuaia then ride back north to sell the bike either in Argentina or Paraguay (whichever is easier). I'll be back in the States by the end of October so I have sufficient time to get ready for the next trip on the Dakar. Thu, 25 Sep 2008 03:33:42 GMT http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_54185.cfm http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_82660.cfm The tow driver was to arrive at 4pm or so and I was biding my time until then. I went over to an internet café to use my laptop and there was a small earthquake - I don't think anybody else noticed but a few seconds after it was over the internet went down in the building and phone lines too. Kind of cool. Mike still has not written back about the home stay. I hope I can move in soon.   The tow driver arrived a little after 4pm at the hostel and loaded up the bike. He was concerned that I wanted to go to an unofficial BMW motorcycle mechanic (Dakar Motos) but I told him I heard on good authority that these guys were good. It was about $35 to transport.   Dakar Motos is just a resident neighborhood and it is just a medium sized garage filled with motorcycles of all shapes and sizes, and tons of parts everywhere. It is run by a very friendly fifty something guy with a gruff voice. The dude is a born mechanic. I watched him do his thing while drinking strong coffee that was offered to me and he found the problem within a few minutes. "A five-thousand dollar bike breaks on a two dollar plastic part" he said with a smile. I was so happy it was a small problem. I won't get my hopes up because we still have to start her up and test the other mechanics of it. When it broke down on the highway I could not shift into first, which could equate to a larger problem than not having any oil. But I don't think so. The smoke I saw was the large amount of oil hitting the hot engine. He told me to give him a call tomorrow and he will give me an update. I also asked how much he charges and he said not to worry about it- he charges much less than the official BMW dealers here. Great news. So, so happy.   I rode the train back to central Buenos Aires and took the underground to Av. De Mayo - two blocks from the hostel. Only 2 pesos for the ride, insane! Taxi would have been 25. It's not exactly London Underground - but it runs and it's cheap.   While I sit here writing, its 9 pm and they are cooking pizza here at the hostel so that's dinner. Most people here are headed out to a D&B club so I may join in (starts 2am). Chill out and have a few beers now till then.   The above was copied directly out of my hand-written journal Thu, 25 Sep 2008 03:27:06 GMT http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_82660.cfm http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_13404.cfm Last night I met an Aussie girl, Nav, who was sharing my room at the hostel in central Buenos Aires. It was around 1 am but we were both very hungry so we went out to find something to eat. While we were walking along the sidewalk some kid, around 17 or 18, came up to me and grabbed my arm and "requested" my wallet. I tried to brush past him but he held on tighter to my arm. His other hand was tucked into his pocket and I could smell alcohol on his breath. I don't know what he had in his pocket. A knife? He was shorter than I am and already staggering so I grabbed his thumb twisted it violently so his arm was locked at an odd angle. He howled in pain and I pushed him out of my way. Cheeky fellow. He continued his staggered walk down the street. Nav, the Aussie girl, was already on the other side of the street nearly out of sight. She looked quite frightened.   Anyways, we continue searching for a restaurant but most were closed because of the hour. We managed to find a small pizza shop that only served cheese as a topping. We got it to go. On the way back Nav mentioned that her birthday was next week. As it turns out our birthday is on the same day. We'll have to have a birthday bash or something.   Back at the hostel we ate some of the pizza but it was bland. Luckily there were some drunken people with dulled taste buds to finish it off for us. I fell asleep soon after the drunks finished off the disgusting pizza.     Today, back at the hostel on the internet, I looked up Dakar Motos which has been recommended on the HUBB (motorcycle forums) several times, and for good reason I suppose. They are not BMW certified but their work is supposed to be top notch and cheap. They are also located about 20 min away so I just gave them a call.   A friendly man answered the phone and I had everything worked out with him. I will tow the bike from the parking garage over to Dakar tomorrow afternoon around 4pm and they will take a look at it. Depending on the estimate I might just leave it there for a month so I can save more money to pay them.     The above was copied directly out of my hand-written journal Thu, 25 Sep 2008 03:21:12 GMT http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_13404.cfm http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_55645.cfm  This weekend I took the new BMW Dakar motorcycle to Bob's place in Phoenix, Arizona for two reasons. First, I needed to pick up the much needed panniers (metal saddle bags), that ended up costing quite a fortune. Second, Bob has been nice enough to allow me to park my bike at his place while I'm away so he can make much needed adjustments to it.   Let's start with the first point. The Jesse Luggage panniers are very light metal cans that will allow much more luggage space. Since the cans increase the width of the bike I will be able to stack up duffle bags across the back seat and lay it across the panniers. Before I left for Arizona I ordered the panniers over the phone so I wouldn't have any problems with availability when I picked them up. Believe it or not, expensive metal cans are high in demand. However, once I arrived at Jesse Luggage I realized I would have to install them on the spot since I had no room on the bike to load ‘em up and install them myself at Bob's. The installation fee wasn't so bad and took over an hour for three of us (yes, I helped) to figure out what goes where. If I had not paid these guys I would have been at it all day as mechanics really isn't my thing even if it does have instructions.   Since my motorcycle is a '03 much has been learned about it by others who have the same model. Many online reviews and tutorials have suggested tinkering with certain aspects of the bike to get better mileage, more torque, and, on the more physical side, add crash bars to better support the frame and engine for my off road madness. As I will be flying back to Argentina next week to finish up my South American Adventure, Bob has kindly allowed me to store my motorcycle in his garage until I return. Bob is currently in Guatemala playing around in Antigua so when he returns mid October he'll kindly ‘tinker' with my bike; adding, removing and adjusting parts. I simply have to order the equipment online and it'll be installed by Bob. It's good to have friends like I have.     When I fly to Argentina next week I have two goals. First, make it to Ushuaia (southernmost city in Argentina and the world) and return. Also to take into account, Buenos Aires is an addicting place and I'll be lucky to escape south on my motorcycle with little more than a hangover. Second, sell the bike. These two conquests must be accomplished within one month.   It may not sound like much, but trust me it is. As you may recall the motorcycle had to be taken completely apart to fix the engine. I have not seen that it is truly fixed (I can only take the word of the mechanic) so if something happens along the way to Ushuaia then I'll surely be held up more than a few days.   The motorcycle is still financed and I only have a copy of the title (that I've been passing to border control police as being original). The financing company has never given me permission to take the motorcycle out of the country, let alone through eleven countries, so I may run into some trouble selling it on those grounds. If I cannot sell the bike then I'll have to store it in Buenos Aires for I'll surely return... some day. Upon success this will be the end to my year long ‘Denver to Ushuaia' odyssey. But, alas, my gallivanting ain't done ‘til Rosie O'Donnell sings.     My flight back from Buenos Aires arrives in Denver on November 5. I'll have literally just a few days until I meet up with Bob and Wayne at Bob's place in Arizona. The day I get there I expect we'll throw ourselves a going away party and head for Los Angeles, whereupon we'll crate up our bikes and load them on a ship bound for Australia. But, for me, there's much that has to be accomplished for that to be possible.   My current financing company, Public Service Credit Union, will not let me take my motorcycle out of the country, which leaves me just the following options: find a different financing company that will allow this (unlikely), pay it of with a credit card (I'm already in credit card debt), forge the title (Australian authorities would figure that out), or contact BMW and have them sponsor me with a free bike (please?).   I also need to apply for a Carnet (pronounced Karnay). A Carnet is a bond that is purchased for a large amount of money, usually around 800-2,000 dollars, that allows me to pass through borders without paying taxes or any other charges that would usually apply making the border process much easier. Obviously a Carnet is not required but it would certainly make life a hell of a lot easier. I can easily recall spending hours upon hours sitting at Central and South American borders arguing with the patrol. Such fond memories those are. I also need to apply for a China visa - a pain in the ass and a different story.   One last thing I need to take care of is my website design business. Programming will be commenced this week so I can launch the new interface before the first of the year which will provide an incredibly greater source of income, or so I believe. Lucky for me I have the best programmer in the world. Thu, 25 Sep 2008 02:20:23 GMT http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_55645.cfm http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_91584.cfm On Wednesday I woke up very early to catch the sunrise, too early actually, 5:45am. I didn't realize that the sun rose at about 7:30am here, so I sat on a couch in the ‘living room' of the hotel, that had massive windows that showed off the view of the mountains, and sat sipping a hot chocolate with marshmallows until I saw the first rays hit the mountains. I only had about 7 minutes of shooting the mountains before the clouds came in and cast a grey gloom on the day.   I packed up and left the posh hotel at around 8:30am and took south. It was a nice drive, not too cold I stopped for lunch in Vernal, Utah (middle-of-nowhere) and took highway 40 east into Colorado toward Denver.   I only made it to Steamboat Springs before I had to stop. My eyes were dry, I was nearly falling asleep and above all my ass hurt from sitting for so long. In downtown Steamboat I stopped by the first hotel. The receptionist said he had only one room left - a 700 square foot apartment style room for $140 a night. I took it. It had plasma TV's everywhere, a full kitchen, a massive bedroom and wooden log furniture, Cool! So far this has been the ‘most posh' trip I've ever had. I watched CNN (the Republican Convention with McCain's under qualified Barbidoll Vice-Pres as the lead speaker). -----------------   On Thursday I ate some donuts in the hotel lobby and took off early toward Denver on highway 40. I passed through the Winter Park area that has about 10 switchbacks and took them fast for a little adrenaline rush. Soon after I hit I-70 then C-470 and found myself in Parker within 4 hours after leaving Steamboat.   I'm very impressed with the bike but it's quite different from the bike I took from Colorado to Argentina. That was a street touring bike. This is a duel sport touring bike so it doesn't have the ‘pickup' that I'm used to for passing cars and handles turns differently and I cannot take it faster than 70 without it feeling weird. But it gets 250 miles before I need to fill up (78MPG!) and sits higher so I can hit speed-bumps and curbs much easier and it's built like a rock.   It's exactly what I need for my next trip - shipping the bike to Australia with Bob and Wayne in November - the guys I met in Mexico and Panama and rode with in Colombia. ------------------   So, I'm back in Parker, Colorado getting work done before I head back down to Buenos Aires, Argentina at the end of this month to finish my trip down to Ushuaia, Argentina (southernmost city on Earth). Then I need to be back here at the end of October to fix up the Dakar to ship to Oz. That's the plan.   The above was copied directly out of my hand-written journal. Sat, 06 Sep 2008 04:16:47 GMT http://www.MikeHappens.com/mike_91584.cfm