Mike's Motorcycle Misadventures

Thankyou

2013-02-12T04:25:00.001-08:00

I posted this on facebook a while ago (when I reached Ushuaia), but for everyone else who didn't see it...

I would like to take this opportunity to say thanks to those who made this possible.
Firstly, although she'll never see this, I must thank my motorcycle Izzy. I put you through hell almost every day, and yet you continued to carry me and our gear through some of the most unforgiving terrain on this planet. You constantly surprised me with your tenacity and plain stubborness, and never failed me when I really needed you. I really hope I can find you a good home down here.

To my Canadian second family and friends, without your support I would not have been able to do this. You welcomed me into your homes and lives, and allowed me to get a stable footing from which to springboard on to this adventure. Without you I would have never really been able to start, nor be so sure that I had somewhere to go back to, should it all fail.

To the many friends I made along the way - you made this solo journey anything but. By sharing stories, experiences and beers you have made my story part of yours, and vice versa. Thankyou for taking this weary traveler in.

To those of you who stopped and helped me when in need, you made the world and open road a far less daunting place. Whenever I was in need, you jumped at the chance to help and get Izzy and I back on the road. You always extended a helping hand when I needed it most, and made this journey a pleasure. I only hope to be able to repay this debt, whenever I see a fellow traveler in need.

To my fellow long distance travelers - whether by motorcycle, bicycle, bus or car, the enduring spirit of adventure shown by each and every one of you truly inspired me to keep going, and go further, higher, faster and with more confidence. The tips, tricks and guides you provided saved me from disaster more times than I'd like to count, and I only hope that the information I then passed on to others was nearly as helpful. Meeting you, whether on the side of the road, at the end of a long day or in those rare moments when on foot, were some of my favourite moments on this journey. You made me feel less alone, and more a part of a chaotic and memorable migration.

To the man who got me hooked on motorcycle travel, I owe you a lot. Mat - I would have never have considered a trip like this if it wasn't for you. This journey was your brainchild, and I really hope to one day to put rubber to the wide open road with you.

To my family, I thank you for your support, and for showing only mild apprehension when I announced that I plan to ride a motorcycle through some of the most dangerous places on the planet. To know that you guys were always behind me meant more than words can express. I always looked forward to talking to you guys, and can't wait to physically be with you all again.

Finally, to all of you out there reading the blog - knowing that you have taken an interest in the trip kept me motivated to keep posting, despite the time and effort it took. The end result is a record that I can be proud of, and one I will be sure to reminisce on in later years. I hope you were entertained and informed, and I look forward to your own blogs, or further posts (on that note, the Patagonia post is almost finished). It will soon be my time to live vicariously through you, so make your adventures good ones!

I'll finish with one of my favourite quotes: "The world is a book, and those who don't travel read only a page". I encourage you all to get out and read this great book of ours - there's some great stories out there!

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go see a man about a boat..

Christmas, Farewells and the Return Home

2013-02-12T04:14:00.000-08:00

Well, after 7months and over 33,000km, I have finished my trip and have returned home. I am now writing this from my desk back at home in Perth, Western Australia. First observations - not as exotic as a beach in Mexico or the snow capped Andes, but comforting in its own way. I've actually been putting off writing this last entry for a while now. Partly because sitting down and writing is not my favourite thing, but mainly I think because it marks the end of such an incredible journey, one that I really didn't want to end.

After stepping off the M/V Ushuaia, I headed up to the hostel, and was relieved to see Izzy in the same spot as I had left her. After so long apart, I was feeling like a part of me was missing - not in an emotional sense, more in an anatomical sense. I felt like I had my legs reattached or something, it was kinda weird. But there was no time for sentiment - a couple of my fellow Antarcticans had invited me to join them for a walk through the Tierra del Fuego National Park. The park was very beautiful, but the weather didn't match. Amazingly, it was actually colder in Ushuaia than in Antarctica - the good luck that we had experienced weatherise came back to bite us in the ass, with freezing rain and wind.

The next few days was spent searching for a buyer for Izzy. Although the sentimental value is high, to ship her back to Oz is prohibitively expensive (in fact I bought Izzy in the US, as it was cheaper than shipping the bike I have in Oz). I had originally hoped to find a local charity willing to take her off my hands, and then sell her. Unfortunately, I couldn't find an appropriate local group so I started to advertise everywhere - I found the local classifieds, and advertised online. A few nerve racking days later, and an man from Buenos Aires man had committed to buy her. It was time to go out and celebrate, so I met up with Mark and a few other riders, and we hit the most southern Irish bar in the world for a few pints of local beer. A few turned into a few too many, which then turned into far too many. The hangover the next day was truly epic - I only started to properly function again around 4pm! Highlights of the night - making great new friends, and successfully distracting a cop for long enough to allow Claude (a rider and native Quebecer, living in Miami) and others to get in a taxi and avoid a drinking in public charge. Good times.

I had resolved to spend Christmas in Ushuaia, not because Ushuaia struck me as a magical location for such a time (although snow in the southern hemisphere is a rarity), but because travelling around any kind of religious holiday is just not smart in Latin America. Basically, if Christmas or Easter (known as semana santa - holy week) is around the corner, you bunker down and wait it out. Transport companies and border controls are out of control, and tickets can sell out months in advance. This feeling was justified by the rumours of long delays and cancelled flights at Ushuaia airport, that unfortunately meant that many travellers ended up stuck in transit during Christmas, instead of making it home.

However, Christmas eve at the hostel turned out to be an absolute blast. The owners spent most of the day preparing a lovely meal of steak and empanadas, which we all devoured. Sitting at one long table, eating and drinking the local delicacies with people from all corners of the globe, I felt strangely at home. I guess I am truly a traveller at heart. We finished off the night with copious amounts of champagne, dancing, and a visit from Santa Claus, delivering chocolates as gifts from the hostel.

The next day I headed over to the house rented by a few other riders for a end-of-the-world Christmas lunch. After posting on ADVRider about a possible meetup, we were inundated - for riders, Ushuaia represents a significant milestone in a journey, and for many of us represented either the beginning or end of an epic adventure. It was fantastic to see so many people there - I've never seen to many long distance riders in one spot at one time (got some great photos)! I met Nick again, who I'd first seen near Bariloche, and we caught up. Maps were brought out (of course) and war stories were shared by all.

Boxing day was one hell of a day. The original plan was to ride into Rio Gallegos, and leave the bike there for the buyer to pick up (avoiding the need to import and export Izzy through Chile). I was then going to catch a bus from Rio Gallegos to Punta Arenas, and fly to Santiago before flying to Oz. However, I was unable to get in contact with the us companies (Christmas and all), and was nervous about whether or not I'd get a seat. As it turns out, I didn't need one. As I was approaching Rio Grande, a fairly nondescript city built on the oil industry, Nick caught up to me (I was crawling by this stage, as I just wanted to make it and avoid the bone chilling wind). We pulled over for a brief chat, but had to get going, as I had a long ways to go that day. Pulling off the shoulder back on to the road, I almost came off as Izzy slid all over the place. I stopped, looked behind me, and cursed loudly. I had ridden nearly 30,000 km without a single flat tyre, and now this was puncture #5. I pulled out the can of fix-a-flat, and got into town. Pulling into the service station in Rio Grande, I met up with Nick again. I explained the situation, and together we tried to find a solution - would I make it? what would become of Izzy? after inflating the tire (by hand, as the air pump at the station had predictably died) and plenty of CPR/"Don't you die on me" jokes, I decided to wait and see how the tire would hold up after riding to a B&B recommended to me by Nick. The plan - if the tire was fine, I'd head for the border, if not then Rio Grande would be the end. After filling up, I headed out for Ruta 40 B&B. We made it a dozen blocks before I knew this was the end of the trip. Flat as a pancake hit by a steamroller.

I walked to the B&B, and talked with the owner Willie who agreed to make room for me (they were full, but he gave his room and slept outside). After I got settled in, I emailed the buyer in BA, and told him the bad news - I needed to be in Punta Arenas the next day, so would have to leave her in Chile, or Rio Grande. Willie then went out of his way to help me - we picked up Izzy in his van, dropped her off at a nearby motorbike mechanic, and bought a new tube. By the afternoon, we were set - I was going to ride into PA, and leave her there & hope to find a buyer when back in Australia. I got food for dinner, but was invited to join my fellow travellers (all riding bicycles or motorbikes) for a communal meal. It was my last true traveller meal, and I loved it - I will really miss having dinner with complete strangers with fantastic stories and a combined sense of adventure.

The next morning was chaos. I woke to have an early breakfast, and prepare for the last ride. Then I checked my inbox - the buyer had replied that he could get the bike from Rio Grande, but not from Chile. Panic mode engaged, we were off to the bus station as soon as it opened (after doing some preliminary packing) to get a ticket to PA. The clerk said they were all sold out, but that people sometimes don't show, so we should return in an hour when the bus arrives to see if we could get a spot. Back to the B&B, I packed as though the bus was guaranteed - the new(est) plan was try for the bus, and if that fails repack onto Izzy and head for PA under my own steam. Heavy stuff was dumped or given away and the rest was packed.

It is probably worth mentioning that permanently importing bikes into Argentina is prohibited. The ridiculous import duties (80% up to 400% of the value of the vehicle) when vehicles are able to be imported mean that foreign vehicles are in high demand on the black market however, and Argentinians are resourceful people. I didn't particularly want to break the law, but with little other options available and a populace desperate for decent (foreign) vehicles, the black market is a common and reasonable resting place for motorbikes in Tierra del Fuego. To protect those within reach of the Argentinian legal system, I won't talk about the particulars of selling Izzy, or mention the buyer by name. I will say that the money I received from selling Izzy has now created a pool of funds to finance microcredit in perpetuity to disadvantaged people, through an organisation called Kiva. I have focused on transport projects in countries we visited, such as El Salvador and Bolivia. It is a good feeling to know that even though she isn't mine anymore, Izzy is still going to have a positive impact in the communities that were so welcoming and helpful to us.

After packing, I said a hurried goodbye to Izzy, and raced to the bus station. There was a small line of people who were also waiting for last minute seats, which led to a very nervous wait. 9 months away and 103 days on the road, and it all came down to 10 minutes - unbelievable. Thankfully they space for all of us, so I hugged Willie goodbye, and jumped onboard. 1 obstacle down, a few to go. I had packed my motorbike gear deep in my bags, and made sure that everyone on board knew my cover story - I was going to PA to get a new sprocket, before returning for the bike. I had taken my old rear sprocket as a souvenir, and anyone with knowledge of vehicles in Tierra del Fuego would know that PA is the best place for parts, so it made sense. I didn't like lying to my fellow travellers, but I disliked the thought of being stopped at the border far less. It was a tiny border, so I was a bit worried - was someone going to recognise me (unlikely), or would they check all the bags, and wonder why I had a helmet with me (possible)? I was packing it big time. Then I looked at my passport.

It was already stamped. The bus station had an Argentinian immigration rep who had stamped us all out of Argentina. We ended up stopping at the border only so someone could use the bathroom (and give me a mild heart attack). Getting into Chile was a simple affair - as none of us were importing vehicles, customs didn't care. Immigration was easy, and Quarantine had the dogs sniff the bags, but no x-rays of checked baggage. Total time: 15mins, tops. Into Chile, I was smiling from ear to ear. The bus was running behind schedule, but my first flight wasn't until the next day, and they were all spaced out, in case of such delays (post christmas period, and all). I had made it, and it was around then that the reality started to hit - I had left Izzy, without really saying goodbye. In the end, it was probably for the best as it was so rushed I was unemotional. We crossed the Magellan straight at the main ferry (as opposed to the unpopular one I took last time), and made it into PA. I checked into another B&B (carrying your own luggage makes shopping around for accommodation difficult, and I was getting lazy), and went out for dinner.

I met an Irish man in a burger joint, when he asked if I knew how much fuel costs in Chile/Argentina. I must have been a bit enthusiastic with the info, because he caught on pretty quickly that I must have done a long trip. After I explained where I have been/ what I've done, he explained his situation: he was trying to get north past Santiago by driving someone else's car for them. It's a popular and reasonable option in North America - if a rental company or individual wants a car moved interstate, they advertise online for people who are headed in the same direction. Not so popular in TdelF, so he was having trouble getting a vehicle. He decided to advertise in the local paper, and ended up making it onto the local news! He said they were desperate for information, and ate his story up. I kicked myself - how many local TV segments could I have been on? There were many of us doing similar trips, but how many think to talk to the local news about it? Next time.

The next day I wandered around the town, and got a taxi to the airport. When I tried to check in my two bags, I was told that my ticket limited me to one bag. I had foreseen this however, and unfolded a giant storage bag I had bought earlier. 2 bags became 1, and I handed it over with a giant shit-eating grin that just screamed "checkmate". it all came under weight, and I walked through the security checkpoint without security personnel (all probably on break). In the departures lounge I scared the bejesus out of some kids when I approached them and asked if I could charge my iPod from their laptop. They nodded, and I bent down to plug it in, when they freaked out. It turns out they didn't speak Spanish, and had nodded out of confusion (I sympathise). I tried English, and got the same response. Then I listened to the movie they were watching, and realised that they spoke French. 3rd time round I just asked where their parents were. Asking the father turned out to be far more productive, and I had a fully charged iPod for the flight. Which couldn't distract me from the unnerving noise that the plane started to make as we taxied to takeoff. Anyone familiar with the topography of southern Chile knows it is not the area to attempt an emergency landing, and as I looked out onto the Andes mountain range colliding with the Pacific Ocean, I pondered the peculiar possibility that I might cross the globe by motorcycle, only to crash on the flight home. Obviously we made it to Santiago (after stopping to drop off and pick up passengers along the way!), and I got a minibus to the hostel.

I had booked a private room, but when I got there I was told they had no record of a booking, and only had the dorm available. I didn't really mind, as I had booked the room so as to not wake others. As it turns out, all but one of the fellow dorm residents didn't make it back - their beds were empty when I fell asleep, and when I awoke. Santiago must be a hell of a party town. I repacked, and got to the airport. Obligatory airport stuff dealt with, I went duty free shopping. I got Alfajores, and my favourite Caribbean rum (Flor de Caña, which then broke in Sydney). I ran into Jen and George, two Queenslanders who I had met in Antarctica. Stepping onto the plane (after surrendering my deodorant and saying a prayer for my fellow passengers), I felt home already. QANTAS is just awesome like that. I may fly cheap domestically, but international flights for me are always with the kangaroo if possible. Aussie beer (James Squire Golden Ale, thank you very much) and entertainment, not to mention I could understand the crew. Bonus: I was wearing my Boca Juniors Soccer shirt, and was told by a (obviously Argentinian) steward that "you can get whatever you want wearing that shirt". "Another Golden Ale then thanks". The trip was about 15hrs, but it just flew by. The saddest realisation while flying is almost a tossup: from Punta Arenas to Santiago I covered in 4 hrs what had taken a month of desert and mountain riding through gravel, rocks and mud. Santiago to Sydney, we ventured further south (>70 Deg) than we had when visiting Antarctica. But the saddest realisation was that it was all officially over - I was returning home.

Getting through Sydney airport was surprisingly easy. Interestingly, because I couldn't say for sure if I'd still be in Oz in a year, I was stamped in as a visitor. It seems I am a traveller in my own country. Got through quarantine pretty easily also, as I was pretty in tune with what they wanted to know. 30 seconds of questions, and I was out the door to my last flight, arriving in Perth on time. 283 days away, and I was finally home.

I have been back in Perth for over a month now, and only recently feel settled in. It is a unique feeling to walk around your hometown and recognise buildings, but still feel a certain alienation. I could only liken it to visiting a city like New York or Paris. Everyone knows what the Empire State Building or Eiffel Tower looks like, but it still feels different seeing it in real life. Of course, I have a stronger connection to Perth than your average tourist, but I still felt like I didn't really belong. I have definitely changed - and not just in my enjoyment of siestas. Politics matters far more to me now (it was pretty important previously), and it would take a lot of effort to stress me out now. I now appreciate aspects of Perth (beaches, weather, the beautiful people) more than ever, and scoff when people bag it for a variety of reasons (if you think Perth is boring, I have bad news for you: the problem is in the mirror. Perth has a lot going on, you've just got to look).

I'm also truly addicted to travel, and have started to plan my next trip - anyone keen to learn Russian and ride a motorbike with me?

Antarctica

2013-01-02T23:00:00.002-08:00

NOTE - THE FOLLOWING VIDEOS/PHOTOS ARE NOT MINE (STILL 8GB TO UPLOAD), THEY BELONG TO FELLOW PASSENGERS

The White Continent. The driest, coldest, most isolated and purest place on the earth. The definition of wilderness. A place that remained virtually unknown and impenetrable to man until recently, Antarctica is a land that inspires fear, elicits wonder, and encourages adventure. Volcanoes and mountains of ice, rising out of the frigid sea both forbid entry and coaxes the foolhardy. Just over a century ago, the continent's propensity for savage and unpredictable weather meant death for the few brave enough to attempt to penetrate the coast for the pole. Modern technology and knowledge has managed to reduce this disadvantage, but visitors remain largely at the whim of capricious and ferocious weather patterns. It remains largely untrodden by humans, and is probably the last true frontier on our planet. What adventure trip would be complete without a visit to such a land?

I admit that Antarctica wasn't the first destination I thought of when planning this trip. But having come so far, it would be silly to forgo such an opportunity. About a year ago I had booked a November departure, but back in May was told that a large group had essentially booked out the whole cruise. I was told that I would enjoy a different cruise more. And so on the 9th of December, I walked from the hostel down to the port of Ushuaia, bag full of the limited clothes that I have, and heart full of hope. I cleared the customs/ security point, and laid eyes on the M/V Ushuaia - the vessel that would take me to Antarctica, and home for the next 12 days.

But it wouldn't be just my home - I would be travelling with about 120 other passengers and crew. When I got on board to find my room and get settled in, I had a pleasant surprise. I had feared that I would be the youngest passenger by 30 years (mainly due to the cost - Antarctica isn't cheap), but the lounge was filled with people of all ages. All in all, 14 countries were represented, from Slovenia and Israel to the obligatory contingent of Aussies, Americans and Brits. Although we came from every corner of the globe (and walk of life), we were united in our shared sense of adventure - this was not going to be a luxury Caribbean cruise.

We got settled in, and congregated in the lounge/bar for the welcome address and safety drill. The safety drill was quick, but is extremely important - more than a few ships have sunk in these waters, and simply jumping overboard is not an option. In Antarctic waters, survival time is measured in minutes - hypothermia and unconsciousness are real dangers in subzero waters. Thankfully, the lifeboats on board are completely enclosed and equipped with a motor, EPIRB and enough food and water to last a week, along with seasickness meds. Which would be vital if you're lost on the Drake Passage.

The Drake Passage lies between Cape Horn and the Antarctic Peninsula and is notorious - it's likely the roughest sea in the world. For confirmation (and a bit of a queasy feeling), check the videos below. Seriously - watch them, and ask yourself whether you'd go on a trip like this. 14m swells are not unheard of here, and ships bound for Antarctica face 2 days each way of this, abeam of (at right angles to) the ship. Some companies offer an option to fly by helicopter to the ship once in the sheltered waters, but this option is beyond the budget of mere mortals. I had mentally prepped for days of rolling around, and was hesitantly looking forward to rough seas.

Nothing. It was as flat as a pond (on the rare occasion it's like this, it's jokingly called the drake lake) - I've taken baths with bigger waves. I felt like a soldier who climbs out of the trenches to charge the enemy, only to find out they had packed up and gone hours ago. It was by no means a river cruise, but sailing from Panama to Colombia was far rougher. Over the next few days, I entertained myself by reading a book on the race to the pole, and went to some of the lectures given by the staff.

The first real sight was a giant tabular iceberg, floating further north than any other that the staff could remember. The colours were amazing, and like nothing I'd ever seen before. It was around this time that a pod of Fin whales surfaced near the boat. At over 27m long, Fin whales are the second largest creature on the planet, and one of the fastest - capable of short bursts of up to 48km/hr (or faster than Usain Bolt)! A truly impressive creature, and only a taste of what was to come.

The next day we sighted land, and a second group of whales, this time a pod of humpbacks, breaching the ocean's surface and spectacularly splashing down. But that would not be the highlight of the day - that would belong to the penguins at Robert Point, our first landing.

Penguins are funny creatures - they're undoubtedly cute, and the main animal attraction of any Antarctic visit. But they're not particularly clever birds, nor are they graceful on land. It is a remarkable contrast watching these creatures swim effortlessly through the water, only to struggle on land with obstacles such as pebbles or holes in the snow. Their lack of intelligence or terrestrial ability only makes them more endearing - I defy anyone not to smile when watching a video of a penguin falling over in the snow. For wild animals, they are remarkably tame and comfortable with human interaction. Tour operators to the Antarctic impose a 5 metre distance rule, which the penguins themselves break. For example, I sat down on a rock, only to be joined later by an inquisitive Gentoo. The same can't be said for the Elephant seal - not that they were fleeing from us, but that they don't really do much at all. An open eye, or a raised head is about all a non predator could reasonably expect from a napping seal. Another creature with far greater abilities while underwater.

The next day we made land at Brown Bluff, the first of several continental landings. I had brought my helmet along (jokingly for the Drake Passage), and Izzy's plate - I'm counting it as a landing for Izzy. Photos duly taken, glacier climbed, and more wildlife spotted, we headed east for the Weddell sea.

The Weddell sea is famous for icebergs, and a swift circular current - dangerous conditions to say the least. When we got to the entrance of the sea, our hearts fell - it was nothing but ice, as far as the eye could see. Nevertheless, we got into the Zodiacs, and went for a brief trip through the floes. We were looking for a floe strong enough to walk around on, when the call came back on the radio to get back to the ship, and fast - the current was bringing the ice together, essentially trapping us in the ice. We hurried back, only to see that one Zodiac had gotten stuck in the ice, and was rapidly disappearing into the Weddell sea. It was rescue time.

We all got on board (grabbing a hot chocolate from the bar!) and watched the captain expertly navigate the ice strengthened Ushuaia towards the zodiac, cutting a path through the ice (and scaring a seal and a few penguins in the process). To navigate a 3000 tonne ship to within a metre of an inflatable boat requires a level of skill that is well and truly beyond me. Once the rescued were on board we could all laugh about it, but it must have been a bit scary out there, drifting away from the ship. A truly sobering reminder of the power of the weather and ice out here.

The next few landings all went smoothly, with some fun and games in the ample snow (my igloo and snowball building skills need a bit of work...). Far more interesting were the channels we navigated through in between landings - the Gerlache strait, and Neumayer channel, both awe inspiring places.

The next morning we visited Port Lockroy station, an old British research station that has subsequently been retrofitted and turned into a museum on life in the Antarctic. It was compelling stuff - from the recipe for seal brain, to the photos of the visit by HMS Britannia (the vessel of the Royal family!). There was even a small gift shop full of one of a kind souvenirs. The funds raised supported preservation efforts both there and at the historical Scott hut in NZ territory (not to be confused with the US base at the south pole). I bought some xmas presents for the family, and unbelievably was able to pay with a credit card - I dare someone to get a more impressive credit card charge! I posted a few postcards there as well - due to be delivered in about 3 months!

After yet another landing, everyone assembled at the bow, dressed in our best (in my case, clean) and warmest clothes for an Antarctic wedding. I think Jesse and Erin were onto something - a wedding without the hassle, in a mystical land. Although I've never seen a wedding with quite so many cameras! Everything went fantastically, both groom and bride said yes, and then it was time for the reception - Argentine asado followed by a massive party. The drinking (rum with 200 yr old glacial ice!) and dancing went on well into the night. Probably too long into the night, judging by my headache in the morning.

The next morning we visited another research station, this time the Ukrainian run Vernadsky base. Formerly the British base responsible for the discovery of the hole in the Ozone layer, Vernadsky was bought by the government of Ukraine, who were eager to conduct research in the Antarctic. The research (mainly concerning fluctuations in the level of ozone present in the atmosphere) is critical, but Vernadsky is famous for less academic reasons - they make their own vodka, and sell it at the southernmost bar in the world! I had a shot or two - vodka isn't my favourite drink, but they serve a fine drop at the Vernadsky bar. The wait for a taxi can be a bit long though... I also sent a few more postcards, but these will probably take a while - the staff take them to Ukraine when their stint is over, and post them from there. Expected time of arrival? Christmas... 2013.

The next day will simply be referred to as whale day. We saw some penguins and other wildlife/ sights, but the highlight was definitely the playful Minke whales. After determining we weren't going to hunt them, they became very friendly, and got very close. Like rocking the Zodiacs close. Unbelievable.

The last day of landings included one of the big ticket items, as far as I was concerned: Deception island. An active volcano in the South Shetland islands, Deception island was once home to a large whaling operation due to it's protected waters. As we passed through Neptune's Bellows (where the rim of the volcanic crater had eroded, flooding the volcano with water), the remnants of the whalers shacks stood out on the black ash that passed for a frigid beach. We walked around the buildings, including an abandoned airstrip that was used by the British for surveillance flights. But the main attraction was definitely the beach - we were here to swim.

When the water is at low tide, the volcanic rocks warm the water to the point where it is quite comfortable to bathe. The critical point there was "low tide". We had arrived at high tide - the water was 0 +/-1 degree Celsius - not comfortable. But screw it, we were going in anyway. The expressions of those who went in first didn't fill me with confidence - the artwork "The Scream" come to mind. But I hadn't come all this way to back out now, and in I went. The first few steps were cold, then my legs went numb, then I dove under and received the most painful headache I've ever experienced. A few more seconds, and I was trying to run to shore. I say trying because my legs, like everything else, had gone completely numb and wasn't working properly.

I don't claim to be the brightest individual, but even by my standards going in for a second time was stupid. I took my camera in (waterproof and freeze proof) and recorded a video, but as soon as I touched the water I forgot about the film, and concentrated on surviving. Exiting the water on the second time, the expedition leaders pointed out that they had found a small pool of warm water 2 metres from where we had swam. Talk about bad timing. But I ran in and defrosted my toes - Pure bliss.

We got back on board (one unlucky group got a dodgy Zodiac whose engine died on the way to the ship - not what you want after an Antarctic swim!) and chewed through the hot water supply on board with showers all round. My feet were so numb that when I stubbed my toe taking off my boots, I didn't even feel it. Antarctic swim - been there, done that, never doing it again.

After our last landing, we turned back towards Ushuaia. Again the crossing was pretty smooth, although there were a few waves which claimed a few casualties (less than half of the passengers came for lunch one day)! Once back in the sheltered waters of the Beagle channel, we had the captains dinner and another party, although everybody was a little too tired to really do anything. The morning after, we pulled into port and disembarked into Ushuaia, lives changed forever.

To anyone even remotely thinking about doing this trip - DO IT. The whole trip was amazing, the crew and staff were awesome, and my fellow passengers about the best people you could hope to travel with. Some tips - make sure the boat you're on is small, as rules only allow 100 people at a time on land (on the Ushuaia, it meant all 84 passengers and up to 16 staff could land at once). A big ship means less landings, less wildlife and less fun. Also, make sure the company is IAATO affiliated - you can then be sure of an environmentally responsible trip. And finally, try to get a trip with experienced staff - the Ushuaia's staff were able to answer all my questions, and able to go places others couldn't (Vernadsky doesn't sell their vodka to just anybody).

Patagonia & Tierra del Fuego

2012-12-21T05:59:00.000-08:00

I headed south from Bariloche, feeling good about the road ahead - yet again I had a purpose, and this time it was the finish line - Ushuaia, Argentina. The southernmost city in the world, and my launching point for Antarctica. I reset the trip odometer for the last time, and pointed Izzy south. Less than 2000 miles and our journey together would be over. But she wasn't going to make it easy for me.

I arrived in Esquel without a hitch, enjoying the cheaper fuel - Argentina subsidises fuel below the 42nd parallel, so once again the price dropped to less than $1 a litre. I also noticed an increased number of bikers back on the road, who I'd missed while coming into Bariloche through the Pampas. Also back (and which I hadn't missed) was the wind - it is a truly unnerving thing to be leaning right on a motorcycle, and still be able to take a left hand turn. At least there wasn't any gravel, and leaning heavily on asphalt is relatively safe, if not tedious after a few hours. I found a hostel through the tourism office, and after delicately riding Izzy over some improvised bridges (the hostel was pouring concrete for a new building), we settled down for the night, Izzy taking shelter under a cherry tree. It took the hostel manager to actually climb the tree and pick some cherries for me before I realised what it was - I've never seen a cherry tree before!

The next morning we set out without a real goal in mind, except to put some distance behind us. But first I had to stop at the train station. Patagonia is home to some truly lovely old train lines, one of which runs through Esquel. I noticed the tracks upon entering the town, but had written them off as just another extinct relic of a bygone era. That, and the tracks were like 2 feet apart - surely it couldn't be more than just a toy train line? Turns out it's a fully functioning, albeit touristy steam train line, operating in much the same way as it had for decades. The train yard was out in the open, so I had a look around, and managed to film one of the carriages moving around. None of the trains were taking passengers that day, and the tickets were prohibitively expensive, but it certainly looked cool. Oh well, you can't do everything.

Izzy was really struggling in the wind, and was starting to momentarily choke up like she was running out of fuel, but then spring back to life. Patagonia is not the place to break down, so I pulled into the next town (Gobernador Costa), got some food and accommodation, and set about finding the source of the problem. I inspected the head (after Canada I'm paranoid about oil flow), and the fuel system. All seemed fine. The next morning I went in for a inordinately expensive oil change to prep for the colder weather - the 12th (I think) of the trip, and the last.

We didn't have any problems for a while, but after about 20km she started to buck again. Now that I knew it wasn't a problem with oil flow (and so wasn't going to result in catastrophic failure), I just put up with it and kept going slowly to Rio Mayo, the next town with a sustainable population and (more importantly) a gas station. It is a long way between fuel stops down here, and with the winds and this fuel system problem, the gas mileage was shot. I almost didn't make it. The May river has cut a small canyon in the plains, the upshot being that you can't actually see the town until you are basically in it. I was well into the reserve tank (which gets me about 50km in good weather) when I saw a sign in the distance. I hoped and prayed for it to be for Rio Mayo, and let out a whoop of joy when I saw "Bienvenidos a Rio Mayo". I cut the engine and rolled into town. When I filled the tank, I realised how close I had come - in an 11L tank, I needed over 10.6L! We had 10km left in the tank, tops. The landscape surrounding Rio Mayo? Small rocks as far as the eye can see, and not much else. The town is built around a petroleum well, and the nearby Army Engineer barracks. It isn't exactly tourist central, but the next town was 200km away, so I spent the night there.

The next destination (yet again not exactly a tourist mecca) was Perito Moreno. The road there was almost completely paved, and so I arrived in town around lunchtime. I pulled into the Petrobras (The Brazilian govt owned fuel company), and instantly recognised a bike parked out the front. I had first met Rich in BA, where we shared a hostel and a few beers. He has also been riding down to Ushuaia from New York, on a 1972 CBT500! His blog (Manboy in the Promised Land) is linked on the right, and is well worth a read. He has been going for about 18 months, which probably gives a good idea of both how many stories he has to tell, and how much I've slowed down in Argentina. We chatted for a while, and he recommended a town near the Chilean border called Los Antiguos. The town had also been recommended to me by the owners of the Alaska hostel in Bariloche, so I took that to be a sign that I needed to visit.

It was around that time that I recognised how much my rear sprocket had deteriorated. It was knuckling, and wouldn't be long before I was left without a final drive. Just for fun, I asked around town for a place to get a new sprocket, and almost got laughed out of town. I shrugged my shoulders and headed west. From now on, I would have to nurse it to El Calafate (some 600km away), where parts could be sourced, or flown from BA.

Los Antiguos is the setting for an indigenous retirement home - the name means 'The Ancients', and the native people of the area used to send their elderly there to die. It might seem harsh, until you see the setting - it is one of the most spectacular places in the region. Unfortunately, the prices for everything reflect its appeal to tourists. I ended up finding a sympathetic farmer on the outskirts of town willing to let me camp for the night. I had pizza for dinner, only remarkable for the guest who shared the meal - a St Bernard helped me out. I love dogs (except for strays that chase motorbikes!), and St Bernards are near the top of the list - despite being so large and strong, they are incredibly docile and friendly. They're the Pandas of the canine world.

The following day I returned to Ruta 40 via the same Petrobras, when I met another biker. Andy has pretty much done it all - 5 years on a motorbike, touring the world (his site is linked on the right). It turned out he was working for a tour company accompanying a group of cyclists from Ecuador to Ushuaia. We discussed the upcoming road conditions (south of Perito Moreno, the Ruta 40 tends to fight back, and break vehicles), and wished each other well. After he left, it rapidly occur ed to me that I should have asked if I could ride with them - with 30 cyclists, 2 trucks and Andy, I would be far safer. I filled up and rode south, hoping to see him again. As luck would have it, we crossed paths again on a dirt track bound for Las Cuervas de Manos (a series of caves with ancient hand paintings). I asked if I could tag along for a bit, and he agreed - together we could go faster than the cyclists (despite the mechanical difficulties plaguing Izzy), and see the caves while keeping up. He rode on to have lunch with the group, while I plodded along.

We visited the caves with a Dutch couple who were exploring Patagonia in a pickup converted into a campervan. How they got there is beyond me - the road we all took to the caves was the shortest entrance, but unbelievable - steep hills full of deep rocks. I got worried when the wheels had come to a complete stop, but I kept sliding down the hill, parting the rocks like a heavy, hard wave! To see paintings left behind by people over 9,000 years ago is something else, and these people represented (nearly) the end of the human migration across the Bering strait and south, which is pretty cool. I often try to think about what it must have been like for them living in that time, but I think to truly understand the past (that far back) is about as hard and accurate as predicting the future - we will never be able to fully appreciate what life was like 9,000 years ago.

After the caves, we headed over to Bajo Caracoles. Like many towns on Ruta 40, Bajo was about to suffer from the ongoing paving works - as the conditions on the road improve, less traffic will need to stop less than 200km from a bigger, more tourist friendly town like Perito Moreno. For the moment Bao existed, but the abandoned buildings surrounding the town couldn't have been clearer on the fate of the town. I introduced myself properly to the cyclists, and they quickly invited me to dinner. I haven't eaten so well (healthily) for weeks, and I sure appreciated it. I got a room from the local hostel owner/policeman/baker, and hit the hay.

The next day I woke to the full carnage ruta 40 had wreaked on Izzy. I had travelled over 19,200 miles without a single puncture, and now we had three. It was my first, but Andy had seen it many times before - after a coffee or two, we had Izzy up on an improvised stand, and were inspecting the damage. In a bit of divine inspiration, Andy pulled out his hand cream (this wind has your skin looking like an alligator within minutes) and we found the holes. It was decided that any kind of repair would only do more damage than good, so we employed the fix-a-flat in a can I had bought in Paraguay. A quick spray and run around to spread out the foam, and we were ready to go.

Unfortunately, the wind had turned something fierce and turned my nursing of Izzy into an excruciating crawl. We passed the last biker, and made him a cup of coffee. I had planned to say goodbye to the cyclists at their camp and continue on to the next town, but as we approached the camp, the wind turned ferocious, so I asked if I could stay with them that night. It was without a doubt the strongest wind I have ever experienced. Some facts to put it in perspective: we were blown right across the road, despite leaning against it, I had to weigh my tent (a hilgh altitude mountain tent) down with 6 rocks the size of rockmelons, and we had to lie the bikes down as they were threatening to fall down.

That night I had dinner again with the cyclists, and got a better glimpse into their lives on the road. For anyone interested in bicycle travel overseas, but aren't keen on DIY, check out Bike Dreams - they know what they're doing. From the Tour de France competitor to people who ride for fun, they can accommodate anyone. A cyclist could get a lift from one of the two trucks at lunch, and therefore only do half the distance (or none at all). With the pressures of food, fuel, parts and planning removed, it would be a more enjoyable journey indeed.

In the morning, we had a quieter (still over 60km/hr) wind, but in our back. The cyclists rode for 50km in one go, most in under an hour. I waved goodbye and headed into town, as they took a shortcut towards El Calafate. We agreed to meet again down the road, so that I could fill up on gas (it would be over 350km between stations).

I got into Gobernador Gregores around noon, found a tyre repair place and had the tube patched properly. I found a nice Hospeadje - basically a granny flat with three bedrooms. I got talking to Johannes, a South African cycling throughout SA from Caracas. The next morning I heard him leave around 7am, and went back to bed. I left at around 0930, and passed him about 20 mins later. I have alot of respect for the long distance cyclists, although I think they've spent a little too much time in the sun if you know what I mean.

The last leg into Gobernador Gregores was pretty uneventful - I filled up from Andy's tank (the truck with fuel was still coming) and made good time into town. The only thing of note was an animal, on the top of a hill, about 200m from the road. I saw what I originally thought was a Guanaco (a native animal similar to the Llama, and endemic to these parts), but then noticed it didn't have the characteristic long neck. Then I saw the tail, remembered that this area was considered the home of the Puma and put 2 and 2 together to come up with "Oh S*#t!". I'm still not positive, and the photo I took was anything but conclusive, but at that point in time I was sure enough to do some serious miles without stopping. Every Argentinian I told the story to said it's incredibly rare to see a Puma in the wild, but Gdor Gregores would be the most likely place. I'm counting it.

I had now reached El Calafate, marking the end of the largely uninhabited areas of the Ruta 40 - from now on there would frequently be reasonably large towns or cities along the way. I found a reasonably cheap hostel in town, and got busy settling in. The next day I found a mechanic who could get a sprocket for a reasonable price - El Calafate is not far from Rio Gallegos, a town of over 100,000 people, and bus connections (read freight for small parts) are frequent. After a few phone calls and back and forth, the sprocket was ordered (to arrive on Monday), and I returned to the hostel. It was there that I again ran into Rich. We had a few drinks, and chatted about the road just gone, and the 1000km or so that lay in front of us.

It became painfully obvious to me after looking back through my diary that I was ready to go home. The roads were taking more out of me, and I was less inclined to leave a town/city once I had settled down. I hadn't stopped for more than a day or so while travelling from Canada to Panama, and now I was resting for days after less than a thousand miles. I was also getting pretty homesick, but organizing my flights home probably brought that front of mind more than anything.

I didn't really do much in El Calafate, but did manage to get to the Glaciarium which housed a wealth of information about the creation, discovery, movement and current retreat of glaciers around the world. I also made it out to one of the most famous glaciers in Patagonia (and the largest reason for El Calafate's tourism industry), Perito Moreno. Cascading (for a glacier, anyway) down from the Andes at a rate of up to 2.5m per day, Glaciar Perito Moreno is almost constantly calving. Towers of ice are forever cracking and falling from the face into the river below, creating a thunderous splash and wave that prevents boats and people from getting too close. Watching the constant battle between the accumulation of snowfall in the upper Andes and the melting effect of the lower rivers and Sun is a thrilling and epic sight. Up to 700m deep in the middle, The glacier is constantly creaking and cracking as it rides over subsurface mountains and valleys.

I was emphatically told by family that I needed to walk on the glacier, as how often do you get the chance? (As it turns out, I walked on another half dozen or so in Antarctica, but none so spectacular as Perito Moreno). We arrived by bus (the driver thought that a bit of Enya was a good touch as the glacier came into view - little cheesy, but I loved it). After a short boat ride and hike, it was time to don the crampons, and start ice trekking. We went on a small loop, and saw features typical in glaciers such as waterfalls, rocks picked up and obliterated by the massive forces at work, and of course crevasses, the deep rifts caused by the rippling and separation of the ice. I enjoyed climbing the steep and slippery slopes of ice thanks to the grip afforded by the crampons. As we passed over the last ridge, we had one final surprise on the ice - a tray full of glasses and a bottle of good scotch, as well as some alfajores (chocolate covered Argentine biscuits). Cooled with some glacial ice, it was one of the best (and certainly most scenic) drinks I've had in a while.

Once back in El Calafate, I had the new rear sprocket installed as well as another tyre patch (one of the three in Gdor Gregores didn't quite stick), and prepped for the last leg towards Ushuaia.

The next morning I headed out to cross the border into the 18th (and final) country of this trip - Chile. It was a pretty easy ride to the border, only made a little difficult by a snowstorm. It didn't last long, and thankfully it melted pretty quickly on the road, but by god it was cold! The border was a breeze - the border official caught on that this wasn't my first rodeo and gave me the sheet to fill in and stamped without looking at it. By now I know what info they need, and what questions they're going to ask before they do, so I appreciated the express service.

As I came down the mountain pass, I came into the town of Puerto Natales. I seriously don't think I've ever seen a town so spectacularly located. A deep harbour (technically the coastline of the Pacific Ocean), surrounded by lush green fields and hills, with the still impressive Andes in the background. While the town doesn't match the beauty of its surrounds, it is pretty in its own way. I found a hostel with parking, met a Canadian travelling around SA on a 150cc Honda and went out for a couple of drinks after dinner.

It seems that the majority of tourists that I end up drinking with are doing some form of long distance travel (eg by bike, car etc). It's not that I discriminate against other tourists, and I have made lots of friends with people doing short term trips. It probably has something to do with the fact that 90% of my stories and interests now involve the open road in some way or another, which probably don't interest other travellers as much. The bond with a fellow long distance traveller is instant - you've probably crossed the same road or border control outpost at some point, and have vaguely similar experiences. If you're heading in the opposite direction, the exchange of information on road conditions and safety can be critical, even lifesaving.

The next destination was Punta Arenas, a big (for Patagonia) port city, where we would catch a ferry to Tierra del Fuego. The road was beautifully paved the whole way, and with the wind finally properly in my back we were making good time. About 60km from our destination, I noticed a sign warning of a nearby minefield. I thought I must have misread, until I noticed other signs warning of the same sign. It turns out that the main road in Chilean Patagonia runs right through an active minefield, a headache from the Pinochet dictatorship. Landmines are the lowest, most despicable form of warfare - the innocent casualties continue well after the regime that planted them have been rightly overthrown. I decided it was time for a roadside toilet break, and let my feelings be known at the same time. Everything was going fine... until the wind changed. In what would have been the strangest sight to a passing motorist, I had to 'Matrix' under my own stream of urine! That's right, your intrepid traveller almost peed on his own face. Only my quick reflexes saved me, and there and then my patience with the wind well and truly ran out.

I had loosely arranged with a local biker to meet up for a beer or two, but communication problems meant we couldn't properly arrange a meeting time. He did give me a new destination though - less than 100km south of PA, the road ends at the end of the South American continent (Tierra del Fuego is an island, amongst others). How could I refuse? The next day, I headed South, on what started off as a nice paved road, but deteriorated to gravel, and then to 4wd only. We eventually reached the end of the road - if you wanted to go any further, you'd have to use the beach, or cut your own path. Photos duly taken and lunch enjoyed, we headed back to PA to catch the ferry.

The boat wasn't going to leave for several hours, so I headed over to the tax-free zone to buy a cheap jacket for Antarctica. I changed some money, and with the better exchange rate almost got the jacket for free (the money left over after changing and getting the jacket would equal the money received if I had withdrew the money in Argentina at the official rate). Oh, and the wind blew Izzy right over while parked. Yep, I hate this wind, I really hate it.

In the end I only just made it on to the ferry - I drove straight onto the boat, then had to backtrack to get my ticket. I had planned to keep going after getting off the ferry, but the tough riding that day had knocked me for six - I was fast asleep on the ferry (at 4 in the afternoon), dirty boots hanging off the end of the seats.

I found a hotel in the port town of Porvenir, and had a nice seafood dinner (golden rule while travelling in Latin America - don't have seafood unless you can see the ocean/river/lake where the food was caught). I had an early night as the next day was a big one with 400+km and lots of gravel, but it wasn't the distance that I was thinking about, it was the destination. Ushuaia, Argentina was the end of the road, and had been my goal, deadline and motivation throughout this trip. Back in Canada it seemed so far away, and yet it was now so close! Whether or not Izzy would make it all the way was now beyond doubt - we would get there together. The road was easy, the border crossing more so, and the time seemed to fly by, until the last 50km. They were the longest 50km I've ever experienced in my life, but some of the happiest and most scenic of the 33,000 I've done on Izzy. I ended up counting out the last 30km, all while singing loudly. The passing traffic was interesting - they either showed very little interest or flashed their lights, beeped their horns and cheered me on to the finish line. Eventually I turned the final bend, and saw the welcome posts to the town of Ushuaia.

Photos taken and dances done, I headed to the hostel. While taking off the bags for probably the last time, Rich (who else?) came by - drinks were on. We tried to rally a few others who had recently finished the journey, but they were fast asleep.

The next day, I woke up with a weird feeling - I had no further destination, no place I needed to ride to, no further south I could really ride. I walked around town in a daze, not sure what to do. I had dinner with several other bikers including Mark, a fellow ADVRider who has somewhat of a following and is pretty well known by other adventure riders. I could instantly tell why: he's one of those guys that everybody just loves. Along with three Kiwi riders, we had a delicious dinner celebrating reaching the end of the world. I also celebrated with delicious can of beer from WA (EE) - tastes all the better on the other side of the world.

The next day I discovered my laptop charger had broken again, which I actually expected as I knew I had a boat trip coming up, and there is a distinct pattern on this trip of laptop electronics dying just before a boat trip lasting several days. That might have dampened a ferry ride, but not this trip: as I walked down the pier, I could barely contain my excitement - I was going to Antarctica.

Argentina Part 2: Bariloche and the Lake District

2012-11-30T16:17:00.001-08:00

I arrived in Bariloche with a sigh of relief, and quickly took shelter, parking Izzy next to the apartment hotel the folks had rented. It would probably be the last time I could afford nice accommodation, so I planned to take advantage. I was greeted at the door by dad, and quickly followed by mum and Andy Nyman. The Nymans studied medicine with my parents, and they have all been close friends since. Andy and Judy can always be relied on for a fun time, and both families have had some great times travelling together.We had much to catch up on but having been on the road for 5 days, and camping for a few of those, a decent shower and quarantine of my riding clothes was needed first. Once the offending items had been safely contained, it was about time to head out for dinner.

Having lived in Latin America for several months now, I became the designated translator whenever needed - although I had some difficulty with the Argentine accent. As opposed to the rest of Latin America, "ll" is pronounced halfway between the "sh" in shut and "j" in jam (most Latinos pronounce it similar to the "y" in yeah). I helped where needed, although Bariloche is a tourist oriented town, and as a result many people speak English.

San Carlos de Bariloche (many towns have similar names and so often the region or state is needed to differentiate between places) is in an impossibly beautiful location - the snow capped Andes provide a perfect backdrop and crystal clear source of water for the beautiful lakes that dominate the landscape. I had come full circle back to Newfoundland, it seems. During the winter the town is overflowing with Argentina's elite hurling themselves down the impressive ski slopes, but for now the ski shop windows were gathering dust (literally), and the hikers and bikers had control of the town. I say bikers because I now had allies - every corner played host to a parked motorcycle, often a new BMW, complete with Touratech panniers. In fact, there was a charity concert put on by one of Argentina's motorcycle gangs (Las Ratas, or the Rats). AC/DC doesn't really suit Bariloche, despite how I feel about both. It did appear that many of the bikes had come directly from BA on the paved road - there wasn't a speck of dust to be seen. Despite the increased presence of Harley-Davidsons and BMWs, most of the tourists were nature lovers, not throttle twisters.

To that end, I had Izzy properly secured (locked to a post), and headed out with the others to climb up some of these hills and get back to nature. Walking through the verdant forest surrounding the lakes, it was amazing to consider just how quickly nature can provide so much contrast. Over the last few days I had ridden through great plains, deserts and mountains, and now was surrounded in a lush sea of pine trees and snow. And if I ever got sick of this scenery, I would soon be heading further south into the inhospitable wilds of the Argentine Patagonia. I hiked with the folks for a while, but eventually broke free and walked to the end of the trail at a beach on a deserted peninsula. I didn't bring any camping gear and only had a short time there, but I did my best General McArthur and muttered "I will return".

2 days later, I returned. After walking up to a mountain refuge, only to be minutes behind a large group of loud Argentines, I was grateful for the relative peace of the lakeside peninsula. While not deserted anymore, the French family who also decided to camp were quiet & respectful enough to allow me to believe I was alone. Returning to town the next day, I napped on the warm grass outside the cathedral while I waited for the others to return from a bike ride. I reflected on how much this trip has really changed me - I don't particularly care what other people think of me anymore. This was particularly apparent when people started to stare at me. I can see it from their perspective - I don't shave often anymore, I hadn't showered, and I was sleeping on the grass wearing thermal pants, shorts and a tshirt. Oh, and a group of stray dogs (although they looked suspiciously well groomed - better than I was) thought I was onto something and napped next to me. But then, they were missing one of my favourite things- napping in the warm sun on wonderfully soft and warm grass, so it's their loss.

When the others had returned, I showered and attempted to assimilate into society. We had another lovely dinner together, and headed out to watch the latest James Bond reincarnation, Skyfall. Mercifully it was in English with Spanish subtitles. On that note, who actually prefers films to be dubbed over, rather than subtitled? Almost anyone I speak to (regardless of their competence in English) prefer subtitles, and I definitely prefer foreign language films to be subtitled (I've watched Los Diarios Motocicleta alot on this trip). To dub over removes the subtleties of the scriptwriting, as well as transforming an otherwise engaging film into a series of laughable mouth movements and bad accent impersonations (watch MIB3 in French if you doubt me - Will Smith sounds like Pee Wee Herman).

The next day it was time to say goodbye to the Nymans and the folks, as they headed for the local airport on a flight bound for El Calfate in Southern Patagonia. I was sad to see them go as I was unlikely to see them until I got home in Australia - El Calafate is not far from Ushuaia, and I wasn't exactly keen to go south so quickly during the spring. I tried to get Izzy started, but after a week she just wouldn't turn over. I waved everyone goodbye, and then it hit me - Despite having met up several times, my parents have never seen Izzy moving, which is sad.

She was suffering the same problem as in Brazil/Bolivia, which I couldn't fix on the side of the road in Bariloche. I decided against looking for a mechanic - I had time, so I would fix this one myself. The hostel I found was about 6km away, but the road was fairly flat and I had all day. I set out walking Izzy to the hostel. It may have looked ridiculous, but it was actually easier than carrying the bags myself (many thanks to whoever invented the wheel & wheelbearing!). However, someone quickly took pity on me, and a pickup truck pulled up alongside me offering a ride. Izzy and I went up onto the tray of the truck for a quick joyride. It's surprisingly difficult to balance a bike that's riding on top of a truck - similar to riding along a road during an earthquake, I imagine.

After getting dropped of at the hostel, I set about relaxing a bit and searching the web for possible options on what was wrong. I had booked in for 3 nights max, and there was only 2 others in the hostel (both in my dorm). Over the next 3 days I fell into a pattern of setting up a list of things to be done that day, then getting through about half of that by mid afternoon and giving in to the beautiful weather, great views or cheap beer and beef. After 3 days I had pretty much done everything I could, and eventually found the underlying problem - the sidestand switch was broken. A quick cut an join of some wires, and we were ready to go. Only problem was, I didn't want to leave.

I've been to some great hostels in my time - places where the party never stops, places that could be sold as 5 star resorts, but very few that felt truly like a home. Alaska hostel in Bariloche, Argentina truly succeeded there - the owners Naty & Javier were great, all the guests became friends, and one of the hostel dogs, Ramon became a close substitute for my own dog Carter. Ramon actually walked the 7.5km into town with me one day, waiting outside the parts shops and restaurant while I got what I needed. I started to make excuses for why I couldn't leave just yet, and it wasn't hard to make an impressive list - I HATE riding in snow, there was so much left to see in Bariloche, etc. I ended up staying for 10 days - the longest I had been in one place since Hemmingford, Canada.

Over the last week I did more repairs on Izzy (I got through my wishlist, rather than just things that NEEDED to be done) and explored the lake district. The area surrounding Bariloche is without a doubt the most beautiful area of Argentina I've seen so far, and one of the most beautiful in the world. Bariloche is actually located within a National Park, which is both promising, and disheartening - the park is huge, but development is uninhibited. The ride along the Seven Lakes rd is one of the prettiest and most fun I have had in some time.

I also climbed the nearby ski mountain, Cerro Cathedral. Walking straight up a ski slope is both pretty difficult and boring, but the view from the top was nothing short of spectacular - rugged snow capped mountains dominated the landscape as the rare Andean Condor soared overhead. On that note- in the 10 minutes that I watched the Condors, they flapped their wings once. I continued on the 'trail' (a series of red dots painted on rocks far apart), and things got pretty hairy - alternating between climbing over large boulders, tramping through snow, and scrambling across fields of loose stones, trying not to set off a rockslide. It wasn't exactly the easiest of hikes, but it was worth it to be on the trail by myself - I spent most of the day completely on my own.

I had found a local parts dealer who could actually supply the parts that I needed. When I queried how he could be so sure that the clutch cable he showed me would fit, he pointed out the back, to the KLR250 that happened to be his own. From Belize to Bariloche I had been living in a vacuum of unavailable parts and blank looks. I now had an ally, and I took full advantage - brakes, clutch cable, cooling hose, front fork seals... you name it, I probably had it replaced by Barimotos. The main dealership in BA was unable to get the cooling hose, so the look on my face must have been priceless when he looked at the duct tape on my old hose and asked if I wanted a new one. I asked how long it would take to arrive (thinking 2-3 weeks) - he shrugged and said "2 hours, maybe 3". If you want parts, screw BA - head to Bariloche.

The next day I finally set off for Esquel, 280km south. I pretty quickly crossed the 42nd parallel, meaning the beginning of subsidised fuel and one of the wildest places on Earth, Patagonia.

Argentina Part 1: Buenos Aires to Bariloche

2012-11-18T19:05:00.000-08:00

I parted ways with Uruguay via the port of Colonia, and headed across el Rio de la Plata to arguably the most important (and certainly the most well known) metropolis in Latin America, the city of Buenos Aires. For months now I hd busted my backside to get here by late October, and it was now within sight. The trip would now slow down, and I could relax and enjoy the view a bit more. Why had I travelled over 25,000km to BA so quickly? Family. My parents were also visiting Argentina, albeit in a more traditional tourist style.

I crossed the river in a fast ferry - it took less than an hour, and we had arrived before I had really settled down for the trip. I had some minor problems getting Izzy back into Argentina, as the customs officer at the first border crossing had listed her as Australian, not American. Problem solved, I headed to the hotel in the centre of the city. It was certainly the nicest hotel I've been in so far, and after unpacking, I quickly began taking advantage of the hot tub. Mum and Dad arrived later that night, exhausted and jet lagged. It was fantastic to catch up with them, and we spent the next day walking around the city, chatting the whole time. They had brought me a new camera (water, dust and freeze proof for Antarctica), so expect better photos from now on. They are travelling from BA to Rio de Janeiro, then Iguazu falls and then Torres del Paine National Park via Salta and Bariloche.

We spent the next couple of days in BA, taking in the sights and enjoying the generally nice weather. Definite highlights (besides meeting the folks, and catching up with SJ, a friend from UWA) would have to be watching a tango show (I quickly gave up on trying to learn any of the tango - it looks dangerous!), and visiting the home ground of the Boca Juniors Football club. I picked up some more camping gear (Christmas came early), and we visited a house in the old part of town, complete with stables for horses, and underground tunnels to divert the stream that used to flow through the area.

After a few days, it was time to say goodbye to the parents, and head towards significantly cheaper accommodation. I found a decent hostel nearby, and got busy relaxing - I really didn't have anywhere to be anytime soon. Originally, my trip to Antarctica was going to be on the 10th of November, but it got pushed back to the 9th of December, so I found myself with an extra month in Argentina that I had not originally planned for. I used up a couple of days riding the BA Public Transport system looking for the elusive Kawasaki parts shop. After going to the wrong place first, I found the shop in the middle of Wrongsideofthetracksville, Dodgytown. I have been to some bad places in my time, and this place made me jumpy. The security guard said I had the wrong place and that they didn't sell parts, but before I left I decided to double check. It turns out that yes, they do sell Kawasaki parts, and they had the parts I'd ordered, but it was nearly 5pm and I'd have to return the next day. I duly arrived and got my precious parts. It's a good thing I don't have children, as I'm pretty sure my bag of goodies would have cost me my first born. As it stands, I got off lightly - I was only being relieved of most of my money I had brought from Uruguay. It sounds like the Kawasaki guys ripped me off, but they didn't - the Argentine government has implemented ridiculous import duties (amongst other measures) in a concerted effort to run their economy into the ground like a space shuttle without wings.

I spent the rest of the next two days fixing Izzy and getting more insurance. I also hit up a few bars, with mixed results. Argentines really don't like going out before midnight, and as I have to ride during daylight hours I tend to wake up early. Therefore, I really struggle to stay awake in pubs here. Countering that was the cheap booze and great people - "I'm here for a good time, not a long time" is probably a good description of my barhopping experience in BA.

Eventually, it was time to leave the big smoke and head out into country Argentina. The upside of Portenos' (people from BA) late night habits is that when I left at 0930, there was almost no one on the road. I got out of town (Izzy needed push start, but was ok after a while), and set my sights towards Cordoba, around 600km NW of Buenos Aires. I spent most of the day on a toll road, but at this stage of the trip I'm used to not paying the tolls - bikes are generally free. Circumnavigating toll gates and competing with trucks got tiring eventually, and I peeled off onto the original road, gave thanks to Gauchito Gil (an Argentine spirit, responsible for safe passage of travelers), and found a hotel next to a service station.

Argentina's service stations are almost the best I've seen (Ontario has that honour). Restaurant, Wifi, Lounge - this place had it all. Several have camping spots (one of which I would later use) and hot showers. Considering that the least profitable aspect of a gas station is the fuel itself, it makes commercial sense to entice customers to spend more time and money inside.

The next day I reached Alta Gracia - childhood hometown to Enersto 'Che' Guevara de la Serna. While deservedly most famous for his politics, there were many other aspects to the man. I was particularly keen to learn more about these other aspects, especially his adventures throughout Latin America. For those of you who haven't watched the movie "The Motorcycle Diaries", do so now. Those of you who have watched the film will remember 'La Poderosa II', the Norton 500 motorcyle that carried Che and his friend Alberto Granado into Chile (before dying and forcing them to continue by other, less exciting means). One of the Guevara family homes had been transformed into a museum covering his life from early childhood until his death in Bolivia.

I found it all very interesting, especially seeing how someone born into his position of privilege would be exposed to the poorer elements of Argentine society, and how that would transform him into the man the world now knows (and whose face is immortalised almost everywhere). Also, the museum explained how the violent submission of a peaceful and democratic revolution in Central America led to his opinion that the only path was violent revolution. I came away with the more respect for the man: although our politics may vary slightly (and our means of influencing opinion lies in stark contrast to each other), it's hard not to admire someone who had the guts to stand up for the rights of the less fortunate around the world. The only other thing I'll say on the matter is to quote some of his final words to his children : "Above all, always be capable of feeling most deeply any injustice committed against anyone in the world". Probably good words to live by.

I left Alta Gracia with a lot to think about, and thankfully a beautiful road to think on. Argentina take their biking seriously, and it was great to be surrounded by others enjoying the beautiful road and weather. Unfortunately many of them were riding 1200GS' with only a small pack on the back, obviously just out for the day or overnight at most. For non bikers, this is the equivalent of taking a Range Rover for a trip down to the shops - a waste of such a machine. For comparison, I would be riding the equivalent of a beat up Land cruiser.

I ended up camping in a Municipal campground in the town of Rio Cuatro, for a pittance, and got an early start the next day as a result. And I certainly took my sweet time, abusing the free wifi in the service stations.

Buenos Aires to Bariloche along the route I took is nearly 2500km, or in equivalent distances: Perth to Adelaide, Madrid to Prague or Boston to Miami. It's a long way on a bike, and probably too long for my brain to cope by itself in the desert. In short, I've gone insane and now talk to myself. In Spanish. But just as I was beginning to think that rocks and shrubs would be all I would ever see again, I came over a hill, and entered the Rio Negro region, complete with irrigated Apple orchards. At first I thought it must be a mirage - I hadn't seen green like this for weeks. Rio Negro flows all the way to the Atlantic Ocean, starting at.... Bariloche. I hung a right and started to head East.

After camping out for the night again behind a service station in the one-stop-sign town of Allen, I continued into the wind towards the Andes. The wind in Patagonia is fairly well known amongst travellers, and with good reason. We would be moving along at nearly 90km/h when a single gust would bring us to a grinding halt (not quite, but 60km/h sure feels like it). Coming right from the top of the snow capped Andes, the air when windy could only be described as bone chilling. The intense summer sun combined to form violently swinging temperature fluctuations, leaving me feeling like a Malaria victim. It wasn't pleasant, but Bariloche was within reach, and I'll be dammed if some cold wind would stop me. In the end, I rounded the bend and came face to face with the Lake District in its resplendent glory - crystal clear freshwater lakes encircled by a deep emerald ring of pine trees ascending the impressively jagged peaks of the Andes. I had arrived at Bariloche.

ALL PHOTOS AVAILABLE HERE

Uruguay

2012-11-02T18:55:00.000-07:00

The next deadline on my trip was Buenos Aires, where I would be meeting up with my parents after 7 months abroad, over 4 of those on the road. While I have made some great friends while on this journey, it'll never compare to family. Crossing Paraguay had been quicker than I had hoped (I wasn't expecting asphalt for the whole journey), so I had some spare time. I decided to use that spare time in Uruguay, instead of visiting the country after BA. With a tight and unmissable deadline, I crossed Northeast Argentina quickly, and ducked across the Uruguay river at Salto. The border crossings into both Argentina and Uruguay have been some of the easiest of the trip - free, easily signposted and efficient. The Salto crossing was actually all in the same building, with 4 desks lined up for immigration and customs of the two countries - just move down the line, and you're done.

My first stop was really determined by laziness - I really just couldn't be bothered travelling more than 480km or so each day. I passed a campsite located on some hot springs and pulled in. I really just wanted to have a look around, but when I saw the heated baths, I decided to stay. Apparently I had already passed the admission gate, so it was free camping for me. I set up the hammock and spent the rest of the evening in or around the hot baths. Argentines and Uruguayans love to camp, and they do it in style - the campsite had restaurants & wifi, as well as the normal facilities. I will definitely be camping more often from now on, as it's both safer and much cheaper than the expensive motels/hostels. On that note, it's amazing how much more expensive everything is here - prices are generally on par or near Australian levels.

I will definitely need new camping gear though, as the stuff I have was built for the tropics, and was woefully inadequate for the cold nights here. In the morning, I rushed into the hot baths as soon as they were open to warm back up, then headed east towards Tacaurembo, and Gaucho country.

To know Uruguay is to know beef. The nation's economy is built on the bovine industry, and that was abundantly clear as I rode through the countryside - every field was full of cows. I also met some Gauchos on a cattle drive up to town, which was interesting. The Gaucho is essentially the Latin American cowboy - after the Spanish fled the southern Argentine plains, a group of men started to make a living catching the cattle and horses that had been left to the wild. These men would live on the range (often eating only beef), and eventually spread to the more populated areas of Argentina, Uruguay and southern Paraguay. Their dress style is distinctive and necessitated by both the harsh environment they work in, and their rich history that dominates the literary works of the area. Tucking baggy pants into a pair of high leather boots and attaching a small knife to a sash resembling a cummerbund, the Gaucho (often wearing a beret) is romanticised in today's society as a hard working honest man, in the same way a cattle drover might be in Australia, or a cowboy in the US. They certainly cut a striking picture, and some still live a lonesome life (although modern society has had an impact on the rustic, nomadic lifestyle). Throughout Uruguay I would pass these (often) men, herding cattle along the shoulder of the road.

Just outside of Tacaurembo I visited the Carlos Gardel museum. Carlos Gardel is often thought as the father of tango music, and is the undisputed star of the genre, penning many classics while living in Buenos Aires. What is not known for sure is his place of birth - Argentina, Uruguay and France all claim him. The museum houses a copy of his Uruguayan birth certificate, a document France disputes as simply a method of escaping military service during wartime in Europe (Uruguay remained neutral). Friends and family are divided as to the location of his birth - although Argentina can confidently lay claim to his late childhood, and his artistic period. Tango is serious business on el Rio de la Plata (the river that separates BA from Montevideo). On the way from the museum I passed a memorial for motorcyclists who had died on the road, and stopped to have a long hard think about how lucky I've been so far.

The weather was good and the road paved and straight, so I decided to turn south and get as close to the coast as I could. I ended up in a town called Trinidad. This time I had to get a hotel (no camping nearby), and an expensive one at that. I justified the cost to myself on an average over two nights, and crashed onto my bed with a beautiful view of the town square.

The next day I headed to Colonia del Sacremento, an old colonial (get it?!?) town on the Plate river, across from Buenos Aires. On the way, I saw a banner advertising a "Fiesta Criolla", which loosely translates to traditional style celebration - I pulled off the highway and rode to the small town throwing this shindig. It turned out to be a very small country fair - probably very boring for the average Uruguayan, but fascinating for an outsider like me. The whole event revolved around 4 main parts - Horseriding slalom races, beer drinking, a gigantic barbecue and a small local market (that was pushed to the far side of the grounds like an unwanted child). After a couple of minutes, I had finished with the vendors selling local arts and crafts, and moved onto the important stuff. I got a couple of sausages that could double as soft baseball bats, grabbed a beer (smallest bottle available was 1 litre, and I got a withering look when I asked if there were smaller) and watched the races.

I haven't seen that many horse slalom events in my life, but these guys were good. One guy looked so comfortable on his horse I swear his mother must've given birth to him on that steed. I watched for a while (I needed to let that litre of beer get mostly out of my system), and got some beef to soak up more of the alcohol. When I say beef, I don't mean a small piece of roast beef in a roll, or a steak. I mean a hunk of cow, hide still attached (and sold by the kilo). I got a small piece, but groups were walking away with trays piled high - it was a veritable vegetarian or Hindu's nightmare, and I loved it. It was a bit unnerving to see the pretty and petite 'cowgirls' going face first into a huge slab of beef, then skolling from a litre bottle of beer. Unnerving, but cool. Once I had sobered up enough, I rolled into Colonia del Sacramento, found a hostel with parking, and fell into a food coma.

Colonia del Sacramento is a nice city, with cobblestone streets and old buildings, rich with history. The problem is that I've been to a dozen similar towns on this trip before. The one thing that did catch my eye was a museum with artifacts from the Portuguese occupation (C del S was used by the Portuguese to smuggle goods into BA), and maps from the era. It really is startling to see maps from a bygone era - Europe was perfectly detailed, America roughly so, and Australia was, well laughable. You can vividly see how little idea the world's superpowers at the time had about the southern hemisphere, and in particular the Asian Pacific/ Australasia. The most accurate map showed Australia and Antarctica as a single landmass, and a fairly vague one at that. It makes you realise how new a country (from a European standpoint) Australia is, or conversely, how old European civilisations are.

Anyway, I waited in Colonia for a couple of days until it was time to cross the river in a ferry to Buenos Aires, and catch up with my Mum and Dad.

Paraguay

2012-10-23T04:43:00.000-07:00

Paraguay is country number 15 on this trip, so it's not a stretch to say that I've gotten used to border crossings and the usual bulls**t that comes with them. From the sour faced extremists who protect the USA from all those who dare enter, to the Venezuelans who seemed to forget that they were actually supposed to work for their government paycheck, to the Hondurans who were just plain out to take my money, I've seen it all. Or at least I thought I had.

Getting out of Bolivia was easy - the only delay was that the customs guy couldn't get the printer to work. I solved his problem pretty quickly (turned it on), and headed over to Paraguayan customs, where I was told I'd need 3rd party insurance to enter Paraguay. This is quite common at borders and a reasonable request when an insurance office is next door, as through Central America. However, there wasn't an insurance office for 50 miles. I tried the old "I'll get it at the next town" trick, to no avail. I asked where I could get insurance, and he pointed back into Bolivia and said that I could buy Bolivian insurance, which would work in Paraguay. He obviously had not been keeping track of current events, as Paraguay had been suspended from the Mercosur (an economic cooperative, on which the international insurance is based). In the end, I pulled out my not -yet-expired Colombian insurance and claimed it was good for all of South America.I doubt it was true but the paperwork didn't expressly say it was limited to Colombia, and the name of the insurance company was coincidentally "Sur America", so it worked out nicely. They bought it, and I was in. I just had to travel about 150kms through virtually uninhabited scrub to get to the immigration post.

Thankfully, the road was mainly tarmac, so I made good time. Unfortunately, the other part was soft - similar to talcum powder. I almost fell down the embankment once, as the back wheel came to life suddenly. I woke up the immigration lady (the post is 'open' 24hrs, as it's her house), got the fastest stamp and return of the trip, and got booted out the door practically into Filadelfia. I was riding at night at this point, but on good tarmac and on a road so straight I'd see a pair of headlights a full 6 minutes before they'd pass. I found the hotel I had wanted, got a cheap room and passed out on top of the bed.

Filadelfia is a weird town - to explain requires a bit of a background:

Mennonites came to Paraguay by way of Russia and Canada, fleeing socialism and standardised education respectively. They were invited to settle in the middle Chaco, in what was considered agriculturally unforgiving land (nicknamed the 'green hell'), and given the autonomy and freedoms they desired. Essentially, they went bush and no one expected them to make it. For a few decades it looked like they would struggle to survive, until American Mennonite communities sent their young men south to build a road to Asuncion and market. This was done as part of a deal with the US government to avoid being sent to war, as Mennonites are pacifists. With equipment & troops from the US and Paraguayan governments respectively, these men built the 480km road, securing the economic fortunes for the three colonies. With a strong work ethic, the farming cooperatives managed to grow from barely making a living to becoming the economic powerhouses of the country - to this day, if you buy beef, dairy or a dozen other products in Paraguay or neighbouring countries, it'll have been made by one of the cooperatives. They run a very modern operation, and live accordingly, although groups in Bolivia and Eastern Paraguay dress & live in a more traditional style (as do the nearby Amish).

I could go on a bit, but I'll wrap it up quickly - despite being fiercely independent people (with a dislike of socialism), they all (around 95%) work for the cooperative, which markets and sells the goods. It's like if AWB ran the local supermarket, hotel & petrol station. They have their own government, which is slowly ceding control to the Paraguayan government. At one point not long ago, they had their own police force, education system, helathcare and more, but that is slowly becoming integrated with the rest of the country.

I DEFINITELY prefer the way the Mennonites handle their towns over the other Paraguayans. The streets were clean (as clean as dirt streets can be), safe and friendly. When the horn went off at 0700 to signal the start of the workday, you could be confident that everything was open, ready and able to help. The supermarket was so clean I would have no problems eating the really fresh produce off the floor, and the hardware store had everything I needed, and more (Jack and Annette, check out what I found below!). Worryingly, this is only really apparent in towns or businesses that are led or managed by people of European descent or Expats. The difference is palpable, and exists across Latin America - the higher the Expat population, the cleaner (and generally safer) the city. I wish it weren't true, but there it is. I love a siesta as much as anybody, but when your relaxed attitude extends to rubbish disposal - then you and I are going to have problems. Of course, there are exceptions to this rule, (in Colombia it seemed to be in reverse) but for the most part it holds true.

After a day of relaxing and buying bolts and pieces for Izzy (I kept returning for more obscure bits and pieces, and they always had them in stock - better than Bunnings!), I headed for the museum to learn about how exactly a group of ancient German-speaking Canadians happened to settle in Paraguay. The museum curator spoke Spanish and German, but as soon as he found out I spoke English first, he insisted I returned the next day for a personal tour with the tourism office manager, who (amongst other languages) spoke English. When I returned at 0715 (the horn would wake even the heaviest sleeper), I got the whole lot - the history of the Mennonites & the Fernheim colony (in the Chaco there's also the Neuland and Menno colonies), a tour of the gardens and the indigenous history and a collection of local animals - turns out I had nearly run over an actual roadrunner the other day. The Chaco is the southernmost reach of the territory of the Jaguar, of which I'm very glad - they may be rare, but knowing that there's something out there at night that can hunt and kill you for food is disconcerting.

I headed out for Asuncion on a Sunday, despite the online warnings that everything (including petrol stations) are closed on the Sabbath. While predetermined Mennonite working hours exclude Sunday (and you've got no hope of an open supermarket), those laws don't apply to places such as hotels and gas stations. The Mennonite community recognised a long time ago that it was pointless to hold out against society, and if you can imagine a small country town in Oz (or Midwest US), then you can imagine the Chaco colonies. Essentially, most things I'd need (gas, food and lodging) were open everyday, and whenever I'd need. Although I probably needed a separate road.

It wasn't that the road was bad - it was pretty much all asphalt, and in good nick too. It was just that everyone else was out to get me. The title for worst drivers in Latin America is a hotly contested battle, with many countries offering reasons why they should all be denied licences, but at the moment Paraguay has it locked up (I'm in Uruguay at the moment, and unless someone in Chile attempts a driveby shooting, Paraguay wins). Maybe it was the fact that Bolivian roads don't allow the kinds of speeds these idiots reached, but whatever it was needs to be rectified. I quickly worked out that most drivers had both little experience of being on a bike, and almost none in passing them. Most bikes here max out at about 60km/hr, so ride on the hard shoulder (a feature missing across Central America). I ride at, or near the limit of 80 km/hr, so ride on the road. I generally ride on the far right, allowing vehicles to pass even with oncoming traffic. Most Paraguayans took that to be an invitation to pass by (30-40km/hr over the limit) a good 30cm from my legs, regardless of whether there was other traffic or not. When a truck passed, it was all I could do to avoid getting sucked in under the wheels. Eventually I moved next to the dividing line and drifted right as traffic passed so I always had space. This pissed off a few drivers, who while obviously don't know the dangers of tailgating a biker, understood what my middle finger meant when raised in their direction.

As I entered a roundabout on the outskirts of Asuncion, I saw conclusive proof that Paraguayans can't drive. A truck that had barrelled past me earlier had skidded off the road, cartwheeling down the embankment. I pulled up, and looked past the gathering crowd to make sure everybody was safe - there wasn't an ambulance around, so I probably had the most extensive medical kit for miles. I saw a man in the crumpled cab, and feared the worst. Fortunately, he was ok - he had crawled back into the wreckage to retrieve something. In fact, everybody was milling around the truck, making souvenirs of anything not securely still part of the truck. I only took some photos, and went to talk to the police officer who had then arrived. I explained why I wasn't surprised this had happened, and headed back to Izzy. I saw the police officer reach into his car and take out a breathalyser, which scared me a bit - If he had been really drunk (Paraguayan limits are apparently quite liberal), and speeding... Oh, and he was driving a tanker full of LPG. I didn't hang around long enough to find out whether the tank's integrity had been compromised, that's for sure.

In Asuncion I checked into the only hostel in town and took a quick shower. I asked the owner about parking (there wasn't any available at the hostel), and she told me that even in the guarded parking lots my gear wouldn't be safe. She was right - I went out to take the bags off, and saw someone had been through them. I had parked on a busy road, around the corner from the tourist police headquarters, and still got robbed. Thankfully, I have gotten into the habit of removing anything of possible value as soon as I stop, so they only took a can of chain lube and fishing rod - not exactly a big score. It still pissed me off - people had to have seen the perpetrator, and done nothing.

The next day I walked around Asuncion in the morning, and then headed out for Ciudad del Este, and tri-border area with Brazil and Argentina. I checked into another motel that seemed to be built with premarital sex in mind. The place was even called Hotel Panky. It was a good place though - for about 20 bucks I got a room with a (tiny) jacuzzi and a flatscreen tv - everything I needed, as well as an armed guard outside the garage for Izzy. I was able to watch a movie in English, thanks to the USB input for the tv. Awesome.

Ciudad del Este is an interesting city - surrounded by far more affluent cities/countries, its primary purpose is duty free shopping and currency exchange for Argentinians (Argentina is currently undergoing currency controls similar to that of Venezuela). It is also the Paraguayan launching point for two of the Latin America's greatest sights, Iguazu falls and the Itaipu dam. To access either of these means crossing into the Brazilian frontier town of Foz do Iguacu, but thankfully the whole area is a free zone - no permits or visas required. I have a Brazilian visa, but my Paraguayan visa is for single entry only. I rode over the bridge and past customs (another advantage of motorcycles - most toll gates and checkpoints have a separate lane for motorcycles that is rarely attended) towards Iguazu falls.

The falls themselves are spectacular, I'll give them that. It's hard to become a natural wonder of the world, without having the ability to take people's breath away. The big problem was that everyone in South America wants to see them too. And by everyone, I mean everyone over the age of 50. The sheer number of senior citizens pouring out of the luxury sightseeing coaches, complete with name badges of their respective guides had me bemused. I had a good chuckle to myself - I had stumbled on the world of guided, luxury tourism. A few people stared at my dishevelled look (I don't think even bleach could whiten my riding pants now), and I thought to myself "if only you knew where I've been..". I got a bit annoyed at the slow pace on the stairs to the falls though - I understand if you need the railing, and need to go at a slower pace than others, but please don't walk side by side - leave room for others to pass.

I got the required photos, and got out of there quick. As I said before, the falls are amazing, but when you're jostling for an uninterrupted view with hundreds of other people, it gets old quick. I prefer Angel falls in Venezuela, or even Niagara falls - even though there are crowds at Niagara, the viewing platform is wide enough that you can at least see the falls without having to look over shoulders.

After the falls, I headed upstream to the Itaipu dam. Here I was able to take a tour and see the inside of one of the true marvels of the modern world. Here the mighty Paraná river plunges 118m down 20 generating units, each with a capacity of over 700MW. in 2008, it produced 94.68 TWh, the most ever produced by a renewable energy source. For those of you who don't speak engineer-ese, consider this: Itaipu provides over 70% of the electrical power needs of Paraguay. And that's with less than 2 generators. The rest is sent into Brazil (both countries own 10 units each, with Paraguay selling its reserve to Brazil), where it powers 17% of the population. It is the largest power plant in the world (the Three Gorges dam has a higher installed capacity, but has yet to match the output of Itaipu), and well deserving of its title as one of the seven engineering wonders of the world. Another interesting fact: Argentina has an agreement with the two countries regulating the outflow of water, to avoid possibly flooding Buenos Aires (1000km away) in the event of a war.

However, hydroelectricity is not without drawbacks. The construction of the dam cost approximately US$19.6 billion (apparently much of the cost overruns are due to corruption and over invoicing) and took 15 years to build. The resulting reservoir stretches for over 1350 sqkm, displacing thousands of families and drowning Guaira falls, the largest waterfall in the world (by volume). Unfortunately the Brazilian government has subsequently dynamited the rock face to facilitate safer shipping, meaning that the falls that dwarfed Iguazu will never be seen again, regardless of the fate of Itaipu. Then again, to generate the equivalent energy using petrol would require 434,000 barrels every day (or 788 million tons of coal over the life of the dam so far). As with all great engineering projects, there are pros and cons, and it will be up to future generations to decide whether the sacrifice was worth it.

I got back into Paraguay, and headed to the outskirts of Ciudad del Este to get a head start on my trip down south to the Jesuit ruins around Encarnacion. Staying in a hotel next to a gas station, I was assured that the parking lot was secure, and the guard seemed to back that up. However, the next day I found out that some joker had pinched the 1 litre of fuel out of the spare container I keep for long, isolated stretches. This was getting ridiculous, and I was getting angry.

I used that anger to motivate me all the way to the towns of Jésus and Trinidad, sites of some pretty impressive Jesuit ruins. It was there I met a young Belgian family travelling throughout South America in their 4wd. I am pretty impressed by these kinds of people - I couldn't even imagine travelling in a car for a year with my siblings now, let alone when I was 6. They should be in Ushuaia around the same time I am, so hopefully we will meet again.

I then continued on to Encarnacion, ready to cross the border into Argentina.

ALL PHOTOS AVAILABLE HERE

Bolivia Part 2: La Paz to Villamontes

2012-10-18T05:57:00.000-07:00

In La Paz I tried to do stuff, really. It's just that at over 3500m, there's not much I could do. The city is set in a valley, and therefore there's no such thing as flat terrain - everywhere is either uphill or downhill. I'd walk about 10 paces and need a breather, only to be passed by a 70yr old woman, carrying her weekly shopping and laughing at the pathetic lung capacity of the foreigner weezing in a heap. It was embarrassing.

I did manage to get out and about eventually though, and visited the markets, buying a few things like cold weather gear and the traditional cloth women in the Andes use to carry everything, including children. It's a problem when you're travelling on a bike and want to buy something, as space is constantly at a premium. I also tried to get Kawasaki parts, but was told that they'd take a month to arrive - Buenos Aires it is, then. I also made a licence plate from a sticker and scrap metal - it stood out as fake, but did the job. Throughout my lazy La Paz days, there was always a niggling feeling like I was forgetting something...

I decided to give Izzy a break from carrying me around, and took a bus to the tourist town of Copacabana, on the shores of Lake Titicaca. 160km away, the route is popular, and was supposed to take 3-3.5 hours. It took over 4.5, most of which was spent propping up a sleepy Aymaran woman. I have yet to catch transport south of the Rio Grande that even closely kept to schedule - in fact, I've spent weeks waiting for 2 boat trips and a bus journey. I feel more confident than ever that a motorcycle is the best way to see Latin America.

I didn't really enjoy Copacabana. Not because of the town or lake, which were beautiful and breathtaking respectively, or because of the locals, who were warm and friendly. It was because for every local, there were a dozen tourists.I had well and truly hit the gringo trail, and we were everywhere. It was blatantly obvious the effect that too many tourist dollars have on the local economy - gone were the local restaurants, the cheap corner stores and the relaxed way of life. In their stead was a neverending line of souvenir shops, currency exchanges and high end restaurants selling western food from english menus being practically thrown at passerbys by English speaking touts. I saw the sun set over the lake, had dinner at one of the few local(ish) restaurants, and headed back to the hostel vowing to head back to La Paz ASAP. It was around then I remembered what I had forgotten to do in La Paz - get a Paraguayan visa!

I was on the first bus back to La Paz the next morning, and quickly headed off to the embassy, via a camera shop for a quick photo. while the embassy was processing my visa, I visited the Presidential Palace and Central square. It's amazing how contrasting some of these neighbourhoods in Latin American cities can be - an affluent, leafy plaza and surrounds will back directly onto slums, without so much as a footpath as a buffer.

On the subject of visas, I've always found that they're most easily obtained while in a bordering country - my Brazilian visa took a day (instead of weeks) and cost a fraction of what the embassy in Canberra was going to charge. The Paraguayan embassy charged the same price, but processed the visa in a matter of hours.

The next day we headed south towards the infamous Salar de Uyuni. However, my laziness in La Paz meant I really didn't get moving until 1pm. I crawled out of La Paz (cruelly, you must climb to at least 4000m to get out of La Paz in any direction), and started to head south. Izzy was really struggling at this point, and I needed to keep revving the engine to avoid her stalling. Negotiating traffic in this manner proved to be hard, and eventually the inevitable happened: I clipped someone. It wasn't much damage - a tiny scratch to the back, but his van was new, and he looked pissed. In Bolivia, even the smallest accident requires the intervention of transit cops and I wasn't looking forward to having to go through all the procedures. The fact that I don't have 3rd party insurance (not required in Bolivia) may also explain my anxiety. So I asked straight up how much he wanted to finish this right here and now. He shrugged and said "50" - 50Bs is about $7. The money pretty much flew out of my wallet into his hand, and we were both on the road. The whole thing lasted less than a minute.

I was feeling quite down until I reached a police checkpoint, where I stopped for a break. A group of kids came running up, and began peppering me with questions. When I got out the printed maps of the route I was (roughly) taking, they were gobsmacked. They were so amazed at what I was doing that I sat back and had a long hard think about what I was doing, and how lucky I was to be able to do it. Here I was, in a country where most people couldn't conceive having enough money to travel outside their own village, exploring the world by motorcycle. I (and others in my financial position) are truly blessed, and need to remember that more often.

Mood suitaly lifted, I entered the lovely town of Ouro. As it happened, they were having a small festival that weekend (Am I just blindly stumbling into all these festivals, or are they on ever week?). I strolled around the town square, enjoying the various acts and entertainment, including a talented drumline.

The next day I set of for Uyuni. I made good time until I left the paved section of the road, and looked down the barrel of 160km of corrugations, gravel and soft sand. It was tough going, but rewarding. The road also claimed it's second licence plate of the trip - these Bolivian roads are BRUTAL. I am definitely getting better at riding though, and far more confident in the sand.

For those of you who don't ride: deep, soft sand is the worst surface for a bike. If your front wheel digs in AT ALL, you're going over the handlebars. The best solution I've found for such an unbalanced bike is either to crawl across in first gear (sometimes necessary with long stretches of deep sand), or to slow down a bit beforehand and then hit the accelerator hard as we cross, keeping the front wheel straight and up. Both prevent me eating sand, but the latter is definitely faster.

Eventually, I made it to the Salars and took the obligatory photos. The sun was setting (at this altitude it gets cold quickly at sunset), so I hurried into Uyuni - the town looks a nice town was built on the moon, then heavily bombed. I pulled up outside a hotel and quickly noticed a young man standing beside a KLR650. The rider (Chris) was from Kansas, and was making his way back up north to Venezuela, before heading home. I had only been talking to Chris for a couple of minutes when Nicola, one of the German girls who'd been on the boat in Brazil walked by. This trip constantly surprises me with reunions of sorts.

Chris and I ended up getting dinner together and bonding with similar stories of close calls, adventures and mishaps that can only happen to motorbike travellers. It turns out he too had turned up at the famous missing bridge in Guatemala, and knows of a few others who had done likewise. Chris had luckily found a pedestrian bridge downstream to cross the river on, as I'm not sure a 650cc engine would have easily made it. (Annette & Jack - I think you're going to have to do this crossing, it's becoming a thing - everyone's doing it). We agreed to go see the train cemetery together the next day.

We set off in the morning after distributing the last of Chirs' spare fuel - Uyuni wouldn't have fuel until Monday morning. The train cemetery was more interesting than I had even thought, and I was fascinated as I walked around and through the rusting carcasses. Some of the carriages looked in better condition than some of the cars I've passed in my travels, but that's not saying much.

I decided to join Chris for a day's ride out on the flats, and was instantly glad I had. I understand why normal tourists want to visit, but this is a motorbike adventurer's Mecca - you haven't been to South America unless you've got photos on the salar. Speeding across the flattest surface in Latin America (modern GPS data suggests deflections of metres over 160km) with another bike and rider was surreal and incredible. I simply can't describe what it feels like to be able to just point the bike wherever you want, and head in that direction - the freedom was brilliant. There were 'tracks' made by others, but we were free to forge our own path, which we did with glee. We headed out to a few islands - one deserted, and one full of people and complete with a restaurant.

At the populated restaurant (Incahari), I managed to buy some fuel from one of the many tour groups. Speaking of, we came across the first Aussies I had met since crossing the Darien gap - a group of nearly 30 South Australians were taking a guided tour through Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia and Chile. It was a little weird - I had become accustomed to being alone, the only one crazy enough to do this, and now I was completely surrounded by like minded people. Interestingly, it was on the salars that other tourists really noticed us - people peppered us with questions, and a few wanted photos while on the bikes. I guess we were well and truly back on the gringo trail.

After a late lunch, it was time to head back into town. As time was short and our thirst for adventure high, we decided to again leave the trails, and head directly to town, avoiding the 20km or so of corrugated road normally encountered. As we rode, the sun begun to set, and form the most beautiful picture I've seen in quite a while. It was truly bliss, as I tried to keep a vaguely straight line using my GPs, and Chris took to high speed circles (we lost sight of each other at one point, which is saying something on a flat surface 160km across!) I took some action photos and we stopped for Chris to take some better photos with his far superior but more delicate camera. It wasn't long before we discovered why the tracks avoided the straight route, as I almost rode into a lake. No problem - we were both on dual purpose bikes that had seen far too much road, and needed to see a little offroading action. We skirted around the lake, judging the outskirts of which by how far my wheels sank into the cracking salt crust. chris said he was glad I was going first (I figured the lighter bike should lead) and I was glad he was there too, in case I got stuck. We both agreed that while we are obviously independent people, travelling by motorbike is probably better with a partner. We got back after dark, avoiding riding over the local airstrip only because of the GPS maps, and both covered in a crust of salt. The bikes got a thorough cleaning, after which we headed to a bar to let the day sink in and swap stories.

After determining when the fuel tanker would arrive with the fuel I needed to keep going, I said goodbye to Chris and got one last pushstart for good luck (at this altitude, kickstarting Izzy is proving difficult). The road started off fine - bumpy, but flat and straight. Then the road went mental. It started with patches of sand so large I thought there must be a beach around the corner, then came the hills.

Bolivia truly has it all - in the space of a day I had travelled from a giant salt flat, to mountains, to a sandy desert, to something resembling Utah and the American Midwest. Spectacular red earth tepuis were bisected by gravel bed rivers, and (sometimes) the blissfully smooth black tarmac of the road. I was loving it, but Izzy wasn't. All this climbing at altitude had taken a toll on the cooling system (I later discovered the fan switch had broken, probably due to a rock or fall). When we finished in Tupiza, she had about 200ml of coolant left (of 2L). However, there was good news - at 3200m, she was already easier to start - a slow rolling start was all that was needed.

I pulled into the first hotel I saw (I'm getting less picky about hotels these days - as long as Izzy will be safe, I'll sleep on a bit of broken concrete) and scored big time. Pool, wifi, cheap rooms, and a massive garage. A garage that was nearly full. Izzy shared some space with a dozen bikes and a few 4wds, all on tours around Bolivia and Argentina. From Mexico to La Paz I had met about 5 or 6 other Motorcycle travellers, and now I have lost track. It has been great to be able to talk to people who understand the spiritual power of a good road, and the trials and tribulations of motorcycle travel. I can't help but think that the trip would have been radically different if I had rode through Peru and Ecuador instead of Venezuela and Brazil, and all the experiences I could have had, and would have missed.

I met the organiser of the trip - Andres lives in Buenos Aires and California, and hopes to ride between the two someday. He told me he had friends at Kawasaki, and told me to give him a call when in BA. As I need parts for Izzy, I would definitely do that. Apparently, he told the rest of the group that I was a "real biker". I guess doing it the tough way gets you a rep down here.

The next day I continued my descent down towards Tarija, a much bigger city at about 2000m. It took most of the day to make the 200km or so, which probably says all you need to know about the road. I actually had tarmac for about 60km all up, which was pure bliss. I also found out my GPS is trying to kill me, routing me along a road that the hotel manager called "very bad". Considering how dangerous the road I took was, I hate to think about what condition the other road would have been in.

The last stop in Bolivia was Villamontes, near the border. I didn't choose these towns based on attractions, rather that they were about a day's ride apart and big enough to have a hotel/hostel with parking. The ride there would have to rate amongst the best of the trip - the mountains gave ways to rolling hills, Izzy began to wake up and the road turned from incredibly dangerous to just incredible. Unfortunately, the Bolivian dust had taken its toll on my camera, and there aren't any photos of the hills (to this day I'm manually moving the zoom). A great ride to finish off a country full of great rides.

At Villamontes I withdrew money, and prepared myself for Paraguay and the wilderness of the Chaco.

Bolivia, Part 1: Guayaramerin to La Paz

2012-10-12T17:20:00.001-07:00

Crossing into Guayaramerin, I started to feel better. Bolivia has always been a must see destination for me, and was probably the country on this continent that I most wanted to visit on this trip. At the heart of South america, Bolivia is where the mighty Amazon jungle is halted by the towering Andes mountains, whose high altitude plains contain the mesmerizing salt plains of Uyuni, and run down to the endless plains of the Chaco. It is one of the warmest, wettest, lowest and yet coldest, driest and highest countries in the Americas. The contrasts don't end with nature - Bolivia is one of the poorest yet resource rich countries in the world. Bolivianos have a well recognized reputation for being a hard working and tough people, yet quick to celebrate and welcome foreigners. I was excited to get off the boat and start exploring. But first, Izzy needed some serious TLC.

Once I got stamped into Bolivia, I headed to Customs, where I was told the system was down, and to return in the morning. I checked into a hotel, and started exploring the town. The next morning, I headed to Customs - still closed. It turns out it was the anniversary of the foundation of the state and the boss was watching the celebrations, but would return around 11. I've lost count of how many holidays I've stumbled into, but at least I could go watch the celebrations to pass the time.

The next morning I headed up to the closest repair shop, which was also the local Honda dealer. I reasoned that they, of all people, would know where the competition (Kawasaki) were. Not only did they know where the dealer was, but they offered me the use of their trailer, if I could get Izzy to them. I hurried back, and pushed her (she's quite light without all the gear & myself) to the dealer. It was only about 200m, but in that distance, several people stopped and tried to help me, despite my protests. In those few blocks, I could already tell I was going to love Bolivia. I got to the dealership, and the receptionist had bad news: the Kawasaki boys couldn't help me today, but possibly tomorrow. Then the Honda mechanic stepped out and had a look at the bike. Good news: he'd fix it for me. Great result. We set about pulling Izzy to pieces, and determining what had gne wrong. A trip like this isn't exactly easy for any bike, and so we went through a few periods of discovering a problem, fixing it, and then finding that wasn't the problem that stopped Izzy. I retired for lunch, returning after attending a health fair run by a missionary school (picked up some muesli and wholemeal bread - missing from the rest of the continent). Izzy now had a clean carburetor (sorely needed), but Camillo (the mechanic) eventually worked it out - the spark plug connector had worn out, and so wasn't providing the necessary electrical power when needed. Immediately I was thankful - I have the knowledge to fix Izzy, but the spark plug connector would've been at the bottom of my list, after dismantling the clutch and gearbox. what would have taken me days (and many more parts, he had done over several hours. The damage to my wallet? Less than $20. I don't think I could get a mechanic to look at an engine for that kind of money. I was rapt.

I rode back to the hotel, grinning from ear to ear. If there weren't so many people, I may have popped a small wheelie (yes it's possible, I have done it more than a few times, mostly by accident). I came back after closing with some beers, and Camillo, Orlando and I shot the breeze in the local plaza. Camillo's daughter joined us - it's worth pointing out just how safe Guyaramerin (And Bolivia in general) is: the locals all hang out after dark in the local parks. Taken for granted in Perth, it is a rare luxury in this part of the world. After the plaza, we headed back to Camillo's house, where he tried to give me a pair of boots (they didn't fit), and his daughter delighted in showing me her Disney videos for learning english. I got a lift back to the hotel, but not before receiving a Honda shirt. The next morning I headed back to Honda to say thanks, and show them what Izzy looks like fully loaded. I left Guyaramerin with two new friends, and high hopes for the rest of the country.

**For those of you who are following in my footsteps and need a service, the boys at Guyaramerin Honda (on the Eastern Plaza) can't come more highly recommended**

The Southwest corner of Bolivia has long been on the traveler's radar, but I would be starting my journey on the opposite end of the country, where an Australian visitor is not exactly a common occurrence. My Spanish would again improve through necessity, as I wouldn't be speaking English for a week (Actually that's a lie: in Guayaramerin I phoned home, and actually had to translate for some Brazilians who spoke a bit of English, but no Spanish). This is exactly what I wanted, to see a part of these countries that not many outside it's borders see. I would join the Gringo Trail soon enough, but for now I was happy to be amongst the locals only.

The first day's ride was interesting. It was pretty flat terrain, so I was able to cover about 500km. The first 100km or so was beautiful tarmac. I had to wait a bit in town for fuel - Bolivia subsidizes it's fuel at great cost, and therefore rations it out - I would pass many stations with signs of "No Hay Gasolina" hung prominently. After fueling up, I got lost in Riberalta. Getting lost in a town with only one road in and out seems a bit stupid, but when there are no signs it's easy to miss a turnoff. Eventually I got back on the road after a few attempts, only to run into a blockade.

Bolivia is somewhat socialist country, and unions/collectives have a relatively strong position in politics here. That bing said, it appears they are not above blocking a bridge to get what they want. People were allowed to pass without hindrance, but vehicles were going nowhere. As the only to La Paz, they had me by the cajones. I asked how long it had been going on - 3 days, with no end in sight: shit. I walked around a bit, and mingled with the workers (only two didn't notice me, as they were deeply involved in a game of chess). As I walked back to Izzy contemplating my next move, a young man made that choice for me by suggesting I go through the river. I had given it a thought, but dismissed it as the banks were too steep. Like 60 degrees steep. He assured me it was possible, and arranged a small posse to help me. We walked her down, and crossed the river on a submerged log, which took all my oncentration, and destroyed my nerves. Getting Izzy up the other side was another story. For the record, pushing a motorcyle up a slippery mud bank can cause bad language from up to 5 guys. I definitely heard a few swear words from the group, and may or may not have called Izzy a "stubborn, fat bitch" when she simply refused to budge. The workers blocking the road didn't say anything, just watched us from the bridge. I'm sure the aim was to block trucks, not tourists, and judging by how we were struggling, there wouldn't be many following us. I thanked (and paid) my 'crew', and headed down the road.

Down the road (after being asked several times how I managed to cross the blockade, I stopped at a fuel stop for energy for the both of us. I noticed a big bag full of leaves next to the cashier, and instantly knew from what plant they were. Coca leaves have been used by indigenous Bolivians to ward off the effects of altitude sickness, fatigue and hunger pains. It's completely legal and non-addictive. The same can't be said for it's famous derivative, Cocaine. The legal uses for the Coca plant extend beyond the ubiqutous cola drink, and it's unfortunate that one of the many alkaloids in the Coca leaf has proved to be so destructive. I bought a bag and started to use.

There's somewhat of a ritual to follow when chewing coca leaves and it takes the better part of an hour to get to the point of benefit. Overall, I will say this - it definitely helps with headaches and altitude sickness (and may numb your mouth), but it tastes horrible. If it wasn't for the impending extreme altitude, that would have been it. As it stands now, I have gone through two small bags, dozens of cups of tea, and a few lollies. The tea and lollies are actually quite nice, and while not as strong as the leaves by themselves, have managed to keep me up and moving at over 4000m above sea level. But that's another story.

I kept on heading down the lonely and dusty road, enjoying the view of the savannah. It was eerily familiar - red pea gravel, low scrub as far as the eye could see and not another vehicle for miles. I had to keep remembering to stick to the right! As the sun began to set, I came across a series of man-made waterholes and a veritable safari worth of animals: Capibaras (a large animal, resembling a wombat) and thousands of birds were all quenching their thirst in the disappearing sun. They paid little attention to me as I passed, then only curiosity when I swung Izzy around. I sat transfixed for a while - these were completely wild animals, in their natural habitat and they allowed me to stay. Eventually, they trotted/flew off, and I continued on towards Santa Rosa.

I had to fuel up again, but there hadn't been a station in over 250km. I started to panic a bit, and pull over every now and again to ask where I could find fuel. After a few failed leads and a gas station selling nothing but false hope, I found a store that sold me 6 litres of refined black gold. In 2L coke bottles. I can't say that this is new to me, but petrol sold in plastic bottles seems a little risky. I was in no position to argue, and readily poured the fuel in, all the while apologising to the motor that no doubt would soon be suffering.

I found a place that would safely take us, and promptly passed out asleep. Unfortunately, they also safely took most of my remaining cash, as I'd thought there would have been an ATM in a city of 15,000 people. When I explained this to the owner of the Residencial (a cheap form of a hotel, but above an Alijomento) when he asked if I wanted breakfast at the restaurant and I explained, he was nonplussed - he'd organize something simple for me for free. I should clarify that breakfast definitely wasn't part of the deal, so I was gratefull for the coffee and toast. I then left, for the fuel station in Santa Rosa, which turned out to have a massive line (a symptom of the fuel rationing in Bolivia). I asked one patron leaving whether there was another station nearby. He obviously took pity on me, and told me that he'd sell me some of the fuel out of his jerry can back at his house. I took one look at the line and followed him back to his place. But before we fuel'd up, we needed breakfast. His wife cooked us brekkie, with coffee, bread and eggs, both chicken and turtle. I enjoyed my second breakfast, and walked out a full and happy man. For the second day in a row, I set out thinking that Bolivianos are some of the nicest people in the world. I did leave with a few niggling worries though: I had been warned that a few years ago, some Canadians had been murdered and robbed on the stretch of road I was going to cover, and last night it had rained. Rained probably isn't the right word for this part of the world: when I say rained, water came down like someone had lifted a pool with a crane, then took to the bottom with a stick of dynamite. it's not unusual that I wonder how buildings survive these kinds of storms.

As it turned out, the first worry was unfounded - I met nothing but great people, quick with a thumbs up and a smile. They may have been smiling however, as a result of my second worry. The rain had turned what could have passed for a road into something the devil couldn't concieve in a bad mood. The previously passable clay and rocks had now joined forces in a concerted effort against my health, and turned my riding into a (for an outsider) comical series of mishaps. The mud went from too slippery to walk on, to so deep I'd worry we'd drown, and back again. And that would be in the space of 20 metres. The back wheel acted like it was attached by a slinky possessed. over the next 60 kms I dropped Izzy more than a dozen times, and narrowly avoided falling far more than that. A particularly nasty fall saw the gear change pedal (the lever operated with your left foot, for those who don't ride) land squarely on my foot, pinning me down. I managed to wriggle out, letting off a stream of curse words that would make George Carlin (RIP) blush. On a side note, that's a great thing about being surrounded by those who don't speak your language - if you feel like swearing, go for it- no one's going to care. But basically, I was very glad for all my protective gear that day. I finished that day with a grazed left knee, and a badly swollen right leg, but still able to walk.

I awoke in Yucumo, which lies at the base of the climb into La Paz. It would be the last time I'd experience warm weather for weeks,and I foolishly looked forward to the impending cool change. But first I had breakfast with some locals who told me that the road ahead was closed until 4pm for roadworks, after which I would get as far as Carnavi, not Coroico as I had hoped. I decided to partially take their advice, and left at midday, thinking that I could pass the time at a roadblock easily if it was only a few hours. But every time I reached a section of roadworks, the workers allowed me through. I had to dodge some equipment and do some offroading, but it wasn't too hard. The road itself was pretty challenging though, a never ending series of hairpin bends on a relentless uphill slope. I made it to Carnavi in the late afternoon and tried to press on, but quickly recognized it was foolish, and headed back to reach Coroico the next day.

I set off early this time, trying to make it past the roadworks before the rest of the traffic was allowed to pass, and the road becomes a chaotic deathtrap. I was making progress (although I almost needed to be dug out by a roadworks crew in a particularly bad section), until I came to a section with a couple of workers and a policeman, who said the road ahead was definitely closed until 4pm. I was going no further for about 6 hours. Thankfully, they had chosen a great spot to stop traffic - a nearby stream cascaded over a particularly beautiful cliff. I enjoyed the waterfall, and was able to wash my clothes (all caked in mud from the previous debacle of a day).

I hadn't brought a lunch, but again the Bolivianos came through for me, and graciously gave me some of their lunch - sardines and bread. It was around this time that a van ferrying people to La Paz turned up. I got talking to one of the passengers, who happened to be part of the Bolivian Navy. Although a landlocked country (a sore point for Bolivianos, who lost their coastline to Chile as a result of war), Bolivia maintains a naval force on border rivers and Lake Titicaca, which it shares with Peru. The navy also co-operates with the other forces in the effort to rationalise coca production. As he explained it, there are particular species of Coca that are only grown for cocaine, but the law enforcement agencies are hamstrung by political macinations. I ended up having a great day at the roadblock, but at 1530 it was time to leave. I raced away, trying to get as far as possible before the traffic became a problem. I hadn't got very far when the trucks started passing by.

A bit of perspective is needed: this road is built into a cliff with a serious drop off the side. It is only wide enough in parts for two small vehicles to pass - for two trucks to pass, they must travel (one reversing) to a 'passing area'. Made from compacted earth, the amount of dust created is incredible. Overtaking a truck is heart in mouth stuff, as you can't see more than 5 metres in front of you - hence my desire to be in front! when you approach a blind corner, you just hope a truck isn't barreling around from the other side. I have been riding on some of the most dangerous so-called roads for months now, and I was worried. I made it to Coroico, and happily stopped at a cheap hotel with internet (what a luxury!). I parked Izzy, and saw proof of just how rough the road was - the licence plate had broken off. There was no way I was backtracking, so resolved to make a new one in La Paz (no licence plate on a bike is common here, and ok as long as you have documents that prove the bike is yours, like registration papers).

The next day was the big one - the North Yungas road, otherwise known as El Camino del Muerte (Road of Death). Prior to 2006 when the government finished paving one section and bypassing another, this road earned it's name as the most dangerous road in the world. Taking over 200 lives per year, the road demands respect and many truckers used to pray to Pachamama (Incan mother earth) or God for safe passage before travelling the 100km or so. Originally built by Paraguyan POWs during the Chaco war (at the cost of thousands of lives), one section was deemed impossible to widen, and bypassed with a new paved road. This section is not nearly as dangerous anymore as most traffic sensibly take the new road. I wanted to see the old road, and whispered a few prayers before setting off - adding to the blessings and prayers offered by strangers. The road rises over 3000m, peaking at the mountain pass La Cumbre (4660m) before plummeting back down into La Paz (3600m).

As the old road is rarely used, I found it in reasonable condition and not too dificult. I did however see sections that reflected the horror stories told - a section that had clearly given way, the neighbouring crosses remembering the lives taken. Nowdays, the only real traffic is tourists on guided mountain bike tours down the road. Give me a Central American trucker anyday - the tourists were impossible to predict. On these roads, you actually drive on the left, as trucks used to travel to La Paz full of goods, and return lighter. To prevent excessive damage to the road, the lighter truck travels on the outside (it also allows the drivers to see their outside wheel, preventing them from falling off). I was obeying the rules, and treating the road with the respect it deserved - and almost killed someone in the process. As I rounded a blind corner (and I would beep the horn before doing so), a tourist came flying across, cutting the corner. I slammed both brakes on but it wasn't enough - I was going to hit this guy and send him over the cliff.

In the end I threw Izzy into the ground and jumped clear, preventing a serious accident. Izzy stopped 30cm from the skid line the tourist had to make just to take the corner. I got up and turned to see who could possibly be so stupid. He stopped and asked if I was ok, but otherwise seemed oblivious to how close it had been, and seemed unfazed when I tried to explain. Idiot. The sheer drop would have been the better part of 500m at that point, and with the closest hospital 2hrs away, an ambulance would have been unnecessary - just call the Coroner.

The rest of the ride was less intense, but the other tourists were annoying. Some passed on my right (as they're supposed to), some tried my left. Some came flying down with little thought of their safety or that of others, and some stopped completely, too petrified to move in traffic. I started to get angry at the lack of respect the others were showing to the road - thousands of people with far more experience on these kinds of roads had become victims of this stretch, and these people were attempting it with no more than a 10 minute safety briefing that obviously didn't warrant listening to. Granted, they were no longer trucks on the road, but if you struggle to safely pass a motorcycle, I'd think twice about doing the trip. It says alot when I can honestly say I preferred to pass the locals in vans (following the groups to take them back to La Paz) than the bikes. I read later that 18 tourists have added to the toll while on rides, and I can't say I'm surprised. There's no way I would have started my trip here, and it's crazy to think that others attempt this when their entire experience of roads in Latin America would have been by bus, or out the window of a plane. Rant over.

Eventually, there were no more tourists, and I could relax a bit. Then I hit the asphalt, and the ride became alot faster, and alot higher. KLRs are naturally aspirated, and Izzy didn't appreciate riding higher than any of the peaks in Europe or Australasia. It was slow going when we reached La Cumbre, the highest point of the road. It was here that the gods thought it'd be funny to send snow. I had got rid of all my cold weather gear in the USA, and have an open face helmet - it wasn't pleasant. Once over though, I was able to cut the engine and coast all the way into La Paz, where I found my hotel and almost passed out - this altitude is going to take some getting used to.

This is only part 1 of Bolivia, but all of Bolivia in one post would give me RSI. Part 2 includes La Paz, Salar de Uyuni, and a route that leads me to believe the world's most dangerous road is still in Bolivia.

Brazil

2012-09-29T06:42:00.000-07:00

Leaving Venezuela, I headed to the land of the legendary Amazon. Brazil stands as an oasis of relative development in a continent dominated by poverty. This much was obvious as soon as I crossed the border into Pacaraima, as the condition and age of vehicles improved markedly. The cost of fuel would also take a turn for the familiar, but for the moment I could enjoy the last almost free fuel and explore one of the most remote parts of the world. But first I needed a vehicle permit.

Having crossed the border on a Sunday, I had to wait in Pacaraima until Monday morning when the customs office would be open. This turned out to be one of the easiest crossings I've done so far, despite the warnings that it could be difficult. Having got through immigration when locals weren't travelling, it was peaceful. Come Monday morning, I was there bright and early & waiting for the office to open up. As the hotel was about 100m from the border post, I left most of my gear in my room, which meant I wasn't sweating it out in riding pants and jacket. It was all very civilised, and I aim to try and replicate this on subsequent crossings.

For now though, I had 1000km or so to cross before reaching Manaus, the capital of Amazonas state which lies on the river of the same name. I headed out from Pacaraima, and set my sights on Boa Vista, the capital of Roraima and nearest town of any size. The trip was largely uneventful but beautiful - entertaining enough that I rode all the way to Boa Vista (round 250km) without pausing, using up most of my Venezuelan fuel.

There wasn't much to see in Boa Vista, so I headed off early the next day in the direction of Manaus. Having a quick look at the map, it appeared that I would be covering approximately 300km without a soul in sight, let alone a fuel station. I quickly bought a few spare fuel containers, and headed down the rapidly deteriorating road. As it turns out, I didn't need any spare fuel - there were towns (most too small for traffic lights) all along the road, and fuel every 150kms or so.

For those of you who know about the route I had originally planned to take through Brazil, from the East coast following the Amazon River along a dirt track: I stopped at the intersection with that road and had a look. It was a disaster zone - potholes that could swallow a human, let alone a tyre. This was a place where axles come to die, and take their human riders with them. And this end was apparently the good part - it gets worse further on in the jungle. I swallowed hard, and was thankful that my previous research had suggested that the road was pretty much impenetrable.

I was making good time and reached Rorainopolis in the afternoon. It looked like it was going to rain again soon, so when I saw a reasonable motel that proudly displayed that it had internet, I pulled up. It wasn't far until I would reach the Indigenous area of the Waimiri Atroari, an autonomous area run by the tribe. As it is absolutely forbidden to stop on the 125km stretch of road that passes through the area (which closes at night), I thought it prudent to reach such an area in the morning. There wasn't much to do in town (it's not in any map of a usable scale, and wasn't on my GPS), but I went to the grocery store. The radio was playing pop music, all in English. I found it fascinating that in a town where I was the only Anglophone, the music was all in English. I guess it goes to prove that pop music is similar to porn - the dialogue doesn't matter.

The next day I headed out to complete the 480km to Manaus, crossing the equator in the morning. From now on, the days would start to get longer and drier! I took some photos, and had a quick celebratory drink. There wasn't much there - if I wasn't paying attention thanks to the GPS, I may have missed it.

Next was the indigenous area. There were fuel stops on both ends, but as I had filled up already, they weren't needed. The signs at the entrance gate were pretty obvious - no stopping, no photos, no feeding animals, no leaving the road. The people who live within apparently live as they have for centuries, and are somewhat a law unto themselves within this area. I spent the whole time both in awe of the intense jungle that seemed to attack the road, and praying that Izzy wouldn't break down. Everything went smoothly, and a couple hours later I arrived in Manaus, checking into my hostel and walking out to explore the city.

Manaus is an unusual city - a metropolis of over 1.7 million people and a hub of manufacturing for Brazil, all while surrounded by 1000km of thick jungle on all sides! The Amazon theatre stands out as a perfect example of the European influence in Brazil - the theatre was built in the late 1800's when Brazil was officially the seat of the kingdom of Portugal (as opposed to a regular colony), on the back of the rubber boom. It is a truly beautiful building, and a feat of construction when you consider that each brick had to be shipped 1500km upstream.

The next day I began my search for a new exhaust camshaft for Izzy - she had been running pretty rough since Venezuela, and I was keen to get some parts. Considering Manaus produces Kawasakis, I thought it would be simple to buy a part. Not so. It appears that Manaus only produces whole bikes, then ships them all to Sáo Paulo, where they are then distributed throughout the country, including back to Manaus. Frustrating doesn't even begin to cover my feelings at that point. In Perth (which is more isolated distance-wise than Manaus), I could visit either of the motorbike stores within 500m of my house and order any part for almost any motorcycle. If they didn't have it in stock, they'd have it in a week at most. I know this is a different part of the world, but still....

After looking online, I found a company in the US that will send parts anywhere in the world, within three weeks. Then I found out that to import anything into Brazil, you need a tax number and have to pay the entirely unreasonable tax of 60%! I opened up Izzy (I'm getting pretty good at this), and found that the damage had not worsened since Valle de la Pascua in Venezuela (about 2000km back). After this, I decided that I would risk it and get to Bolivia - even if I can't get parts locally, Bolivia seems to be more reasonable on importing parts. I reasoned that if Izzy broke down, I could explore Bolivia by bus, while waiting for parts to clear customs.

The next thing to organise was a boat down to Porto Velho. I had hoped to be able to ride the BR319, an infamous road that runs through the middle of the Amazon. At 885km long, mainly through uninhabited areas, it is somewhat of an adventure. The recommended place to sleep? Inside the locked gates of the cell phone towers (why they have towers without people, I'll never know). This isn't to protect you from other humans, but rather the vast array of deadly wildlife that are at the top of the food chain out there. One rider reported seeing 3 Jaguars on a single trip, which sounds exciting but also terrifying. I was both disappointed and relieved to learn that the road is impossible to traverse without a long range fuel tank - it's at least 400km between opportunities to fill up, which was well beyond Izzy's capabilities. I'll mark that one down for a later trip, with a bigger bike and a partner.

The boats to Porto Velho are supposed to leave every Tuesday and Friday, and take 4 days, but supposed is a strong word down here. Come Friday night after I had given up on repairs in Manaus, I booked a jungle trip for 3 days, planning to be back in time for the Tuesday boat down to Porto Velho, which is about 500km from the Bolivian border.

We left from the hostel early the next morning by car, bus and then lancha (a small, thin boat used by fisherman and locals to move goods/people) for a few hours to reach the jungle lodge on the Rio Urubu. The lodge was stunning, with several thatched huts for houses, dining areas, a dorm and a several story watchtower. We got settled in, had lunch and then headed out to catch dinner - Piranhas.

Paddling out by canoe, I couldn't help but think of the horror stories that have featured the carnivorous fish. As it turns out, there isn't really much to fear from them: Humans aren't normally part of their diet, and they generally would only attack at the height of the dry season when falling water levels reduce normal prey and trap schools in puddles or lakes. They do like chicken and beef though - when we started fishing (in the second spot we tried), it wasn't long before we were hauling in fish after fish. I almost caught one, but it got free about a metre from the boat. The second fish wasn't so lucky - it was dinner no matter what. About the size of my hand, it didn't look particularly threatening, until I tried to remove the hook and saw the full extent of its teeth. Small but razor sharp, it's easy to see why they're so feared.

After catching enough for dinner, we continued on (mercifully using an engine) to find the non-human predators of the piranha - the Amazon River Dolphin. It was nearly sunset before we spotted a group playing nearby. While I've seen plenty of dolphins back home, some of which travel upstream past the city, I've never seen dolphins so far upstream, and certainly none that are pink in colour. They are unusual to say the least.

After returning for dinner, we headed out again to look for another animal - the Caiman. A small member of the Crocodilian family, the Caiman is notoriously shy and is really only visible at night, when the light from a torch beam is reflected off their eyes. We motored through the flooded forest, and it wasn't long before our guide had jumped off the boat and run through the marsh, returning with a Caiman measuring about 60cm long. At that size, they're not intimidating but I couldn't help but think of its much larger relatives back home in Oz. We took some photos, and headed back to the lodge for a comfortable sleep in a hammock.

We woke around dawn, and headed out into the forest for a nature walk. Being dry season, animals are not easy to spot but I am indifferent to monkeys at this point. The range of medicinal plants here are incredible - of particular interest is the plant that has been scientifically proven as a cure for malaria (concentrated forms are used by local hospitals). Native forms of cloves and eucalyptus were also interesting. One animal we did get up close and personal with was a tarantula. By close I mean I stayed back a good 2 metres, but the guide coaxed it out of its hole, and took photos from about 5cm away. Another interesting fact - they extract their poison from their prey, so while pet specimens are largely harmless, you shouldn't mess with wild tarantulas.

We headed back to the lodge for lunch, and then packed for a longer hike, after which we would camp out in the jungle. The night was clear, so we were able to set up our hammocks under the stars. Cooking dinner over a campfire and making our utensils out of wood felt pretty cool, but had to get out of my Australian mindset and stop worrying about the fire spreading.

After a nice sleep (the jungle here in the dry season is much quieter than in Borneo's wet season), we had brekky. Tip for the day: if you're making coffee using grounds and don't have a strainer, you can quickly mix the coffee with a hot piece of charcoal before serving. The charcoal causes the coffee grounds to sink to the bottom, don't ask me how. Or just use instant coffee, either way.

After camping out, We headed out on another walk through the jungle, this time making blowguns and bracelets from various plants. It's safe to say that the only animals I would be able to kill with a blowgun would have to be tame. I have the lungs of a pack a day smoker compared to the hunters who use these things. After embarrassing ourselves, we headed back to the lodge to pack and return to Manaus. I can safely say that while I had a great time in the jungle, I've pretty much had enough of it for one trip. I now dream of beaches, of cool salty water and wide open plains.

The Tuesday boat was cancelled, due to low water levels. More time in Manaus, of which I had seen plenty. The receptionist said there would be a boat the next day, so I didn't worry too much, and instead said goodbye to some friends from the tour, and headed out with Paolo, an Italian who I had also befriended on the tour. When we got the same news on Wednesday, it was time to seriously consider the possibility of other destinations, or of riding the 319. I bought some supplies (including a machete and mosquito net), and resolved that if the boat on Friday was cancelled, that I would look at other boats, or try to organise a fuel drop along the 319. That night, several of us from the hostel went out to a roadside stall for dinner, which was beautiful.

It was more of the same for Thursday and Friday, although the boat was confirmed so we (Lea and Nicole, two Germans from the hostel and myself) checked out on Friday and waited for the agent to pick us up. I got worried as the scheduled pickup time came and went, but eventually he made it. The girls piled into a van with some of my stuff, and I followed on Izzy. Although we were assured there would be plenty of room, we arrived to an almost full boat. We strung up our hammocks, I got Izzy on board and we waited. The crew weren't too happy about Izzy - they had only asked about the size of the motor, not how big she was, or about saddlebags. But we were on, had paid for tickets, and nothing short of an atomic bomb was getting me off. We were supposed (there's that word again!) to leave at around 1800 - we left around 2230 (apparently - I was fast asleep by then). And so began our journey through the Amazon on a boat.

It didn't take long to get into the routine on board - the days tended to revolve around meals. At dawn, we'd wake to have breakfast, which consisted of the sickeningly sweet coffee that is ubiquitous here and some crackers and bread. Lunch and dinner were more complete meals consisting of rice, noodles, meat and sometimes vegetables. There was always enough food to go around, but after several days it got monotonous.

The rest of the day was spent generally shooting the breeze. I took to upping the intensity of my Spanish (I have stubbornly refused to learn Portguese, to avoid confusing the two once back in Spanish territory), and reading some ebooks. I did enjoy my hammock (It's better for my back than some of the rock hard beds I've stayed in), and learnt to slow down a bit. Local boats sifting silt for gold, river dolphins and the bar provided useful distractions for such a long journey.

However, considering how many people use this form of travel, I'm surprised more comfortable/touristy options haven't appeared. I would have happily paid more for a more interesting experience - similar to the San Blas cruise, but with an Amazon flavour. A 6 day riverboat cruise/Amazon adventure/Party sounds better than 6 days on a boat, slowly heading upstream with little distractions. But maybe I'm the only one.

Eventually we arrived at Porto Velho, our destination. At 4am. None of us foreigners were particularly keen to get moving then, so we slept on board until a more reasonable time, then headed out for breakfast. I got coffee with milk & without sugar - sublime. After doing some shopping (in which a local drove us to the electronics store I needed), I said goodbye and headed back for Izzy.

After 6 days rest, she really didn't want to go. Eventually (after much cajoling and swearing), we headed for the border. It felt great to be back in the saddle, and everything was going smoothly until some of the gear started to come loose behind me. I pulled over to tighten everything back up - big mistake. No matter how hard I tried, she wouldn't go again. The motor was turning over fine, but as soon as I disengaged the clutch, she would die. I was stuck. Thankfully, I had stopped next to a small town (Araras), so we walked back and found the local dormitrio - a basic hostel for people stuck like me.

I got settled in, and went to the adjoining bar for a well needed drink. Again, it seems when I'm feeling down or need help, the locals come to the rescue. We had a good chat, helped by the fact that some of the locals were actually Bolivian, and spoke Spanish.

The next morning, I headed over to the tyre repair place, hoping he dabbled in motorcycle repair. There wasn't much he could do, but he got the attention of a local taxi driver who agreed to take Izzy and I to the border. It was expensive, but it was what I needed, so I agreed. We put Izzy in a trailer, and sped down the last 100km or so to the border. The driver was nice enough (I was probably going to be his only fare that day) to take me to the different border posts to get clearance to leave Brazil and enter Bolivia. Around lunchtime, I put the non functioning Izzy onto a small boat, and we crossed over to the Bolivian town of Guayaramerin, with a slight dread, yet full of hope.

Would this be the end of the trip? No way. Would it be the end of Izzy? Only time (and a Bolivian mechanic) would tell.

Venezuela

2012-09-11T08:04:00.000-07:00

Venezuela is something of an enigma in Latin America, and has a (somewhat undeserved) reputation for being tourist unfriendly. It is for this reason that it isn't high on the must see lists for most tourists, making it a perfect destination to get away from other tourists, and really explore a country.

Entering Venezuela by land from Colombia requires a healthy scepticism of your home country's foreign affairs department - DFAT lists a 80km deep strip of land along the border as a no-go area for Australians. On a motorbike avoiding an area like that isn't feasible, but I tried to heed the warnings as much as practical and be alert.

DFAT should have mentioned the San Antonio border crossing separately - not because it's especially dangerous, but because it is a real contender for the worst border in Latin America. Had I known the difficulties that were about to befall me, I probably would've ridden the 100's of kms up to the coast and crossed there. Would have been a timesaver, that's for sure.

I checked out of my hotel, and went to change money. Due to the restrictive currency controls in Venezuela (Venezuelans are heavily restricted from purchasing US dollars to import goods), there is a significant black market for outside currency. So tourists are best advised to bring as much cash over the border as they feel safe carrying. I managed to withdraw about 1,000,000 pesos (around $500AU) and get about 5,850 Bolivares. Thats about 10 BsF for a USD, much better than the 'official' rate of 4.3, which is what I'd get at an ATM in Venezuela. So the Budget was set. By the by, Venezuela is a cheap country to visit using the black market rate, but very expensive at the official rate. So future visitors to this lovely country: bring cash (USD or Euro), or stay at hostels/hotels that will let you wire them money o/s, and exchange it for you.

I arrived at the border at 9am, and didn't leave until 430pm. I managed 60km in the whole day, which is somewhat depressing. For those of you following this and attempting a similar crossing (or those who enjoy revelling in my misery), I've written a how to on Drive the Americas (link on the right). It will probably shave only an hour or two off the crossing, but it's information badly needed. San Antonio de Tachira (the Venezuelan border town) isn't particularly dangerous (and I saw a bit of it in my goose chase for a permit), but unexciting. If you're not driving/riding, then immigration will be easy - that bit only took 30 minutes, tops. Permits will kill you.

Anyway, after getting through the border I headed as far as I could, and checked into a Motel as the sun set. At 100BsF for the night, it had me in high hopes that I'd get to Brazil with a wad of cash in my hand.

The next day started with a hunt for petrol. Venezuela is blessed/cursed with more oil than any other country in the world, and petrol is heavily subsidised, to a point that is crippling the federal government (any attempt to raise the price is met with riots, putting the government in a bind). This results in the cheapest gas on the planet - 0.09 BsF/L. Yep, that equates to less than $0.01AU/L - I could fill my tank for a 10 cent coin, and get change. However, this is irresistible to Brazilians and Colombians, who cross the border to fill their tanks. This extra cost to the economy is not easily tolerated, and so gas stations near the border don't want to/can't sell to non-citizens. I passed 2 stations, (already low on fuel- you'd be crazy to fill up before Venezuela) before I could get gas. An attendant took pity on me, and pulled the nozzle out of one car, fuel spilling out, and jammed it into my tank. Once we were both full, the driver paid for both of us. I tried to offer him money, but he refused. I snuck a look at the total - it was less than a dollar to fill both a big 4WD and a motorbike. This happened alot actually - as a motorbike, I had priority, and would skip the queue at the bowser to slot in behind the car filing up. once the car had filled up, so would I. I sometimes paid, but most of the time, the driver would shout me the gas. It cost be about 6 BsF (60 cents) to cross the whole country. As an environmentalist, I was outraged. As a rider (and budget traveller), I was ecstatic.

A symptom of this skewed cost is the prevalence of old American cars. Gas guzzling giants and muscle cars feature prominently. Again, I love these old cars, but they cause problems environmentally. One deep breath anywhere near civilisation in Venezuela proves that - the country just smells of oil. From the badly made roads to the puddles of petrol at stations, to the oil slicks that seem to be everywhere (accompanied by inefficient cars), Venezuela has a distinct aroma of hydrocarbons. At first I just thought it was the cities, but the aroma follows you throughout the countryside also.

After filling up, I headed towards Lago de Maracaibo, for the Cataumbo lightning. This natural phenomenon occurs due to the unique and close proximity of high mountains, tropical lowlands and a large source of water. As a result, spectacular lightning storms occur nearly every night, at such frequency and reliability that fisherman sailing at night have no need for lights on their boats - it's something else. Unfortunately, there is very little tourist infrastructure in Venezuela so no accommodation is readily available close to the lake. Believe me, I looked. After I turned around (I had no intention of camping next to the border - that's pushing my luck), I stayed near, but not on the lake. This was probably the nicest motel I've ever seen - complete with tropical gardens along the driveway, and not much more than the first night.

While I didn't see the lightning that night, I didn't despair - it can be visible for quite a distance. So I could still head East, without ruling out the "Lighthouse of Catatumbo". So that's what I did, skirting around the mountains (I'd had enough of up-and-down for a while). I was passing through land that looked like Africa (sparse, wide-foliage trees, red dirt, goats and the kind of heat you can feel with all of your senses), when I got into the city of -----. That's when the rain began. The most intense rain I've ever felt - it almost knocked me off my bike. I called lunch and headed inside until the inevitable end of the shower. When it did, I kept riding and almost crashed.

Despite the frequency of rain, fresh oil spills are an ever present threat in Venezuela. I hit one as I was slowing down for a red light, with two cars waiting on the line. The wheels locked up, and I kept going. The back wheel woke up and decided to drift to the right, straight at one of the cars. This time (unlike Nicaragua - maybe I'm getting better) I fought back, possibly thinking of all the paperwork a crash would incur. Pushing the errant rear wheel back with the foot pegs and pumping the brakes in an attempt at a poor man's ABS, I managed to slot Izzy in between the two cars (with an inch of room either side) and come to a stop, front wheel on the line. I looked over to the other drivers, expecting a mixture of anger and amazement. They hadn't even bloody noticed. I couldn't believe it. Was I invisible? What does it take to get noticed around here? I know the people behind me noticed, but by the time I looked around at them, I'd calmed down enough to give them a thumbs up and a fake i-totally-meant-to-do-that expression (which is hard to convey in a helmet).

After that, I was keen to stop soon. I pulled into a motel that was reasonable and holed up for the night. at 6pm, the rain started. I know this because it really rained. The kind of rain that meant I slept with my earplugs in. And was still woken at 3am by heavier rain, that no noise isolation gear could block out, short of living underground. I can't even describe it - but if you had walked out with an umbrella, you may have been crushed under the weight of rain landing on you. At one point, I couldn't see more than 5m in front of me, it was a curtain of rain. It was also hurricane Isaac, but I didn't know that at the time. It was still going when I woke up, and I waited a while, but then had to go, rain or not.

I stopped at a café for breakfast, and some truckers introduced themselves whie quietly laughing at my miserable, half drowned state. When I explained where I was going, they didn't hesitate in giving me advice on the location of fuel stops, which turnoffs to take and where I could sleep. One drew me a few maps, which turned out to be very helpful and reassuring on the long and open road. It needs to be mentioned that the commercial maps are about as helpful as tits on a bull in Venezuela, so these hand drawn mud maps were the best guide I had. There is an open source map available (link on the right), but I was taking a pretty well signposted route. The road was exhausting, varying between smooth tarmac and warzone. At one stage I had to backtrack a bit to get fuel for a long uninhabited section, but it turned out to be unnecessary (it was only 80 miles between fuel, not the 250km like the locals told me).

The rain finally stopped at 2pm (that's 20hrs straight of heavy rain), and I began to enjoy myself again. The rain finally stopped at 2pm (that's 20hrs straight of heavy rain), and I began to enjoy myself again. I checked into a motel (for 250 BsF!) and tried to sleep. I think the motels here do a brisk trade in the "4hr specials", serving as the offices for the local ladies of the night. This motel looked like it came straight out of an adult film - mirrors on every wall and the ceiling, condoms and lube for sale at reception and some weird contraption that resembled a home gym (I don't want to know what it's for). I tried to watch tv which consisted of 4 channels - local news, a movie channel with horrible dubbing in Spanish (Bruce Willis sounds like Justin Beiber!) and two porn channels. Confirming that dialogue is not needed in adult films, these two channels were in English. I slept on top of the blankets that night - there was no telling what a blacklight would reveal between those sheets.

The next day I made it to Ciudad Bolivar, via El Tigre which is tied for the worst town so far - a hurricane is needed there to clean up the place a bit. As I was entering savanna country, the scenery started to look a lot like home - red gravel, low scrub and a dry heat you can see in mirages of water on the road. Once in town, I checked into a Posada (inn) run by a German, who has a garage with a KLR650. They organised tours to Angel falls, and I could wire money to a US bank account to do it, which meant I didn't have to eat into my precious stash of cash. I spent the next day chilling in the city, and had a 'small' hamburger - in Venezuela, you can get burgers for families - the bun is the size of a pizza!

Getting to Angel falls is no easy feat - without any roads in or out of the town, a short flight is necessary. Knowing how often transport breaks down here, I wasn't keen but it's the only way. Thankfully, the plane to Canaima was brand new, pretty much right out of the matchbox it came in. 6 people, including pilot piled in. The girl in the front passenger seat was given a quick briefing, as she was copilot - that didn't inspire much confidence. Once we landed at the Canaima airport / customs / general store / meeting point, I joined up with my guide and group, and headed up the river on a small boat. We had lunch at a picturesque waterfall, and reached our campsite near the base of the falls. The next morning we set off before dawn to head up to see the world's tallest waterfalls. Spectacular is the only way to properly describe the nearly 1000m cascading curtain of water plunging off the end of a gorgeous tepuis into the golden morning sunshine. I had managed to hike up the trail faster than the others, so managed to get 15 minutes or so with this natural wonder all by myself. I couldn't believe that there wasn't anyone else around - Angel falls is one of the natural wonders of the world, and Venezuela's most famous natural attraction.

After spending some time at the falls, we headed back to Canaima. After dropping our stuff off at a Posada and lunch, we headed to another falls: Salto Sapo. We were able to walk behind the curtain of water, which was unbelievably powerful. Standing under a small part of the falls was a good massage, and you definitely could have worse views - looking out over the falls, the green savanna is only halted by the sharp cliffs of the massive tepuis and the impenetrable jungle that surrounds this slice of paradise.

The next morning I headed to the local beach with a couple of friends from the tour. The makeup of our group has changed somewhat from the standard anglo mix that usually dominates tours like this, which is refreshing. To have a lagoon, beach, waterfall and palm trees in the same vista was beautiful, and the water was beautiful. After lunch we said our goodbyes, exchanged emails (I do this so often I've had business cards with my details made) and headed to the airport on the back of a tractor. Everyone who buys a flight into Canaima buys a return ticket, so the boarding procedure is as follows: get on whichever plane is going to your city (1 of 2 destinations) and has room. I caught an earlier flight, as there was a space in the copilot seat. It sounds cool, but this wasn't a new plane. As copilot, I could see that this plane had seen some serious miles, and some of the gauges weren't working (at least, I hope they weren't - otherwise the engine was seriously overheating the whole way). We took off with half a tank of fuel left, exactly what was required to make the distance. We obviously made it, but we were riding on fumes and my prayers as Ciudad Bolivar showed up in the distance. The pilot was calm the whole way, but I spent the whole trip trying not to touch anything (my knees were right against the flap switches) and looking for potential emergency landing strips.

After another night at the Posada in Ciudad Bolivar, I headed to Ciudad Guyana for a Brazilian visa. I eventually found the consulate (a tiny office above a bakery), and after filling out all the paperwork was told to return the next morning at 9 for the visa. Getting visas in the neighbouring country often turns out to be a far cheaper and easier way to travel - in Venezuela it cost me 180BsF & 1 day, as opposed to the $80AU and 4 weeks it would've taken from Canberra. I was coming down with a fever, so retired to a posada and hit the hay early, wet towel keeping my forehead cool. I got to the consulate at around 10am, picked up my visa, and headed for the border, about 720km away. I changed the oil in Izzy, which was badly needed - black as the night, and gritty. I made it as far as El Dorado, which is Spanish for "the Golden" (or similar), but it resembled hell to me. This wasn't a safe town, but it was getting dark, so I checked into the hotel with secure parking and had dinner, careful to stick to populated areas.

I headed out early towards the border, and was rewarded with the beautiful scenery of the Gran Sabana - rolling hills and great plains hemmed in by more incredible tepuis (I'm starting to run out of adjectives to describe this part of the world, suggestions welcome). A nice surprise was also in store: Either I had turned off the GPS at some point, or found a serious shortcut the day before as a signpost told me I was less than 300km from the border, about 100km less than I had thought! I travelled along the road to the border with Guyana (similar to Guatemala/Belize, Venezuela disputes the territory west of Georgetown that Guyana lays claim to). According to the GPS, I crossed over the border by some distance, So I'm claiming I've visited Guyana. All jokes aside, it looks to be a lush and wild country and I am really disappointed that I can't go there (a border strike and too much time spent in Colombia/Venezuela means I'm taking a shortcut). In the national park I saw the most famous tepuis, Roraima which marks the triangular border between Brazil, Venezuela and Guyana. There were quite a few small fires in the plains, so I couldn't get a clear photo through the smoke. I got into Santa Elena in the afternoon, and readied myself for the border.

I needn't have worried - this was the simplest border in Latin America so far. I did everything wrong - arrived on a Sunday near lunchtime, but still got through in about 2hrs, including the 1hr lunch break. I got across with a full tank of fuel, and checked into a hotel in the Brazilian border town of Pacaraima, as the customs office was only open Mon-Fri.

PHOTOS AVAILABLE HERE

Colombia

2012-09-03T04:40:00.000-07:00

After several days at sea, I was glad to set foot on solid ground in Cartagena, Colombia. We stumbled bleary eyed but excited from the M/S Independence, and set about booking into hotels/hostels/garages before reconvening at customs at 9am. As luck would have it, several of our group was staying at the same hostel, run by a fellow Aussie, Stuart. Whenever there is a choice of hostels in a city, I usually go with Aussie owned/run. I don't know why, but they always seem to be better run & cheaper, and being able to understand the owner/manager is always a bonus. Before heading to customs, I pulled money out of the ATM. I was in such a rush to get to the boat that I didn't withdraw any cash beforehand, and now needed to change Colombian pesos for US dollars. Thankfully, some of the other passengers needed to do the opposite, so it was an easy and efficient switch, without a middleman taking a cut.

It was at Immigration that we three bike riders were told customs was closed until Monday (it was Saturday), so the bikes would stay on the boat. I was planning on spending some time in Cartagena anyway, so wasn't particularly bothered by this development, but the others were keen to put the Carribbean in the mirrors, so they weren't too pleased. I believe this is the first time I've entered a country by boat, which led to a discovery - Immigration offices at port authorities are much more attractive than sterile airports or warzone land borders. After getting my increasingly worn passport back, I headed out and bought a new laptop charger for a sum that felt like I was being scammed, only I wasn't. Electronics in this part of the world are ridiculously expensive - I could live in Caratgena comfortably for the weekend for the price of that charger.

Laptop reliably powered yet again, the group met at a bar on the wall (Cartagena is another walled seaside city, in the mould of Campeche) for drinks at sunset. We headed out on the town after a few to a more reasonably priced outdoor bar on the plaza. After a few more beers, one of the group was offered cocaine by a street vendor selling fake cuban cigars. Mark it down people, it took less than a day to be offered cocaine in Colombia. It has happened a few more times since, but never aggressively - I never felt threatened, only slightly shocked at the audacity. Anyway, the others continued on into the wee hours, but I had hit a wall so went back to the hostel.

The next day I visited Castillo San Felipe, which is the largest fortress that the Spaniards ever built in their colonies. It was well deserved - Cartagena has a long history of piracy and ransacking, both private and crown sanctioned. Nowdays, it provides a great place for silent reflection on the history of Latin America, and the possible influence one person can make. If voyage of Columbus had not gone exactly as it had, what would Colombia look like now? For that matter, what would Australia look like? Considering how close Australia came to being a French (or Dutch) possession, one would think my French would be better. Pondering history questions like that does my head in sometimes.

To soothe my head, I took solace in some comfort food - I had heard that Cartagena was home to decent Indian food, and I was desperate for something that didn't include beans or bbq roasted chicken. I took refuge in a delicious butter chicken, but not before having a chat with the chef, lamenting the lack of cricket on tv. He has hopes of setting up a cricket league in Cartagena to compete with the Carribbean nations, and while I hope he succeeds, I have my reservations.

The next day was pretty much spent at customs. If this becomes a trend I may spend half the trip sitting in halls, staring at immigration officers who share the same job satisfaction and demeanour as a prison worker! After waking early, we had to deal with delay after delay both on the boat (the crane wire snapped!) and in customs. We finally got our paperwork done at 4, so quickly rode to the insurance office to get covered. It's sad, but that was as close as I've gotten to a group ride so far. A special plate on one of the bikes meant more delays and other offices, but eventually everyone was set to go our separate ways.

I set off early in the morning, stopping at the insurance office to pick up some paperwork I'd left behind. 600km+ lay ahead, so I set off at speed. It wasn't long before I came across the first military checkpoint. They couldn't be friendlier if they'd given me a high five when I passed. From directions to recommendations for restaurants/accomodation, the Colombian military are there to protect, serve & help clueless foreigners. I have also noticed that people are starting to get more impressed by the fact that I've come from Canada - some of the double takes/jaw drops have been quite comical.

Colombia is a country of remarkable beauty, and I covered a startling range of picturesque vistas for one day - from the Carribbean seaside, to impossibly green pastureland, to tropical jungle, to Andean mountainside. From sea level to 3000m and back down. To put that in perspective, Mount kosciuszko (Australia's highest mountain) is only 2228m high. It was well and truly dark (and raining) by the time I made it to the hostel, but by following trucks through the mountains, I made it to Medellin in one (albeit wet and cold) piece.

The hostel was as close to a resort as an inner-city hostel can get - pool, volleyball/basketball court, soccer field, hammock area, as well as the standard lounge room and bar.

The next morning I set about making the most of these, before heading out on a tour of Medellin's most (in)famous resident - Pablo Escobar. While el Jefe of the Medellin Cartel, Escobar was largely responsible for production and distribution of cocaine in Colombia in the 1980's. You've no doubt watched a movie or two about his life, but 90 minutes can only capture so much, and Pablo's life was much bigger than any film can possibly capture. We visited one of the nearly 300 properties that Pablo once owned in Medellin. Although it was once a luxurious condo tower, sh**hole probably best describes it now. Most of the credit for the degradation must go to the Cali cartel, who bombed the building in one of the tit-for-tat attacks that plagued Colombia for the best part of a decade. We visited his grave, and were regaled with the story of how he was eventually stopped - with the police breaking down the front door of the house he was hiding in, Pablo attempted to flee by rooftop. A bullet through the ear put a swift end to his reign as the cocaine king, but it remains a bit of a mystery as to who shot him - the police claimed credit, but its dubious that any of the officers had the marksmanship to make shot, unlike the US forces who were there to assist.

From there, we visited the only property the police didn't confiscate from the Escobars- untouched as Pablo's mother had bought the property with legitimate earnings. It was there we met Pablo's brother (and former accountant to the Medellin cartel), Roberto Escobar. It was a bit surreal to be looking at an old wanted poster of somebody, only to come face to face with that person. Having served his time (22yrs halved to 11) in prison, he now dedicated his life to reducing the impact of AIDS in the Medellin through education & medication. In fact, the profits from the tour were going to the charity. It was interesting to be able to talk to someone like roberto about his life and perspectives. An interesting fact - Roberto was a champion cyclist for Colombia before his links to crime were discovered, and he was booted out of the community. I tried to ask him a question about the rampant nature of drugs in cycling, but it go lost in translation (or he just didn't want to answer).

The next day was spent relaxing, and buying a new hammock - a beautifully made colourful creation, in the traditional Colombain style. I also took some photos of Medellin, but (like the idiot I sometimes am) I had forgotten to put the memory card in the camera, so no photos.

It was time to get back on the bike, and the city of Bucaramanga was the target. The departments of Santander and Norte de Santander are no-go areas according to DFAT, but it's kinda hard (impossible, actually) to get to Venezuela via land without crossing these border areas. So I resolved to be extra cautious, and be well and truly in urban areas by nightfall. the day's riding was only 400km, but included several large roadworks in the mountains which slowed things somewhat. I met some great people along the way, including a guy taxiing people down a rail line using a motorbike, and some of the nicest soldiers I've met so far. Night began to fall as I cruised down the final hill into Bucaramanga (I was able to leave the bike in neutral for over a mile, thats how big these 'hills' are!), and I quickly checked into my hostel.

I was going to head up to the border the next morning, but wasn't sure that it'd be open on the weekend (As it turns out, that was a good call - Venezuelan customs was only open Mon-Fri) and the hostel was having a 4th birthday party that night, which sealed it. That night I went upstairs expecting to see a few fellow travellers, and a few friends of the owner/staff. I was pleasantly surprised - the place was full, and half the crowd were locals. It was exactly what a hostel party should be like - a cultural exchange fueled by copious amounts of cheap drinks. On drinks, I've found a local firewater that I don't like - Aguardiente. The stuff tastes like Sambuca mixed with paint stripper and instant regret - not recommended. Getting back on the rum, I met several locals, including Tutty. As Tutty was an english teacher, we were able to easily communicate, and she was able to translate for her brother, friends and myself. We got along like a house on fire - Tutty also sings, and I have to say I've become a bit of a fan of the songs she sent me.

Tengo Ganas.mp3

The party started to wind up at the hostel, so a bunch of us headed off to a club to continue on the night. I've gotten awfully used to cheap alcohol here - a beer at a club in Colombia is cheaper than at a bottleshop back in Perth, and it's going to take some serious mental preparation to set foot in a pub back in WA. Anyway, I learned some Salsa moves (watch out ladies!) and beat the sun back to bed (just).

The next morning was generally spent regretting all the drinking the night before. In the arvo I headed out to do a bit of shopping, before heading back to catch up on missed sleep. But people were heading out to a Salsa club, so I rolled out of bed and headed out again. When everyone said "Salsa club" I imagined a dance hall style venue with instuctors. This was more like a wild west saloon with a dancefloor. Our group ranged from professional dancers to novices to me - two left feet would be a step up for me. A couple girls took pity on me and taught me a few more things, and I definitely enjoyed myself. I called it quits early and caught a lift back to the hostel with Andreá who I had met previously at the hostel party.

I struck out fairly early, hoping to make it across the border that day. Looking back at it now, the mere premise seems laughable. The road out of Bucaramanga was pretty treacherous from the start, and some serious roadworks (a 100m section of a whole lane was missing due to a landslide, and had to be remade - into the mountain!) meant serious delays. The awesome scenery didn't help - I'd stop at eacch bend to take the perfect photo, only to come across a better vista on the next turn. It never ceases to amaze me the differences in climatic zones here - I was able to buy strawberries and mulberries for dinner (two 500g bags for two dollars!) before heading down in the hot and dusty frontier town of Cucutá. There's not much to see there, but the ride had taken most of the day, so I bunkered down at the only hotel I'd trust Izzy with and mentally prepped for the border, and Venezuela.

Colombia has really struck a chord with me. In Australia we don't hear much news from this part of the world, and when we do, it's not often good. Cocaine, guerillas and La violencia tend to dominate the headlines and history pages. And they certainly warrant column inches, but only as part of a greater picture of Colombia. Colombians are some of the friendliest people I've met so far, and would go out of their way to help in whatever way they could. Colombia is also one of the prettiest countries I have seen so far. I often judge places I travel on the basis of whether or not I could live there, and Colombia deserves a resounding yes. I will be back.

Having made it to South America, I now consider the trip to be a success - every km that Isabella makes from now on without requiring major repairs I consider a bonus. I also am not concerned about missing "must-see" destinations or countries - I have seen enough to say for sure that'll I'll definitely back.

PHOTOS AVAILABLE HERE

Riding in Central America An Overview

2012-08-26T09:07:00.000-07:00

Intro

Having ridden in Central America for several weeks, I had become accustomed to the crazy, chaotic world that exists on the roads in this part of the world. More than hostels, the road had become a home away from home. And so I present the following introduction to riding in Central America.

Fuelling Up

I've only pumped my own fuel on a few occasions, when I've been too impatient to wait for the attendant. Otherwise, I just pull up to the bowser with the high quality fuel (normally indicated by other bikes or an attendant pointing), open the gas tank and let him fill 'er up. The attendant takes the cash and makes change. If I need a break, I'll wheel Izzy off to the side, but mostly I'll just set off. It's really efficient - usually only takes a matter of a minute in total. Prices vary wildly country to country, but are pretty identical between stations (sometimes as mandated by regulation - Costa Rica doesn't have price signs - the gas price is identical and dictated by government). It gets confusing as some countries use imperial and metric measurements at the same time - a gas station will be 2kms away, sell oil by the litre, but petrol by the gallon!

Police

Firstly, It has to be said that the police and military in Latin America are some of the nicest I've ever met. Most who pull me over want to talk about my trip (the further south I get, the further their jaws drop when I say I've come from Canada) - It feels less like an interrogation, and more like friendly curiosity. Military checkpoints are designed to catch criminals or guerrillas - in other words, locals. Most encounters go something like this: The officer in the middle of the road motions for me to pull over onto the shoulder, or into a carpark (It should be mentioned that I simply pass through about 90% of the time, as they can't stop everyone). I then kill the engine, and take off my helmet. I am covered from head to tail, so this is usually the first indicator that I'm an extranjeno, or foreigner. First question - "Where are you going?" followed "Where did you come from?". That's where Canada slips into the conversation, and stops the officer in their tracks. Then it's time to tell my story, quite often to a growing group of people. Antarctica is also a drawcard, and generally warrants smiles and shaking of the heads from my audience. After we talk about the country we're in, and exhaust my Spanish (it's not often that any of them speak English), I ask a question or two - generally about the safety of the upcoming road, or where I should stop for lunch/dinner. I then collect my passport/licence/import permit, put on my helmet and head off into the distance, waving officers in the background.

That being said, some officers only see dollar signs when they see the colour of my skin. I've had a few encounters now with those type of people, and am happy to be able to say that each time I left them empty handed. I'm not breaking the law (any more than anyone else), and in many countries (such as Mexico), tourists aren't supposed to be fined for traffic infringements (supposedly removing the potential for these kinds of encounters). It's pretty easy to get out of these situations - If they don't speak English and you pretend that Spanish is foreign to you, you'll quickly reach an impasse where the officer will be forced to let you go. If you can communicate, he may try to offer you a choice: ticket, or a smaller on the spot 'fine'. If you opt for the fine, he'll give up. Finally, if they ask outright for a bribe - calmly and consistently refuse. There is a caveat however - judge the situation according to it's merits, and don't get aggressive. If they actually have you by the balls, you may be stuck. In several countries, police can impound your vehicle for a number of reasons, so it never pays to be aggressive or annoy them. Be polite, smile and spend that money on a beer, far sweeter for being bought with money saved.

Road Users

Motorcycles & Cars

Since crossing the Rio Grande, engine size has shrunk and the passenger load has increased. A 250cc engine seems almost excessive here, and a 1000cc+ engine is laughably over the top. I often find myself on the worst 'road', passing a 125cc Chinese built postie bike with two people and cargo. I am then reminded of a quote from an online forum for adventure riders - "It only takes 12HP to cross the world - the rest is just wheelspin". The popularity of motorcycles is also directly related to the safety of riding such a vehicle - countries with high rates of motorcycle use tend to be more aware of others on the road, and less likely to spread you along the bitumen. I honestly felt safer riding in Managua, Nicaragua than in Chicago, where cars move first & check their blind spot later, generally after you've had to take evasive action.

Trucks

The lumbering, traffic-jam-inducing giants of the Central American road system, and the bane of existence for cars in the mountains. I don't mind them, as I can easily pass several vehicles in one shot while going uphill. In some of the more dangerous areas (the danger being due to the type of people who frequent the road - be they guerrillas or criminals), trucks are a reassurance and shield of sorts. There is safety in numbers, and following an unofficial convoy is certainly safer than sticking it out alone. Sometimes, it has been necessary to ride despite a quadruple threat - past sunset, raining, in the mountains, in an area known for guerrillas. I don't like it, but continuing on to the next city is safer than camping out. In those times, trucks are high-beamed angels. I slot myself into a convoy and bask in the bright beams that dwarf the pathetic torchlight Izzy is capable of. With brake lights in front guiding me (and partially sheltering me from the rain), I can sit back and cruise leisurely at 20mph. I may not get there early, but I'll get there.

Animals

While there are a limited number of people employed to tame roadside vegetation (sometimes with just machetes!), often this task is left to animals. Horses and cattle are often tied up on the side of the road and left to consume the vegetation that grows like bamboo possessed. While normally quite safe, the animals sometimes break free from their bonds, and wander as is their want. These beasts are not scared of traffic, and certainly won't move or change course for a motorcycle. A stationary horse is an easy obstacle to avoid, but a moving bull is tricky. I confess to wanting to kick a few when passing, but I don't know if they'll react, and send me flying (a pretty embarrassing way to end the trip!). Dogs react to motorcycles, sometimes chasing them, sometimes running away, sometimes not seeming to be able to decide what to do. I rode past my hostel in David, Panama several times as the owner's dogs would almost run under my wheels each time I approached, distracting me. I have forcefully shooed a few away with my steel caps, which might seem mean, but is lot better than turning them into vulture food. On that sombre note, the quantity of roadkill is incredible. If it wasn't for the vultures, there would be piles of rotting carcasses lining the street. Another tip: if you see black birds circling in the distance, be prepared to hold your breath - tropical heat does overpowering things to the dead here.

Roads

Roads in Central America are not built to conquer the landscape, but rather follow it. Hence, roads skirt along hills and rise and fall with the terrain, with no tunnels in sight, and only the bare minimum of bridges. This means one thing - curves. lots and lots of "Curvas Peligrosas", one hairpin after another. As someone who had only ridden in countries with large, open areas, this was quite new to me. Quite often, the road is conquered by the landscape - landslides, serious potholes and sunken sections of bitumen are quite common, generally preceded by an orange cone or tree branch on the road before the bend. Riding back in Oz is going to seem boring by comparison.

Fluidity of traffic

Despite the apparent chaos that is endemic to the traffic in the larger cities, there remains a certain structure - a natural order if you will. Someone along the way had hit the nail on the head when they mentioned the traffic here as much more 'fluid'. With less adherence to laws, traffic resembles a mass of marbles rolling down a hill, rather than a series of queues in formal order. Every vehicle still occupies an individual space, but that space is not rigidly stuck in their current lane (if they're even marked - several multi-lane roads remain devoid of markings of any sort). This is exemplified at red light stops, where cars give at least a metre or two between the car in front of them. This allows the hundreds of motorcyclists to filter through and across lanes to the front of the line. Being on two wheels is a real time saver here. It can be unnerving though, especially as an approaching truck barrels towards you in your lane, in order to pass someone else. When you expect it though, it becomes less confronting. The fact that slow moving traffic always move over to the shoulder to let you pass is a nice touch too.
Signals
This fluidity has several impacts. The most obvious of which is the alertness of everyone on the road. I have yet to see anyone being dangerously cutoff, as EVERYONE checks their blind spots before moving. Compounding this alertness is the ready use of horns, not as a tool of aggression but for their designed purpose - to warn of danger. Originally, I winced and braced for impact every time I heard a horn go off nearby, but eventually worked it out - it was their way of saying "I'm in your blind spot and coming past, so don't do something unpredictable". Now when I hear a horn I calmly check my blind spot, and let them pass.
While people use their horns appropriately (if a little too frequently), indicator use is another story. There is almost no rhyme or reason to their use. Buses use either the left or right indicator to signal their intention to pull over to the right, and cars travel with indicators on for miles, completely oblivious. The only rule I can identify is that hazard lights mean "caution, I'm travelling slower than other traffic", or similarly "I intend on staying in this slow moving line behind a truck, so pass me". In short, I don't trust a blinking indicator, and instead look at the driver (if possible) or make a judgement based on other factors (speed, proximity to side streets,etc)

Panama - Colombia / San Blas Archipelago

2012-08-26T09:02:00.002-07:00

Crossing the Darien is not really possible overland, so alternative arrangements have to be made to cross from Panama to Colombia. Flights are expensive, the rumored ferry between Colon and Cartagena still hasn't materialized, and shipping Izzy in a container is a slow, still relatively expensive option. There was one attractive option however: A five day trip on a sailboat through the San Blas Islands, with Izzy on the back. It was about as expensive as a flight, but with the added bonus of a bit of adventure and of course, three days in the white sand/blue water paradise of the San Blas. I found a boat online that would be able to take both of us, leaving from Carti to Cartagena.

The boat I was destined to be on was called the Independance. Able to hold up to 24 people and 9 motorcycles, this was not small yacht. While it did have sails, it was mainly powered by the lage engines below deck, which took away some of the romantic notions of sailing through the carribbean, but gave the voyage a measure of reliability - we weren't at the fickle whims of the wind.

To be stuck on a boat for 5 days with people who annoy you would be disasterous, so it was a massive relief that everyone on board became friends quickly. Besides the ubiqutous Australians (myself included), there were a few Kiwis, Canadians, Germans and Americans - pretty standard for any travel adventure. This got me thinking - what is it about a culture that implores its people to explore the world? If you picked any hostel in the world at random, It'd be a fair bet that Australia, New Zealand, Germany and Ireland would all be represented. In this part of the world you could include Canada and the US. I often joke that we're taking over the world one hostel at a time, but when you think that Contiki, Lonely Planet and FlightCentre are all Aussie exports (and budget traveler essentials), it gets weird. Germans intrigue me - what makes their youth travel more than say the French or (particularly here) the Spanish? Any budding Sociologists out there have a clue?

Anyway, the first day was mainly spent waiting for me to arrive. Once everyone was on board and acounted for, we headed to our first anchor spot which was only an hour or so away. We stayed there for the day, swimming, kayaking, snorkling and generally absorbing some sun. The islands make the postcards look like a dump - palm trees on white sand, surrounded by impossibly blue water and reefs full of sea life.

The first night we had a beautiful seafood bbq on one of the larger islands, complete with a bar and sound system, even internet access. This swung it for me - I could live there. Traveling always reveals things about yourself, but it wasn't a real surprise that I need to be surrounded by technology. I love the wilderness and getting away from it all, as long as I can get back quickly. That was the hardest thing about being on the boat - not the rocking, not the confined nature of ship life, but the lack of internet access. But that's me.

The next two days was more of the same - in the morning we would 'sail' for a few hours, before anchoring in a remote area of this idyllic archipelago for more relaxing. I had a look around at two shipwrecks - one of which apparently was a backpacker boat, running the same route we were (although it looked more like a small fishing boat/drug running boat). The other wreck was a small fishing trawler that had wrecked onto a reef in about 3 feet of water. Several other wrecks drove home the need to be careful when in charge of a vessel in this area.

But as a passenger, the reefs and islands were amazing. The surprise guest appearance of dolphins was definitely a highlight, despite their hasty retreat as a few of us attempted to swim out to them.

After dinner on the third day, we headed out into the open sea, for a 36 hour voyage to Cartagena. It started to get a bit rough then, but not as rough as I had imagined - I suffered no falls or bruises, although some definitely needed the dramamine onboard. I actually got to help steer the boat for a bit, which was cool, and with several people in no mood to eat anything, I manage to gorge myself on pancakes for brekkie. We stopped at one point to have a swim in open water which is a cool experience, if a little unnerving - not being able to see land combined with large waves, brings to mind the harrowing stories of maritime disasters. After the swim, we headed straight in the direction of Cartagena, and Colombia. I spent a fair part of the night watching the multitude of stars, listening to my books on tape.

We arrived in Cartagena early in the morning, as apparently an approaching storm meant we had hauled ass. And so we had arrived in Colombia, for the third part of my journey - South America.

Panama

2012-08-18T14:01:00.000-07:00

The city of David was first on the agenda - not for any great reason, except that it was the largest place within a day's ride of both the border and Panama City. I holed up at a hostel, headed out to the central park (the only place deemed a tourist sight) and quickly established that it wasn't worth a photo. I picked up some groceries, and prepared for the next day's ride.

The essentials are always cheap in Panama..

Panama City was 440km away - pretty simple on the Interamericana. What wasn't so easy was that I only had $9US on me. But with these meagre funds i bought lunch, and filled up with gas. I now know I can make over 157 miles on a single tank, without needing the reserve. Rough calcs put Izzy's fuel efficiency over 70mpg!

70mpg on roads like this isn't bad!

Panama City is sometimes referred to as the Miami of Central America (except that more english is spoken in Panama), and as I cought periodic glimpses of the impressive skyline peeking over rolling hills, it wasn't hard to see why. Glass apartment towers lined the Pacific Ocean, surrounded by high end boutiques and american style malls. There is at least one critical difference between the two metropolises - the Panama Canal. As I passed over the Bridge of the Americas I pondered the profound effect that this crucial shipping channel has had on this tiny country. Far more than just a major source of income, the canal played a pivotal role in the continual fight for independence from Spain, Colombia and US in succession. In fact, The canal zone remained a foreign country until the 21st century. The constant flow of international goods through the country has deeply affected the psyche of Panamanians, and they seem to be a most open and visitor friendly nation, with a variety of cultures I had not seen since the US.

I checked into a local hostel and had a quick look around my local area before retiring for the night. The next day I headed out to Casco Viejo (the old part of town) and had a look at the many colonial buildings and museums, including the Canal Museum (where I wasn't allowed to take photos, much to my chagrin). I think it's a real tragedy we no longer take as much pride in the construction of our homes as we did a few hundred years ago, as the stark contrast between the colonial houses of Casco Viejo stood in stark contrast to the slum-like buildings of the surrounding neighbourhoods. The next day I headed out to the end of the road.

Casco Viejo

The Darién is one of the world's last true wildernesses - the impenetrable terrain of mountains and swamps originally prevented any motorized transport or construction of roads connecting the isthmus to the rest of Colombia. (Panama was originally part of Colombia, until it declared independence with the support of the US, who wished to make a deal with the new republic. To this day it remains remote and impassable, as the foreign powers to be refuse to provide the finances necessary to connect the two ends of the Pan American Highway. Colombian guerilla elements also operate extensively in the jungle, using the dense cover to run drugs and lauch offensives. In short, it's not the safest place in the world. But I wanted to see the end of the road, so I set off mid morning for Yaviza. The road started off good, then rapidly got worse as periodic roadworks and a general state of disrepair became the norm. Then the military checkpoints began. I had expected these, as this is a major drug running route. However, they were far more thorough than I had expected. I had to stop and explain my situation at each post, and after they determined that I was a tourist visiting for the day, they all took down my details, bike and all. The first checkpoint also said they'd make a phonecall for me. It wasn't until I reached Yaviza and the 5th checkpoint that i realized they'd called ahead to organize a security detail for me. I had a fully armed soldier at my side while I wandered around Yaviza, took some photos and had a quick lunch. I think it was partly for my safety, but partly to ensure I don't do anything stupid like going into the jungle, or pick up any packages. There wasn't anything to really see in Yaviza, nor any sign highlighting that this was the site of the break in one of the world's greatest roads. Anyway, I thanked my guard, and turned and burned for Panama City again.

End of the Interamericana

Panama Canal is the defining point in any visit to Panama City, and as an engineer I felt it a necessary pilgrimage. I headed out to the Miraflores locks, the closest set of locks to Panama city. For those of you who don't know, the locks help to raise and lower ships as they traverse the canal - as the majority of the canal is above sea level, ships must first be raised upon entering the canal, then lowered at the other end. This is achieved via the pumping of water in and out of a series of chambers sealed with impressively strong and watertight gates. The attached Visitors centre provided an interesting account of the construction history and biodiversity of the surrounding area. A particularly interesting example of the indirect impact of the canal is the eradication of yellow fever and paving of the streets in Panama City - The americans quickly decided that eradication of diseases that previously took heavy tolls on large workforces warranted investment. As a result of paving the streets, sanitation levels greatly improved, leading to a far healthier and more productive workforce. After waiting a bit, a large ship appeared, ready to be lowered to the level of the Pacific Ocean. I watched, fascinated at this marvel of engineering and precision - locomotives on either side guided this massive ship through the locks, with barely an inch of space on either side.

Miraflores Locks

The next day was spent shopping - I was hoping to pick up a new radiator pipe, as Izzy had sprung a leak all over the road where I had parked her overnight. These things are not easily picked up it seems, as while a dozen mechanics or stores within a stone's throw could help tune an engine, none carry parts on them. In the end, I hit up the hardware store, and got some glue and duct tape (to be honest, I'm surprised it took until now for duct tape to make it into the inventory!). I also looked at some hammocks, and made a mental note to return to pick up some new camping gear.

The next morning, I woke around 7am, planning to take it easy, do some shopping, and head to Carti by the early afternoon, plenty early for the 4pm loading time. I checked my email, and thank god I did - there was an email from the captain's wife saying the boat was about to leave, and where was I! It turns out the booking agency I had booked through had given me the wrong date: instead of loading on the 7th for departure on the morning of the 8th, I was supposed to board on the 6th, and leave on the morning of the 7th - right then. My heart sank and skipped a dozen beats. I raced down to the hostel front desk, and asked the manager to call the boat and agency, and stall the boat. While he called (as luck would have it, he was perfectly fluent in English and Spanish which helped no end in a panicked situation like this), I packed like a postie on speed.

The bike and I were ready in about 15 mins, and the manager had got in contact with the boat - they would wait for me. I thanked him, bitched about the whole situation a bit, then took off. I was out of Panama city in another 15 mins, and my feet barely touched the ground before I reached Carti, where I had to catch a small boat up the river mouth to the Carribbean sea and the Independence. Once we were both on board, I managed to take a breath, and we took off for the San Blas Islands not long after. I would have loved to stop and take photos of the road to Carti, as it was unbelievably twisty - the map looked like a small kid had not liked his spaghetti, and tossed it against the wall.

All Photos Available HERE

Costa Rica

2012-08-03T09:21:00.002-07:00

After my horror run of bad luck in Nicaragua, I was looking forward to the relative safety and comfort of Costa Rica.

With a history largely devoid of civil wars, Costa Rica has enjoyed economic prosperity and stability envied across the isthmus.This prosperity has only been helped by a nationwide focus on tourism, and in particular ecotourism. These factors have themselves led to a variety of negative consequences for the small nation. As far as a backpacker/adventurer traveller is concerned, the conspicuous nature of tourism has it's drawbacks also. While the prevelance of english has helped me somewhat, I much prefer to be an oddity or be embraced by a community as a (temporary) local than seen as just an ATM, which can happen in the more tourist oriented areas of the globe. So I was approaching Costa Rica with both excitement and apprehension.

Thanks (again) to previous travellers, I knew what I was facing at the border before I got there. I've now found out that the single most effective deterrent against touts on borders is to show them that you have a step-by-step list of what needs to be done. When they see that they are really not needed, they keep their distance (and border crossings become a more relaxed, cheaper, albeit longer process). I got through the border no problems, and the only non-official fee I paid was about 10c in Nicaraguan currency to an old man to watch Isabella while I went through the process. He dutifully stood by her, not letting anyone near - 10 cents for peace of mind is cheap, as far as I'm concerned.

My first stop was Liberia. As my boat from Panama wasn't leaving until the 7th, I was now in an unusual situation - I had time to waste. So my original plans of one nght in Liberia turned into two. The fact that I had negotiated with a local guesthouse owner for a good deal helped somewhat. Unless the place is already charging rock bottom prices, everything is up for negotiation. I ended up getting a room for 15 bucks a night if I cooked my own brekkie. The normally provided breakfast is dominated by melon, of which I'm not a fan so I was happy with that deal. I've found that hotels are like real estate: get the worst room in the best hotel - I had a small room, but with access to a jacuzzi, pool, high speed wifi and the lounge had an art gallery inside!

I did leave the guesthouse for a bit - on the first night, I hit up a recommended pizza joint for the best Italian I've had since leaving home. It really takes travelling to discover the strengths and weaknesses of your home town - until you leave, you have no idea what is normal and what isn't around the world. For the record, Perth punches above it's weight on a culinary level. Food seems to me to be the most prominent and demonstratable argument for racial diversity in any city. Whenever someone boasts about the diversity of their home, the conversation invariably turns to the variety of delicious cuisine that can only be supported by a critical mass of immigrants. I for one hope to never be far from a cappucino machine, decent thai place, or late night kebab joint again. But I will miss the lack of decent Latin American and Middle Eastern cuisine (and will support those that we already have - TMLP & Two Fat Indians, I am looking at you).

The next day I went to get some stationary, and have a look around the town. However, my knack for turning up in places for local holidays continued - that day was the anniversary for the annexation of Guanacaste (of which Liberia is the capital) to Costa Rica. There wasn't really much on that was photo worthy - a few stands selling food, a radio DJ and some kids rides in the Parque Central.

The next day I headed to San Jose. Originally, I was headed towards La Fortuna and Volcan Aerenal as the guidebook waxed lyrical about the constant lava flow, an apparently spectacular sight at night. However, the guidebook was printed in 2009, and Aerenal has been dormant for 2 years. Not wanting to travel out to see yet another dormant volcano, I headed for the capital. I had booked a good guesthouse online, but when I arrived, I found out they didn't allocate me a space. I was about to head over to the neighbouring hostel (a good second choice, with a pool) when the manager said I could fit in the dorm (which I had booked for 2 nights) for the first nght, and then move to a semi private room the next day, for the original price. Score. I checked in, and headed out for dinner at a local soda (diner) and picked up some beers on the way back.

The next day was touristy day. Markets followed museums of jade, and old buildings galore. I got back to the guesthouse for the opening ceremony of the Olympic games,and an intended siesta. Some guests had noisy kids, so that killed the siesta. I made a mental note to return the favour after a planned night out mixing it up in San Jose. I got a new pair of jeans to replace those stolen in Antigua, and headed out to see what San Jose could offer. As it turs out, not much. I went through several areas, but found each place to either be completely empty or a place for professional hookups (prostitution is legal in Costa Rica, and in some bars the entire female population seem to be working). The one bar that seemed cool was so packed you'd need a snorkel to breathe, and it was a sports bar (there wasn't any major games on that night). So I ended up having a beer at the local and returning to the guesthouse earlier than expected.

The next day, I was heading for Playa Uvita, a good launching point for the border with Panama. But first, I needed to have lunch. I chose a particular restaurant, known for a particular set of attributes of all its waitresses, and the iconic orange shorts. I have never been to a Hooters restaurant before, but it was definitely on my list of things to do this trip (albeit something I thought I'd do in the US). It's an unusual place, that's for sure: there is an obvious underlying fun and sexual nature to the restaurant, but in most respects it's a respectable restaurant - the food was fantastic, service was fast. It was expensive (prices on par with most restaurants in the US), but worth it for the familiar food and safety (I could order water without having to worry about it's impact on my digestive system). The best indicator of the ambience of the restaurant: there were a few single guys there (myself included), but it was mostly families and groups of friends (of both genders). All in all, the restaurant chain has a reputation asa bit seedy which isn't deserved, and I look forward to my next visit (rumor is that one is coming soon to Perth).

Blatting out of San Jose, I started heading up into the hills, one of which is ominously named Cerro de Muerte (hill of death). It earned this moniker before the Pan American tamed it, and is no longer the dangerous ride it once was. However, it did start raining. Normally, rain in the tropics is no problem - it is warm enough that you can just persevere for the 10 mins or so it takes to pass under the clouds. But in the cloud forest, at 3000m above sea level, it's a different story. I was getting cold quickly, and the combination of altidtude, tight corners and slow trucks meant I was going nowhere fast. I wasn't enjoying the ride, and I felt that I really should be. So I promised myself that I would stop at the next place that would have me. As it turned out, the next place to stay happened to be a Quetzal sanctuary/farmstay. Quetzal are brightly coloured birds that were considered sacred by the Mayans, and are still revered in modern times (It features prominently on the Guatemalan coat of arms and currency). It was expensive, but all inclusive and so I had a warm shower and turned the heater all the way up to Hades in a desperate attempt to dry all my clothes for the next day. In the morning, I went for a self guided walk along a trail, saw a few birds but no Quetzals. As I was packing up (and enjoying my warm, dry clothes) the manager came running, and practically dragged me to a telescope, with which he had found a family of Quetzals. They truly are beautiful birds, and surprisingly large.

The next destination was Playa (beach) Uvita. As I had plenty of time until my boat for Colombia left, I was taking my time getting to Panama. The hostel was pretty close to the beach, and so after checking in, I headed out for a swim. There were alot of beginner surfers practicing in the 3 foot waves, but no sign of the famous Costa Rican surf that would please an experienced surfer. It was picturesque though, with the palm and mangrove trees lining the cocoa coloured sand and gentle, lapping breaks. I met a British couple at the hostel, who are also heading southbound in a campervan, albeit at a slower pace. It's a great comfort to meet on a similar adventure, knowing that others are going through the same trials and tribulations, and share common goals. I will soon post a list of the blogs of people I meet on the way, so you can get an idea of how others are doing what I'm attempting.

After Uvita, It was time to cross another border and enter Panama, the last stop in Central America. Again I printed off the instructions for crossing, and also a ticket for my boat trip (Panamanian authorities sometimes require proof of onward travel, despite the obvious form of transport I arrive on). Getting through the border proved fairly easy - the only holdup was that I arrived at noon, which was lunchtime for the transit police who needed to check and stamp my insurance paperwork. Thankfully, the no mans land was well populated with restaurants, so I took my cue to also have lunch. A tout tried to help me, despite my insistence that I was capable without him. I did manage to give him the slip when leaving, meaning I paid only the official and necessary costs. An interesting point to note is that Panama is the only country so far that has properly fumigated Isabella - only Belize and Panama had the equipment to spray motorbikes (car fumigation booths at every border aren't suitable - I don't want to breathe in the spray), and Belize barely did anything.

All Photos Available Here

Nicaragua

2012-07-25T17:37:00.002-07:00

The Honduran/Nicaraguan border turned out to be fairly simplistic, as the instructions I had printed off (a fellow group of travelers have a blog at Life Remotely that I have been following) were pretty much perfect, and there wasn't a perfect storm of problems that I faced at El Amatillo. The fact that I had my game face well and truly on probably helped too. One tout approached me before I had even stopped, but I shot him a look that would've scared Medusa herself. I don't know if he told the others, or if they saw, but they all kept their distance after that. (Mental note: must learn how to say "shove it up your arse" in Spanish).

About 10kms past the border, I came upon a police checkpoint. The cop checked out Isabella, then asked for 10 dollars for 'gas money'. This time I worked it out pretty quickly, but decided to toy with him a bit. I kept repeating "no thanks, I've got plenty of gas" and "does your partner over there need gas? I can lend him some". Eventually he made it too obvious what he wanted, so I had to just repeatedly say no. He checked over Isabella again (no doubt looking for a potential infringement to hang over my head), but then sighed, gave me back my ID and off I went. It's almost getting fun, acting out a small Monty Python-esque scene on the road.

León is another colonial town, with one particular point of difference: nearby Cerro Negro (Black Hill). A cinder cone volcano, it is the youngest volcano in Central America at only 170 years old. It grows with each successive eruption (usually 7 years apart, although the last eruption was in 1999) by ejecting lava that rapidly cools and forms rocks of various sizes. In case you missed that, Cerro Negro is a highly active, and overdue volcano. Wind patterns means that the smaller rocks accumulate on a particular face of the hill. The upshot of this: a 600m high hill of pebble/sand consistency. Which must be rode down, of course. I checked into a hostel that runs daily trips up the slope, and put Isabella inside for safety (after Antigua, I'm taking no chances).

The next morning, I headed out to see the sights and sounds of León. There are quite a few old churches, for those of you into that sort of thing, but I am starting to get over them. It's not that they aren't pretty or reasonably interesting, it's more that they get repetitive after the fifth or so city. So I sought out something different: a museum housed in a former jail for guerillas during the civil war. This isn't just any museum though - it was a myths and legends musem, using mannequins as models. It was pretty quirky and interesting, that's for sure.

In the afternoon it was time to hit the slope. Rollcall included 4 staff, about 14 boarders, and a Yahoo! news crew. That's right, I may be on the news. Online. In Nicaragua. Anyway, we took a quick truck trip the base of the slope, had a look at an Iguana tank, and began our hike up to the top. Once on the top and photos opportunities exhausted, we suited up and paired up, letting gravity do its thing 2 at a time. One of the first down may have unintentionally slowed down everybody else - about 3/4 of the way down, the board dug in, and she proceeded to cartwheel and backflip almost the rest of the way down. It was one of the most spectacular crashes I've ever seen outside of a television or computer screen. The collective "OOOOHHHH!!!" and then silence from the rest of us at the top was almost comedic. But she got up, finished, and we continued.

The basic idea: sitting on the edge of your toboggan, you lean right back (holding on to a rope attached to the board) and use your heels to steer and brake. Some people just wanted to make it down, others wanted to go fast. I've traveled far too fast and far on a motorbike to go slow now, so I had the 90km/h record firmly in my sights. I lined up the board (a Japanese tourist went ahead on another track next to mine), started off, got lined up early, and then prayed. The boards get a new layer of plastic every run, so they pick up speed quickly. To get good speed, you almost need to be lying down (very similar to luge), and at the distance, the rocks look dangerously large, and going past at incredible speed. I couldn't see too much in front of me, but when I did look ahead, I didn't like it much: a dip had formed. At the speed I was going, it meant one thing: I was going airbourne. That was somewhat scary- to be flying inches above rocks on an active volcano with only a tenuous grasp of a plank of wood I had previously been sitting on. I landed ok, and kept gaining speed all the way down to the bottom, where I crashed after slowing down on the flats and passing a staff member with a radar gun. My speed: 84km/h. While not the all time record, it was damn close and enough to top the monthly leaderboard, with several mojitos as a reward. I was a happy camper.

The leader announced on the way back that he had booked a table at a bar with traditional music. To be honest, he had me at bar, but the music was a good bonus. I tried to get some new threads to replace those taken in Antigua, but nowhere was open so shorts and flip flops it was. The rum was flowing, probably a bit too freely. I don't remember much of the night, but what I do I enjoyed, and somewhere during the night I lost my flip flops. That's right, Mike's going clubbing barefoot. Not my smartest moment, but I woke up with no injuries other than a throbbing head. I don't think I made many friends in the dorm that night though, especially the guy who had taken to sleeping in my bed (he didn't get much sleep that night, as I slept underneath him in the bunk).

The next morning, I waited till I had sobered up and pointed Isabella towards Granada. It took most of the day to make the 150km - riding hungover is not a pleasant experience. I checked into my new accomodation (a cross between a homestay and hostel) and collapsed on the bed. I had pupusas for dinner (I've become a bit of a fan of the Salvadorian meal), and went back to sleep.

The next day was pretty quiet, and I barely left the room. I did go and check out a local market, and had a cheap meal at a local comida. I'm beginning to not only get used to the local cuisine, but actually prefer it to more familiar fare. I am seriously craving decent asian food though - what they pass off as quality food wouldn't even be passable for a late night BYO joint back home.

The next stop was a treehouse. Seriously, the next hostel I stayed at was in the jungle, up in the trees. I turned up, and the owner and a staff member were stuck into a bottle of Nicuarguan rum (Flor de Cana is everywhere), and painting a clown onto the bar. I settled in, and joined them for a drink or two. At the end of the night, we (along with 5 other guests) had polished off about 2.5L of quality rum, and taken advantage of the firemans pole and rope bridge. A party in a treehouse is an awesome thing and it got me thinking why we don't have something similar down in the southwest, like Pemberton. If I ever buy property in that area (as soon as I win lotto), I'm building off the ground. I came for 1 night, and ended up staying for 3.

The next day my laptop charger broke. The Nica jungle is about as far from an electronics store as you can get, so the next two days was spent travelling into towns to find a replacement and stock up on other items before coming to Costa Rica, where everything costs more. Granada couldn't help me (I did get some much needed clothes), so on the second day I headed into the capital ciy Managua.

The hostel staff said my best bet would be at the Galerias de Santo Domingo, a sprawling mega mall that wouldn't be out of place in any US metropolis. It had a Sony Center, HP store, Apple store and 2 Radioshacks all spread amongst high end fashion boutiques such as Tommy Hilfiger and Banana Republic. I parked in the Moto section, happy that the dedicated and heavily armed guard meant that Isabella would be safe. After wandering around aimlessly for an hour (it was sunday, so the shops didn't open until noon), I went into the main Radioshack & found what I needed, at a reasonable cost. I didn't have the money on me, so I headed off to the ATMs. I was walking towards the escalators when I heard the screams coming from around the corner. In this part of the world people yell outside all the time, but inside a mall like this, screaming is not a good sign. Then I heard a clip-clop-clop-clop noise, getting louder. I was a couple of metres from a small cell phone kiosk when the cause of all the noise turned the corner up about 10 metres ahead.

Galerias Santo Domingo - pretty upscale, not where you'd expect....

A freaking cow and bull, obviously disoriented and panicking came running towards me. The girl manning the kiosk was hiding inside her stall- which neatly divided the walkway in two, before it funneled into a tight space under repair, coincedently exactly where I was at that point. I don't think I screamed, but I definitely said "Holy Sh*t" in a manner that now seems funny - the sort of reaction that would feature prominently in an adult Wile. E. Coyote video. I bolted up to the kiosk, ready to make a choice - left, right or jump right into the bloody kiosk. Thankfully, they both took the right passage, which made the most important decision of my life the easiest. I sprinted up the left passage, and didn't look back. In a moment of dangerous confusion, I remembered that bovines can't climb stairs (they can, it's going down that they struggle with) and so flew up the escalator. I was about 4 steps up when I heard an almighty smash, as the animals smashed through the glass doors of the department store that had been behind me. As someone who walks quickly, I can sympathize - I often almost hit those slow automatic sliding doors, and have sometimes wanted to kick them in. Anyway, I came back down to inspect the damage. As it turns out, you can run cattle through a Harvey Norman style building and only damage the entrance doors, despite the pecariously placed TV screens. For more proof, check out the Mythbusters episode about the bull in a china shop.

I joined in with the rapidly forming crowd to exchange looks of disbelief and wonder what the crowd of 20-strong security guards chasing after the animals were going to be able to do, besides putting the animals down. Thankfully for the animals, I didn't hear any shots (I guess they caught the parking guards by surprise too, and made good their getaway). Interesting fact of the day: you don't have to speak any Spanish to be able to communicate "Can you believe that cattle just ran through the mall? Are you ok? How the hell does that even happen?". After the commotion was over, I went up to the ATMs next to the food court where people were eating, completely oblivious to the chaos that had just unfolded. I stared at them like they were from anther planet - how can you miss several tonnes of beef hurtling past? Heading back down to the Radioshack, I had to convince the shivering employee to unlock the doors again. She had opened the store by herself, and probably would've closed for the day right then and there if her fellow employees hadn't turned up for their shifts as I was buying the charger. They must have seen what had happened from the carpark, as they were grinning from ear to ear and laughed when the poor girl tried to explain what happened. In good news, she gave me a massive discount on the charger.

I think now would be a good time to explain dangers in Central America. If government websites are to be believed, I should have already been kidnapped, raped and killed several times over. The fact is, Central America is not as bad as people think - yes, crime is present (I've been a victim, and a witness) but you'd have to be extremely unluckly or foolhardy to suffer any pysical harm. Murders do happen (100+ every week in Guatemala alone) but unless you deal in drugs, or are trying to stop them, you have little to fear. I was in possibly the safest area in Nicaragua, and was in the most dangerous situation of my trip so far - it just goes to prove that these sorts of things can happen anywhere.

So I had lunch, headed back to the hostel and had a well deserved drink. The next day I headed off to Isla de Ometepe, an island in the middle of Lago Nicaragua that was formed by two volcanoes. It's an impressive site. I bought the tickets for the ferry ride over (all up $6 for me and the bike, for an hour long trip - take that rottnest ferry!) and headed down to the pier towards a fairly large car ferry. But that wasn't going to be my ride (it wasn't leaving for a few hours). The boat I was going on was significantly smaller and less seaworthy. I don't often know where the lifejackets are on ferries I catch, but I found them on this boat before I even stepped aboard. We took on 4 motorbikes, a large amount of supplies and about 50 people too many. I wondered about everyone's swimming ability - I could make it to a shoreline no matter where we were, but what about everyone else? As I was pondering this, we set off. I found a group of gringos, and was quickly reassured - apparently these ships don't sink as often as you'd think. One of the guys worked at the hostel I was headed too, and we got talking about motorbikes and travelling/living on the isthmus.

Once on the island, I headed out to the hostel and got settled in, had dinner and went to sleep. I didn't particularly like the hostel, so the next day headed out to another location in a coffee plantation near the base of the smaller volcano, Maderas. Most of the road was paved with bricks, but areas were under repair, and covered in gravel. I came across one of these areas, when I noticed a sharp, deep ditch where a small stream was obviously flowing. Not wanting to break the suspension, I hit the brakes (not locking up, but slowing hard). While watching and preparing the ditch, I missed a small rock, which lifted and bumped my back tire to the left. It landed on a smooth surface with a thin layer of fine sand, which may as well have been oil on glass. Rear wheel going left, front wheel going forward, I was going down. It's not the first time I've put Isabella down, but it is the first time at a bit of speed (I'd say 40km/h). I couldn't have taken the fall better - palms pushed out and then rolled. My head didn't hit the ground, and all my safety gear did it's job (Jack & Annette!!). I even hit the kill engine switch pretty much immediately. The damage? a scratch on the bark busters, and grazed palms. A bit of roadside first aid, and bike and rider were all good.

However, I no longer really wanted to be on a remote island (let alone climbing a volcano) should infection or serious mechanical problems happen later. So I turned around and left the island, bound for Costa Rica (hopefully leaving my bad luck at the border). As I write this, all seems fine for both of us, but it was after returning from visiting Costa Rica that Christopher Columbus found Queen Isabella on her deathbed, no longer able to support his voyage through the Americas, so my poetic coincidence meter is going off the chart at the moment.

Photos available Here

Honduras

2012-07-20T16:29:00.001-07:00

My experience in Honduras did not start well. El Amatilo is the dodgy late night bar of border towns - no one really wants to go there, but everyone finds themselves passing through (usually in a daze), and regretting it the next day. I got out of El Salvador no problems, and was in high spirits about getting into Honduras. I had instructions, and thought I was prepared. I wasn't nearly prepared for the clusterf**k that is El Amatillo. Let me paint a scene: Imagine a decrepit town, rustbucket vehicles kicking up dust and pouring fumes out over the open sewers and piles of rotting garbage. Somewhere around the corner is an unlabelled building that represents customs. Note this is probably the only border on this planet that customs comes first. Somewhere else, equally hidden, is Immigration. No one except for the touts speak any english, or could understand my attempts at spanish. Add in a heavy dash of border official corruption, a pinch of banks (who are supposed to take entrance fees) closing for the day at noon, and finally put this whole recipe through a power outage, and there you have it: El Amatillo. I ended up having to use a tout, probably getting ripped right off. I couldn't wait to put the town in my mirrors. The stab marks made with a pen in my diary on this day probably explains it all.

Anyway, I headed up to Tegucigalpa on the way to Lago de Yojoa. Thankfully I had left early enough that I didn't have to stay in Tegucigalpa, as it is apparently a larger version of El Amatillo. The circle road certainly painted the same picture as all the previous travellers - a city of favelas and distinctly lacking any tourist attractions. I was starting to wonder how long I was going to spend in Honduras. About 5 minutes past Tegucigalpa, a miracle happened: It turns out that the US had agreed to build a road for Honduras, at a cost of half a billion dollars. It is, without a doubt, the best road I've been on since Mexico and possibly the best of the trip. I was wooping with joy, and nearly cried - it was beautiful. Thankyou, Uncle Sam: this biker is most appreciative. That was definitely the turning point for Honduras - I can point to the exact point where the road turned from dust to asphalt, and my frown turned upside down. The next 2 and a bit hours was a never ending series of tight corners (black marks on my saddle bags reminded me later how tight) on the smoothest, cleanest, most reliable tarmac this side of the Rio Grande. All through the most spectacular pine forest I'd seen in a while. It was almost like I'd started my trip in Canada all over again, but in summer. I passed trucks and bikes alike, and waved to all the locals (selling honey of all things!) as I passed from mountain pass to mountain pass. The Isle of Man can suck it - Rossi, Stoner and co. should be battling it out on these roads. For those of you who care, it's the CA-5.

Honduran roads can vary in quality somewhat....

The end point of this magnificent specimen of bitumen - Lago de Yojoa, Honduras' largest freshwater lake. Lonely planet (and several other travellers) had told me of a brewery run by an Oregonian, built in paradise near the lake and eco park/ coffee plantation. To be honest, they had me at Oregonian brewery but I was also keen to check out the local sights. When I pulled up I knew the border trials had been worth it - this place was built in a patch of jungle, with a pool and restaurant/bar. A quick flashback of El Amatillo, and I plonked myself at the bar and told them I was staying at least 2 nights. They'd be lucky to pry me out of that bar at the end of the night - Oregonians are probably the best brewmasters in the US, and this place didn't disappoint - who knew apricot or rasberry beer could taste so good? When I get home, I'm definitely trying to replicate the apricot brew - that was bliss.

The next day, I shook off my hangover and visited the coffee plantation/eco park. As it was Sunday, the local village had split in two - to watch the local junior soccer teams. I passed one on the way into the park, and made a mental note to stop by on the way back. The eco reserve was very interesting - coffee plants, mixed with tropical rainforest and magnificent scenery at every turn. I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to take decent photos of butterflies, who just won't stay d**n still. A local bird watcher told me that there were a few toucans in the area, but I couldn't see any of them. Lunch in town, cheering on the local soccer team, a quick afternoon swim, and a few more beers capped off a great day.

The next day, recharged and refreshed, I made the bold (and somewhat foolhardy) decision to bolt for the other border. Destination: León, Nicaragua. An 8:30am start put me in good stead, and I hit the border on time, battle hardened and ready for anything.

Photos Available Here

El Salvador

2012-07-20T16:27:00.003-07:00

Getting into El Salvador wasn't very hard, and the signs explaining that no fees were to be paid were both comforting and a great idea - If no fees are to be paid, then there's no scope for corruption. Or so I thought. After my papers had been checked down the road (a standard procedure in Central America), an official tried to tell me that it'd be 5 dollars to pass. It's probably a good indicator of how much I've changed when it comes to borders that I smiled, shook my head, told him it was free, and rode off (almost knocking him over). Riding through San Salvador has to rate as one of the craziest riding experiences I've ever had. Think Bangkok or New Dehli, but smaller and faster. A few times I decided the gutter or footpath were better options, and off we went. Seriously, I would probably be arrested for riding like I have, but here it's not only normal but necessary. (Note to self: write a post on riding in Central America).

Anyway, It was starting to get dark so I decided that I would pull over in San Vincente, a nice little colonial town built in the hills. As I was getting close, I heard a car backfiring. I whipped my head around to make sure it wasn't Isabella when I saw the lights and heard the sirens. It wasn't a car backfiring, it was a shootout. I don't think I've ever opened a throttle like that before, and Isabella probably hopes I won't again. As I disappeared into the distance, I set my sights on San Miguel, significantly further away, but the best launching point for my trip into the Northern hills the next day. It went dark, but wasn't that bad on the Pan American Highway - there were plenty of cars to follow and be protected by. Then it rained, the kind of rain that feels like a bucket has been dropped on your head. It was unbelievable, as was the speed in which it stopped. 10 mins later, I was riding on dry asphalt and had almost dried by the time I reached San Miguel.

The entrance road to San Miguel is littered with 'nightclubs' (In CA a nightclub is a strip club, you go to dance at a discotech - a distinction that has no doubt resulted in a few awkward moments for tourists!), So I headed into town and asked some locals for suggestions. I ended up in a very nice hotel with a pool, gym and free brekky for a reasonable price.

It should be mentioned here that despite the reputation for violence (not helped by what I saw on the highway), Salvadorians are some of the nicest people you could hope to meet. Whenever you put in some effort and venture off the tourist trail, the locals are appreciative. I had several people welcome me to their country, and were only too happy to help wherever they could. Combined with the distinct lack of touts and pressure, only serves to reiterate the golden rule of tourism: The most significant contributors to a crappy tourist experience are other tourists. This trip is starting to make me something of an adventure traveller, and I may well spend my next few holidays going to the danger hotspots of the world, after the danger has subsided - watch this space for a post on Iraq in a few years!! With Isabella, I'm not tied to a bus route or schedule, and can stop wherever I want. When I get to a hard-to-reach or previosly dangerous destination, not only are the locals more friendly, but the tourists are of a better quality. Think more hippy/adventure traveler, less brash and culturally-unaware resort traveller. Or if you'd prefer, think backpackers, not sheraton hotelers (I don't think that's a word, but I'm going with it).

The next day I headed up to the mountain village of Perquin, former stronghold of the FMLN. The struggle for independance and the ideological tug of war in Central America (particularly El Salvador and Nicaragua) is something that I simply can't do justice here, but I recommend everyone has a quick read about it - it's somewhat of an eyeopener. Go ahead, I'll wait. So after the war, the government set up a museum and simulated campground to demonstrate the conditions suffered by geurillas and exhibit war paraphenalia and memorabilia. It was very interesting, and I was lucky enough to be able to get a tour of the campground by a former guerilla. My spanish wasn't good enough to ask all the questions I wanted to ask, but it was very interesting nonetheless.

I was very impressed with both the resiliance and compassion of the people - most locals assume that I'm from the US, whose government was intimately involved in the war. I'm not sure I'd be so welcoming if the situation was reversed. FMLN has now become a major political party, and by most accounts has become a model for how a former guerilla group can become reintegrated with society.

After Perquin, I headed back to San Miguel, crashed for the night, and mentally prepared for the next day (where I would cross the worst border this side of the Middle East).

Photos Available Here

Guatemala

2012-07-13T21:04:00.000-07:00

Crossing the Guatemalean border proved to be somewhat difficult, as to import a vehicle into the country requires the title for the vehicle. As Vermont doesn't issue titles for Motorcycles less than 300cc, this is a bit of a sticking point. Eventually, a local looked at the transferable registration paper and explained that it was a certificate of both title and registration. This white lie quickly greased the wheels, and I was on my way. In the future, I'll remember to say this first and avoid the drama. The other option is to photoshop myself a certificate of title, which would make things easier.

The roads in northern Guatemala are some of the most dangerous in the Americas for hijacking and robbery, as well as being a major drug trafficking route. However, it also contains the spectacular Mayan ruins at Tikal, and picturesque vistas of Lake Petén and Flores. It is definitely not a place where you want to be on the road at night though. So while the initial plan was to stop off at Tikal and spend the night at Flores, I ended up heading straight to Flores and heading back (only about 20km or so) to Tikal the next day. The road itself was in pretty good shape, besides a few patches under construction. I'd been warned the road was horrendous, but I didn't find it so bad. Flores is a pretty little village on a island in the middle of Lake Petén. Connected to the mainland by a small causeway, Flores has managed to capture the essence of a mediterranean island, with the cobblestone streets and general decor. Tuk tuks are the only form of public transport here - cars struggle to fit on the small streets, let alone a bus. Not that they're really needed - the whole island is about 700m around the edge. The hostel I had looked at was full, but the manager recommended and booked my a cheap hostel, so I headed there and after a nice cheap dinner, I was out like a light.

The next morning I headed off to Tikal in the arvo, after a slow start. Tikal is incredible: jungle surrounds the 4000 buildings spread over 16 sqkm, the ancient city is certainly more impressive and serene than Chichen Itza or other competitors for the tourist dollar. The best part - you can actually climb several of the temples, including temple 4 - as the tallest temple, it offers unparalleled views of the other buildings poking out of the jungle. The stairs are pretty steep (a few fatal accidents have caused several temples to be closed for climbing), and quickly proved how much my fitness has suffered over this holiday!

The next day was a big one. The plan was to make it all the way to Antigua, and to climb Volcan Pacaya the following morning. Google maps and my GPS were in agreement that the journey would be about 480kms, and google said it would take 6hrs 30mins. I left Flores in my rear view mirrors at 10am, to give myself plenty of time before sunset at 630pm. The first few kms out of town were compacted limestone, but not too bad. It turned to bitumen with a few potholes, so it was looking good - it was sunny out, and I was ahead of schedule. I caught a quick barge ferry across a river (cost about 50cents!) and headed into the mountainside. This is where things got interesting, as the road became less straight. To be honest, a bowl of Ramen noodles has more straight lines than this road. Consecutive rising and falling hairpin bends connected by centimetres of straight road made for exciting, yet scary riding. Overtaking is heart in mouth stuff. If it was any steeper or twistier, it would have been a series of roundabouts stacked on top of one another. The upside? the road was a beautifully smooth and young bitumen. If there's ever a Central American TT, all they need is a few cones and checquered flag. Of course, Casey Stoner and co. may not be so happy about the landslides and collapsed sections of road. I was loving it, and still ahead of schedule. Then things took a turn for the slower and more adventurous.

Firstly, the road condition deterioated - it became a single lane old rural road on a slope so steep, the road seemed to lean out into the abyss. I had used the brakes so hard, that they started to weaken, and had to slow down further to avoid an accidental Evel Kinevel impersonation. Then the bitumen dissapeared, and I was on a limestone and rock track leading from farmhouse to farmhouse. Eventually, the road disappeared altogether.

No, I wasn't lost and the road hadn't petered out. I had come up to what was supposed to be a bridge, except all I could see was the supports. Thinking that the bridge had suffered from the developing world curse of long building periods, I cursed the GPS and Google. Then I looked downstream and saw the bridge, not on another set of supports but in the river. Several tons of metal, a perfect truss bridge, lying on its side and rusting away in the water. Some locals were shooting the breeze nearby, and I must have turned to them with a expressions along the lines of "what the hell?", because they were quick to explain that the bridge had been washed away in a flood 2 YEARS AGO. I knew things moved slowly in CA, but this was ridiculous. As I was contemplating how much I didn't want to turn around and backtrack, one of the men explained that I might be able to take the boat. This got my hopes up, until I saw what he meant - a small raft on a rowpe pulled by a couple of men (the river was only waist deep). The raft was about the size of a study desk, but the 'boatmen' seemed confident, and I was up for a bit of an adventure. After a bit of offroading up the river bank to the raft, we rested Isabella on her side for the journey across. They then put me in an inflatible dinghy, and I followed. It wasn't the most dignified crossing, but we both made it across, safe and sound (and relatively dry).

While this was all happening, the sun was retreating. I was stuck in the middle of nowhere with night rapidly approaching. This was not good, but I had to persevere - camping out in this country is not an option. I headed through a few towns asking if there was a hotel/hostel/etc, and in San Raymundo I struck gold. The local Tacqueira owner knew someone who knew someone who would let me stay at their house. I was a bit nervous, but happy to be off the road. As it turns out, it was actually a hotel (my Spanish is not great yet), but no Holiday Inn that's for sure. It must have been for locals visiting families or something, as it had no real sign, and was off the only real road. Anyway, the guy took me in, showed me my room, and after I thanked everyone and had a delicious meal of tacos (I had missed lunch in the rush to Antigua), I collapsed.

The next morning I headed for Antigua, and after a short ride I hit the famous Panamerican highway. This road runs from Alaska to Ushuaia, Argentina (with a small break at the Darién Gap) and will feature prominently in my trip from now on (I may have already ridden parts in North America, but it's loosely defined and so difficult to be sure). After a few days of twisting dirt tracks, the CA-1 was as smooth as glass, and as straight as a ruler. Bliss - 60mph+ all the way. After arriving in Antigua, I got booked into a hostel and a seat on the afternoon shuttle up Volcan Pacaya.

The volcano hasn't been recently active (unlike a neighbouring volcano, which erupted in May), so I didn't see any molten lava but did see the effects of both a 2006 andd 2010 eruptuion. It proved to be an exhausting, yet interesting trek. The next morning, I headed out to Isabella to find out that we had been robbed. I keep all my valuables on me at all times, so nothing of extreme importance was stolen - some clothes and camping gear was all. Still, it was annoying. So instead of getting an early start to El Salvador, I spent an hour or so at the tourist police office, filling out a report for insurance purposes. Guatemala has an unbelievably low conviction rate, so I knew there was no hope of getting my stuff back. After filling out the forms, I headed to the border.

Belize

2012-07-10T08:08:00.000-07:00

After passing through immigration and customs, I headed to the Insurance Company of Belize building for some compulsory liability insurance, at a cost of 20 bucks for 2 weeks (you can't extend the insurance later, so I had to get a long enough period to cover any breakdowns, etc). After getting insured, I headed for Belize city.

Belize, like most countries in Latin America, has laboured under the tug of war of power between colonial superpowers. Originally part of Honduras, Belize became a safe haven for British pirates due to a lack of effective governance, and the protective reef off the coast (second in size only to the Great Barrier Reef). When these pirates were stopped, they settled in what would eventually become British Honduras, and then (following independence) Belize. As a result, the primary language is English, and Belize remains part of the Commonwealth.

A relic of British Honduras is the road system, in that it doesn't look like much has been done since the 1950's. There are 4 highways - the Northern, Western, Southern Highways which lead to their respective borders, & the Hummingbird highway, which connects the Western and Southern. Its a pretty easy system to get the hang of. What I haven't seen yet are the foreign built roads - in SE Asia, the poorer countries such as Laos would often have roads that were paid for by foreign governments, such as France or Germany. This sort of foreign aid is often the mot effective - help people to help themselves by providing jobs in construction, and eventually a more efficient route on which to trade and do business.

They are improving though - new bridge under construction

Anyway, I got into Belize city (the biggest city - pop.70,000) and found some accommodation. There's not a whole lot I can say about Belize city that's positive, although the crime rate has apparently dropped. Most of the historically and architecturally interesting buildings have been destroyed by hurricanes over the years, and their replacements aren't worth a photo. The only interesting thing is the swing bridge. Built in the 1920's in Liverpool, it is one of the oldest swing bridges in the world, and the only one still manually opened - twice a day, 4 men have to turn a wheel to swing the bridge open, and allow boats to pass, bringing the city to a halt.

Typical scene in Belize City

The swing bridge - notice the pivot point in the middle of the river

The next day I headed to Belmopan, the capital. To explain Belmopan, it helps to draw parallels to Canberra - after Belize city was levelled by a hurricane, Belmopan was built away from the coast, intending to become the new capital and main city. The embassies and public servants moved, but everybody else stayed put. Consequently, there's not much to do there if you don't have government business. I had intended to get my visa for Brazil there, but after meeting the Consul (in the gorgeous little house that served as the embassy) and having a quick chat, he told me it'd be cheaper and much quicker in Venezuela. I had a good talk with the Consul about Brazil, where I should go, and the conditions of roads down there. I thanked him, and continued on my way (after he recommended a restaurant in Belmopan), past the fortresses masquerading as US and Mexican embassies.

Embassy of Brazil

After a beautiful lunch of stewed chicken and rice (post coming soon, I swear), I headed off to Hopkins, on the Caribbean. On the way, I passed the Blue Hole national park (not to be confused with the much more famous offshore national monument), had a swim and went for a jungle hike. After settling into Hopkins, I went for a stroll. There isn't much to see in town, and the beach isn't exactly stunning (Ive found that many beaches here aren't all they're cracked up to be compared to Perth's), but the locals are the most friendly I've seen in a while. Everybody waves, says hello and asks how I am in a thick Caribbean accent.

Blue Hole National Park

The next day I headed to the closest big town, Dangriga to buy a tarp for camping, and a few supplies. While at the checkout, I was approached by an Australian couple who asked about Isabella and my trip. I walked outside with them and couldn't believe it - they too were travelling around by motorcycle, and not just any motorcycle, but a KLR250! this is the first time since the US that I've seen any long distance motorcycle riders, and the first time that the bike has been a KLR250. We had a great chat about travelling on the bike, and about our respective plans. Jack and Annette have been staying in Guatemala for several weeks, found their bike in Antigua, and were taking it slowly throughout Latin America. It's good to know that there is someone else out there who doesn't think I'm crazy. They too have a blog, so when I get the URL I'll post it up for everyone to have a look at.

Isabella & her new friend

Cockscomb wildlife sanctuary is the world's first Jaguar reserve, and its approx. 130,000 hectares is home to 60-80 of America's largest cat. I headed up the access track (worst 'road' so far), set up camp, and went on a walk to a waterfall through the jungle. It seems showering in waterfalls has become my life! I saw or heard a startling array of wildlife, from Wild Pigs to Howler Monkeys to Hummingbirds. While I didn't come face to face with a Jaguar (thank god!), the map pointed me to a tree that the cats had used as a scratching post. It was somewhat disconcerting to see how deep the grooves went - they would have no trouble killing a human. They are notoriously shy animals though, and they're nocturnal nature and ability to climb trees mean they are rarely seen, outside of automated cameras set up throughout the reserve. I slept ok in my hammock, but kept my knife close by.

The next morning I headed out of Cockscomb, past an old plane wreck, and continued on to the border with Guatemala.

ALL PHOTOS AVAILABLE HERE

Mexico Part 2

2012-07-09T21:12:00.000-07:00

While still in Campeche, I dropped off a load of washing to the local laundromat, and relaxed until 4pm, when I could pick up my clothes. I'm packing prettylight, so everything I have fits in one machine. I also had my motorcycle gear washed, which was comparitively expensive. Was so worth it when I got the clothes back - having been on the road for several weeks, an in hot weather the whole time, I STUNK, but not anymore. But I couldn't stop and smell the rose scented tshirts for long - I had to make the 100km or so to Merida. A pretty easy and uneventful ride, except for the rain. Rain in the tropics tends to be dramatic - one moment it is hot and humid, the next the temperature plummets, and the torrential downpour begins. Just as quickly, it ends. It seems as thought the word 'drizzle' doesn't exist.

I pulled into Merida, and quickly fell in love with the place. I'm a sucker for a place with a picturesque town square, and Merida definitely has this. My first preference for a place to stay was right on the plaza, but it was pretty obvious that there would be no room for isabella, so I headed to my second choice. It should have been my first - pool, parking, wifi, breakfast and a cool vibe all for less than 10 bucks. I got settled in, and headed out to the plaza to see a live dance performance, and dinner.

FYI, that meal I had in Tampico is called a Torta al Pastor - it's esentially roast pork with pineapple and other spices. I will definitely be cooking this when I get home. Which gives me an idea - whoever finds themselves wanting something from my gastronomic adventures, let me know when I get back, and I'll cook it for you. Perth lacks many true American (excepting the US) restaurants, and there is so much more than the taco. (in fact I've yet to have what we would normally call tacos - the Old El Paso shell with ground beef - they're not really popular).

I left Merida early the next day for one of the seven ancient wonders of the world, Chichen Itza. If you've ever seen a photo of a large Mayan temple, chances are it's Chichen Itza. It's a must see in Mexico. Unfortunately, his means everyone in Mexico comes to see it. There were thousands of people there, all jostling for the perfect photo and all trying to avoid the similarly nuerous vendors trying to sell every possible type of cool-but-useless souvenir available. The ruins are located somewhat close to Cancun, and quite a few people dressed as though they were still on a beach. I had applied the usual "no visible shoulders or knees" policy normally in force at places of signifcant historical or religious significance, and to see people in bikinis and boardshorts at such an important site annoyed me. Go work on your tanlines somewhere else, not at a country's most significant historical landmark. Overall - something I had to do, so I could say I've done it.

After checking out the ruins, I pointed Isabella in the direction of Tulum. I have decided to give Cancun the flick - It is only really famous for spring break - and that's well past. Tulum is alot quieter, with arguably better beaches and a much more relaxed backpacker vibe. That, and the local Mayan ruins are located right on a white sand and palm tree beach. I checked into one of the many hostels, and relaxed.

Turns out, I relaxed a bit too hard. The thing I love about hostels over hotels is the communal atmosphere. In a hotel, you check into your private room, have breakfast the next day without saying a word, and checkout by handing over your key to a polite yet disinterested concierge. At a hostel, it's a different story. After checking into my dorm bed, I met James, an Englishman on his way to Cancun. Having dinner at the communal table, I met a pair of Irish teachers, a pair of Germans and a Frenchman. Somewhat inevitebly, the drinking games started (a deck of cards is a hostel necessity). Next thing I know I'd missed the early bus. The only thing to do would be to catch the lunchtime bus to the beach (therefore mising the early bus back), and spend the whole day on the sand. Such is the life of a traveler.

After some time on the white sand, drinking from a coconut under the palm trees (jealous yet?), the Irish teachers and myself decided to check out the ruins. We tried to sneak around via the beach (I really just wanted a beach-and-ruins photo), but cliffs and rocks stopped that. So we paid our entrance fee and had a look around the ruins. We had another quick swim and photo before heading back or the bus. That night, they had salsa lessons in the hostel. I didn't particpate this time, but you guys as my witnesses, I will learn to salsa before I come home. I had a reasonably quiet night to prepare myself for the road the next day - when I crossed into the first country of Central America, Belize.

I got up early and headed out to a cenote for a morning swim. Cenotes are limestone sinkholes filled with freshwater, and often caves and aquatic life. Grand Cenote consists of several sinkholes connected by underwater caves (some only accesible by caves), and filled with fish, turtles, birds and bats. It was a relaxing and enjoyable experience to snorkel through the caves and experience the wildlife.

After Grand Cenote, it was time to check out and head south for Belize. The Mexico exit fee must be paid at a bank before entering the frontier zone, and so I checked with some soldiers at a military checkpoint - the last city (Chetumal) was not in the frontier zone, like Nuevo Laredo - I could pay the fee there. I was still nervous, as I really didn't want to have to turn around and backtrack 200km or so to Tulum to pay a simple fee. Why didn't I simply pay earlier? I have a citibank account which allows free withdrawls from certain banks, one of which was in Cetumal, and not in Tulum. Anyway, none of the banks in Cetumal could help me - they all said I needed another form from the Immigration office. So I continued to the border and explained my situation to the guard. He explained I could pay there, and pointed to an official looking document with the right amount on it. I paid there and then. I'm pretty sure it went into his pocket, but short of heading back to Tulum, there was little I could do. I got out of Mexico, and went through Belizean immigration and customs. It's much easier when you speak the native tongue, and I had no real problem getting into Belize.

ALL PHOTOS OF MEXICO IN PREVIOUS ALBUM

Gastronomic Adventures, Part 4 - Cajun Cooking

2012-07-09T20:32:00.001-07:00

This one is a long time coming, but in Shreveport,LA I managed to find a bar that served a range of Cajun-style food. Whether or not it counts as truly authentic is up for debate, but the important thing is that it was unique to the area, and I loved it.

I ordered the sample platter to get a range of different foods, and wasn't disappointed. The gumbo came out first, and tasted like a spicy soup mixed with chilli.

The main part of the platter was the blackened catfish. Cajun cuisine often involves cooking different seafood in a variety of cajun spices. It doesn't look particularly appealing, but tastes delicious.

Jambalaya is a well known local dish made with rice and a combination of spices, and this dish didn't disappoint. I was a big fan of Jambalaya, and remain so.

The Nackadish (spelling?) meat pie is probably the closest thing I've ever had to an Aussie meat pie while overseas. It was a bit confusing, as it resembled a Samosa, but it tasted the same - down to the spices and everything.

The only thing I didn't care for was the fried corn on the cob. After you get through the batter, it tastes the same as steamed corn, so what was the point of frying it? It seemed to me to be unecessary grease.

Another tip - the Abita IPA (a locally brewed beer) was excellent. The rasberry Hefeweizen was unusual, but tasty and the Restoration Pale Ale was also nice.

Mexico, Part 1

2012-07-02T22:16:00.002-07:00

The extra day spent in Nuevo Laredo was well spent - there isn't much of anything to see in town - it's really just an outpost for Mexico/US trade. So I pretty much spent the whole day in the motel, or walking through a local shopping centre. The general rule of thumb with prices in developing countries are pretty logical - if it is labour intensive or locally made, it'll be cheaper than in Australia, but if it's capital intensive or shipped internationally, it'll be nearly the same price. This can lead to some interesting comparisons - a bottle of locally produced tequila will be far cheaper than any imported wine, and approaches some of the more expensive beers.

I did a little mechanical maintenance (adjusted the valve clearance, for the grease monkeys out there), and then got ready to leave. The next day, I headed off to Monterrey, about 220kms south of Nuevo Laredo. I didn't get far before I discovered why Mexican customs & immigration were so lax before. Nuevo Laredo is classed as some kind of no mans land - you don't need a passport or anything to visit and return to the US (although I'm sure the US immigration service would beg to differ. They do check the papers of people travelling outside of Nuevo Laredo though. So I had to backtrack a bit, get my papers sorted near the border, then head south again. All in all, it wasn't a bad border experience, so if that's the standard (I doubt it though), then this trip will be smooth sailing.

The main road from Nuevo Laredo is a toll road, which I didn't expect. However, considering the road passes near the Chihuauan desert, I was grateful for the infrastructure and implied safety net of traffic and police patrols. Especially when I felt oil splatter onto my leg about 50kms from Monterrey. Fearing the worst, I pulled over, topped up the oil and limped into the city worried that the trip may be over before it had really started. When I inspected it properly the next day, I was relieved - the bumpy journey had unscrewed one of the engine mounts, and the head had leaked a bit of oil throught the now loose rubber gasket. In short, a few bolts came loose - repairs cost me about 2 bucks at the local hardware store. What was more expensive was replacing the rear tire that was Donald Trump-like uncomfortably close to bald for most of the US. But it had to be done, and was completed quickly and effectively, with a little bit of communication difficulty.

Monterrey seems like it could be a nice city, but suffers due to it's location - surrounded by mountains, there's no real escape for the pollution caused by over a million old cars - breathing is a little like taking up smoking. Desperate for some cooler & fresher air, I headed southeast for the Tampico and the Gulf of Mexico.

Now is probably a good time to explain the Mexican law enforcement system, excluding the omnipresent military. At the top you have the federal police. These guys are generally charged with tackling Mexico's notorious problem with drug gangs. Whenever they meet, there's generally casualities, and so they treat their job with suitable seriousness. Basically - these guys don't f**k around - most of them dress like the TRG watched a Rambo marathon - automatic rifles always at the ready, faces covered and not a smile to be seen. They are everywhere, and share responsibility with the military for running the many security checkpoints along any major road. While this may seem intimidating, I wasn't particularly worried - flare ups are pretty localized, and (most importantly) the federal police have little interest in someone like me. I have only been stopped at a checkpoint once, and then only for the briefest time. I'm not running a drug cartel from my bike, so they generally keep their distance. The same could be said for the state police. The municpial police apparently have a reputation for corruption on my level (ie could see me as a potential target from which to extract bribes), but I've yet to see it. The corruption of the local transit police however, I have experienced. Twice. In Tampico. Both times, the officers motioned for me to pull over, asked for my licence and then told me I had commited a bogus offence (running a yellow light, and too much luggage on my bike). While explaining that a ticket would cost 100 US dollars, they explain I could pay in cash. It must be mentioned that in the case of "yellow light" officer, he wasn't as brash as that, but mentioned the ticket and was hinting that there may be 'another solution'. This kind of corruption kills developing economies, and robs decent people of the money tourists would otherwise spend in their shops, restaurants or hotels. In short, I detest it. So, if I had actually committed a crime, I would take the ticket and court date over handing a corrupt cop the cash. Both times I ended up leaving without paying a dime or getting a ticket, partly because the charges were trumped up, and because I ended up frustrating the officers with my lack of spanish to the point that they just gave up. It's fun playing dumb with these guys - even when I understood them (I have learnt a bit of spanish, and they both spoke some level of broken english) I'd pretend their accent was indecipherable, and shrug my shoulders in confusion. This ploy worked so well, I may continue to use it, even when my vocabulary and pronunciation has improved.

Anyway, I got into Tampico and was quickly disappointed - the beach was a dirty port, and the dirty part should be emphasized. But I found a cheap (120 pesos, or around 9 bucks) hotel, put Isabella in the lobby for safekeeping, and grabbed a few beers and a couple of buns filled with a bbq-style pork, pineapple and coriander. Delicious.

The next morning I headed out for Veracruz, where I had the second transit cop encounter. After that, I was fuming a bit, but luckily, the road ahead saved me. Beautiful mountain passes, twists and turns, dotted with glimpses of the blue Carribean lightened my mood considerably. However, the constant toll bridges put a little bit of a dampener on things. I changed the oil in Isabella in Veracruz, and kept heading on. At this point, I had resolved to keep pushing on until I reached a city I liked, then buk down for a few days. So I slept in auto hotels - basically motels, but with the vehicle parked in a curtained garage next to your room (as opposed to a carpark outside a block of rooms). On the 29th, I stayed in a town called Villa Sanchez Magallenes - don't try too hard to find it on the map, it's pretty small. I found a nice lady serving empanadas there, and had some for dinner, and the breakfast after.

Leaving Villa Sanchez Magallenes, I continued east along the southernmost part of the Gulf of Mexico, along what my GPS assured me was a road. The first 5kms or so was beautiful - palm trees, white sand, etc. However, the road soon gave way. Literally - the road had washed away in some kind of storm. From there on it was a mix of remaining road, sand and coconut husks that the locals had laid down to improve traction (it works, considerably). For those who hadn't ridden a motorbike offroad before - deep, soft sand is not fun. It's slow, tough and unpredicatble. If I had brought a heavier bike, I may still be there, grunting and swearing. But 250ccs meant I had enough grunt to get through, and yet could steady the bike with a well placed foot when things got wobbly. It wasn't what I had expected, or wanted. To top it all off, some of the locals had erected barricades, and required 5 pesos to pass. 5 pesos isn't much, but there were alot of gates, and I didn't have enough coins to pay everyone (I doubt I'd get change back from notes, either). I went around most, and paid one guy who had pretty much walled off the whole area, so I had no choice. When I saw a t-junction with a road that the GPS said led back to the main highway, I cracked it pretty soon and turned down what the GPS thought was a track. GPS-wrong again. After that, it was pretty much smooth sailing to Campeche, including a beautiful twisty road in the last 50kms or so.

I found a hotel that Lonely Planet had recommended, and was the cheapest so far (95 pesos for a dorm bed). Campeche is a beautiful city, well deserving of its UNESCO world heritage listing. Cobbled streets connect colonial buildings from the 15th century (my hostel was a mansion of that time), all being surrounded by the remnants of forts and a high wall, built to protect the town after a partiularly nasty pirate attack in the 17th century. I decided quickly to stay for a couple of nights, and take in the sights. I had arrived on a saturday, so at night the main plaza was full of people, vendors and entertainment including a water fountain light show rigged up with sound, which I particularly liked. during the high season, Campeche is full of tourists, and even now there were a few gringos about - a welcome change from myself being the only pale skinned person in sight. The next day I walked to the fort of San Miguel, which overlooked the city and Gulf from a nearby hill. What was interesting was how the fort resembled a fortress from the outside, but a house from the inside, complete with pretty courtyard. It now houses an interesting museum with a range of Mayan artifacts.

All the photos can be found HERE